The Rupture

By Richard Conard

The Rupture is about the crazy times we live in: current history. As well, it is
about the tenth anniversary of the Columbine High School massacre and the
gruesome carnage that is being planned in celebration of that incident; what
was then the unimaginable mass murder which occurred on April 20, 1999.
In this respect, it is also about the making of a monster.

The story follows the lives of two families, the Mendez and the Phylers,
from 1957 through 2009. Over the course of these 52 years their lives will
occasionally intersect as they experience the progression of American culture
from differing perspectives. They will witness 1950s affluence, the Free
Speech Movement, the Kennedy and Martin Luther King assassinations, the
Civil Rights Movement, Wars and war protests, 9-11, Gay Rights, the struggle
for Gender equality, space exploration and unimaginable technological
advancements, love and hate, and the perils of those fluctuating tides and
economic oscillations. They will witness the best and worst inclinations of their
species until they collide and intertwine on that fateful day, April 20, 2009.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543470154

Richard Conard

Richard Conard is a retired architect, since 2007, when he quit practicing architecture in Denver, Colorado and built a home on the lake of his childhood in Minnesota where his intent was to ski, fish, golf, relax and read. One intent was to catch up on the literary classics and those authors and books for which there wasnt sufficient time while fully employed. The winters in northwest Minnesota are long and frigid and considerable time is spent indoors. At some point where Conards main interests seemed focused on historical fiction and where current world events mirrored the experiences of the latter half of the 20th century, he imagined a story. And rather than waiting to read it he attempted to write it. The Rupture is the result of that effort.

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Copyright © 2018 by Richard Conard.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 04/27/2018

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1     2009

Chapter 2     January 27, 1957

Chapter 3     January 27, 1957

Chapter 4     1957

Chapter 5     1958-59

Chapter 6     1960

Chapter 7     1960

Chapter 8     1961-63

Chapter 9     1963-64

Chapter 10   1964

Chapter 11   1965, 66, 67

Chapter 12   1968

Chapter 13   1969 (1953)

Chapter 14   2009

Chapter 15   1969-70

Chapter 16   1970, 71, 72

Chapter 17   1973

Chapter 18   1973-74

Chapter 19   1975, 1976

Chapter 20   1976, 77, 78

Chapter 21   1979

Chapter 22   1979

Chapter 23   1980

Chapter 24   1980

Chapter 25   1980-81

Chapter 26   1981

Chapter 27   1981, 1982

Chapter 28   1982-83

Chapter 29   1983

Chapter 30   1984

Chapter 31   1984

Chapter 32   1985, 1986

Chapter 33   1986

Chapter 34   2009

Chapter 35   1986, 87

Chapter 36   1987

Chapter 37   1987, 88

Chapter 38   1988, 89

Chapter 39   1989

Chapter 40   1990

Chapter 41   2009

Chapter 42   1990, 91

Chapter 43   1991

Chapter 44   1992

Chapter 45   1992

Chapter 46   1992, 93

Chapter 47   1993-94

Chapter 48   1994

Chapter 49   1995

Chapter 50   1996

Chapter 51   1996

Chapter 52   1997

Chapter 53   1998

Chapter 54   1999

Chapter 55   1999

Chapter 56   2009

Chapter 57   1999-2000

Chapter 58   2000-2001

Chapter 59   2002

Chapter 60   2003

Chapter 61   2004

Chapter 62   2005

Chapter 63   2006

Chapter 64   2007

Chapter 65   2008

Chapter 66   2009

Chapter 67   2009

"Fiction is the lie through

which we tell the truth"

Albert Camus

THE RUPTURE

THE FAMILIES

THE MENDEZ

Benito and Carla Mendez

Juan Mendez……….Spouse

Joanna Mendez……..B. Benssen

                    David Benssen………S. Farley

                       Ronald Benssen

                       Daniel Benssen

                       Judith Benssen

                    Jaclyn Benssen

                    Robbie Benssen…….J. Donnay

Alejandro Mendez……..S. McLein

Derek Mendez…….J. Johnson

                       Brenda Mendez

Jesus Mendez (Amos)

Estella Mendez……..R. Blixter

                    Rena Blixter…….B. Hall

                    John-Brown Blixter

Chico (Chip) Mendez

Maria Mendez………P. Knap

Ricardo Alvaro

Joseph Alvaro……..R. Anisch

                    Emily Anisch-Alvaro

THE PHYLERS

Robert and Naomi Phyler

Janet Phyler……..Spouse.

                    Lincoln Phyler

Frank Phyler……..J. Scarlata

                    Chelsea Phyler

                    Megan Phyler

"I and the public know

what all children learn

those to whom evil is done

do evil in return"

Wystan Auden

CHAPTER 1

2009

He sat in the dimming light that occurs for those final few minutes after the sun exits the horizon and offers a fading glow, signaling the closing act to a day that will pass for all time. It was the impending darkness that followed this dimming light that had so frightened him as a child and had inevitably been party to the scarring of his soul; not simply a slow simmering recipe of hate and anger so much as an angst that had been there at his moment of cognition. Fear? Maybe, but more a feeling of despair that always was and, alas, he had conceded always would be.

His father: the cruelty. His mother: battered to submission, until she became an accomplice. She would just stand there—in fear, perhaps. Perhaps not. She would no longer plead for his mercy; there was no longer the inclination to intervene. They became dead to him. They were now dead.

The light that still entered the attic dormers and pierced the aged hardwood flooring where he sat was a landscape of glaring ripples that had surpassed human proportion and nestled him in their crevasses. He imagined himself as Andrew Wyeth’s Christina looking on in solitude and loneliness. The sky beyond the antiquated windowpanes still displayed shades of magenta-gray clouds; imaginary figures performing imaginary tasks that seemed to call him to action.

The silence that wouldn’t be. He wondered if others could hear these noises, the sizzle of electricity as synapses made contact in his head, and the drumbeat from his chest; thud, thud, thud, of a soft, distant bass drum. He would bring his hands to his ears and press so hard he could feel the pain arching his temples. Curiously, he liked that sensation. The pain that defined the misdirection of his life and foretold a surprise symphony: the crescendo he would orchestrate. The revenge he must exact.

The medications pleased him to imagine that he was the maestro of this setting sun, a finale and a favor granted by higher power. Without benefit of these drugs he was an amalgam of stressed out emotions. Always getting worse, never better. This annoyance, the anger, the torture, had fed a debilitating hatred of the human animal. Sometimes as he listened to this maddening shrill he occasioned a plea for signs that might offer the rescue and redemption of his soul. But they never came. They never had.

And when that sound began to subside he hugged his knees so tight he thought he could feel his rapid heartbeat against them. It wasn’t so much fright as it was a chilling uncertainty when he attempted to envision the array of possible responses to the calamity he would surely instigate. He couldn’t. It wouldn’t fit neat like a puzzle. It was not humanly possible to be certain and that was in conflict with this unrestrained belief in his personal infallibility. But when multiple forces were put under ever expanding pressure it was impossible to know the exact nature of the rupture or the reach of its tentacles. This uncertainty furthered his mental anguish. But, he reasoned, he mustn’t continue to punish himself for unforeseen circumstances, as that despair could only be the cause of additional delay. You compensate for them, that’s what you do. The time had come to demand his revenge. The time had come for The Rupture. It was that thought that finally lowered the decibel level and caused him to smile. It was an evil smile; chilling.

And it was that silence that allowed his ghost to leave his body and look back upon the flesh that confined him; to follow a curvature of light from the past as it passed through his body and moved beyond to his future. He delighted in the recall of this treacherous journey. He had been embroiled in a fantasy that had seemed so improbable in its beginnings that he’d hardly considered it a serious undertaking; it began as more of an amusement really. An intangible malevolence. A fantasy. It was an opportunity to explore the fringes of the American experiment from a vantage point that was free of conscience. And there he discovered his own supremacy and the boundless range of his deceit.

He could have been Brando. The great liars of our time: Olivier, Tracy, Nicholson, Hoffman, Penn, came to mind. He had proven he could do that. Outwardly he displayed neither treachery nor hypocrisy but in fact he was possessed by both. Eventually lying became second nature to him. It enriched his life, ennobled his character and fulfilled the emptiness that defined his reality. Honesty was the boredom that diminished his existence. He was not simply a junk man. He marveled at his own duplicity and scorned the delusional sheep that followed him. It was shameful to spend this time in indulgent congratulations, self-aggrandizement, but that was another proclivity that had possessed him from an early age. It freed him even as there was no escape; he now could acknowledge that he was an evil man. He preferred it.

He loved that name: The Rupture. He had come to love code names and spy cipher and all the mendacious posturing that preludes a well planned con. He had carefully studied many, big and small, real and staged. He determined that the American psyche was ripe for his ploy, almost handed to him on a platter by incompetent corporate greed and government mismanagement, bankrupt ideology and a pitiable populace. Men working, watching, following. There was barely a conspiracy that he did not believe in.

He would honor the eminence that had preceded him. He valued anniversaries, even kept a chronicle dating back hundreds of years. It was a ledger of history’s famed demons. There continuation represented endurance and he felt their celebrations should, whenever possible, be as memorable as their initial occurrence, if not more so. He vowed this anniversary would be more grisly than the first.

Of course it pleased him to contemplate notoriety, the media’s responses, and the news cycle where his creation was sure to dominate the coverage. He thought about his conquests with the pride of a man that had so adeptly shamed the truth. His calculations were more impressive than they had been precise but that was of no consequence now. He envisioned the headlines and the script unfolding on television, radio and talk shows; the baseless speculations that would inevitably illuminate their folly and expose them as fools; frauds posing as experts. Pretty young women regurgitating the lines crafted by old men. Had it ever been more obvious? This then was the real entertainment value to his endeavor; a celebration of morons.

And he thought of the cretins that had become his accomplices to this grand anniversary celebration: the terrible triad. They represented exhaustive research, cunning manipulation and, on his part, a brilliant performance; so he offered as modest assessment. They were outcasts like him for the most part. Kids that just wanted to get it. They wanted to be cool. They wanted to be a part of something. And they wanted to feel significant.

He thought about the high school kids, he could almost conjure up sympathy because he did share with them an understanding, from years past. From different vantage points they viewed the same massive slug of humanity. It would be their revenge too, and for the imprudent failures of the initial act. They had their passions even as he assessed them as cowards. They wanted to witness reverse suffering. They wanted to see the fear and fright in the eyes of the Kens and the Barbies. How could their vengeance be seen as anything other than just, for the bullying they’d endured. It was a small measure of empathy that he felt. They were the least loathsome.

And then there was the God squad. He marveled in recall of his own performance in this drama. He didn’t believe in a knowable God so it took research, observation and cunning. They too had the passion for this job. They were in anticipation of The Rapture, their own source of revenge, and he rightly surmised The Rupture was destined to click with them. Their enemies, the non-believers, deserved the wrath that God would inflict. Their reticence was trumped by God’s blessing. They were historians, dubious though their history might have been, they knew very well that in times of grievous sin it was understood that blood would be shed. They were Christian Soldiers. They had seen blood turned to wine after all. He hadn’t decided whether to include them in his plan but the entire charade had been a marvel. He doubted they had the will to remain quiet and he hadn’t come up with a reliable means of eliminating them as witnesses.

And to complete the triad he considered the militia boys: bravado, racist, and committed to anything anti-government, in all shapes and sizes and with only the exception of their own personal needs. They made conspiracy of conspiracy theories. They were his carnivorous warriors in every sense of the word, champions of the strong and the virile and the bane of the weak and the meek. They feasted on the scent of fear. Rednecks? Well, that’s probably not fair to rednecks. They weren’t so easily manipulated either, even with abundance of alcohol and drugs. It caused him to laugh when he thought of the array of supplicants they so often consumed. From their home brewed beer to the meth that was always cookin’ out back in the bus, or in their kid’s closet. ‘Crank: it gets you up and going in the morning’. He had met some serious lab rats on this journey. In the final analysis it was mostly about their machismo, testosterone, and they longed for the chance to show their prowess with their weapons. They did have weapons and they could help with the bombs. They operated from a system of logic that was basically foreign to him: simple, stupefied and narrowly focused; they didn’t readily take to strangers. They seemed game for whatever involved destruction. He figured them to be more paranoid than analytical. Maybe it just took longer for the logic to seep in. It had been a hard bargain and he detested them most of all. They represented the very scum of the earth to him and he would put their lives in jeopardy with glee, if it came to that.

So this was his very own triad of bad, his brigade, and almost ready at his command. He couldn’t help despising them. Their naiveté was sadly pathetic. But they would serve his purpose because that was the one thing they shared: purpose. The message would be sent, loud and clear. The future of the future depended on it. Grisly. God, he liked that word. But it made him feel sick.

He wondered what combination of DNA and circumstance had intertwined to make the monster he’d become. How did it reach this point? He could not reflect on a hopeful moment though surely there had been some along the way. Whatever. This would be like his very own personal puppet show but without the constraints of the stage. Humans. A reprehensible lot for the most part. The more he knew of them the more revulsion he felt. It seemed that every acquaintance eventually became the object of his distain.

He was alone. The last vestiges of light had slipped away. It was dark now, not even the moon was out. He couldn’t help but continue to wonder, how was it that monsters were made? And were they ready for The Rupture?

CHAPTER 2

January 27, 1957

On this day, January 27, 1957, Naomi Kurtos, Robert Phyler, their daughter Janet and son Frank are gathered closely around an old pot bellied wood stove in a 4-room cabin in Nederland, Colorado. They call it home though in fact it is a rental that they are looking forward to abandoning in the coming months. Friends would typically view their home as bucolic, quaint and cozy, but this foursome would characterize it as both chilly and cumbersome at this particular moment in time, as they all read by the light of an intensifying snowstorm. It is an atypical cold Colorado winter even in a climate that is noted for its unpredictability and extreme atmospheric vacillations. It’s the Rocky Mountains after all and Nederland, with its population in three-digits, is perched at 8200 feet above sea level and 15 miles up the canyon west of Boulder. It isn’t the first time they have lost power during a storm and they are hoping it will be restored in short order.

Professor Robert S. Phyler: Robert is 31 years old, a solid inch over six feet, lean, handsome by many standards. He could easily pass for somewhat older now with just a hint of dignifying gray at his temples. He looks and is the very personification of British bloodlines and has traced his lineage to Sir Edward Phyler, Knight and Lord to his Majesty King Edward, from the early 14th Century. Nobility long lost and forgotten, it should be fairly added. A clearer picture emerges if you care to imagine a light blue oxford shirt collar exposed above a maroon v-neck sweater vest further sheathed in a tan corduroy blazer with leather elbow patches. At this point you will have stereotyped this academe fairly and if you can further picture a briarwood tobacco pipe most commonly resting idle and cold as a visual appointment on his desk you will again be shamelessly on target. In this regard you might think of Robert lacking in both creativity and individuality but you would be wrong to assume this banal ensemble equals the sum total of his being. Though he allows his appearance to be confined to these preordained expectations you should understand that he is not so confined to these boundaries within his field of expertise, which is European History.

Naomi is 29 and doesn’t look a day older than 25 according to her own daughter. A rare generosity of kindness to be sure. She is medium height, athletic in build and strikingly attractive by any measure. The olive skin, dark eyes, full lips and dense, deep brown flowing hair would suggest a Mediterranean background but to the best of her knowledge no records have been queried. It is of no importance to her. She was captivated by numbers almost as soon as she learned to read, which was significantly earlier than most. Concern over her appearance was no more than an aggravation in her pre-teen years and only mildly important thereafter. She never really felt that she fit in with her classmates in those early years, though she mostly enjoyed a measure of pardon in deference to her appearance.

The most common attribute that Robert and Naomi share is probably their elevated intelligence, though they would be hesitant to suggest it. And it is an aspect they have apparently passed on to both progeny.

It has been suggested that the early relationship between Janet and Frank Phyler is an exercise in psychology. Let us just say, as prelude, that Frank spent his first decade looking up at his slightly older sister; sometimes with resentment, sometimes with admiration and often with a hint of jealousy. I will attempt to elaborate, if clumsily, but you will get the drift.

Janet, nearing her 14th birthday, had been thought to be a child prodigy but she managed to reject this embarrassing labeling in her effort to be a typical kid. Her parents supported that effort. And now, past puberty, she has predictably become the obstinate adolescent that has surely perplexed parents since at least the march from Africa. To a certain extent she was following in her mother’s footsteps. Her good looks caused interest among the boys and envy among the girls. Her curious nature allowed her to push the limits of responsibility with little interest or fear of consequence. She is impulsive. It has been a source of exasperation for her parents that has often tried their patience even as they’ve been careful in their attempts not to stifle her individuality. At times that became their tight rope.

Frank had also tested in the bright stratum but, at 12 years of age and with less seniority, he has graciously accepted his status as the more reserved personality (while patiently imagining his inevitable revenge). For now he had found his place in the family pecking order by listening, as is sometimes the tendency of the youngest child. His older sister overwhelmed him in their earlier years. She began to speak at an early age and Frank became an observer in awe of her accomplishments. She began to walk, he could barely crawl. Janet was an ebullient, vivacious child and she often viewed her younger brother with considerable aggravation because he simply could not keep pace. They lived in the middle of nowhere. They had few friends in the neighborhood. And she had but a vague understanding of the age difference that favored her. So as she became more and more imperious, Frank retreated deeper into his shell. And while he looked up to her and marveled at her early accomplishments he was understandably left with a measure of frustration at the things he could not yet duplicate. These things were just beyond his grasp as he had sixteen fewer months of experimentation that left him lagging without the reasoning that would clarify his temporary inferiority. This closeness in age would be a factor in forming his personality. So his early years were characterized by a reticence to engage that was seen as saturnine and even diagnosed, unofficially, as a form of aphasia. A very inaccurate diagnosis as it would turn out.

There was competition. Once they could both walk and communicate orally, Frank would deliberately set a slow pace to frustrate his aggressive sister, who was often given the responsibility to keep him close at hand. His industrious instincts were evident at an early age and he would typically keep something handy that could perform as a defensive shield in the event that she attempted to strike him with her bare hand, which was not an uncommon occurrence in those early years. And the pain would sometimes be hers. This is not to suggest that their relationship was unusually violent for toddlers, it wasn’t. Frank had a knack for ingratiating a parent when alone with them so that he might exact some preferential treatment at future confrontations. A further aggravation to his older sister. This would soon enough be found to be a temporary condition but with regular reminders that would surface until they had both reached that pinnacle of adolescence. What wasn’t so obvious was that Frank’s feigned indifference was actually his occasion to plot and plan his counter measures such that they would surface when least suspected and with maximum effect. Frank was a quiet conniver.

All members of this family are currently engaged in sedentary pursuits where tools are comprised of books, number 2 lead pencils, fountain pens and lined paper. The trusty Royal typewriter is being repaired and no one is missing it just yet. All work where recording is required will be accomplished by long hand. Robert is grading his student’s papers, Naomi is studying for an upcoming exam, Janet is reading The Jungle by Upton Sinclair to satisfy an English class assignment and Frank is ogling the fins on the new 1957 Mercury displayed in the Police Gazette magazine, borrowed candidly from his barber.

Robert Phyler will be granted a full-fledged professorship at the end of the spring semester and they are already scouting for a house more suited to the size of their family. For now, the meager wages provided by Robert’s teaching assistantship is their main source of income. Naomi works part time at the Hot Cup, a Boulder favorite café and coffee house on The Hill. Her time is split between the 10 to 14 hours per week she spends waiting tables, her work on her Masters Degree in Structural Engineering Systems of which she still has 19 credit hours to graduation and her duties as chief cook, cleaner and family referee. Full time employment is still two years off but at that time they plan for their anointed inclusion into the Boulder academia elite and home ownership in the Chautauqua neighborhood. This aggressive but reachable goal will finally confirm the status they have been striving for over the past decade. For Robert it could only be Chautauqua Park. That’s where Boulder brainpower comes to rest. But raising two kids has proven to be a dream delayer.

The life styles they have followed, while not necessarily typical of Boulder, firmly reject the Ozzie and Harriet existence being attempted in surrounding communities, beyond the confines of University life. For one thing, Robert and Naomi have not been officially married, though it has always been a plan about to be fulfilled as it reaches for the top of their priority list. This deferred accomplishment is not something emphasized in their social dealings. Theirs was an illicit liaison that did not properly represent the maze through which Eisenhower era families conducted their lives. At least on its surface although it was becoming apparent that the superficiality of post World War II family structure was already showing foundation failure and societal rebellion was waiting for the obtuse form which would give shape and color to transformational change. Naomi became pregnant in the final months of her senior year in high school and maintained the necessary secrecy to finish the school year so she could attend part time classes in math and science at the community college. This might have been a lonely undertaking except she had a multitude of adoring fans among the men that shared her classes. That was until Robert and infant Janet started showing up to pick her up after class.

Robert and Naomi had met by chance at the University Library. Robert knew at first glance that his concentration would be jeopardized as long as they remained within the proximity of this building. He was eventually able to make a bold, if somewhat tremulous introduction. She was at first only amused by the fawning interest of this older gentleman but after settling into a comfort zone it wasn’t long before they experienced the understanding that this would be the beginning of a relationship.

Robert was comparing the layouts of the European Castles from the early Middle Ages to latter 16th century designs in an attempt to better understand the lifestyle changes they represented. Naomi was interested in the foundation designs that supported these massive stone fortresses. Their reach for the same books allowed them to engage in small talk that first lead to innocent if somewhat awkward conversation. The tone of that conversation eventually turned flirtatious and shortly thereafter they proceeded to his fraternity house where she humbled a number of his brothers at ping-pong and later conceived Janet on a pool table in an adjoining room. This was of course before he realized that she was jailbait. She was 16, Robert was 19.

Within a few weeks Naomi was graduated and they were sharing a tiny bungalow where they found themselves quite compatible and enveloped in young love and adult lust. Robert was an insufferable romantic. The alacrity which gave expression to this first and most profound longing took many forms least of which were a dirge of letters and poetry; secreted away and destined to be breached by the curious nature of their progeny. This would be the source of many discussions as their children sought advice and council to their own affairs of the heart. Often to Robert’s dismay, it should be added.

Naomi had significant athletic ability, Robert had virtually none, but it was of little value to her now as her true interests were with higher-level mathematics, advanced engineering applications and, more recently, world events. When their sex life reached that inevitable wall of feigned indifference they would retreat to their studies and the requirements of child rearing but amorous cravings were always lurking and frequently found time and place for expression. And thus, Frank joined the family 16 months later, sooner than planned.

So Dad, how is it this guy survived the McCarthy era? asked Janet. I mean he’s a Commie isn’t he? Her father had recommended the book to her as a lesson in sociology as much as a lesson in American history. She needed a school project and he replayed issues from his work, discussions between his colleagues. They had discussed the prevailing anti-Socialist attitudes that were still headline news along with his displeasure with the congressional HUAAC hearings, the House Un-American Activities Committee. Nearly fourteen, Janet was proving to be pretentious and in possession of a healthy and somewhat rebellious curiosity. She was reading significantly above grade level and showing a curiosity in matters both social and sexual that neither parent was particularly prepared to get into—even as they recognized the impending doom.

Well, for one thing, Sinclair predated McCarthyism and the anti-communism fervor that has permeated recent culture. My specialty remains European history so I might not be the best person to ask. From all I’ve heard, he was hardly left unscathed for these views. I’m told the California legislature and the conservative press vilified him unmercifully for a long time. He was an odd man by some accounts. And I understand he did not particularly help his cause when he began expressing considerable interest in psychic phenomena.

Was he Communist?

Somewhat. His political leanings were quite liberal for his time.

So, are we, or you, liberal or conservative?

What, you want me thrown in jail? I dare not answer that question.

So maybe there was a lean to left but it wasn’t crystal clear. This was actually a question that Robert and Naomi had posited to one another on many recent occasions and had not yet come to terms with either the answer to the question or the meaning of the words. They liked Ike. They had heard from Robert’s colleagues a keen appreciation of Teddy Roosevelt. FDR, the other Roosevelt, had made his mark in bold. Then again, the Republicans had Lincoln. Robert’s education was in no small part afforded him by his father’s membership in the labor union, AFL-CIO. They were still listening.

They both had a natural aversion to the whole notion of certainty as it related to politics and associated philosophy. Before Robert, Naomi hadn’t had much interest in history, or in politics for that matter. She often kept her thoughts to herself. So it surprised Robert on a recent occasion when she displayed a measure of passion on a subject related to America’s intervention on the world stage. A friend began espousing the merits of communism and suggesting our inevitable inclusion in that sphere of influence. Naomi was livid; she mercilessly stopped him cold with her pronouncements to the contrary. And she proceeded to attack his high-minded notions with a veracity that virtually left no room for debate and frankly startled Robert. She demanded the proof that she knew he couldn’t provide. Maybe not so unusual to her field of interest: mathematics. Turns out, intuitively, she just didn’t like this guy.

They had joined a small group of mostly political science majors in the fall of 1956 to protest the Soviet invasion of Hungary and had both felt revulsion to the Soviet Union at that time. The Soviet Union represented nothing if not communism and, by her thinking, totalitarianism. Robert was slightly more nuanced. Still, whether they leaned left or right was not an answer they had yet reconciled.

Janet, where is this sudden interest in politics coming from? You should be careful not to be corrupted by your father, Naomi stated with a wink of an eye.

Did you really think we could sleep through your midnight ramblings with your beatnik friends? countered Janet and then drawled, You talk very loud when you drink too much, Mom.

Oh, please!

We heard the whole thing, how could we sleep? And such language! Didn’t your ears burn, Mom?

It had been a rare occasion that Robert’s colleague in the History Department had brought up his flamboyant friends from the East coast, Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassidy, and a jug of rot-gut wine. It was the Friday prior and the three friends had slept out a late night squall before returning to Boulder the following morning. They talked, sometimes slurred, through most of the night. Their conversations ran the gamut and it probably wasn’t all good for tender ears. They spoke of adventure and rebellion and freedom and one of them smoked a dreadful pipe and one had a roll of toilet paper that he wanted to turn into a book; or something to that effect. One of them cussed a lot. Well, probably more than one. It was not particularly surprising that Janet had overheard some of their late night ramblings but it wasn’t expected that they were understood or otherwise absorbed. And Janet’s references to her mother and alcohol were becoming commonplace whenever the opportunity presented itself. Like Moms weren’t supposed to be flippant or to so obviously be enjoying themselves.

You’ll be gracious and excuse me for breathing, responded Naomi.

That’s uncalled for Jan. On the rare occasion when your mother takes a drink with us it is not appropriate for you to judge or to condemn, replied Robert.

Yes, and by the way Snoopy, mind your own bees wax, interjected Frank.

He speaks! Make a note of it, the dog-faced boy is catching on to the English language! You’re all a source of embarrassment! So what’s up with Sinclair? It says here he ran for congress and for Governor of California.

You’re going to have to consult your local library if you want to go deeper. That pretty much taxes my knowledge of the man. And yes, maybe, your daddy might be a darn liberal. Or maybe not. I don’t know. They are just labels, honey, generalities, and very stifling. Now, be respectful or we’ll have to ground you, sweetheart. He smirked as he said it.

Idle threats. (But Janet did attend the library two days later and upon that visit she discovered Mr. Sinclair had befriended Albert Einstein in 1930 and thus Upton Sinclair became a lifelong hero of Janet’s.)

Naomi stuck her head out the door and upon observing the intensifying storm she announced, Robert, this snow is starting to look serious. Frank, turn on your transistor and let’s see if we can find an updated weather report.

Frank complied and a loud, scratchy and just barely audible version of Elvis Presley’s All Shook Up came blaring from the magic little box that had become the envy of his many friends. Oh, it’s Elvis, wait until this song is over. (Her lips are like a volcano that’s hot. I’m proud to say she’s my buttercup. I’m in love. I’m all shook up.)

Robert replied, Frank, that is not music, it is racket. And it’s been playing nonstop since Christmas. Enough. Now hand me that radio and let’s see what we are in for.

Robert adjusted the dial and held it to his ear for a few minutes while the remainder of the family awaited his report. Oh my, they are predicting 16 to 20 inches for Denver.

The kids exclaimed in unison, No School tomorrow!

This could mean three feet for us. And we won’t likely have power restored anytime soon. Frank, let’s bring some wood in and you ladies might want to think about dragging some bedding and candles in here. It’s going to be a long, cold and dark night. And we’d better scoop some snow off the roof Frank. You get the ladder, I’ll gather the wood, said Robert.

His voice hid a more serious concern but there was no advantage to frightening the rest of the family with the looming possibilities. These high country blizzards were known to be deadly for the ill prepared. That didn’t necessarily include them, they had survived a few significant storms over the past few years but it was usually the unexpected occurrences that resulted in tragedy and he could only hope that they had all the bases covered. He wasn’t so sure. This storm was totally unexpected and they could possibly be trapped for days before anyone got around to clearing these remote mountain roads.

Within an hour, and before darkness set in, they had completed their assigned chores and Naomi was heating soup on the wood stove. There wasn’t much else to do but wait it out. As they looked out the windows it was obvious that this was going to be a tempest, visibility was reduced to only a few yards. Apprehension weighed heavily in the cabin atmosphere but no one wanted to give it expression. There would be prayers tonight, even among the skeptics.

And those prayers were warranted, because this storm was destined to turn deadly.

CHAPTER 3

January 27, 1957

Every weekday morning at 7:30 AM Frank and Janet Phyler would meet their neighbor, Chip Mendez, in front of their house and ride into Boulder with him and his younger sister where he would drop each of them off at the front door of their respective schools. He would then proceed to the parking lot where he would park and walk from there to the front door of Boulder High School where he was a student of high standing.

As friends and neighbors go, Chip was pretty hard to beat. He was 16, had worked faithfully at any odd job he could find to earn the money to buy the 1951 Ford convertible that unfailingly got them to school each day. El Diablo was painted on the driver side door and while it hardly fit his persona, it made him think of the actor James Dean and at this point in earth time there was nothing cooler than James Dean. Chip was one of the most popular kids at school, played wide receiver for the Boulder High football team and consistently made the school’s honor roll. Janet had a crush on him and Frank idolized him.

Chip’s father, Benito Mendez, was a fifth generation cattle rancher with a 4400 acre spread a couple of miles beyond Nederland. He and his wife, Carla, had been raising seven children, three girls and four boys. The initial 2300 square foot house had been added on and renovated more times than they could remember. It held a majestic quality thanks to Carla’s research and her incessant design demands but in fact it was a hodgepodge of architectural styles and was now over 6500 square feet, not counting the balconies, decks, patios and the greenhouse tacked on to the south elevation. Chip was the youngest of the boys and the second youngest overall. The parents had raised their children under a strict Catholic regimen that had distinguished them in the Boulder community. The punishment that Benito meted out to his children was likely to be considerably more severe than the local police force practiced for the typical misdemeanors common to the area. With a mother guided by her faith and a disciplinarian father the Mendez children were pretty consistent in their avoidance of trouble and the consequences that awaited them at home. That was not to say that they never got into trouble but in general the Mendez reputation was exemplary.

Ben and his children had lost Carla to cancer in 1955 and had pulled together with the assistance of their faith, their council and friend Father O’Hara and the small Catholic community that could always be counted on to help their own in their time of need. Even with this foundation of faith some of the kids couldn’t help but wonder why God would cut short the life of a faithful servant and a person so vital to the Mendez family. She had been their rock. The accepted excuse: God had called her home.

With Mom gone the Mendez girls formulated a strategy for the cooking, cleaning and house chores while the older kids, with one exception, served as additional labor and ranch managers along side Ben’s long time ranch hand Ricardo Alvaro and his son, Joseph. Chip, being the youngest boy, was not needed so much at the ranch and spent a good deal of his time practicing school sports and pumping gas at the local Shell station. That was the primary source of the income that allowed Chip to purchase El Diablo and become chauffeur for the Phyler kids.

Chip’s assistance with getting the Phyler children to and from school was invaluable to Robert and Naomi. Robert’s hours at C.U. were inconsistent and Naomi’s many responsibilities, including her part time work at the Hot Cup, made it almost impossible for her to act as a reliable transport for the kids. Chip refused to accept compensation for his assistance and that worked well for the Phylers since their financial obligations left them with little in the way of disposable income.

Chip, in the true sense of the words, was a chip off the old block of the Mendez family patriarch though to a lesser extent you could say that was true of nearly all the Mendez children. They all agreed he looked the most like Dad, though he seemed to have a much milder temperament. They were all taught the rewards of hard work and clean living from birth. They were made to attend Mass regularly, respect their elders and honor their family and its long traditions. Wherever they were and whatever they were doing they were expected to represent the family with integrity and pride.

Benito’s oldest son, Juan, and his twin sister, Joanna, began the next generation’s reign on a beautiful July day in 1932. Juan weighed in at 8 pounds 4 ounces and Joanna was close behind at 7 pounds 15 ounces. Benito and Carla were the very proud parents of twins and by all indications healthy, stout Mendez offspring. Obviously, so was their mother. The seeds were sown and germinated and would assure another generation of high country ranchers and continue the long traditions of the 3BG Ranch: the Mendez Ranch.

Juan and Joanna, now 24, had journeyed through grade school, junior high and high school almost hand in hand. They were the reward to a deep unyielding love and devotion between Ben and Carla and were the recipients of obsequious care and attention by both parents. They might have been one they were treated so even-handed, almost as a single unit, and with such devotion. There was always two of everything, they were even dressed the same on many occasion, memories captured in photos that Juan would rather forget. They became best friends, confidants, protectors and one another’s spy from childhood through adolescence. They had that cognition that only twins can share; they believed it and they lived it.

Juan was a 2-letter athlete and the only barrier to the third letter was his loyalty to the ranch during the busy summer months that kept him off the baseball team. Joanna was a cheerleader for her final two years in high school, a decision that was made when she tore a ligament in a basketball game during her sophomore year. Both children made consistent appearances on the school’s honor roles and the Mendez badge became a model to emulate by their siblings and a name that was spoken with reverence in Boulder and surrounding communities. Of course it would not be that all of these progeny would live up to the example set by these twins but a trail had been blazed and provided a course for their siblings to follow, if that became their inclination.

Following high school the Mendez twins would split up for the first time in their seventeen years together. But even this split would not be without a plan and the concurrence that it was best for the family as a whole.

Joanna, who had graduated Salutatorian of her high school class, had accepted an academic scholarship to the University of Wyoming where she would major in Liberal Arts with an emphasis in accounting and business machines. Juan chose Colorado State University in Fort Collins because of his belief that their Animal Husbandry Department was the rival of any offered in the country. Their love of the Rocky Mountains, horses and the family ranch would act as the glue that would bind them and pave the way for them to manage and modernize the family holdings.

It is surmised that the only thing that saved the twins from being unbearable spoiled brats was the string of children that would follow.

Less than two years after the twins birth Alexandro would join the family and as soon as he was able to walk he would march three steps behind Juan wherever and whenever it was plausible. Well, not literally, but Big Al, as he would soon be called, tried his best to emulate his older brother in every respect and succeeded to an admirable degree. He was now bigger and stronger than Juan and after two years in college, majoring in Forestry, he dropped out and came back home to lend a hand on the ranch. He had settled with the fact that his first love was the great outdoors and while higher education was not difficult for him, he was unable to see the purpose it served considering he had long ago decided his future was on the ranch.

It was nearly three years before the next boy joined the family. It was a difficult pregnancy for Carla and Jesus came nearly six weeks premature. He weighed less than five and a half pounds at birth and had to be kept at the hospital for an additional two weeks while they monitored his condition and took measures to improve his health. By the time he did join the family, by all indications, he was healthy if still slightly under the preferred weight. When he entered kindergarten his appearance was no different than anyone else at his grade level.

If there is a peculiarity in counter to those things we know to be normal and right, Jesus was that piece of the puzzle that did not quite fit for the Mendez clan. Early on he displayed a measure of diffidence that might have been predictable considering the two older brothers he had to look up to. This was a condition that was expected to pass when he entered school and had the opportunity to relate to more children of his same age. To a degree it did pass but if anything it was suppressed beneath a veil of resentment and petulance. He did not get along well with his classmates. Those smaller than him he tended to tease or otherwise bully. Those that did not have to put up with his animus often made him the object of ridicule or assault. His name became a further detriment as some of the kids used the Anglo pronunciation in mockery and teased him to perform miracles or other unworldly and impossible tasks. He soon changed the spelling of his name to Haysuz, unofficially, and refused to use or answer to any other spelling or pronunciation, regardless whether family or interim acquaintance.

By the time he reached the junior high level he had been held back a grade, had virtually no friends, was consistently characterized by his teachers as indolent, obstinate and incorrigible and had become the object of his father’s disgust and discrimination. These experiences did not have a calming effect but he did the best he could to suppress the anxiety that was fuming inside. He eventually succumbed to getting along by being as inconspicuous as humanly possible. A truce was silently declared to quell the miasma and he spent the majority of his time in his bedroom brooding and scheming. Joanna seemed the only sibling that understood and felt sympathy for Hays, as he was now commonly called, and was his only occasional conciliator.

He turned sixteen while a Sophomore in high school, got his driver’s license in October of that year and weighed more than big Al by the end of the year, albeit proportioned less favorably. He obtained what appeared to be a measure of popularity at school as one of the few students in his class that had access to a car. Benito was allowing him to take the car to Friday night football games even though it was obvious from the smell that permeated the interior that he and his friends had taken to smoking. There were also suspicions concerning alcohol use but they had no proof to back up an accusation. For a short time it appeared that Haysuz was coming out of his shell and it was such a relief to the family that they easily overlooked the forebodings that were looming on the horizon.

The summer of 1953 witnessed a return to the disconsolate behavior traits that had been so common prior to his affair with the family car. Haysuz became easily angered, taciturn and gloomy. The father-son relationship had once again degenerated to a point where they chose to ignore one another rather than engage in inevitable conflict. Benito even allowed him to skip his assigned chores on the ranch rather than put up with his insolence. It is suggested by many that this final surrender signaled the revolt and heartbreak that was to follow.

On Tuesday, October 14, 1953 Haysuz was allowed to take the old Chevy to school in order to stay late to work on what he described as a team school project; the Junior’s homecoming float. That was the last time anyone recalls seeing him. The family barely noticed his absence that night and according to some accounts they thought they heard him come in late and go to his room. When the car wasn’t parked out front in the morning they realized he hadn’t come home but this only caused mild anxiety and some anger on the part of Dad. The assumption, and hope really, was that he had got in some minor trouble, maybe drank too much to drive home and stayed over with one of his miscreant friends, whoever they might be. Benito’s focus was on the punishment he would have to impose to assure that it would be a one-time occurrence; an impossibility. They all waited with tense anticipation for his return the following evening. Again, it didn’t happen. Benito contacted the Boulder Sheriff’s department at 6:00 AM the next morning and the search began almost immediately.

The Sheriff called for volunteers and groups of ten to twelve combed the Mendez ranch as well as adjacent properties—and wherever the earth appeared disturbed further inspection was commenced. The Mendez family and all known acquaintances were interviewed separately and together and under surreptitious circumstances in an effort to expose any divergence of the confessions proclaimed but none was revealed. This did not quell the rumors and speculations that were in prodigious supply. It was known that father and son were in constant conflict and the possibility that the relationship had reached a disastrous culmination was a lead that had to be exhausted, and it was. They also considered foul play among the few mischievous friends that Jesus had known to hang out with over the past several months. Another dead end. Finally on October 19th, five days later, the car was discovered in the old Curtis Park neighborhood in Denver. It had been broken into but upon thorough inspection no blood or conspicuous fingerprints were found. By all appearances it was a common case of a runaway child. It took nearly three months before the authorities finally proclaimed the investigation had reached an impasse and would by terminated until new information came to light and no charges would be filed. In fact this too was a ruse. They were attempting a new tactic in hopes that any conspirators might lower their guard and expose new leads. It didn’t happen. The whereabouts and status of Jesus Mendez remained an unsolved mystery and the investigation was truly terminated without conclusion nearly a year after his disappearance. The family, who now remembered him with great fondness and love, gave him up for dead.

Until December 22, 1955 when a Christmas card arrived for Joanna, postmarked from Spokane, Washington, and signed I’m good, will be in touch, Bro. It was Jesus’ handwriting and follow-up inquiries were once again intensified and coordinated between Boulder and Spokane but alas that trail also grew cold and hope once again faded. At least they were left to believe that he might be alive.

The fifth child born to Benito and Carla Mendez was named Estella Jane. She was fifteen months younger than Jesus, they were bitter enemies growing up but she was the most heartbroken of the family at his disappearance. Stella had a giant heart for all living things and was brought to tears over nearly any tragedy, real or staged, human or animal. As soon as her younger brother, Chico (Chip), was able to hold a hammer she enlisted him to help build her menagerie. He was a willing participant and did his meager best to protect her from Jesus’ tantrums.

Stella had chicks, cats, rabbits, a dog, a frog, a calf she called her own, a horse, and a snake and she was in a constant campaign to secure a parrot. The west side of the barn, also the closest to the house, was a pastiche of chicken wire, old boards and stakes that by outward appearances looked as if they had been glued and tacked together by a blind man and would not be allowed within a city even in 1957 when covenants were virtually unheard of. It was a source of delight and hilarity for the entire Mendez family, except when tragedy struck, which was often. One or another animal went missing or died on a regular basis and had to be replaced with the same regularity. Stella’s normally cheerful constitution would turn instantly maudlin at the site of a dead chick or a missing frog and could not be ameliorated until a replacement was secure. To an extent she became the gauge to the family well being and everyone was anxious to ingratiate her, thus the zoo was kept stocked and cared for even in her absence.

When Chico, nicknamed Chip, was born Benito and Carla pledged it would be their last even though Benito liked to tease her with the idea that seven was actually his very lucky number. Of course it was practically impossible for a devout Catholic to be certain of an exact number of children so long as they conformed to church dogma, as had been demonstrated by the first six. They relied on the rhythm method of birth control and it served them well for the next five years, until 1946 when Maria was born. She gave Benito his lucky seven.

Carla was embarrassed nearly to tears as Benito paraded about the Sunday congregation, in front of Father O’Hara after Mass and declared, Let it never be questioned that Carla Mendez has rhythm! Carla had her first two children at age eighteen and was about to have her seventh at age thirty-one. Her sense of humor, particularly in relation to childbirth, had been dulled as her reproductive organs had been fatigued. Carla had solemn concerns for the child’s health as well as her own but, consistent with her stout stock, the pregnancy progressed without significant incident and on February 5, 1946 they were blessed with another beautiful baby girl, Maria.

Maria immediately became the sycophantic object of the entire family’s attention except at those times when she demanded to be fed, her diaper changed or any of the other unpleasant or inconvenient needs of an infant. These duties were expected of and assumed by the females of the house. Other than an impatient, demanding and covetous nature, Maria was a delightful child with a propensity to entertain and expect whatever kindness might be the benefit. Cuteness had its price as well as its rewards as Maria was soon to understand and as she would remind herself periodically going forward.

And so it was that she found herself preoccupied with the imagined booty she was bound to receive on her eleventh birthday, just nine days and counting from today. She would again command center stage and offer a fawning and poignant appreciation for their offerings. She couldn’t help but remind herself of the advantages of being the youngest and having so many adult siblings, with salaries and bank accounts and considerable generosity. If she was being a bit pretentious and selfish, so what else was a ten year old to do? She imagined herself an actress, like Shirley Temple. Then to, she also felt guilt in her greed and knelt beside her bed and asked God for forgiveness. It was a short prayer.

Upon rising she made her way to the large bay window and gazed upon the landscape. It was snowing. She made the sign of the cross and looked to the heavens. She could only hope and pray that her special day would be accompanied by better weather and come off without a hindrance.

On that same Sunday, January 27, 1957, Chip had been invited to a special luncheon at a restaurant in downtown Denver to eat and hear speeches from the University president, the team’s coaches and at least a dozen of the football players from the Colorado University Buffalo football program. It was an honorary gathering for the State’s top 25 high school football players with grade point averages of 2.5 or higher, as picked by the two Denver Daily newspapers in cooperation with the State’s high school coaches. It was congratulatory of course, as well as an encouragement to continue to do well in school and continue to hone their athletic skill. It was also a way for the University to assess talent with consideration to future scholarships. Like many gifted high school athletes, Chip had dreams of college scholarships and pro-football glory, and largesse.

Chip had hung around with some buddies in Boulder after the luncheon and it was rumored that they had a couple of beers although that is not the story the group told and there was little reason to doubt their story since they were all considered upstanding kids by their peers.

Chip started up the mountain that evening at around dusk, it was snowing lightly in Boulder. Chip had made this trip many times and in heavier snow conditions than this appeared to be and reckoned he could almost make it blindfolded if he had to. He felt no fear and instead was still operating on the inspiration that had been accorded him at the luncheon. Maybe he would one day wear the black and gold. He was almost certain a scholarship would be offered at the appropriate time.

As he furthered his ascent the storm intensified and before long visibility was no more than a few feet, maybe yards, and Chip’s insouciance turned to concern. He began to fret over the things he should have done, like replace the windshield wipers, check the tires and even fill the tank with gas but it was too late now and so he crept slowly forward.

It wasn’t long before conditions had deteriorated to virtual whiteout and it was then that he felt the right front wheel lurch forward; it slid off the road surface and El Diablo came to a stop sloped into the ditch. He got out and assessed his predicament. It wasn’t a deep ditch and he thought maybe he could back it out. He got back in the car, shifted to reverse but the wheels just spun in place. He was stuck and he could fathom only two options; wait with the car in hopes help would come driving by soon, although it didn’t seem likely that anyone else would be out in what was proving to be a significant storm, or he could walk the remaining distance. Neither option was particularly ideal but sitting idle for an indefinite time was not his style.

He would walk. It couldn’t be too far