Face of the Troll

By J. Thom Love

Three boys grow up in rural North Carolina in the World War II era. Although from very diverse social backgrounds, they formed lasting bonds that amused and amazed all but their families. As with most, they drifted apart during college and postgraduate education, having developed different goals and values. The Vietnam War further separated them as one became a USMC combat pilot, one a Naval flight surgeon, and the last a protesting, antimilitary internist. Their extreme experiences in Vietnam led to epiphanies as to the core values of each. The death of one reunited the surviving two, revealing how horrid experiences led to greater understanding of themselves and others. One surrendered his surgical training to become a creative-writing professor, while the other found that his earlier moral and ethical digressions resulted in entrapment that ultimately led to international fame in medical research.

The story centers around an upward-moving young female reporter who is given the task of interviewing a creative-writing professor at Duke University as a proxy for the famous medical researcher who never gives presentations nor gives interviews for fear of revealing the past. She knows little of the reason for the interview, nor why she was selected, making the entire scenario mysterious. The children's tale of Three Billy Goats Gruff was the basis of a childhood play game enjoyed by the two survivors that later becomes the metaphor for how hard experiences led to change and self-actualization as the identity of the troll is revealed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9781637103982

Book preview

Chapter 1

Cally

Cally Jean Sutherland awoke early on the first Friday of her new job. She looked in the mirror, mused at being thirty-two, just divorced, and recently transferred back home.

A substantial bump in pay allowed her the status purchase of a new BMW 325i, now parked in the drive. The status nomination of the car did not bother her in the least. She was a little surprised at herself, but the car was symbolic of her independence and success.

Always tough, self-confident, and self-reliant, she was considered bright by her teachers and somewhat weird and tomboyish by her peers. She never liked the old family name, Cally, and adopted the nickname CJ when she was six. All close friends called her CJ. New and formal relationships, as well as her mother, called her Cally or Cally Jane. Consistent with her personality, she left her home in Raleigh to attend Smith College in northeastern North Carolina. There she flourished and excelled. Her personality traits that were considered eccentric at home were admired and respected. She graduated with honors in journalism and assumed a respected position with the Baltimore Sun. It was there she earned the reputation of hard reporting with unique fairness and sensitivity. These characteristics won her numerous awards. Her investigative reporting of the Baltimore harbor landfills being laid with toxic refuse from the Pennsylvania steel mills won her national recognition. After ten years away from home, she returned to her present position at the Raleigh Times. Her reputation for hard, no-frills, and fair reporting, with a rare sensitivity, preceded her return to North Carolina. Her mother and the city of Raleigh were equally proud of the hometown reporter with national recognition.

She felt good this fall morning, commuting along the tree-lined freeway into Central City. The air was cool, clear, and crisp, matching the color of the hardwoods. Confidence and clarity—words that fit the day and her mood. At her desk, she knew the first assignments would be mundane, trivial, and boring. She would have to search out and find that special story for which she was noted. No one had ever helped her before, so what’s different, she thought.

She straightened her desk one more time. Nothing yet on the typewriter. She had her lucky, brown-stained coffee mug in her hand when the door of the chief editor opened.

Cally, get in here! he yelled across the open space of desks. She almost failed to respond—not reacting to the less-familiar name.

He was standing behind his desk when she entered. Without losing a beat, he impassively tossed a legal-sized paper across the desk toward CJ. Her hand reflexed in time to stop it from sliding to the floor.

There’s your assignment, he stated, with a curt edge in his tone.

CJ’s intuition knew this project was not from him. What is it? she asked, her confidence instinctively triggered by the abruptness of the moment.

I’m not sure, he said. You have an interview with this William Russell—a professor at Duke. He will share some details about a medical researcher from Pennsylvania, Dr. Michael Covington. He’s to be honored for his work in cystic fibrosis. Apparently, he’s an enigma. He paused for a moment, then added with a reluctance that implied an apology for his curtness: No one has ever interviewed Dr. Covington. His voice faded into softness.

CJ’s eyes dropped from her new boss down to the paper. Where did this originate? she asked. Not you, huh?

I don’t know for sure. He shrugged. High up. You were requested, he aired, balancing his coffee cup as he performed a mock curtsey. So do your thing. And be back here by tomorrow—hopefully with something worthwhile.

With a wave of his cup, he dismissed her back to the war room and the atmosphere of milling reporters. She studied the paper. It was a CV of sorts.

Michael Hamilton Covington, MD, born March 21, 1938, Red Springs, North Carolina. Attended high school, graduating with honors. Bachelor’s degree in Chemistry, Duke University, 1960.

Ahh, CJ thought. A connection with the Russell interview at Duke? She continued scanning the sheet. Graduated UNC, School of Medicine, 1964. Interned Philadelphia General, 1964–1965. One year of Internal Medicine at Philadelphia General when drafted. US Army, 1967. Served in Vietnam, 1967–1968, at 95th Evac Hospital, Da Nang, South Vietnam. Returned to complete internal medicine residency in 1971, and pulmonary fellowship in 1973. He immediately assumed directorship of the Blessinger Memorial Cystic Fibrosis Hospital, Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania.

She paused, reflecting. Odd for someone so fresh out of training to take over such a hospital. But the proof was in the results. Dr. Michael Covington had certainly produced results. Blessinger’s Hospital—a small, privately funded hospital, established in 1963 by the Paul M. Blessinger foundation for the research and treatment of cystic fibrosis. The hospital was established following the discovery that the Blessinger’s only daughter had cystic fibrosis. She died in 1971 at the age of twenty-three. Blessinger’s millions were left to the hospital in memory of this child. She scanned the list of honors, culminating with a nomination for the Nobel Prize in medicine for the genetic mapping of cystic fibrosis. And who is this Michael Covington? she mused to herself. No one knows outside this résumé.

At the bottom of the vitae was a short notation. Dr. Michael Covington has consistently refused interviews and recognition for his work. He always delegates acceptance speeches to his colleagues who work with him at Blessinger. This may represent a unique opportunity.

CJ folded the paper and walked to the door. Now who is William Russell? And what is the connection?" she thought.

Chapter 2

One of CJ’s power positions was to never arrive unprepared for an interview. Another was to always be comfortably on time—earlier is better. Abiding by this, she went to the BMW and headed for Duke with time to enjoy the ride.

The drive from Raleigh was only forty minutes and quite restful. She approached the campus from the main entrance, around the traffic circle, and down the long drive that ended near the chapel steps. She parked in one of the rarely available visitor spaces and noted the time on the clock, stoically peering down from the gothic rock tower. Five minutes after ten—almost an hour and a half until the interview. She grabbed her briefcase and headed toward the library. The day had maintained its crystal-clear sky perfectly complemented by the fall colors in full glory.

To hell with the library prep, she thought, excusing herself and almost speaking aloud. Everyone is so secretive. I’ll wing it with what I have. Altering her course from the library, she turned toward the Duke Memorial Garden and slowed her pace, enjoying the beauty and clearing her mind. This is better preparation, she rationalized.

Soon enough, the clock in the tower bellowed its monotone announcement of noon. CJ paced briskly toward the Liberal Arts Building, which formed a limb of the cross that shaped the campus—capped by the majestic chapel. Dr. Russell’s office was on the second floor. She trotted up the ancient, concrete steps that were smoothly spooned by decades of hurried students saddled with textbooks, followed by dignified professors smartly donned with pipe and briefcase.

At the south end of the second-floor wing, a secretary and desk obtruded the old hallway, adapted there long ago by space limitations. As CJ approached, her observation skills reengaged from the hiatus in the garden. A personal secretary is usually a precise reflection of the boss, sequestered from view. She knew the personality seated outside the office was almost universally a prelude to the one inside. The sign on this desk proclaimed the domain of Mrs. Lucy Stewart—not a miss—and made more formal by her given name. She seemed sincere and not too formal, CJ noted.

As she moved closer, Mrs. Stewart looked up from her task and charmingly delivered a programmed greeting. Hello. She smiled warmly. I’m Mrs. Stewart, Dr. Russell’s secretary. May I help you?

Mrs. Stewart appeared middle-aged with reading glasses and neatly dressed. The absence of an ashtray suggested a healthier lifestyle. A bulky computer terminal, keyboard, and telephone monopolized much of the desk. Several folders and paper stacks indicated a variety of project in various stages. CJ relaxed slightly in response to her presentation and pleasant manner. "I’m CJ Sutherland, from the Raleigh Times, she answered. I was sent here to see Dr. William Russell."

Oh yes, Mrs. Stewart said. We’re expecting you. Dr. Russell just called to say he will be a little late—some sort of minor crisis, which usually means a distraught student. I hope this is not inconvenient. He will be here soon. Please come into his office and make yourself comfortable. Would you like some coffee?

Yes, please, CJ replied as Mrs. Stewart escorted her inside the office, clearly large by vintage standards but a bit small for modern sophisticates. I take it that distraught students are not unusual for the doctor, CJ added, instantly hoping her quasi question was interpreted as blatant fishing.

Oh no, Mrs. Stewart gladly added, smiling genuinely. Students come up here quite often. Dr. Russell is so good with them. You know, the sort everyone seems to instantly know and trust. He’s never judgmental—always validating. Word spreads. Half the students he mentors have never taken his class.

What does he teach? CJ responded.

Why, creative writing of course, Mrs. Stewart said fondly. Surely you have read his work? she asked expectantly.

CJ shook her head. No. Not that I’m aware of. What did he write?

Mrs. Stewart straightened as if to take ownership. "His first book—the one that solidified his name and talent, was Vietnam Awakening—a New York Times bestseller. She motioned toward a tall, crowded bookshelf. It’s right here, she added. Feel free to have a look. And make yourself at home. Dr. Russell does not mind," she said, exiting into the hallway and toward a common area for coffee.

Thank you, CJ replied, raising her voice slightly into her reporting instincts. Personal areas are assuredly a trove of knowledge over controlled words.

It was a friendly room. His wooden desk was mildly cluttered, its front legs slightly scuffed—probably marred by students, intensely pulling the two Windsor chairs closer for personal instruction. Books lay marked with loose papers and notes denoting the important pages. By the window, a small round table with armless chairs created an intimate corner for important conversations. Two cups of stale coffee sat abandoned amongst the table’s many rings that memorialized coffee cups of past. Again, no ashtrays. The chair behind the desk was a dark, but not worn, brown leather. Its size was moderate—not a power seat. The wooden floor had retained its beauty despite the countless scuffmarks and no heavy, power-color carpet to control the mood. Only a small braided rug presented the desk, tying it and the two chairs wisely together. Wooden bookshelves lined the wall to the left and behind the desk. The center portion on each wall was open and housed neatly framed diplomas, pictures of family, and sorted mementos of adventures past. She scanned the assorted literature that was mixed with medical and surgical texts. One caught her eye—Complications of Surgery. This was a surprise. She opened the cover and yes, his name, William R. Russell, the unexpected.

Her attention turned toward the diplomas. Now the picture was becoming clear. Red Spring High School, Duke University, North Carolina School of Medicine, 1964.

They were friends, CJ said aloud. She quickly looked over at the desk for pictures. People place the most important mementos on the desk or directly behind it. There was the obligatory family pic of his wife and three daughters with a dog—a large, hairy one. More pictures of the women in his life in smaller groups, at family affairs. His wife appeared younger than expected. So it must be an older shot, she thought. She appeared about twenty-five years old, and a Jackie Kennedy-style hairdo and dress confirmed the era. The handwritten words I love you were across the bottom, marred by water stains. Obviously, too significant to renew with a recent photograph. Behind the desk was the Pulitzer Prize document, and below, to the right, an old black-and-white photograph of three boys. They were all about six, with various stages of missing front teeth. They all had crew cuts, fantastic grins, and sported boxer-type bathing suits that hung well below their belly buttons and tie strings that dangled loose to the lower level of the shorts at the knees. All three were wet with water droplets in their hair and eyebrows. A wooden building behind the boys held a vintage metal ad and boasted X-Way Water Ground Corn Meal.

I’ll bet I know two of you, CJ said aloud.

She looked at more diplomas and saw general-surgery residency documentation from Parkland Hospital and the University of Texas, SW, Dallas, Texas, 1973.

Mrs. Stewart returned with a mug of coffee. Sugar or cream? she asked.

No. Just black, CJ responded, lost in the questions in her head.

Just make yourself at home. He just called and said he is on his way, Mrs. Stewart bubbled.

CJ sat in one of the Windsor chairs, warming her hands with the cup, mentally reviewing with one last look around. She spotted an old, then pamphlet appearing to be a comic book. She picked it up and studied the paper booklet, a fairy tale of Three Billy Goats Gruff. The once bright cover was faded, but still could be seen, the three goats studying a bridge leading to a green hillside. Beneath the bridge, a warty-nosed troll sat ominously with his peaked hat and huge eyes. She opened the cover, copyright 1942. An odd keepsake, she noted.

Reflecting, she surmised, Dr. Russell and Dr. Covington are childhood friends! Why the interview by proxy? Why did Dr. Russell quit surgery for writing?

She was still mulling to herself when she heard the commotion in the hall by Mrs. Stewart’s desk. She straightened as the door briskly opened with familiarity.

Ah, Ms. Sutherland, I’m Bill Russell, he said, thrusting his hand toward hers.

Chapter 3

William

Angels and demons

wrestle the plains of Earth

their cries and groans

most often heard

in the clamors of war

among nations and individuals

or within one’s soul

The perfunctory idle talk began.

I hope you had a good drive from Raleigh, Dr. Russell stated, looking directly into her eyes. The look was piercing to the level of truth but was not threatening. CJ immediate noted a compelling desire to tell him anything he asked. She understood why the students flocked to this man with their innermost problems.

Yes, the drive was great. So was the walk in the garden, she confided.

Oh, so you got here early enough to stroll through the Sara B. Duke, huh? What a great way to spend a morning. I’d go there every day if I could, just to watch the changes of the season and commune a little with nature. I find I much better after such a trip. Do you?

The question took CJ back a little. Well, I just went there today, and truthfully, I feel somewhat guilty. I should have been in the library preparing for this interview. But since I really did not know what this is about…

You did the right thing! he interrupted. Clears the mind. And this will be easy. Please, have a seat. He motioned her back to the Windsor from which she had risen. He sat in the old leather chair behind his desk, rocked backward in a relaxed manner, and stared at the ceiling. Twirling a pen between the forefingers of both hands. He spoke more to the ceiling than to her.

I guess you would like to know what this is about.

CJ nodded but was not sure he had seen the movement.

Michael and I, he continued, believed this would be the best way to quiet all the busybodied investigations into his personal life. It’s like people cannot accept as genuine, that a person would not desire nor believe they may deserve praise.

CJ knew what he was referring to and interjected, Surely Dr. Covington deserves the accolades for the work he has devoted his life to achieving—all the sacrifices he must have made.

Ah, he strongly countered. Therein lies the lie. You see, Michael—Dr. Covington and I simply do not always believe in sacrifice. All men’s actions, generally speaking, are accomplished with full payment made at the time. What I mean is, that even a martyr has his martyrdom—that a gift, truly given, offers the giver more true joy than that of the receiver. Every sacrifice, has or is, its own reward. There is no service or gift honestly given that can be sacrifice. The reward is in the bliss received. All public acclaim is, therefore, unnecessary, superficial, and unwanted. If one examines any great achievement, a personal payoff of satisfaction, and happiness, no public acclaim, lies at the root of the achievement. That is not to downgrade the accomplishment, but to be truthful to the motivation. To have real value, services to others must give the giver as much, or more, joy than the receiver.

CJ pondered this briefly. You mean that Dr. Covington’s work gives him all the reward he believes he deserves?

It means his work permits him to repay a personal debt—just as my writing and teaching balances the books for me. When people probe at when and why, individuals may not want the personal motivation or debt revealed.

Personal debt? CJ questioned. What debt are you speaking of?

"Debt that may be totally insignificant to anyone else or may be totally misunderstood.

We all have our angels and demons to fight. What we are attempting to do is recognize the truth."

Why not just accept the accolades and keep quiet? CJ