Purpose

By Brian MacLearn

Cole Jansen is new to the party, but he is quickly learning that he has an important role to play, one he is not so sure he can handle. "Purpose" weaves together a collection of individuals who only share in common a timely meeting they each had with a mysterious man named Matthew, who suggested that they have a purpose. Now, they are being directed to each other and the fate of the world is in their hands. It started with Jack in 1958 and in the present with Cole. Nothing is coincidental when Matthew is involved.

"Purpose" will leave you wanting more as the characters discover their strengths and connection to one another. Their newfound and powerful bond will soon be put to the test if humanity is to survive.

Author Brian MacLearn wonderfully blends genres as he constructs characters, evokes emotion, and gives readers much to think about. The story is mainly about Matthew, a man who has precognitive abilities. They stem from a bloodline dating back thousands of years. Mathew's story is told through his interactions with the other characters, beginning with Jack in 1956 as a boy. In the present, Cole Jansen is the protagonist and picks up Matthew's story.

An apocalyptic event is going to happen, and the world will go through a type of reset. What will be fought for in the aftermath is the control of the narrative as the world reshapes itself. Matthew and those ancestors who also had foresight abilities have been the targets of a group that will stop at nothing to be in charge. It isn't about stopping what is to come, but about being the ones who control the new world order. Matthew helps others to see that living with a purpose is what will change the world for the better.

Matthew can see the future and the downside should the opposition attain its goals. Some claim that he is more than a man. Cole has an important role to play, only he doesn't know it yet. He is to protect the next child from the bloodline who has powers far beyond those of Matthew. She will be the one to lead the world to a better place, but only if those Matthew has spent his life assembling can protect her until she is ready.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667846637

Brian MacLearn

Brian L. MacLearn is lifelong resident of Iowa, currently living in Waverly. He graduated from the University of Northern Iowa. During his life he has published poetry and written song lyrics that have been recorded in Nashville. Brian's first novel, "Our Heart," was published in 2010 and was a Reader's Favorite finalist in 2011. "Remember Me" won a bronze medal in the Reader's Favorite 2012 contest. His current work, "Against the Current," won a silver medal in the Reader's Favorite 2013 contest for Fiction/thriller

Book preview

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Purpose

Copyright ©2022 Brian L. MacLearn

ISBN: 978-1-66784-662-0 (print)

ISBN: 978-1-66784-663-7 (eBook)

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photo-copy, recording, or any other—except brief quotation in reviews, without the prior permission of the author or publisher.

Some things can never be replaced and will forever be missed. I love you, Mom! Thank you for all that you have given me. You will never be far from my heart or mind.

Luke 22:43

And there appeared an angel unto him from heaven, strengthening him.

Contents

Grace

Albert

Alicia

Christian

Dexter

Tamara

Jack

Cole Jansen

Valerie

Albert

Dexter

Jack

Cole Jansen

Christian

Alicia

Cole Jansen

Dexter

Grace

Tamara

Jack

Cole Jansen

Albert

Valerie

Jack

Cole Jansen

Christian

Tamara

Albert

Albert

Christian

Jack

Cole Jansen

Helen

Grace

Tamara

Sarah

Jack

Albert

Valerie

Alicia

Jack

Cole Jansen

Christian

Maggie

Tamara

Cole Jansen

Albert

Grace

Helen

Jack

Christian

Alicia

Albert

Maggie

Dexter

Grace

Valerie

Cole Jansen

Albert

Valerie

Cole Jansen

Cole Jansen

Jack

Grace

Christian

Tamara

Maggie and Stacy

Alicia

Helen

The Conference

The Conference

The Conference

Endings and Beginnings

Epilogue

About the Author

Grace

[Excerpt from interview with KXBG Television Tulsa, Oklahoma June 16, 2005]

"Why did you jump off the bridge?’

To find my purpose.

I’m sorry, but I don’t understand; can you explain what you mean?

I’m not sure that I can, or that I want to, Grace whispered. It’s personal. Grace fidgeted in her seat as if seeing her surroundings for the first time. As the reporter leaned in, she pushed backward, her chair emitting a high-pitch squeak as it fought against floor-bolted restraints. How many people had done the same thing as they endured the man’s tireless questioning?

Mike Darby offered Grace the grin that won him a regional Emmy for his five-part segment on the plight of homeless veterans. That was what viewers—and media voters—remembered most, how he broke through the suffering of those he interviewed to get them to share a laugh or a smile. He wasn’t breaking through to her.

It’s understandable—what you’ve been through and all. I’m not trying to question your intentions, but rather to understand why you put yourself at such tremendous risk.

If I hadn’t, who would have? Grace’s eyes sparkled with sudden assertiveness.

That’s exactly the point, which is so fascinating. Mike turned to look directly at the camera, the perfect questioning look on his face as he invited the viewers to ponder the same thought. As the camera pulled away and zoomed in on Grace’s face, he asked his question in a more accusatory tone, Why jump off a bridge, put your life at great risk doing so, to save a man nearly twice your size—a man who obviously wasn’t looking for a savior?

Grace’s facial expression was blank. If she comprehended the question at all, she had become unwilling to answer, or she simply didn’t know the reason why. The silence became heavy, and Darby questioned his tactics. He straightened his tie, stalling for time as he mentally ran through the list of questions she might be willing to answer. More silence and the interview would be over—a complete waste of time. He caught the flicker in Grace’s eyes; the beginning of tears, perhaps, or the approach of a breakdown—one would effectively end the empathy of viewers, but the other would captivate them.

If I may, let me ask another question. How did you come to be on the bridge at two in the afternoon?

Grace’s eyes suddenly brightened. The faintest hint of a smile emerged at one corner of her mouth; it rose slightly as her head tilted towards the opposite side. Darby wasn’t aware that this was the face other children had made fun of when Grace was younger. They called her Dumb Gracie and stupid because of the half-grin. She wasn’t capable of defending herself back then. Children are less willing to accept what they don’t understand and to listen when she tried to explain the dead nerves on the other side of her mouth and how it wasn’t her fault. Some were mean on purpose; some just didn’t care. It didn’t make a difference for Grace. As a child, she prayed continually for a normal smile, but some prayers are never answered. It shaped the direction of her life—for the worse—until yesterday. With more conviction than she had ever felt, Grace answered,

He told me that I’d find my purpose in the water.

The camera panned back to Mike, too quickly for him to hide his awkward expression. Her answer caught him off guard—an extreme rarity. Who did? What purpose did you find in the water? He sounded sarcastic – the best defense in an uncertain situation.

Grace sat taller in the chair, her defiance a complete change in her persona. Mike Darby suddenly worried about his safety. He couldn’t explain why Grace made him nervous, and he wouldn’t be able to later when he was questioned about the segment. He wouldn’t tell them that he wanted to burst from the room and seek out an open space with lots of sunshine. The transformation in Grace Freemont’s presence and the look on her face scared the daylights out of him, and he didn’t know why.

She answered Darby’s question calmly, Matthew did. He bought me a cup of coffee after he accidentally knocked mine off the table at the cafe. We talked for nearly an hour and as he was leaving, he told me that I would find my purpose in the water, but it was up to me whether or not to seek it.

Grace’s face hardened, concern wrinkling around her eyes and drawing her mouth taut. This interview is over, Mike thought to himself, and he was right—and also glad. She had the look he’d seen many times —one that indicated that too much had been unwittingly shared and nothing more would be forthcoming.

Mike glanced at the camera and gave the cut signal. The red light blinked off, and overhead lights brightened the dark edges of the room. Grace’s handshake was loose and brief. Darby asked Stephanie to walk her to the front entrance as he took a big drink of water. He refused to engage Grace in dead conversation. He didn’t care how she’d spend the rest of the day or about his lack of professional manners; he only wanted to hit Rosie’s around the corner and salute the end of a bad day with a double scotch on the rocks—two if he made it by four for happy hour.

For Grace, it would be fifteen years before she shared her story with anyone else, and only then because he too had met Matthew and discovered his own purpose.

Albert

"Hey, Fat Albert, where do you think you’re going?" Kent mocked, laughing at Albert’s attempts to scurry away.

Albert was pudgy, had longer hair, and loved to listen to Boston, Journey, and ZZ Top. He wasn’t black, nor did he run with a gang like the cartoon character that he got his nickname from. He was a loner with only one close friend. All of that meant he’d had to dodge bullies like Kent his whole life.

Bursting out of the side entrance to the school, Albert trotted as fast as his large frame would allow. Kent, Clint, and Tony took their time; they had no need to hurry. This particular game had been going on for as long as Albert Groniski could remember. They chased; he ran. If they caught him he might lose his shoes, most certainly any money that he had. He’d also been kicked a few times while down on the ground. It was three against one, and even though Albert was bigger than Kent or anyone in his gang, he’d been afraid of them since elementary school. He knew he was a coward, and so did they.

Albert hoped to end the game soon. He was going to move to North Dakota and work on his grandfather’s wheat farm after he graduated, and his life would be better. He just needed to get to the bus now.

The parking lot where the school buses waited was around the corner and about a hundred yards away. Maybe Bus 14 would be there. Gary drove Bus 14, and he knew all about Albert’s situation with Kent. He’d wait for him. Albert stumbled, struggling in the last stretch, breathless more from anxiety than exertion.

He could only watch, horrified, as the bus door closed, and then it pulled away. Stuck was what he was. Nowhere to hide and not fast enough to outrun them.

Looky here, we got us a beached whale, Kent drawled as he walked towards Albert. All the buses had left, and most of the students who had cars were gone. No one to interfere, no one to help—not that anyone would. Clint and Tony broke from Kent and moved to surround him. As he twisted to watch one, another punched him in the shoulder. I won’t cry, Albert made a silent promise to himself. He also wouldn’t fight back; that would only make things worse. Tony kicked Albert in the back of the knee, and he crumbled to the ground. A rock stabbed his bicep as he rolled to his side, ripping his shirt.

Please, don’t, he begged for mercy.

Please, don’t, all three sang in mockery. Albert was just glad that his only friend Amelia wasn’t here to see the coward that he was.

Alicia

Alicia had her headphones on, Shakira blaring in her ears as she worked on her paper for her psychology class. These days she kept the earbuds in nearly all the time when she was at home, and the music turned up. Many of her friends were living lives of independence on campus at Winona State, but her parents couldn’t afford the extra costs. They were barely able to cover half of her tuition. Alicia had to work two awful part-time jobs to make up the difference. She couldn’t work more hours, so that left her in her house with her mother and father. The worried look from her father as he motioned for her to remove her headphones was a familiar warning that her day wasn’t going to be peaceful much longer.

She could hear the sound of her mother’s exasperated voice coming from upstairs now, Alicia Susana Gutierrez, get your butt up these stairs! I’ve asked you a hundred times to clean this room. Do it now, or there won’t be a room for you to clean! You hear me?

Alicia sighed, closing her eyes as she took several slow breaths. Everything she had learned this semester from class and the talks after with her professor had Alicia believing that her mother might be suffering from an intermittent explosive disorder. She had shown many of the symptoms in the past year. With her college expenses, her parents couldn’t afford professional help, let alone take the time off to seek treatment. The guilt was killing Alicia; she knew her mother needed more help than her psychology student daughter could provide.

When Alicia opened her eyes, her father was giving her the look. She nodded and rose from the couch, tossing her pen into her open textbook. Most days, sometimes even weeks were without any outbursts, and life was almost normal. Of all the things that her mother experienced when having a spell, it was her need to be destructive that scared Alicia and her father the most. She hoped this wasn’t going to be one of those. Alicia could deal with a tantrum and survive her mother yelling at her over trivial things that seemed world-ending to her. Together with her father, they had tried to find ways to ease her through spells, for the sake of all of them. Her father was usually the target, and so Alicia became the mediator, as she was the one best able to help her mother through her unstable moments. On the occasions when her mother directed her anger at her, Alicia would try to remember that it was the disease and not what her mother believed.

With each step Alicia climbed, the anxiety about the confrontation grew. What would it be this time? Would her mother take scissors to another one of her favorite shirts, or might she take a hammer to her makeup, as she’d done in the past? Alicia understood that neither apologies nor promises would stem the tidal wave that prepared to drown her as she mounted the last few steps.

Alicia!

Coming, Mom. Alicia turned the corner at the top of the steps and entered her bedroom. She was rarely surprised by anything anymore, but the state of her room now made her stop in her tracks.

It was a wreck. Every item of Alicia’s clothing was in a heap on the floor. The photographs of her friends had been ripped to pieces and lay on the floor like fallen snow. Her empty dresser drawers were broken in pieces, her mother having stomped on the bottoms and sides to damage them beyond repair. But all of the destruction wasn’t as painful as the look on her mother’s face. She looked happy and content as she waited for her daughter’s reaction and the satisfaction she would get from it.

Look at this mess, Alicia. Why would you do this? You know how hard I work to keep this house neat. Why, Alicia? Tell me WHY!

Alicia had no answers, no excuses to offer. She suddenly thought about a strange conversation she’d had at the grocery store. She was in the checkout lane, four-deep behind loaded carts when a nice-looking older man with intense blue eyes started a conversation with her. Before she knew it, she’d been sharing personal details, telling him of her plan to graduate college next spring and move far away from her mother. When he’d asked, What about your father? she didn’t have an answer and felt shamed. Her father worried her, not because Alicia feared for him, but because he didn’t want to see that his wife was getting worse.

It was as if the stranger knew more about Alicia than he let on. She was sure they’d never met before, and yet she couldn’t explain the kindred feeling she felt toward him. She wanted to run far away, but he hit her in the weakest spot—her father. Her father needed her, but she needed space and a future more.

Alicia was looking at her mother’s face now and remembered what the man told her as she collected her plastic bags, Sometimes you must look beyond the mess to find your real purpose. It was the wisdom in those words that now helped Alicia see that her mother was a victim and not the problem, nor was Alicia the cause of her mother’s pain. Her mother suffered mentally, and it was up to Alicia to get her the help she needed. Her father was a good man, but he believed that she was just going through tough times and they’d get through it. Alicia knew better. The only way her mother would get better was with professional help.

Mom, I’m so sorry. I’m going to go downstairs right now and get the garbage bags. I promise I’ll have this cleaned within an hour.

There was a flicker in her mother’s eyes—a momentary doubt, and uncertainty. She’d expected resistance, not contrition. Before she could respond, Alicia backed out of the room and hurried down the stairs. If it hadn’t been for the precognition Matthew had warned her with, she might have engaged her mother, even chancing injury or worse to either of them. Now she saw what needed to be done. She grabbed her phone and hit 911. When the dispatcher responded, Alicia calmly told the woman that her mother was having a violent episode and that she was a danger to herself and others. As she gave the dispatcher their address, her father stood next to her, his arm wrapped tightly around her shoulders. Together, they listened as their mother and wife lost the remaining hold on her sanity. An ungodly scream arose amidst the sound of shattering glass. Neither moved to help—they weren’t capable, something Alicia now understood. Someday, she promised herself, she would be able to help her, and others as well.

Christian

Christian was in his second year and sat alone in his biology class. Well, not alone—there were 123 other students in the large lecture hall at Southern Illinois University—but none who were interested in sitting anywhere near the pock-marked, skinny, and nervous kid that wore thick glasses that made his eyes look weird. His father demanded that he buckle up and be strong; his mother promised that things would get better with time. Neither was plausible. Even the exciting lecture by Cecil Corrigan on the newly established process of gene editing and the hope for combating debilitating diseases couldn’t sway Christian’s opinion about his future.

This wasn’t even bullying—Christian could handle bullying. His vision was impaired by a severe bout of measles in 1975 when he was only seven, and he was forced to wear thick lenses ever since. Of course, he’d been bullied for that throughout his time in school.

This was entirely different. Gone were the chants and pranks to be replaced by isolation and avoidance. Even his two first-year roommates transferred after the second week. This past year the school gave him a single room, an acknowledgment of his incompatibility with others.

He was seriously considering dropping out, but he’d promised his younger sister that he would give it two more years. I’ll be there when you are a junior, and we can conquer the world together, she’d joked. He knew she’d meant it, but the thought of bringing her life down to his level only made him feel worse. She was bright and full of life, and he just…wasn’t.

Finals were coming up, and his two years of torment were done. Rebecca had cried when she left after her campus visit last month. One afternoon with him and seeing his isolation and the way others interacted with Christian, especially those on his dorm room floor, had been tough for her to see. They’d even made cruel comments about her, thinking she had been his date, putting her down for being with a loser like him. He could relate. Rebecca never wavered in her commitment to attend the university and be with him, even when he caught her wiping away tears. What she was willing to sacrifice made him want to cry as well, though not with tears of empathy and gratitude, but with sorrow and disdain for the position he’d put her in.

Professor Corrigan barked out the chapter assignment for Friday’s class. Christian didn’t bother writing it down. It didn’t matter, and neither would his grades after the final exams. He wasn’t planning on taking them. He didn’t hate the college, the students who avoided him or even hold the teachers responsible for his circumstances. It is what it is—it was an easy mantra to live with when you didn’t plan to. He owed his sister a better life than being suffocated by him.

Christian wasn’t a chicken, and he wasn’t willing to hurt others for the sake of false attention. He wanted the opposite, to end things peacefully and with Rebecca still mostly intact. It would be hard on her no matter what. He’d written and rewritten his letter to her multiple times. It still wasn’t good enough in conveying how much he loved her and only wanted the best for her. It felt small and sad. The letter to his parents only took one attempt. It was short. I love you, I’m sorry, you aren’t responsible. They wouldn’t believe any of it, thinking they should have seen it coming and been able to stop it. Suicide was selfish, everyone always said so. That was true, but he still believed he was doing it with honor. A way to give his family a better life.

On the way to his car, Christian hummed the theme to Star Wars. It felt as if he was joining in, soon to become a part of the force. He hated the fact his car displayed a handicapped sticker—that he was handicapped in more ways than one. He tossed his book bag into the backseat. So much for that, he thought silently. It had taken him three weeks to come up with a plan. Now, he drove to McMurphy’s Hardware store on the corner of Xavier and Piedmont.

It didn’t take him long to select the perfect tent—it was cheap and on sale—plus a small charcoal grill. Christian added the larger bag of charcoal briquettes to his cart. He’d almost forgotten the matches and lighter fluid when a man’s voice spoke to him from behind, Hey man, don’t forget the lighter fluid. It’s no fun trying to light them without it. Trust me, I’ve been there.

Thanks, Christian responded. His insides were churning from the attention. He just wanted to get in, get out, and get on with it.

For some odd reason, the man didn’t move; he’d decided to start a conversation. So…where are you planning to camp? I’m kind of partial to Widow’s Peak Park down by Red Fox River.

Christian felt the blood drain from his face. It was, in fact, the campground he’d chosen. His hand began to tremble. When he turned to put the bottle of lighter fluid into his cart, the questioning man had a serene face and friendly smile. It was his eyes that drew Christian’s attention—they were the deepest blue, and Christian felt as if his insides were being laid bare as they studied him. His stitched employee name tag read, Matthew.

I…um…planned on staying there.

Great! You won’t be sorry. Make sure to take campsite I23. It has the best view over the valley, and there’s a trail just to the left of the campsite that connects with the main path down to the river. If you plan to fish, the best hole is at the end of the trail.

Not a fisherman, Christian answered, suddenly feeling calm and at ease. Matthew looked like he was genuine. This was just a conversation. I plan to do some soul searching after finals finish up.

I hear you. What a great place to do it. No matter how bad it is, you can always breathe in the fresh air and revitalize your spirit. Many a person has probably sat in that exact campsite and found their purpose in life.

Christian wasn’t shocked by his words, even though it felt as if Matthew had insight into his real plans. The words he spoke were hopeful and not condescending. Christian felt a small glimmer of something he’d not felt in a long time—promise. Christian smiled, and as he thought about a reply, Matthew offered his hand. Christian took it instinctively, enjoying the firm grip and human connection.

Thanks, was the only word to come out, and Christian meant it.

No problem. I hope the weather holds for you, though I have to admit that I sleep best in a light drizzle—something soothing in the sound. And man does the morning air smell crisp and renewed. One almost feels as if they can overcome anything.

Before Christian could say anything, Matthew excused himself and headed back down the aisle towards the rear of the store.

Christian added a sleeping bag to his cart and even stopped to look at fishing poles. Neither had been on his mental checklist. The encounter with Matthew had briefly distracted him from the plan, but as he neared the checkout, the old feelings returned. Not wanting to look foolish, he bought the sleeping bag rather than returning it to the shelf.

He only added a half of tank of gas at the Casey’s gas station—why put in more than was needed. In the small convenience store, he bought a small pack of bottled water, corn chips, and a package of hot dogs and buns—just in case.

Dexter

The spring term at Billings Sr High School, thankfully, had only two weeks left to go. The year had been far worse on Dexter than any other. For the fifth time in as many years, Dexter had been denied his application to teach an advanced English class. Emory Chasim would again be the sole beneficiary next year. When he met with the board and asked why he was told that the school could only afford to pay extra for one teacher. That was complete malarkey, and everyone knew it. The school had plenty of resources, and with the community college kicking in supplemental income, the truth was elsewhere. The more Dexter dug for an answer, the less he liked the school. Maybe it was time to move on.

On Saturdays, Dexter made it a habit to go to Thurman’s waffle house for breakfast. His ex-wife Cecilia had come religiously for the first 15 years of their marriage. Three years ago, she’d told him out of the blue that she no longer wanted to go, and that she’d never liked it. The more he pressed for reasons, the angrier she became. Dexter was good at doing timelines and mapping out novels, if not writing one of his own. He was not good at assessing his own life. That day, he now understood, was the day something had changed irrevocably.

It would only take six more months to find out that Cecilia had determined she no longer wanted to be with him either. They were both approaching 40, the dreaded birthday of What have I done in my life? Without children, their perceptions about what they wanted to accomplish and how they felt about each other had changed; they found themselves in a compatible but loveless marriage. It had still surprised him to learn that she’d been seeing another man. He hadn’t thought her the type. She asked for a divorce, and he didn’t find enough internal fight to protest. Now Dexter was sliding down the hill and picking up speed.

Denisha in the history department had been the one to confide to him recently that the students were the reason he didn’t get the position. They didn’t like him. He was more than aware of that fact and diligently tried the last two years to be a better teacher. Two years and Cecilia blossomed with her new husband, while Dexter gained forty pounds and couldn’t buy a date. Dexter resented her, the school, the kids, and mostly himself. Things needed to change.

He was on his second waffle and working through the crossword puzzle when a man asked if he could sit with him. Before Dexter could say no, the man had already slid into the seat across the table. The restaurant was mostly empty, the morning rush now passed. There wasn’t a need for the man to sit with him. Dexter studied him as he drank his coffee. The man was easily 60 and possibly much older. He was thin but not without muscular definition. His gray hair was full and his eyes a stunning blue. It was the smile on the man’s face that Dexter noticed most. It spoke of amusement and instantly put Dexter on edge.

Dexter cautiously ate a few more bites of his waffle. They were never good cold or when the syrup made them soggy. He hadn’t invited the man to sit, so he felt no obligation to start a conversation. The longer the silence lasted, the more irritated Dexter felt. Just when he was ready to let the old guy have it, he spoke.

I’ve never been one for waffles, but I had an urge today to stop for one. I have to say that it was better than I anticipated. I was finishing my coffee when I noticed you sitting here with two books. The one with several bookmarks and the other brand new. It piqued my interest, and I wanted to question their owner.

Dexter’s discomfort with the man eased. Something about his accent, or maybe the tone of his voice, spoke to being from other parts of the country. It also had a soothing effect on Dexter. His spirits were brightened just by listening to the man, who just sat there, smiling at him. "I teach high school English. We’re finishing up with The Road by Cormac McCarthy. The other book is for me."

I’ve read it, the man said with a neutral expression. I found it lacking in hope.

Dexter nodded, There are no rainbows or promises of a better day.

Spoken like a true novelist, the man countered with a wink.

Dexter would have been insulted five minutes earlier, but now he laughed with the man. Not yet. I’ve started on several and haven’t finished one yet.

You will.

Dexter smiled broadly, something he hadn’t felt like doing for some time. For whatever reason, the man had stroked his ego and given him a small grain of hope. My name is Dexter Colbert, he said and reached a hand across the table.

The man gripped it firmly and said, Matthew, pleased to meet you, Dexter.

For the next half hour, they talked about favorite authors and their greatest and weakest insights into the condition of humanity. Dexter never felt put down or intimidated by Matthew. It was clear to him early on that the man was knowledgeable. His insights were spot on and mostly coincided with Dexter’s own. It wasn’t until Matthew asked him if he had a purpose in his writings and if that might be the reason that he hadn’t completed a novel that Dexter questioned the whole conversation. He wanted to believe Matthew when he told him that he’d find his purpose in Bad Rock Canyon.

Tamara

Tamara stroked the long, thick fur of Capricorn, her Persian cat, as she talked gently to him. "Capi, you won’t believe the day I’ve had. Mr. Angelino didn’t even ask me if I had time to do the legwork on the Beckett file—he just assumed I would, like always. Don’t say it; I know. I should stand up to him and all the others who take advantage of me. I promise that day is coming soon." Capricorn lifted his head, eyes squinting with a look of consternation. Tamara felt ashamed looking at him. He’d heard all her excuses before, many times over, often making her feel bad for burdening him with her problems.

In a mousy voice, she apologized for being such a mess. Capricorn yawned and licked her hand. A single tear slid down Tamara’s cheek. At 36, she should be more than a go-to girl at the firm. Those with less experience had come, passed her by, and forgotten about the help she’d given them on their way up. They came to her because she’d get it done. Happy to help, she’d always say. She didn’t mind helping; the happy part was the lie. The more she helped others the less happy she became.

Tamara would never claim that she had been held back because she was a woman or that she was seen differently being from the Ute Indian tribe. Her father had always said she’d need hard work and patience to get ahead, and she’d done plenty of hard work. The patience was wearing thin. Tamara had begun withdrawing from the world outside and living in her cubicle’s protective space and the apartment she and Capi called home. It had gotten so bad that outside of work responsibilities she was becoming almost a hermit. She’d always enjoyed the moments when the peace and quiet calmed her inner voices. Now it was getting harder to find those moments and those places that brought the calm.

She just wasn’t up to making the effort to engage with others, especially at work, where they all wanted to advance and seemed false in their friendly appearance. Out of sorts was how she felt. Her cat was the only one that understood; her father did his best. He even suggested the last time they talked that she should come home, which she refused. She needed to work through this on her own.

Capi, I met the strangest person today at lunch. Most people, even the regulars, don’t even know I exist. I know it’s my own fault. I just don’t feel like me, like I’m in a funk or something. Only Abigail talks to me anymore, and even she isn’t as welcoming as she used to be. She used to ask me questions as she took my order, now she acts as if she doesn’t know what to say. But there might be hope. I was reading my book, and there he was, commenting about the main character, Peter. When I looked up to see if he was talking to me, he sat down in the chair opposite mine. I didn’t even have the chance to tell him no, not that I would have, he was very handsome…anyway…

Capricorn had taken an interest in the conversation now. Rarely did Tamara talk about anyone in a positive light. She used to, long ago when he was just a kitten. Her once bubbly, positive outlook on life had been dampened by years of negative experiences. She’d first become more of a realist, and then just sad. It had become more difficult for him to make her smile.

So…he starts talking about the story and before I know it…we’re laughing about it, and then he says the most peculiar thing. He tells me that I’ll find my purpose in the thing I’m known best for. When I ask him what he means by his comment, he shrugs his shoulders and only smiles. I noticed his eyes. They were a deep blue, but sad…completely different from the rest of his face. I didn’t like looking into his eyes, she whispered to Capricorn.

Capi mewed and Tamara sighed. Yes, you’re right. It’s way past suppertime. She took out a frozen pasta entrée from the freezer and placed it into the microwave.

She hadn’t divulged the other incident of the day with Capricorn. She didn’t know how to tell him that she’d run away instead of following what Matthew had said was her purpose. Her heart was heavy; she let herself down, let Matthew down, and that bothered her, although she didn’t understand why it did. Tamara turned on her television and switched channels so she could watch her favorite show, Webster. The little boy in the show made her smile, and that wasn’t easy these days. But after what happened this evening, even that didn’t help. When the evening news came on at ten, Tamara shut the television off. She couldn’t watch. Tamara didn’t want to find out if what she feared most was true. When it came time to do what she did best—help—she’d turned away.

Jack

Jack spent the better part of the drive down from Beatrice, Nebraska to Wichita, Kansas flipping radio stations just to catch the occasional Johnny Cash tune. He’d begged Eleanor to come with him, but her father wouldn’t allow her to go. If she’d been half as excited to see Johnny in concert as he was, he would’ve convinced her to elope and make this a honeymoon sendoff. Their wedding wouldn’t be until next July, nearly seven months from now, and that hinged upon her father giving his blessing. Jack hadn’t asked yet, not being confident in the answer. Maybe eloping would be their only option.

Jack stopped in Herington for gas and smokes. The old man running the pump spent too much time trying to talk to him, so he excused himself to go inside and buy cigarettes and a bottle of Coke. The sharp sound of pounding on metal in the garage made him wince. He drained the bottle in two gulps and waited for the man just outside the door.

The old man (Lloyd, the name on his shirt proclaimed) asked Jack if he was headed to the concert down in Witcheetah. It caught Jack by surprise but made him smile. Eagerly he responded, Yes sir, I am. Going to see Johnny Cash.

Lloyd smiled, and Jack suddenly felt bad that he’d been harboring negative thoughts about him. Lloyd was easily in his sixties and looked worn, except for his eyes, which were a bright blue. Something in those eyes bothered Jack, and he had to look away. He couldn’t say what it was, other than it made him feel ashamed. Lloyd pushed the packs of Kents across the worn countertop and collected the money. Jack was out the door and in his car, starting her up when Lloyd leaned down and looked at him through the window. The old man had to be fairly spry to have crossed the lot as quickly as he had. Jack didn’t want to, but he cranked the window down about halfway.

Son, I can see you are a good man. Hell, anyone who likes Johnny is right by me. My sister isn’t doing none too good. Old Doc Plattford says she ain’t going to be round much longer. She has an eight-year-old boy named Matthew. Special, he is. I’ve seen it firsthand. They live just down the road in Marion. Last Sunday at dinner her boy, Matthew, told me that I’d be meeting a man named Jack. He’d be driving a 53 white two-door Ford Customline. I should be sure to tell him that he should stop by to see him before going to the Johnny Cash concert in Wichita.

The blood drained from Jack’s face. He wasn’t afraid of Lloyd or bothered by his story. It was the strange coincidence that he couldn’t explain that chilled him. Yesterday, there had been a note from his boss after he returned from lunch that someone named Marion had called for him. She’d left a message that he needed to help Matthew. Jack threw the note away. He didn’t have any relatives, friends, or anyone that he knew named Marion. He’d assumed it had been a mistake, a wrong number most likely. Now Lloyd was telling him to stop in Marion and see Matthew. That meant something, and Jack was a believer in following the signs.

Lloyd spoke reassuringly, "Matthew, well, he’s been touched. Ain’t a bad bone in that kid’s body. If he says you should stop, then I believe it would be best for you to do so. I can’t say what your purpose is, but Matthew, well now…he knows."

Jack nodded in agreement. The old man handed him a slip of