Chance Evers

By Bill Heitland

Perry Ellis’s life looks like a complex jigsaw puzzle with pieces scattered about and no clear picture of how to return to the contentment he enjoyed early in life.

As Perry slips into despair following the death of his wife, he decides to take his own life. He quickly ends the suicide attempt, however, when he envisions how his brother, Clark, will react upon finding him.

Perry assumes an alias (Chance Evers) to reinvent himself and seek atonement for a recent transgression against the family construction business. The journey of atonement begins when he encounters a veteran adventurer with a history of uncovering sunken treasure from old shipwrecks in Florida.

The price of adventure is steep, prompting Perry to illicitly withdraw half of an emergency fund from the coffers of the family business. Clark’s discovery of yet another desperate choice by Perry sets the brothers on a collision course.

The moment of truth arrives with a meeting in Florida and allows Clark to become unburdened of a secret he vowed never to reveal. The revelation inspires the brothers to want to restore what was buried beneath a lifetime of lies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781662403446

Book preview

Chapter 1

Faint, flickering recollections of a childhood ritual enter Perry Ellis’s dreamscape.

A surge of energy allows the images to loom larger, brighter, offering a counterbalance to the most troubled thoughts.

The dreams usually travel like a sleepwalker on roller skates, the disastrous conclusions only averted when Perry suddenly awakens in a cold sweat.

This time, however, Perry will benefit from a rare stretch of deep, uninterrupted sleep.

Shafts of autumn sunlight filter through closely aligned sycamores bursting with a kaleidoscope of autumn’s richest colors.

A bicycle path running beneath the canopy of trees is speckled with slanted patches of sun and shade.

Perry once imagined how such a cathedral of multicolored foliage might have inspired the invention of stained glass.

That such lighthearted musings have been replaced by calamitous scenarios only heightens the importance of this memory.

Cardinal, blue jay, oriole, and robin flutter about in pinwheel procession, earnestly searching for the best bird’s-eye view.

The cardinal proves most fussy as he examines several roosts before settling onto a thick branch. His cohorts find a perch to their liking and savor the enlivened scene.

The birds are stirred to attentive behavior, arriving just in time for the start of what promises to be a noteworthy spectacle.

My fluency in birdspeak enables me to interpret why the cardinal is deemed the uncontested leader.

His initial nickname, Rickey the Picky, soon evolved into a more respectable title.

His penchant for having a keen eye for baseball talent as well as leading others toward choice branches for performances like this imposed the change.

Hence, he now answers to the moniker of Branch Rickey.

The oriole has a reputation for having a princely nature while perceptively locating and weaving various items that make up a solid nest. For that he’s bestowed regal acclaim as Earl the Weaver.

The blue jay is now bilingual after cavorting with a trio of French hens from Canada last spring. The adventurous quartet, experienced in the art of giving and receiving pleasure, maintains that all events that occur in the pear tree stay in the pear tree, so I will leave it there.

A theatrical hush signals the ritual is about to commence.

Perry’s eyes widen appreciatively as he welcomes the familiar array of baseball bats. He relishes the scent of gloves lightly oiled in lanolin and the varnished skin smoothly layered over expertly carved wood. To Perry, this setting feels as necessary as food to a famished stomach.

The soft morning light anoints his fertile imagination.

A gentle breeze ensues, arousing blades of grass with languorous strokes. The earth is alive with purpose.

The stage is set for Perry and his brother, Clark, to demonstrate their penchant for corralling slow-rolling grounders, soaring fly balls, and vicious line drives.

With the relentless fervor of a drill sergeant, their father, Elliott, reminds them of the importance of preparation.

What was the phrase that followed? Oh yeah, practice is prelude to perfection.

Perry earnestly studies the details like an art museum curator surveying an array of Michelangelo’s newly discovered sketches.

The carefully raked dirt feels cool and soft as it enters Perry’s Chuck Taylor high-top tennis shoes.

The crack of the bat alerts muscle memory attuned to competition that demands catlike reflexes. His eyes intently follow the explosive reaction when club collides with spheroid.

A symphony of wondrous athleticism ensues.

Perry springs instinctively toward the white dot as it flattens bedewed blades of grass before skipping deep into the hole at short.

He thrills to the action as he nimbly leaps toward the ball, snares it, and snaps his glove shut as securely as a bank vault.

He bolts upright and pivots in a fluid motion, imagining in midair he is disobeying the laws of gravity.

He initiates his part in the twin killing by gracefully sailing the ball chest-high to Clark at second base.

Clark’s pivot, equally efficient and swift, is something Perry will never forget. That, along with a slight nod of approval from Clark, defines the moment.

They celebrate with a favorite chant: Tinker to Evers to Chance, time to begin the victory dance. This followed by a brief Irish jig with arms interlocked amid raucous hoots and hollers rising to the heavens.

Like a chick instinctively pushing past shell toward the blaze of invigorating discovery, the brothers have reached a momentous rite of passage.

At this very instant, a thought pops into Perry’s head: instead of being separated by time (four years between births), they are brought closer by a sense of familial determination.

The celebratory embrace is etched indelibly in Perry’s early memory as a defining moment of necessity and bonding.

The birds express approval with a piercing cacophony of hoo hooo haa haa haa.

In full awareness of a conscious state, Perry tries to concentrate on the last image but fails.

Sadly, the dream dissolves and there is another jagged twenty-four hours to contend with.

Chapter 2

Perry squinted, then gazed dejectedly at the dilapidated building as if it bore a resemblance to his life in decay. In these distressing hours of discernment, there was no sanguine boyhood memory to ease the hurt.

The neon sign, a tilted martini glass in the bar’s front window, flickered like a droopy eyelid losing its battle with fatigue.

The intense sun felt like it was eyeballing him through a giant magnifying glass. The thermal discomfort coursed through torso, legs, feet, activating sweat glands with alarming speed. The appalling odor that assaulted his nostrils was a reminder that attention to personal hygiene had been sorely neglected.

As his fingers fumbled through the forest of a tangled beard, he tried to remember the last time he had a reason to reach for a razor.

Everything was in disrepair.

He saw himself slowly becoming irrelevant to the workaday world. Banks would soon tell him he had overdrawn for the last time. Did he forget how to add and subtract?

He owed more than he owned. Credit? Gone. Washed away with the last spending spree at the local watering hole.

There was no need to check on the current bank balance, because it was all but wiped out.

Companies would no longer ask for his work history, because as far as they were concerned, he had nothing to offer.

In time he would be deemed as worthless as the pieces of trash swept against the curb.

The feeling of stark poverty was bad enough, but it was the spiritual erosion that caused the greatest damage. If he still had a sense of comeback, a trace of resolve to fight off total collapse, the despair would not seem so permanent.

Hope now seemed as distant as the constellation Orion Nebula, once his favorite because it was where new stars were born.

A telling moment came when Perry attempted to make eye contact with a woman and her children as they were crossing the street in the opposite direction.

Her face revealed the same distress and alarm one might display upon detecting an imminent threat. She hustled the kids past him and ordered them to keep walking at a fast pace. "I said keep walking, she commanded when the boy asked, But why?"

The woman’s display of repulsion from a mere glance in his direction had a devastating effect. Was it based on fear? Did she shudder at the thought of being dragged into his woeful world?

Yet another reminder of his decline came when he overheard someone ask for the time. Perry nearly erupted into maniacal laughter. What was time to him? It was no longer measured by the precise ticking of a clock. Unlike the orderly passage of seconds, minutes, or hours, time seemed as fragmented as scattered pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, never meshing to form an intelligible picture or cogent thought.

The cognitive skills that once enabled him to read a blueprint or solve a complex predicament on a construction site seemed to have evaporated.

His body no longer followed the rhythms of the sun and moon because there was no routine to his days and nights.

With no appointments, schedules, or deadlines to meet, his day was now measured by confrontations with landlords, creditors, booze bums, or would-be friends who would steal the shirt off his back as soon as he nodded off on a park bench.

If a day didn’t include a jeer, a look of disdain, or a pointless conversation that led to a barroom brawl, it was one to cherish.

Once it was known that Perry was without resources, he became invisible.

In dark, desperate days like these, Perry often considered suicide. He knew of several ways to end it but never sought access to a gun or looked for a place to secure a rope.

Then one day he felt himself spiraling toward an abyss from which retreat was no longer possible. The outside world was sucked into a black hole. Hope vanished faster than butter on a sizzling skillet. There was only one exit strategy left. He pulled a plastic bag over his head to starve his brain of oxygen.

The execution of the deed forced a strong consideration for making sure there was no screwup. If this failed, he could become a prisoner of his own doing, a human vegetable. As he was securing the bag around his neck and prepared to seal it off with duct tape, he visualized Clark. There was no visible sign of emotional strain on his brother’s face—he simply stood in grim appraisal. And something from within, some desperate voice, forced an immediate halt to the plan.

Perry realized he didn’t want Clark’s last memory of him to be the very grotesque embodiment of another desperate choice.

More importantly, he couldn’t add to the unspoken family burdens Clark seemed to have inherited. He clawed at the tape and desperately snatched the bag away from his face, gathering in huge gulps of air. The labored breathing gave rise to more images.

The most poignant picture was of the suffocated body of his wife, Beth, slumped over the steering wheel. Was this the harrowing consequence of a marriage irreparably damaged by lack of communication?

From his decision to abort the suicide came the determination that there had to be a plan that would make life more livable. But where could he begin? He felt trapped in a world of embittered chaos.

At some point, he would have to find a way to atone for his misdeeds in order to forgive himself. That would not be easy because all the recent destruction directly affected Clark, his lone benefactor.

It was Clark who had the dubious task of chasing his younger brother off the premises of Ellis Construction. Perry knew he had committed an unforgiveable sin by sabotaging part of a construction site following the news of Beth’s suicide.

Waves of beleaguered thoughts flooded his brain. The Catholic church Perry and Beth visited regularly was now replaced by nondescript watering holes like this one.

The hours of worship were listed in the front of the bar, same as a religious establishment. Sinners were welcome in both buildings, but that was where the similarities parted.

A bartender was there to stimulate the senses, but never to preach or convert.

It pained him to think that there would never be another discussion with Beth about anything. There was the physical absence, but the emotional toll hit hardest.

His focus was now filtered through the harsh awareness that his once-proud lifestyle was gone forever. The rare discovery of someone who could offer utter joy and satisfaction had vanished.

It was like being ravaged by an emotional stroke, with half of what once sustained him suddenly no longer functional.

In its place was a pathetic figure shuffling along, struggling to find some semblance of an expressive balance.

The bars looked the same until he was inside. The regulars—the heavy-lidded ones—slurred tired jokes yet usually managed a nimble hold on their drinks. Better to get sloppy with the language or facts than to lose an ounce of alcohol.

Finding that he was one of their own, someone would invite him in with a sly nod.

Habitual drinkers knew the unspoken signal. The same way they understood that a slight rotation of the index finger meant another round.

There was a time when the blinding sun would have reminded him it was too early to start drinking. That was when he had serious responsibilities and was eager to show Beth how well he could handle them.

Responsibility and routine brought stability to his life and made him feel necessary. Time was wound tightly into a coil and, on occasion, seemed to spin too quickly to fit everything in. But there was a challenge to it, and that brought vigor and excitement to the day. The reward was exquisite time spent together.

Someone once observed that when alone, Perry seemed somewhat distant, at times lost. Beth was often described as apathetic, listless, self-absorbed, drifting.

Apart, they appeared destined to a life of loneliness. Then a dramatic change occurred when they met. Perry didn’t anguish over which word he should use. When he saw in her accepting eyes there would be no judgment, a surge of confidence led to a torrent of thoughts and feelings expressed openly.

Beth picked up on his openness and conveyed in raw eloquence the true nature of her heart.

From the fusion of this mysterious, complex pair emerged beings as vibrant and rhythmic as a poetic couplet.

It was as if the gods of mercy found cause to intervene by scooping them up and redirecting their fates toward a kinder course.

Their symbiotic connection proved most potent when they listened to the whisper of want from each other’s soul. The echo was powerful enough to inspire clear direction for a better future. Maybe there was something called deserved luck and this was finally theirs for the taking.

Replacing the hours they lay awake at night cursing the isolation that signaled a life of despair was a magnetic power nudging them closer to a rich appreciation of each other.

In each other’s arms, they knew they were exactly where they needed to be.

When their lips met, they were transported into sublime territory. It was at first a mysterious region full of heightened awareness of something weightless and undeveloped.

Then a feeling of ephemeral bliss with no guarantee of repetition. To search for a formula would destroy the very essence of what made it uniquely theirs: a trust in spontaneity and depth of spirit. Perry was so moved by the transformative shift in his life he called their union an Orion Nebula. The constellation of extraordinary achievement was finally within reach.

They trusted in each other’s ability and willingness to do what was necessary to push hardship aside and bring about happiness. They accomplished this by filling each other’s void.

When their eyes interlocked, the world around them evanesced into mundane traffic. They were slowly spun into a dance of discovery and aplomb. What was that scent he detected just below her earlobe? Beth said it was from a special soap her mother gave her each Christmas. The bucolic aromas of honeysuckle and lilac reminded Perry of the innocence and freedom of youth, when he and Clark roamed the countryside oblivious of the constraints of time and discipline.

The adult bonding with Beth served as a graceful, seamless transition Perry thought only happened in fictive regions of books or movies.

Their favorite seasons were fall and winter. Fall was when trees showed off their brilliant colors and the earth gave off its last pungent breath before giving way to winter.

It was during the winter holidays that marked the first sharing of what they loved most about life. Beth’s description of the year’s first snowfall became a Christmas landscape etched in Perry’s memory. It’s so hauntingly beautiful, nature anointing head, heart, and soul, she whispered as they ventured out onto a pristine carpet at the first gray wink of dawn.

Flakes landed softly before melting on her outstretched tongue. This was their winter Eden. And Beth had a knack for aptly describing the magic of their private kingdom.

Oh, look! she cried, the wrinkled lines on her brow marking a joyous discovery. The fir and evergreen trees are bending reverently from the sheer weight and wonder of it all. If that doesn’t steal a breath or stir a soul, nothing will.

Then the mischievous glint in her bluish-green eyes signaled a sharp departure from innocent enthusiasm to crafty wit. If you’re Catholic, that is. Otherwise, um, if you’re agnostic or atheist, they simply sag.

Her subtle grin and flushed cheeks became innocent preludes to a burst of energy that led to a tight embrace, imprinting a stirring expression of love.

I’m not sure I could love this more than you! she exclaimed in blissful delight. Guess I’ll have to think about that.

It was the first time she openly declared her love for him. That was the purest spiritual form of joy he had known with a woman.

Beth’s relaxed, unassuming smile told him so much about how lucky he was to be with such a sincere partner. Perry was willing to do anything to see that look reappear.

What sustained them during their spell apart was the promise of a rapturous release of ardor when they reconnected at home.

The greatly anticipated period of togetherness—the warm embrace and artful caress—smoothed out the rough edges of a difficult eight-hour stretch, reminding them of the intimacy that never seemed to lose its luster.

The daily reunions often led to equally passionate moments in the hot tub, the denouement leaving them feeling cleansed and sated. It was in these transformative moments that the coarse fabric of life was shredded and rewoven into a finer cloth of trust and tenderness.

This coveted period often included the sharing of dewy-eyed imaginings. Their trust in the strength of their future tilted them toward making bold predictions. Luck and the bounty that ensued were theirs for the taking.

And why not act on the bold feeling that comes with a surge of good luck? The time was right for bringing a blur of innocence into the home, a soft mass of blood and bone to nurture until it could establish a personality, a sense of self, then stand for its own purpose.

They would feed it copious amounts of love and encouragement. Loneliness would have difficulty entering this child’s soul.

This singular ambition brought them to a new level and strengthened their bond. Talk of their own brand of family increased the list of lofty aspirations. Unchecked happiness was beginning to feel not only real but also sustainable.

But the completion of that list never came. Sadly, the luck was inexplicably swept away. The intimacy that burned so brightly was extinguished as quickly as the ceremonial snuffing of a candle’s flame.

And the bold promise of working toward a familial goal as well as the anticipation of building toward another night of wondrous commingling had vanished.

Suddenly, not enough time became too many minutes, hours, days. He felt engulfed in a river of insignificance, with nothing meaningful to define his days. Was homelessness that far off?

A bizarre occurrence sent him into a deeper state of depression. His doctor expressed her condolences via a terse note sent to his address that read, Sorry for your loss.

He reacted with a surge of savage bitterness. Who would play such a dirty trick? Since his next appointment was in a few days, he would start his investigation there.

A nurse explained that he was no longer listed as a patient.

The loss his doctor was referring to was him, deemed dead to the world from cirrhosis of the liver.

It was Clark, he was told, who canceled the appointment with the doctor. Perry asked the woman who presented him with the information if perhaps she got the name wrong. No, she insisted with doubtless assurance. It was a gentleman named Clark who made the call informing them that his brother was deceased.

Perry would have to confront Clark. Perhaps it was a desperate attempt to make Perry realize their blood ties were severed. No more safety net. He was on his own.

He immediately phoned his bank and credit card company, desperate to find out if he had been swindled. Why else would someone go to the trouble of faking his death? The bank had to remind him there were scant funds left to bilk. It couldn’t be the life insurance policy, because that was already cashed in.

Was this Clark’s way of waking his brother up to the consequences of his heavy drinking? Perry’s fears were quickly allayed, however, when a woman from the doctor’s office informed him later the same day that it was all an innocent clerical error.

The woman who took the information from the brother of the deceased typed one wrong letter and mistakenly opened Perry’s file. Thus, the appointment he scheduled was canceled. Since Clark was listed as the family member to notify in an emergency, the office assistant thought he was the one who placed the call.

Initially, it was interpreted as a bizarre fluke, an honest mistake that could happen to anyone. But the longer Perry thought about it, the more he saw it as a harbinger. Compared to what he once was, he was already on his way to death’s door. The note was proof of a moribund condition. It was only a matter of time before it became official.

From there he descended into a dark, desolate abyss where brooding, intense distrust and self-destructive habits became his nature. When he couldn’t stand the loneliness, he searched for other troubled souls.

This is where I come in.

In some ways, his automatic acceptance into this dubious fraternity was probably as inevitable as our first meeting. We would not come face-to-face in a bar, however.

My meeting with Perry would have to take place outside the limitations of buildings or safe havens.

It would have to be elevated, higher than any human could reach without the help of mechanical ascent. Eye contact would be our connection. It would also have to happen naturally. The rest? Well, there’s plenty of time to tell all that.

You see, I have more time than any mortal could ever think of possessing. Much of it is for observation and for this curious word man has invented. I believe it is called truth.

It never ceases to amaze me how often the essence of truth is misunderstood. You’ll have to excuse me for being cynical and amused. I have been known to erupt into screeching bird laughter every now and then. I can’t help myself. I could probably count on all twelve talons how you mortals complicate the simplest things.

Truth is a force of nature, like the current of a river that flows honestly. It is guided by stark facts and reason, not fear, deception, or passion. If you accept it and follow the flow, you become more aware and grow. You learn from the bad and use that knowledge to promote more good. But there are those who believe they are stronger, are smarter, and can make nature’s forces succumb to their will.

It is a feeling of superiority that engenders misguided confidence. Turns out such arrogance leads to the mining of fool’s gold.

And if you fight the truth, it will pull you into deadly waters faster than you can say, Foolish me. Convincing others to follow such a mistaken lead just compounds the tragedy, rendering the waters murky and caustic.

Then there are those who see truth as a wall they can neither scale nor circumvent, so they pretend it doesn’t exist. The out-of-sight, out-of-mind tactic only increases the pain, however, because truth can be quite nasty when it pays a second or third visit.

So if you consider an honest search for the essence of truth a journey, a migration of the soul and spirit for the sake of learning and evolving, I can be your guide. There will be a distillation process in which events of the past will be dealt with in order to pave the way for a more satisfying future.

I aim to relate the journey with all the pertinent details. I am the only one with the ability to do that from beginning to end. I’ve been mistakenly credited with having the ability to predict—even shape—the future. However, I want to make it crystal clear that this is not so. I found my purpose during a visit to Alcatraz. It was there that I recognized the awful consequences of poor judgment and misspent intelligence. I saw a way to offer a slight nudge in the right direction, then drift into the background to allow free will to take over.

Okay, no more tweeting on the subject. This is about Perry and his family and the rest of the people Perry must meet to accomplish his…uh, what do you call this? A metamorphosis?

The transformation that will save a soul from self-destruction? Hah! There I go again. I hate it when I start projecting before I have the first meeting with my next subject.

You see, Perry doesn’t know much about metamorphosis or its application to his life. He does, however, recognize deep down that some type of dramatic change must take place. That understanding is nothing more than a fuzzy notion right now.

He has time to let that idea develop. He also knows that he must find his fraternity brothers quickly or perish. Finding them now will be easy.

After all, if you endure a significant setback that is neither unique nor isolated, eventually you will find others in the same situation.

That magnetic pull toward others of similar ilk was beginning to feel more comfortable than the solution suggested by his brother. Would Clark understand the haphazard trails that Perry took daily? Perhaps not. Clark’s life seemed the antithesis of Perry’s.

Sure, Perry and Clark shared the same blood. And they learned about embracing a strong work ethic from their father. But as they grew older, they took different paths. One saw life as a game of rules and regulations that required rote learning as well as skill and development in order to reap the highest rewards. The other considered rules too cumbersome and boring. Why spend time and energy clearing a hurdle if you can dance around it?

Their father, Elliott, spent time expounding on the finer points of baseball and jazz and the importance of an honest day’s work.

Their mother, Audra, stressed the importance of getting an education. Clark picked up on this at an early age. But Perry looked for ways to get around class assignments. He would ask Clark to help him write book reports and essays, solve math equations. Clark was willing to offer help, but only with the proviso that something would be learned from the exercise. It didn’t take long for him to realize Perry’s heavy reliance on his skills was not likely to change anytime soon.

Keep this up and you’ll realize one day that you can’t make up for lost time in your dreamworld, scolded Clark.

Aw, it’s not really a big deal, now, is it? dismissed Perry.

Just wait, replied Clark. You’ll see.

Clark would attempt to keep his emotions in check. When that was not possible, he would leave the house and catch up with his friends.

Perry would attempt to be a part of his brother’s group, but the four-year age gap made that next to impossible.

They continued to grow apart in other ways. Perry was spending evenings unleashing rambling, stultifying oratory in this or that hapless watering hole, while Clark was attending to the family business.

You say your name is Harley Ablestand? Perry murmured with a sloppy wink and a subsequent tilt of his head. Well, let me shake your hand. I’m Harley Ablestand myself. Hah hah hah, hhhhaaaaa.

There was an eerie echo to his alcohol-induced monologue, causing him to hear it played back, maybe even see it, when those around him showed how much they hated to be crowded by his presence.

He bought drinks for as many of his pals as he could. What’s your name? he would inquire with a tone that sounded like the onset of a sales pitch. If this was met with a confused or blank stare, Perry would continue until he was stopped.

You, sir, look like you could use a break. Tired of the string of bad luck? Aren’t we all? But there’s relief on the way. Oh, yes, I can help you. You know, it was probably a fortunate thing that you would find this establishment at this time of the day, because I have the expertise to settle your nerves and put you back on the right path, he babbled, riding an imaginary wave of self-assurance.

Perry was more comfortable in this muddled stream of consciousness. It was a safe haven, a retreat from the linear thoughts that left him feeling depressed.

In here he could push away the world of consequences that come from desperate actions: a car engine running in a garage long enough to fill lungs with carbon monoxide, turning a once-vibrant body lifeless.

At times he was inclined to ramble for several minutes. I know I don’t look like it now, he would proclaim, "but there was a time when I couldah, shouldah, wouldah been a contender. I couldah been somebody, just as sure as there’s rainwater on the front porch. Or is that waterfront?"

He would flash a dazed look, then add, Or is that ‘Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on bra! La la how life goes on…’ Only thing is, ‘I’m…I’m just a little silhouette of a man, scaramouch, scaramouch, will you do the fandango? Thunderbolt and lightning, very, very frightening me!’

The medley was formed from the classic film On the Waterfront, The Beatles album, and Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody. He plucked them from memory the way one might randomly grab objects while fleeing a burning building.

Although he cast himself as a drunken idiot, the dubious performance provided him an actor’s freedom to step outside of himself and become someone different. Who could blame him for actions committed by an alter ego?

What became of this foolishness didn’t really matter because it was committed by his fictitious associate. It was as innocent and whimsical as a ventriloquist speaking through the hollow persona of his dummy. Before long he imagined the building as his theater, the bar floor his stage, and the patrons his audience.

There were many times when Perry’s inane references elicited a soft laugh from someone who thought he was being satirical. But most who heard the mishmash saw him as a pitiful figure in desperate need of help.

How long do we have to put up with this? scoffed one observer who had grown weary of Perry’s nonsensical diatribe. His friend saw fit to chip in with, Are you on medication? Maybe too much medication? Or maybe not enough. Either way, you need help.

Perry, fully sodden with beer, would direct a zombie stare at his critics, then belch his way back to a barstool. His head would droop, and patrons would look away, thinking he had reached his limit for the day. Then, as if someone threw a bucket of water on his face, he would inexplicably bolt upright and launch into various baseball lore, including information about the Chicago Cubs’ vaunted double-play combination of Tinker-to-Evers-to-Chance.

Yes, what a small world it is, indeed, he said, speaking into the mouth of his beer bottle as if it were a microphone. If he received no reaction from the audience, he would move on to another subject.

Some patrons would take one look at Perry and empathize; others would just laugh. You just want to live in the past. That’s it, isn’t it? Your trouble is, you don’t know how to deal with reality. And hey, you really ought to check with your doctor, man. You’re on the wrong medication.

Perry would attempt to plod past the haze his heavy drinking wrought to focus on the two or three heads that appeared to be talking to him at once. He would cover one eye to reduce the number of critics, then just shout, Yeah, yeah. Like I said, hail, hail the gangs all here. What the hell do I care? What the hell do…

Perry would eventually find himself struggling with the hiccups, dyspepsia, or the nausea that rendered him incapacitated.

There were times when his infamous diatribes would be followed by a brief sit-up-sway-this-way-sway-that-way prelude to a nap and then the old heave-ho by the bartender or some bouncer. These embarrassing excursions were beginning to take a toll on his modest income.

When his resources were depleted, he knew he would have to swallow his pride and ask Clark for help.

He felt diminished each time he did this. He was desperate for a change.

How could this come about? It wouldn’t be easy. In fact, he would have to evolve into a more mature individual before he could come to terms with who he really was. He had to look at his familiar surroundings from a different city to understand what it all meant.

Chapter 3

I’m getting ahead of myself once again. Such a bad habit.

Well, to fully appreciate the difficulty of Perry’s imminent transformation, one would need to know more about other personality traits that separated him from his brother.

He decided at some point that, unlike Clark, he just wasn’t much for introspection. He was more visceral. He was concerned with doing whatever it took to bring a need or a desire to satisfactory completion, then move on to something else.

Perry’s reasoning was simple: Why waste time analyzing it when you can just get it done? If you fail, you fail.

This entire process emboldened his outlook. The resolve to act supplanted any fear of negative consequences.

In addition, Perry developed an acute appreciation for the transformative power of nature, welcoming into his lungs the autumnal scent from leaves, trees, and earth.

He began to cultivate this passion for the change of seasons at an early age. For some reason, the fall season struck him as the most important for its foretelling, a reminder that this august setting would die and be reborn. Etched indelibly into the soft, safe reflections of his childhood was a bucolic setting in a neighborhood park.

He seemed to remember someone saying to him that it was all part of a life cycle that helped one appreciate the contrasts.

Perry saw the time he spent in the classroom as something to endure. While Sister Mary Stoneham droned on about mathematics, geography, or the importance of raising money for this charity or that, Perry was thinking of games to be played during recess.

He directed his attention back to the classroom when Sister Mary chided the students for turning in pennies when other classrooms were donating dimes and quarters.

Then Jack Woods stunned everyone with the question of what giving was all about. Sister, isn’t it better to give what you can than feeling bad about what you or your family can’t afford? he wondered aloud in a timorous voice.

What did you say? howled Sister Mary, her dark eyes riveted on the student who issued what she likely considered a challenge to her authority.

I mean, I went to everyone in my family and some of the neighbors, and that’s all they could afford, he replied aggrievedly. "I did my best, and yet