Dark Tales

By Robert Trainor

Dark Tales contains the following five novels, all of which can be purchased separately: The Book of the Dead, Blood and Blackmail, The Dark Side of the Moon, The Book of Lost Souls, and The Book of Dreams. 

In The Book of the Dead, a woman interested in psychic phenomena begins to hear a man's voice. The voice is from a man named Daren Slade, and he begins his narrative with the futile attempt he made to save a drowning woman. Later, at his 25th high school reunion, he reconnects with his high school sweetheart, Savannah Cross…that night, they begin a tumultuous drive during which they become involved in a number of bizarre incidents before they return to the river where Daren attempted to save the drowning woman. Here, he encounters…

Blood and Blackmail: Jesse Barnett is confident his girlfriend Justine didn't murder Trent, her ex-husband, because he never heard any gunshots on the night the two of them broke into Trent's house to search for obscene photos that he had taken of Justine's daughter. However, Jesse's confidence in Justine begins to waver when he is told that the murder weapon had a silencer attached to it. Justine is arrested, and after she rejects a plea deal, the prosecutor charges her with first degree murder. The trial is an odd one that leaves everyone wondering who really committed the murder.

The Dark Side of the Moon: Carolyn Black, a twenty-five year-old high school teacher trapped in an unhappy marriage, is attracted to Kevin Snyder, a sixteen-year-old student in one of her classes. Kevin is shy and reclusive and doesn't seem to realize that Carolyn is attracted to him, but on a cold March day, everything changes when they make love in the back seat of Carolyn's car.

Two weeks later, Carolyn discovers that Kevin is involved in drugs. But when she tells him that she is ending their relationship, he shocks Carolyn by threatening to commit suicide. Later that night, Carolyn changes her mind about Kevin and desperately searches for him before he has a chance to harm himself. When she finally finds him in his car behind an abandoned house, he is holding a gun to his head. And then…

The Book of Lost Souls is a dark romantic comedy that portrays an interesting artistic and psychological battle between alcohol, barbiturates, and cocaine—with a little bit of prostitution thrown in to spice things up. Will, Jenna, who has recently become discreetly enamored of Rainbows—barbiturates—finally marry the man of her dreams? Or will Damon, who is addicted to cocaine and prostitutes, manage to hide his unsavory habits from Jenna as he makes a desperate attempt to marry a woman who is the daughter of a millionaire? Or will Jenna's father, the drunken old buzzard, be able to successfully intervene before his daughter is ensnared by all the vile habits of Damon? In the end, this novel descends into a charming farce where bad intentions are transformed into something that could almost pass for nobility.

Murder mysteries come in many forms—as do dreams. In the Book of Dreams, Detective Shane Manning has a troubling history when it comes to his dreams because many of them are nightmares that often seem to find their way into reality. This was especially true when he was younger--the dream he had back then was something that would haunt him for years. And now, fifteen years later, he's investigating the murder of a college student, but he still can't seem to get away from his dreams.

Welcome to The Book of Dreams. But beware: The dreaming world is not for the faint of heart nor does it conform to standard solutions, trite explanations, or the so-called logic of this world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Trainor
• Release date: Feb 17, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224993697

Robert Trainor

Over the past twelve years (since I retired at the age of 59), I've written nineteen novels, four novellas, four non-fiction books, and seven anthologies, all of which you can find in the Kindle Store. Instead of writing a biography of myself, which seems rather irrelevant, I would prefer to write a biography of my books. Here, in the order in which they were written, is a brief sketch of the plots, themes, and subject matter of these books.1/ The Voice of the Victim describes a series of murders in a small city. I've always felt a great deal of empathy for the victims of violent crimes, especially those who are murdered by guns. What, I wondered, would these people say to us if they could speak? When reading this book, it is important to remember that my intention, from first page to last page, was to present the voice of the victim. And, to me, this voice is not a straight-line accusation of weapons and murderers but tends to veer to a pervasive mockery and total indictment of modern culture. This novel is much different than anything else I have written, and there will be many who will object to what the "voice" is saying.2/ Some Things Are Sweeter than God is somewhat along the lines of a classic murder mystery but is certainly not one of those books where the conclusion is some wild revelation that no sensible reader could ever discern beforehand. The protagonist is a forty-year-old woman lawyer who, in her role as a public defender, is required to represent a man who is accused of brutally murdering his ex-girlfriend.3/ The Road Map to the Universe is a well-constructed novel--at one time, I was a tournament chess player, and this book required a great deal of planning and analysis. Essentially, it's a highly unusual murder mystery, but the perceptive reader may be able to identify a standard plot theme lurking in the background. The Road Map also examines an interesting philosophical question: In a universe of four billion galaxies, what relevance, if any, does the human being have?4/ The Great Barrington Train Wreck, a truly offbeat social commentary, includes a unique type of murder mystery and is one of my favorite novels. Although I almost never include anything from my own life experience in my books, I was, just like the protagonist in the Train Wreck, homeless for many years. So I'm familiar with the lingo and attitude that some of the homeless have. This is a catchy, captivating book where the plot seems to materialize out of thin air until it becomes the elephant in the room. Also, to my mind, this tale could describe what happens to Holden Caulfield, the anti-hero of the Catcher in the Rye, as he approaches forty. It's not all peaches and cream! Especially when he falls in love with the daughter of a millionaire, and even more especially when he ends up on death row.5/ Your Kiss Is Like the Sweetest Fire describes a teenage romance between Jaime and Renee, who were adopted at a young age into the same family. It seems illogical to me, but in almost all states, the law views a sexual relationship between adopted siblings who live in the same family as a crime of incest--exactly as if they were related by blood. So Jaime and Renee have this difficulty to contend with, and also, their mother and father are both rather repulsive characters who are totally incapable of helping them. Wait until you meet Renee--I love her.6/ Requiem for the West is partially based on an apocalyptic poem that I wrote during the 1990's. Ten thousand hours is a lot of time to spend on a seven-hundred-word poem! Requiem is also an examination of some apparently abstract themes that seem highly relevant to me: 1/ The pervasive role of explicit sexuality in our culture and the very different ways that people react to it; 2/ The often farcical, Dilbert-like nature of the modern workplace, in this case a college; and 3/ Is doomsday just around the corner? The 1960-2000 version of myself considered a nuclear apocalypse to be inevitable, but nowadays, I'm ambivalent.7/ Frontier Justice was easy to write because once Adriana Jones arrived on page 10, she took over the book, and all I had to do was keep up with her as she overpowered every obstacle that crossed her path. I hadn't intended for that to happen, but that's the way life goes sometimes. Do I agree with, support, condone, or advocate Adriana's way of doing things? Difficult questions. Adriana is my creation, so I have to take some responsibility for her, I suppose, but I look at it this way: To be true to a character, one has to let the person speak and act in a way that is appropriate to his or her personality. I just can't legislate them into political correctness! Adriana didn't just overpower the other characters in Frontier Justice--she also overpowered me. I really like this book--I wish, as a writer, I could think of more characters who are as dynamic as Adriana.8/ A Tale from the Blackwater River is a novella that is meant to be a satire on a certain kind of story that is showing up far too frequently nowadays, but on another level, it's just kind of a humorous tale that was a lot of fun to write. This book is written in the first person by a forty-two-year-old woman named Alanda Streets. I almost published it under the pen name Alanda Streets because I thought some people might say that no woman would ever write a story like A Tale from the Blackwater River, but for those who feel that way, I hope you will ask yourself this question: If the name Alanda Streets had been on the cover of the book, instead of mine, would you have felt that a woman couldn't have written it?9/ The Blackwater Journal is another Alanda Streets novel--this time, she is only sixteen. I couldn't seem to get away from Alanda--she does have a spunky survivor's attitude towards life that appeals to me. In this book, she has to call on all her resources when her evil father imprisons her in a room and tells her that she has only a week left to live. As the days pass by, the terror mounts on her own personal death row. Does Alanda escape? Maybe so, maybe no.10/ Love Letters (Soaked in Blood) is another murder mystery that has a humorous undertone, which many will probably miss. The problem with writing a murder mystery is that anything that can be thought of has already been done about a thousand times. The only original idea left would be to have the most obvious suspect turn out to be the murderer. Think of it--that's probably never been done! And so...maybe you can guess the rest.11/ The Book of the Dead is about a man who goes to his 25th reunion and meets his high school sweetheart. The two of them embark on an impulsive twenty-four hour car ride that will take them through three southern states and bring them face-to-face with death. This is a tale where the boundaries of ordinary reality are stretched out a little bit! I'll leave it to you to decide whether The Book of the Dead is a fantasy or a reality.12/ Destroyed by Malice sees the return of a character who played a minor role in The Voice of the Victim. He's the world famous novelist Barker Drule, but unfortunately, he (and his wife) exit the book on page 1 when they are gunned down in their driveway. It isn't long before detective Jeff Willard is convinced that the murderer is a member of the Drule family. Perhaps it's Lenore, the older daughter, who was, years ago, secretly raped by her father; perhaps it's the beautiful Raylene, who wrote a novel about a rape victim that her father managed to have the publishing industry blackball; perhaps it's Ricky, the cocaine-addicted son who is desperate to get his hands on his father's money; and perhaps it's Dalton Drule, Barker's irascible eighty-two-year-old father who just happens to own the gun that was used to murder his son. In the end, when the truth finally comes out, there will be very few left to tell the tale.13/ How to Write an Imaginative Novel takes you through the whole process of writing a novel and then uploading it to Kindle. Among the many things covered are: Where will you find a plot? What is the best way to find names for your characters? How important is it to punctuate your book correctly? Is there a quick way to learn punctuation and sentence structure? What is the best way to write dialogue? What kind of things should one avoid in a novel? What is the significance of the first draft and why is it so important? How does one begin a book so that it immediately commands the reader's attention? How does one revise and edit a novel? Is it possible to create the cover for your book without spending any money? How does one convert a book to the correct format so that it can be uploaded to Kindle? And finally, how does one upload a book to Kindle?14/ I Ching 2015 contains a complete translation (minus the Confucian commentaries) of this ancient Chinese classic. Also included are detailed instructions on how to consult the I Ching using either yarrow stalks, coins, or dice. (For those who have been using coins, one should be aware that a significant error has crept into the method that many people use to cast an omen. This error, which involves using either three or four similar coins will seriously affect the accuracy of the omens you receive.) Additionally, there is extensive advice on how to interpret an omen. By using the correct method of interpretation, you will be surprised at how much clearer omens become. As part of this advice, I have posed a number of questions to the I Ching and have then interpreted the omen I received. Finally, for each hexagram, as well as many of the lines in each hexagram, I have included my own observations as to the essential meaning of these hexagrams and lines.15/ Blood and Blackmail is an elegant murder mystery with an unusual plot twist that took me some time to piece together. For those readers who enjoy the challenge of solving a crime before the final chapter arrives, this novel should provide you with a truly interesting puzzle. I doubt many people, if any, are going to see the underlying deception that runs throughout this tale because...if I say anything else, I might help the reader unravel this mystery, and I certainly wouldn't want to do that!16/ Fairy Tales by Martians takes a humorous look at the theory of evolution. Science, of course, claims that the human being originated from an amoeba that eventually became a tadpole that eventually became a frog and so on and so forth. However, I just can't conceive of the fact that ten million years ago, two frogs mated in a swamp and because of that event, I eventually arrived on the scene. What kind of a genealogy chart is that? Neither does the seven-day religious version of events appeal to me, so what I'm left with is a very cynical view of both the religious and scientific theories concerning the origins of our existence.17/ The Book of Dreams repeats a very old idea that has been used in many a novel. But here, in this murder mystery, the idea is taken to another level entirely and contains a twist that not many will see coming. The clues are there, starting with the poem in the Preface.18/ The Dark Side of the Moon is a tale about an attractive high school teacher who falls in love with one of her students. However, Carolyn Black is nervous that her sexual liaison with the student will ruin her career. Eventually, she tries to break off their relationship, but when he threatens to commit suicide, Carolyn is faced with an excruciating dilemma.19/ The Murder of Nora Winters was inspired by John Dickson Carr who wrote a number of locked-room mysteries. In this type of mystery, the murder victim is found in a room that does not allow the killer any means of exit. The doors and windows are all bolted from the inside, and it's considered very poor form for the author to create a room where there are sliding walls or secret panels. The solution to the murder of Nora Winters is, I think, relatively simple, but I've woven in enough deceit and misdirection to confuse all but the most astute readers.20/ The Vanishing Victim is a tale of a psychiatrist and a troubled woman who comes to him for counseling. What she reveals to him proves to be a confession to a brutal crime, but he is unable, because of the doctor/patient privilege, from revealing this crime to anyone, including the police. But even more troubling is that the woman's confession, although it contains a number of factual inaccuracies, turns out to have a terrifying reality of its own.21/ The Fatality Game follows a series of innocuous crimes in a rich neighborhood that seem to be more pranks than anything else. But when a woman is murdered in her bed, Detective Cody Barnes realizes that there is something evil lurking under the placid veneer of swanky mansions that are inhabited by millionaires. And when Cody becomes romantically involved with one of the earlier victims, the beautiful Lucinda Kane, the case begins to take on a life of its own that will eventually lead to the deaths of three more people.22/ How to Write an Intelligent Murder Mystery describes some of the adventures I encountered while I was writing murder mysteries (of my twenty-one novels, thirteen are murder mysteries.) This is a somewhat unusual instructional book that attempts to relate the problems encountered in the writing of a murder mystery to the more general problem of writing fiction in today's market where any new novel is almost instantaneously buried under an avalanche of new novels.23/ The Real Meaning of Life is definitely one of my favorite books. It's written in the first person by Patrick Devlan, a twenty-seven-year-old guy who writes murder mysteries. But his father, who is dying of pancreatic cancer, wants Patrick to write something that will take his readers to a "better place." Patrick decides to follow his father's advice, but a few days later, his roommate's pregnant girlfriend is murdered, and Patrick becomes entangled in a real-life murder mystery. Eventually, after his roommate is convicted of the crime and sent to death row, Patrick is faced with a dilemma that will lead him to the discovery of the real meaning of life.24/ Flight 9525 is a non-fiction book that attempts to answer the question as to why there is so much suffering in the world. For the most part, this book bypasses the usual political, psychological, and social reasons for suffering and examines the following: If God is real, then why do human beings suffer? Why would an all-merciful, all-loving, and all-powerful Being permit its creations to suffer? The usual explanations, such as the hypothesis that God granted man free will, don't answer the question at all. In fact, this is a question that's never been answered satisfactorily.25/ The Scriptwriter is the tale of a man who becomes entangled with three different women. There's the incredibly beautiful woman, the incredibly rich woman, and the incredibly homeless woman. Which one will he choose? Events, mishaps, and character flaws lead him to an interesting decision.26/ The Murder of Marabeth Waters contains a considerable amount of subtle black humor and describes the investigation that ensues after a prostitute is found strangled to death. Detective Devin Driver is quickly able to focus on a suspect; not only did this man send a threatening note to Marabeth, but also, her blood is found in his car. As it turns out, the real murderer lurks elsewhere, and unfortunately, Devin isn't a particularly perceptive detective, so it isn't surprising when the wrong person is convicted of the crime. However, even if Devin had been Sherlock Holmes on steroids, he undoubtedly wouldn't have solved this murder.27/ The Trial of Shada King--a district attorney in Hartford, Connecticut, is charged with manslaughter in the shooting death of the man who had raped her ten days before the shooting. Shada claims that she acted in self-defense, and since she was wearing a recording device at the time of the shooting, her claim of self-defense seems to be valid. But why was she wearing the recording device? The prosecuting attorney is convinced the crime scene was an elaborate stage production that was intended to deceive those who would be listening to the tape and that the victim was murdered in retaliation for the rape.28-34/ Finally, I have seven anthologies on Kindle that combine complete versions of many of the books listed above: Four Novels, 5 Novels, Four Murder Mysteries, The Blackwater Novels, Dark Tales, Six Novels, and Five Murder Mysteries. The purpose of the anthologies is that it gives the reader a chance to buy, for instance, five novels of mine at the rock-bottom price of $2.99.I spend a great deal of time revising my books. After finishing the first draft, I go through the book at least eight more times--first page to last page. Each journey through the book is slow and painstaking--no less than three hours and no more than thirty-five pages a day. From my experience, the kind of errors that pop up on some of the later readings can be rather surprising, if not downright alarming! I particularly look for inaccurate punctuation, lackluster sentence structure, and inaccurate or repetitive vocabulary. I also do not permit confusing sentences to stand--I can't imagine that any reader will want to read a sentence twice because I couldn't find a way to explain myself clearly.Finally, I would ask you all to keep an open mind about novels by an author who has no brand name. I am quite unusual because I do not advertise myself in any way, shape, or form (outside, I guess, of this little biography). My books are well-written, entertaining, and thought provoking, but they are often truly original, and I worry about the page-six syndrome. That's the point where some readers abandon a book by an unknown author because of a single sentence, idea, or attitude that seems amateurish to them. Have faith that there are some genuine diamonds in the Kindle arena and have faith that your instinct to buy one of my books was a good instinct. If you read any of my books to the finish, I think you'll feel that your time was not wasted because these novels are not cheap imitations--they are real creations.

Book preview

THE BOOK OF THE DEAD

COPYRIGHT 2014

BY ROBERT TRAINOR

PREFACE

I was awakened by a frightening dream—it was the first time I could ever remember dreaming in color, and the colors in this dream were extremely bright and vivid, with an exact clarity that I had never before experienced in the dream world.

In the dream, I was walking down an unpaved country road in the springtime. Suddenly, from a small hill beside the road, a man with a beard who was wearing only a long white robe jumped down and landed directly in front of me. In his right hand, he had a long, shiny knife made of gold, and I could see that his eyes were glittering with rage. Instinctively, I knew that he intended to kill me, and I drew out my pocket knife to defend myself. But I was no match for this enraged holy man who quickly raised his knife and plunged it straight through my heart. Immediately, everything went black, totally black. However, I could still hear things—like the pleasant chirping of the birds on this warm spring morning.

I could also hear my attacker who seemed to be reciting something from memory. Let those who fall, he said, be of one mind from this day forth. They walked the forsaken path, but now they have been returned. Do not judge them but welcome them home. As it is now, so shall it ever be.

CHAPTER ONE: THE VOICE

After a six-month battle with pancreatic cancer, my wife of thirty-two years died. Death by cancer is obviously unpleasant—towards the end, Charlotte was taking huge amounts of morphine every day. This is my breakfast now, she said, as I placed a morphine patch on her arm. It used to be coffee, eggs, and toast, but now it’s just this weird drug that knocks me into oblivion.

We were sitting in our glassed-in patio as we watched all the splendor of a delightful day in early May. I was hoping I could last until June, she said, but it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen. At least I hope not—it’s a little ridiculous to call what I’m living these days as being alive.

The last time Charlotte really talked to me was about a week before she died—after that, she gradually lost consciousness and drifted away in a haze of morphine. But that afternoon, as we sat on the patio, she said, Don’t worry about me, Bob. I’m not really afraid of death because I’m certain that there’s something on the other side. I know you’re skeptical about things like this, but some people can feel things that come from outside this dimension, and I’m one of them. Charlotte put her hand on mine, and in a soft voice, she said, Believe it or not, I was able to communicate with someone from the other side.

How did you communicate with the person? I said.

I’m too weak to talk about it now, but after I die, I want you to read something I wrote last spring—it’s in that big black trunk in the bedroom. I would have shown it to you before, but I was afraid that you would think I was crazy. You can’t miss it—I wrote it all down in longhand and put it into a dozen black notebooks.

OK, I said.

You promise that you’ll read it? It’s my dying testimony, or maybe you could say that it’s the last real words I ever uttered on this earth.

It was far more difficult for me to cope with Charlotte’s death than I had expected it to be. During the last month of her life, she had been unconscious so much of the time that I thought her death wouldn’t bring about much of a change in my life. But such was not the case—once the funeral was over and the mourners had left, I was plunged into a deep sense of loneliness. Our two children both lived out of state, and I had only a few friends, so it was not an easy adjustment for me. 

To fulfill the promise I had made to Charlotte, I found the notebooks she had told me about and began to read what was in them. The handwriting, although somewhat messy, was easy enough for me to decipher, and I am reproducing here, in its entirety, everything that was in the twelve notebooks.

March 27th, 2013

I had the most amazing dream last night. There had been a flood somewhere, and a woman was being swept down a river when a man jumped into the river in an attempt to save her. They were both in the middle of the river, and suddenly, I became the woman in the dream. The force of the water was overwhelming—I was constantly being swept under and then pushed to the top. The man, whose face I never saw, had grabbed me and was trying to drag me towards the riverbank, but the current was so strong that we couldn’t get out of the middle of the stream. And then, as terrified as I was, I felt a tremendous sense of panic because I knew that we were approaching a waterfall—I could distinctly hear the load roar of the water as it went over the falls and fell an immense distance. And then...and then I woke up.

March 29th

I had a shorter version of the same dream again, only this time, I could see the man’s face. He was about forty, and I could tell that he was also frightened. Hold on! he yelled at me. We’re going to make it. 

March 31st

I woke up in the middle of the night, and although I couldn’t remember anything specific, I knew I had been dreaming about the flood again. I lay there wondering why I would be dreaming about such a thing, when a voice in my head said, I have something to tell you—please write it down. What did that mean? Was I really beginning to hear voices? There have been times during my life when I have questioned my sanity, but I had never heard a voice before. And this voice, which was a man’s voice, had been so insistent. But finally, after tossing and turning for an hour, I was able to put the voice out of my mind and began to fall asleep. However, as my thoughts were drifting away, the voice returned, and in a very loud tone, I heard, Please write down what I am about to tell you.

Alright, I said to myself, let’s see what this person has to say. I went to my desk, took out an unused notebook, and sat there waiting for something to happen. I felt totally ridiculous, especially since I wasn’t hearing anything from the voice. Wasn’t that something? To be dragged out of bed by a voice and then hear nothing but silence—I suppose, I thought, that when I go back to bed, he’ll tell me to get out my notebook again. I was just about to leave the desk when I heard the voice. Is there, he said, anything that you would like to ask me before I begin to tell you about my experiences?

Yes, I said, who are you?

That will become clear later.

Is the dream I had about the flood connected to you?

Yes.

How am I able to hear your voice?

This is difficult to explain—think of it this way: It’s as if I’m a radio station that transmits on a certain frequency, and you’ve been able to tune in to that frequency.

Maybe this is just my imagination that is talking to me.

Then you have quite an imagination, my dear. Let’s begin—please transcribe everything I say as exactly as you can.

I was curious as to what the voice was going to tell me, so I picked up my pen and began to write down what I heard... 

The rain had been falling for almost two weeks—sometimes, it came down in a prolonged wet drizzle, but then there would be times when it fell in torrential sheets. Flooding was inevitable, and the local papers had advised everyone who lived in low-lying areas to evacuate their homes. The small creeks had turned into wide roaring streams that spilled over onto nearby roads, which made travel hazardous—already a number of cars had been swept away, and the drivers had yet to be found. Upstate, a dam had burst and sent millions of tons of water into a large river that turned into a monstrous tidal wave of wrecked cars and houses. Some of the people in the path of what was being called an American Tsunami had fled before the water hit the towns in its path, but there were reports of over three hundred persons missing.

Since I lived on a high plateau that overlooked the flood plain, I was one of the lucky ones who wasn’t seriously affected by the devastation. Shortly after the dam burst, my wife and I drove out to an overlook from where we could see a nearby river, which was usually barely visible through the rapidly budding spring leaves that grew along the steep bank beside the river. Probably, during periods of normal rainfall, the river would have been a hundred feet below us, but the day we were there, which was two days before the rain began to let up, it couldn’t have been more than fifty feet below us.

I’m a very good swimmer, but nobody could have survived for more than a minute in that river on that day. It was both terrifying and awesome to see the water go by beneath us—a churning wave of debris that smashed along the side of the cliff we were standing on. My wife has always had a fear of drowning, and she could only watch for a few seconds before she begged me to return to our car.

Daren, she said, it’s dangerous to be here—this whole overlook could crumble into the river.

Alright, I said, reluctantly. I didn’t think we were in any real danger, but I could see that Audrey was extremely frightened—it would have been better if I had come out alone and not taken her with me. There’s something about being around water that has always excited me and tempted me, and there has been many a day when I have swum across the one-mile lake that is about ten miles from where I live.

Here, the voice abruptly stopped, and after waiting a couple of minutes, I closed the notebook, turned on my computer, and did an investigation into automatic writing. It didn’t take me long to realize that my recent experience with the voice didn’t fall into the automatic writing category because it wasn’t as if some unseen hand was guiding my pen as it flew across the paper. What I was doing was taking dictation from an unknown person.

I usually wake up during the middle of the night, and the following night was no exception, but during the hour or two it took me to fall back asleep, I heard nothing from the voice. I felt certain the voice would return, but as the days passed with no sound but my own voice in my head, I began to wonder.

When the voice did return, it caught me by surprise because it was early in the morning, just after I had finished breakfast, when I heard, I have more to tell you. It’s difficult for me to describe the tone of the voice. To begin with, how does one describe the normal voice of one’s own thoughts? It’s clearly a voice, but how would one describe it? I’ve heard myself talking on tape, but the voice of my normal thoughts seems nothing like the voice I have heard on tape. My thinking voice is flatter, without any accent, and seems crystal clear. Perhaps a bit harsh. On the other hand, the voice of my unseen companion was louder—not unpleasantly loud but considerably louder than my normal thinking voice. The biggest difference, outside of the fact that it was obviously a man’s voice, was that the voice I was hearing had a southern accent, while I have lived in New Hampshire all my life. The voice also spoke much slower than my normal voice and often paused between sentences, which allowed me to write down what was being said without too much difficulty.

I was also able to stop the voice by saying, in my own voice, Stop! And then, after I had caught up with what was being told to me, the voice, without any command from me, would begin again... 

April 9th

Audrey and I had just returned home from the overlook when the phone rang. It was my sister Marion—she lived about fifteen miles away. Daren, she said, can you come and get me? They want everyone to evacuate from here by nightfall. I’m really frightened—the river is only about a hundred yards from the house, and it’s been rising all day. Marion was divorced, lived by herself in a small apartment, and didn’t own a car.

Audrey, I said, after I hung up the phone, I have to pick Marion up—they’re evacuating everyone near where she lives.

You’re going to get her? Isn’t Route 55 closed?

No, there won’t be any problem with 55—it’s a long ways above the river.

I thought I heard them say on the radio that 55 was closed, said Audrey.

If it is, then I’ll use Route 42.

Daren, you shouldn’t go—it’s too dangerous.

Audrey, I can’t let Marion stay there and drown.

She’s not going to drown. Can’t she find someone who lives there to help her?

Audrey, I’ve got to go. There’s nothing to be worried about—I’m not going to try and drive the car through two feet of water or anything.

I put on my rain jacket, grabbed my keys, and started for the door. Just as I reached it, Audrey came running up to me and put her arms around me. Daren, she said, in a heartfelt voice, please be careful. I know you’re not afraid of danger, but it’s very, very dangerous out there. I’m not just saying this for my sake—remember, we have three children. Promise me that you won’t do anything reckless.

I promise—please don’t worry about me, Audrey.

It’s just that sometimes you act so impulsively.

Outside, the rain had let up some, and I was able to drive without much difficulty along Route 55, which was a winding road that ran through the countryside. Occasionally, there would be a small rivulet of water running across the road, but otherwise, it was smooth sailing. About three miles from where Marion lived, I came down a long, gently sloping hill and into a small town—it was one of those places that had a gas station, post office, and general store. Just past the gas station was a bridge, and there were four or five people standing near the right side of the bridge looking down into a creek that had now turned into a river that was at least forty feet wide.

It was impossible to cross the bridge because a truck on the bridge was blocking the road, so I left my car by the post office and walked over to the bridge to see what was going on. She’s down there, I heard someone say.

Where?

Between those two rocks.

Is that Jenna Moore?

I think so.

I could see the woman, who appeared to be in her late twenties or early thirties and had long straight blond hair. She was wedged between two large rocks about fifteen feet from a steep rocky ledge that ran along the side of the river. The ledge was steep enough that the only conceivable way to rescue Jenna would be to pull her back towards the bridge, where the riverbank was flat and accessible.

If she loses her grip, she’s done for, said an older man who was standing next to me. About two hundred yards downstream, there’s a steep drop.

How steep? I said.

Very steep—at least seventy-five feet, and it’s covered with rocks. I’ve been there before with my son.

I walked up to the bridge where two guys were tying two lengths of rope together. From below we could hear the screams of Jenna. Help me! I can’t hold on much longer.

Who’s going down? said one of the guys with the rope.

I can’t swim, said the second guy.

Neither can I, said the first one.

I’ll go, I said. Give me the rope. I tied one end around my waist and had the guy attach the other end to his truck. The total length of the two combined ropes was plenty long enough to reach Jenna, but I would still have to maneuver myself over to the rocks where Jenna Moore was clinging desperately to life.

Listen, I said to the guy who owned the truck, once I’m in the water, use the truck to drag me over towards where Jenna is. And then, once I get ahold of her and we’re clear of the rocks, keep backing up until we’re past the ledge and can be pulled onto the riverbank.

I’m drowning! Oh my God, I’m drowning.

Leaning over the rail of the bridge, I yelled, Hold on, Jenna—I’m coming to get you. I gave my rain jacket and wallet to one of the guys, flipped the rope over the iron railing of the bridge, and began to climb down the rope, which was shaped like a giant U—the two top parts of the U were where one end of the rope was attached to the truck and the other end to my waist. The bottom part of the U easily reached the water, and because the rope was so long, it was floating on top of the water as it was propelled downstream by the current.

I shinnied down the rope quickly, and when I jumped into the water, I maintained a grip on it with my hands for just a short period of time—I was afraid that, somehow, the rope might double back and twist around my neck, but when I saw that I was well free of the rope, I began to attempt to swim towards the rocks where Jenna Moore was. But that current...it was so fierce—I had never felt anything like it before in my life, and after I had been in the water for a few seconds, I began to realize how difficult it was going to be to save Jenna.

April 11th 

On this day, the voice contacted me by saying, I need to talk to you. One thing I noticed as time went by was that the voice always contacted me either when I was alone or late at night when my husband was sleeping. Never, not once, did it attempt to communicate with me while I was talking with other people. That was helpful and gave me a comfort level that I wouldn’t have had otherwise, but I was still nervous about the whole thing, and I had some questions that I wanted to ask this person before I wrote anything else down.

Stop! I said when the voice began to speak to me. There are some things I need to know before we can continue with this. (I wasn’t actually speaking these words out loud but was using my own thinking voice.)

I’d rather not answer questions, said the voice.

You can at least tell me your name.

I already told you.

Daren? Is that your name?

Yes.

And what’s your last name, Daren?

Daren Slade.

Are you alive?

Of course I’m alive—how else would you be able to hear me?

Generally, it’s assumed that communications of this sort happen between the living and the dead.

My dear, there is much that you do not understand, and it wouldn’t make any sense to you if I attempted to explain the underlying realities that permit communications between us. You must learn to trust me—I am not some fragment of your consciousness that is threatening to overwhelm you, and neither am I some malevolent spirit that is determined to destroy you. But we exist...I don’t know how to say this exactly, but we exist in different realms of the empire.

The empire? I said.

For lack of a better word.

And your wife’s name is Audrey?

Yes, Audrey Slade.

Forgive me, but I can’t help but wonder whether I’m making this up.

As I told you before, if you’re making this up, then you have a fantastic imagination. You’d be better off trusting me—I know things of which you are currently not aware, and what I want to tell you will be of great benefit to you in the coming months. However, if you feel too uncomfortable about these communications, you will never hear from me again.

No, it’s just strange—that’s all. It isn’t every day that one hears a voice.

And your point is?

I didn’t know what else to ask this person who had taken up residence in my head, so I said, Would it be better if I didn’t ask so many questions and just wrote down what you said?

It would be immeasurably better, my dear, so now, if you will please let me continue...

CHAPTER TWO: THE RAGING RIVER

Once I was in the water, I found it impossible to do anything but go with the current, and without the lifeline, I would have been quickly swept downstream. The length of the rope had taken me at least twenty feet past Jenna, so when the guys in the truck saw this, they began to move backwards, which brought me to the two rocks where Jenna was. She was half drowned and totally hysterical, so I had to struggle with her to loop a section of the rope around her waist.

No! she said, If you put the rope around me, I’ll drown—it will drag me right to the bottom.

For a few seconds our faces were only a few inches apart, so I still have a clear memory of her blue eyes and blond hair. It was also easy for me to see how frightened she was, but I knew it was imperative to loop the rope around her so that she wouldn’t be swept downstream towards the waterfall. As soon as I had the rope secured around her waist, I waved to the men above to use the truck to drag us back towards the bridge. We had just left the area of the rocks when it happened: The rope, probably where the two lengths had been tied together, snapped.

I’ll never forget that moment. I knew immediately what had happened because Jenna and I were instantaneously propelled away from the riverbank and began to hurtle downstream. We were still attached by the rope—between where it was tied around my waist and where it was tied around her waist, there was probably about ten feet of rope, but I was unable to grab the rope around her waist so that we could remain close to each other. Within seconds, I realized that Jenna either didn’t know how to swim or was too panic-stricken to attempt it because she began to sink underneath the surface of the water.

I tried to use the rope to drag her back up, but it was like trying to lift a car, and I was quickly pulled under myself. As I was being dragged down towards the depths of the river, I slid the rope down my legs and was able to free myself from it before I was permanently pulled under to a watery grave. I looked around and couldn’t see Jenna anywhere. Drowned—just like she had predicted. And although my intentions had certainly been heroic, I knew that I might very well have cost Jenna her life.

But this was something that I only realized afterwards because now it was a question of whether I would survive. Already I could hear the sound of the waterfall—a roaring torrent of water that left no doubt as to what my fate would be if I was unable to avoid it. I was still only fifteen feet from the riverbank, and I desperately pushed myself in that direction with the strongest and most powerful strokes that I was capable of. It made some difference but not much. The noise from the waterfall was becoming so loud that it seemed to me that it was heralding my death. And the fall! Who knows how many pieces of my body they would find.

It was a race of angles. The angle at which I was heading for the riverbank and the angle at which I was being transported towards the falls. By now, I was becoming exhausted and my heart was thumping spasmodically as I put every last ounce of effort into saving myself. My kids! I saw them now as if it were a photograph. And Audrey. I love you so much, Audrey—please always remember that about me.

As I approached the falls, I was still five feet from the riverbank. Here, the ledge wasn’t nearly so steep, which had given me some hope, but I had run out of time because I was now only seconds from tumbling over the falls. I love you so much, Audrey.

Just when all seemed lost, I saw a slim chance to escape my dreadful fate. Near the top of the falls, there was a long narrow rock sticking up out of the water—it was about three feet from the ledge at the edge of the riverbank—and I saw that if I could get to the riverbank side of the rock, I would still go over the falls, but it wouldn’t be anywhere near the seventy-five-foot drop that would happen if I went to the river side of the rock. I had no idea whether the rock was solidly attached to anything underneath, but it was my only hope, and reaching out, I wrapped my right arm around it. The current was insistently pressing me forward, but the rock was solid, with no give, and I began to leverage myself around it to the riverbank side—sounds simple enough, but the river must have been going thirty miles an hour.

After a desperate life-or-death struggle that must have lasted almost a minute, I was able to maneuver myself around to the ledge side of the rock. I would have liked to have remained there until I was rescued, but the strength of the current overpowered me, and in another few seconds, I was swept over the side—at the last moment, I twisted my body so that I didn’t go down face first, but instead, I went over sideways with my hands covering my head while I tried to roll down what was probably a twenty-five-foot drop that was covered with rocks.

At the beginning, for the first five feet, it didn’t seem so bad, but then my head hit a rock, and I think I lost consciousness for a few seconds. Or maybe it was longer than that—I can’t really say. When I came to, I was lying on a shelf of rock that was beside the main part of the waterfalls. I had a terrible pain in my head, and I had lost a couple of my upper front teeth, but at least I had survived. Once again, I lapsed into unconsciousness, and it must have been about fifteen minutes later when I heard some people approaching. They were undoubtedly assuming I had died and were beginning to search for me, but I was able to lift myself to my feet, and in a voice that was much louder than what I thought I was capable of, I yelled, Help! Help! I’m over here.

CHAPTER THREE: MY MOTIVE IS TO LIFT THE VEIL OF IGNORANCE THAT SURROUNDS DEATH.

I must have collapsed before my rescuers reached me because the next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital. The room was very bright, and it bothered my eyes. There was no one around, and I was extremely thirsty—I also noticed that there was a bandage wrapped around my head. Suddenly, from behind me, Audrey appeared.

You’re awake, I heard her say.

She moved to the side of the bed, and I could see her face. Strangely, she appeared to be angry. Could you turn the lights down and get me some water? I said. The lights make my head hurt more than it already does.

She turned the lights down and handed me a glass of water, which I gulped down. Just as I finished, a nurse came into the room and said, Audrey, I told you not to give him anything to drink because we have to run a procedure on him. Now we’ll have to wait another two hours—if I had my way, visitors would never be allowed in here. They’re nothing but trouble, and all they ever do is run around and complain that we’re not pampering their relatives enough.

The nurse yanked the glass out of my hand and disappeared from the room, and I was left alone with Audrey. My throat was still very dry, and it was uncomfortable for me to talk. What happened to me? I said.

Audrey walked over to the window and opened a curtain that was covering it. Outside, I could see that there were breaks in the clouds, and in a few moments, the sun briefly appeared. So refreshing.

Audrey turned around and said, You may have fractured your skull, but they’re hoping it’s only a severe concussion. She was giving me such an intense look—very severe, almost hostile.

What’s troubling you? I said.

Daren, do you know how close you came to dying? Do you have any idea?

Yes, I know—there were moments when I felt certain that I was going to die.

For what? The woman you tried to rescue drowned, in case you’re interested.

I was baffled by her attitude. I hadn’t gone out of my way to be a hero—the bridge had been blocked by the truck, so I had to stop the car, and I had offered to go into the water because no one else there could swim. Regardless of the fact that I had failed in my attempt to save Jenna, I didn’t think I deserved to be criticized.

Did you ever think of me? said Audrey.

Yes—more than you know. Just as... Tears came into my eyes, and I couldn’t go on. Finally, as Audrey continued to gaze at me in an unfriendly way, I said, As I was about to be swept over the falls, I saw your face and...I don’t know how many times, but I kept saying, I love you so much, Audrey."

Isn’t that comforting! What about before you jumped into the river? I don’t suppose you thought of me then?

If my head wasn’t hurting so much and my mouth didn’t feel like a Sahara mouth, I would have lashed out at her.

Well? she said, in an accusatory tone.

Unexpectedly, the voice stopped. I say unexpectedly because whenever the voice had stopped before, it had seemed to come at a natural time and not, as in this case, in the middle of a conversation. I was about to turn out the light when the voice said, "My dear, would it be alright with you if we refrained from going any further tonight? We have begun to move into a domain, a reality, that still distresses me from time to time. It is not easy to communicate with you because we exist on different levels of the perceptual sphere, and in order to relate my experience to you, it is necessary for me to relive it."

What I don’t understand, I said, is why you feel it’s necessary to talk to me. I don’t object to it, but I would like to know what motivates you.

My dear, my motive is to lift the veil of ignorance that surrounds death.

And with that, the voice was gone, but the following day (and for many days thereafter) it returned...

I would like to speed things up and not dawdle, at least more than necessary, on Audrey’s attitude. Suffice it to say that she remained antagonistic to me during the three days that I stayed in the hospital. It had been determined that I had not suffered a skull fracture, and the total extent of my injuries were two lost teeth, a broken finger, numerous bruises, and a concussion. Everyone at the hospital told me how lucky I was to have survived a twenty-five-foot fall through a succession of rocks, but I thought the rocks had slowed my fall and prevented me from being more seriously injured.

The day before I was released, I was interviewed by a reporter from the local newspaper. He was a preppy young man who was far more concerned with the fact that Jenna had died than with anything that had happened to me. How do you feel about Jenna Moore’s death? he asked me. Don’t you regret what happened to her?

Such an insulting question! But to be tactful, I said, Of course I regret the fact that she died. I tried my best to save her, but the current was too strong, and I lost her.

Wouldn’t it have been better to have waited until the fire department arrived?

I don’t think so, I said.

Why not? They’re trained to handle emergencies, and they also have the proper equipment.

I understand that, I said, but I felt—all of us who were there felt—that we didn’t have the luxury of waiting.

Wasn’t Jenna Moore pinned between two rocks?

No, she was between the two rocks and was holding on to them so that she wouldn’t be swept downstream. Unfortunately, she was losing her grip.

How did you know that?

It’s...I have no idea. But when you’re standing in a safe place and listening to a woman who is pleading with you to save her life, it’s a difficult thing to resist.

Her family is really upset, Mr. Slade. It’s quite likely that she’d be alive if it wasn’t for you.

My apologies, I said. Now if you don’t mind, I’m tired and need some rest.

CHAPTER FOUR: SAVANNAH CROSS

The next day, after I arrived home, Audrey told me that she was moving into a separate bedroom. I need some time to process what’s happened, Daren. It’s clear to me that you don’t love me anymore—how you could risk your life for a total stranger is beyond me. Obviously, when the chips were down, you felt no hesitation in throwing your life away on someone who had nothing to do with me or our three children. Maybe you thought you would end up being called a hero, but the newspaper has now run two articles that describe your actions as foolish and reckless. To be honest, I totally agree with them.

I was completely unprepared for the type of reaction I was receiving. In my own mind, I felt as if I had done something heroic, and I knew that my motives were beyond reproach. I went back to the time when I was standing on the bridge with the two other men, and it was easy for me to replay the events in my mind. It wasn’t, as I was listening to Jenna Moore’s screams, as if I felt that I had a choice—there was no inner debate about what to do. A woman was pleading with me to help her, and that’s what I had done. In a situation where life and death hung in the balance, there wasn’t any inclination on my part to consider a lot of options.

I could, however, see one obvious mistake that I had made. When I reached Jenna, she had not wanted to leave the rocks and make the attempt to move towards the riverbank.  No! she had said. I’ll drown—this will drag me right to the bottom. Looking back on it, I realized that with the rope tied around both of us, we could have remained where we were until the fire department arrived. But...how could I be blamed for something like that?

Life began to return to normal. I went back to my job, but I don’t remember much of that. Some parts of my experiences are not much more than a blur—I suppose it’s because they don’t really have any connection to the essence of my being. I think we’re all like that. When we look at the narrative of our life, certain things stand out while other things fade into obscurity. So a boring job that a person goes to day in and day out for ten straight years will be hard to recall, but some other moment, seemingly very small, will remain etched in the memory. It might be walking down a country lane in the twilight of a May evening, and the thing that will be remembered is just one instant—no more than a couple of seconds at the most—of that walk. Maybe it will just be the way that the falling sun had shone through the trees and lighted up the land.

Or maybe...these things are very, very hard for me to talk about. They’re beautiful moments, but when one recollects them, they can be excruciating. There was the time when Audrey and I were sitting in our back yard on a Sunday morning—it must have been in the summer. She was reading the newspaper, and I was drinking my coffee and looking around in an aimless but pleasant way. And suddenly, I don’t know why, I looked at her, and she just seemed so beautiful at that moment. She wasn’t looking at me, but I’ll always remember that moment, that moment when we must have been so happy. Even now, it gives me a pang in my heart to bring up that vision. 

The trite thing to say is that people should treasure the moments they share with each other. But I think, for the most part, people do treasure those moments. The problem is that life doesn’t permit those moments to continue. They’re fleeting moments. (Please make sure you put fleeting into italics.) And just because those moments are so fleeting, they become precious. No matter who you are and what kind of life you live, you won’t have too many of these moments. Some people may not have any at all, while others, when they’re in the mood, might be able to recall a half-dozen or so. I’m not talking about happy times or pleasant experiences—I’m talking about those fleeting moments that carry with them the distilled essence of what it means to be in love with life, of what it means to be alive.

However, the recollection of these moments can be painful, especially when one is mired, as we all are from time to time, in a boring or painful part of our existence. Even so, I believe that a person is well-served to go back to these times, brief though they may be, because they serve as a beacon towards a more fulfilling life, a goal towards which one can strive. How do you want to remember your life? Will it be a collection of mundane accomplishments that will seem utterly meaningless as you near death, or would you rather have the sense that you experienced moments that made this life on earth worthwhile?

And so, from where I stand now, I may be inclined to skip over things that might seem important. I have no wish, at least right now, to dwell on the history or the complexities of my relationship with Audrey. I don’t really understand why, but she doesn’t seem very relevant to me anymore. One day, I don’t know when, I suddenly realized that Audrey was right—if I had loved her more, I would have thought long and hard about whether I should jump into that river. And once one begins to think about it that way, one invariably turns back. I would then have said to myself what turned out to be exactly true—that it was too risky; that I couldn’t save Jenna; that I might be putting my own life at great risk.

This is not meant to diminish the acts of those who have risked or given up their lives to save another, but in my case, I began to feel that Jenna’s death cancelled out the heroic aspect of my actions and left me with nothing but the ashes of failure. And thus, as time went on, I began to have very mixed emotions as to whether I should have jumped into the river and tried to save Jenna.

About a month after I returned home, I impulsively decided to attend my 25th high school reunion, which would be taking place in Atlanta, Georgia. I had received the invitation months before, but I had put it aside because it seemed like too much of a bother to travel six hours for a night of camaraderie with the few friends I had made in high school. But on the morning of the day that the reunion was to be held, I threw a few things into my car and headed south towards Atlanta. I had moved to North Carolina when I graduated from college, so I hadn’t seen anyone from my high school class in over twenty years, and I was curious as to how their lives had turned out.

It was enjoyable to get away from Audrey who continued to remain hostile to me and was now talking about how we might be better off if we filed for divorce. She was probably right, but I didn’t feel like going through the hassle of finding a lawyer and then deciding who would get what out of the ruins of our marriage. Like vultures tearing up a carcass. Our children were also a consideration—they were between twelve and eighteen years old, and it was difficult for me to imagine that a divorce would be beneficial for them. I have to admit, however, that I started to become bitter when I thought about my children. My bitterness became so extreme that I began to wonder why I should even bother to care about how a divorce would affect them. I had cared about Jenna Moore and look what that had done for me! So what was the point of jumping into another river and worrying about what was going to happen to my kids if Audrey and I no longer lived together? Most likely, despite all my best intentions, I’d probably end up doing something that would make the situation worse, and at the end of it all, I’d get the blame.

The ride south towards the reunion was a pleasant one, and I began to put the thoughts surrounding my family behind me. I figured that I might as well take the opportunity to live and enjoy life while I could because once I returned home, I would be returning to nothing but misery and accusations. Also, of course, there was the real reason why I was travelling to the reunion, and her name was Savannah Cross.

Savannah was my first crush, my first girlfriend, and the first love of my life. We did so many things together—the movies, roller skating, dancing, studying together, car rides away from the city and into the countryside. So many things on so many days. But her parents didn’t approve of me—I don’t think it was so much that they disliked me personally as it was that they thought we were becoming too close and that something might happen before it was, in their opinion, time for it to happen.

They needn’t have worried. Savannah was chaste and was the kind of young woman who viewed the I do of marriage as the end of her virginity. Anything before that was out of the question. Perhaps I shouldn’t use the word anything—we liked to hold hands, and we would kiss some, although it was obvious to me that she much preferred holding hands to kissing. But, strange as it might seem, her sexual restraint didn’t bother me that much during my high school years because I could understand why she felt the way that she did. It wasn’t just the pressure from her parents that made her hold back; it was also something that was a natural part of her: A kind of common sense and a constant awareness of what could happen if we went too far.

I don’t want to become a grown-up, she told me one day as we were holding hands and walking through the woods on a beautiful day in August. It’s too scary to me to make big decisions and accept a lot of responsibilities. Maybe some day, but not now. That’s why...you know...we’re not really old enough to do what the grown-ups do, she said, with her mischievous laugh.

I knew that I could never persuade her otherwise, so I said, It can lead to a lot of trouble.

Both of us knew exactly what we were talking about. Especially when you’re only seventeen! But you’ll still be my boyfriend, won’t you?

Of course.

Daren, I know that people can break up because of this. Savannah stopped walking and looked into my eyes in an earnest but friendly way. After a few moments, still holding my hand, she resumed walking. My friend Sarah lost her boyfriend because of this. It was very painful for her when Philip gave her the ultimatum.

That she had to...

Yes—what a terrible thing to tell a woman. I lost all respect for him the minute I heard about it. If he had been a gentleman, he could have told her that he thought they shouldn’t date anymore. Sarah would have been hurt, but it isn’t right to give a woman an ultimatum when it comes to something like that. It’s wrong—it isn’t fair. All the consequences fall on the woman’s head, and the man...the man doesn’t understand anything about that—he just wants what he wants.

I could understand that I was being given some instructions, and I lightly squeezed her hand to show that I had received them.

Daren, promise me that you won’t ever give me that kind of ultimatum.

I promise.

She stopped, looked at me, and in an emphatic voice, she said, It wouldn’t work, Daren. It didn’t work with Sarah, and it wouldn’t work with me.

I think...it’s like what you said a while ago—that’s what marriage is for.

And we’re certainly not old enough to get married.

Not even close, I said with a laugh.

It’s something that you’re going to have to accept about me, Daren. I know you’re being very agreeable right now, but there may come a day when...you may not come flat out and give me that ultimatum, but it will amount to the same thing.

Savannah, I don’t think that day will ever come, so I don’t see why we should worry about it.

I do worry about it, though. I’m so afraid that eventually, you’ll just drop me for someone who doesn’t mind complying with ultimatums.

I laughed. Ultimatum is such a strange word, Savannah. It’s like a weird grown-up word that politicians use all the time.

I suppose it is, she said with a faint laugh. But I feel like there’s a cloud hanging over my head. I can see what’s happening around me, Daren. Nowadays, what with the pill and all, a lot of people are taking shortcuts before they reach the altar. It’s a little scary to me, actually, because from what I can see, women are landing the men they want when they give in to the ultimatum. And meanwhile, people like me who try to stand up for what they feel is right are often left alone. 

It was a difficult subject for me to talk about with her because I knew that I couldn’t live forever in the world of the chaste. Of course, it wouldn’t actually have to be forever because marriage was the oasis in the desert. If only I could arrive there! I know that I’ve presented myself as being a little bit above sexual desire, but there were days when I was just a stampeding mess of rampaging lust. And since there wasn’t any other woman in my life, my desire was stampeding towards Savannah. Such fantasies!

But did I really want to marry Savannah? Probably, but I wasn’t really sure because the whole issue was so entwined with my desires. If some minister had suddenly appeared before us with a Bible in his hand and said, Would you like me to marry the two of you?, I would have said yes in a heartbeat since I would then have been able to satisfy all my desires. Probably that’s why a lot of men walked to the altar. But it seemed that women were not rampant with lust and wanted something more out of marriage than an endless romp in the bedroom. They appeared to be thinking ahead and trying to plan for the future. Home, hearth, and a family. And the man? Where’s the bedroom! And it was only when the woman refused to enter the bedroom and demanded to hear what the man envisioned for their future—it was only then, when she approved of those plans, that the bedroom door would be opened. It was like a tug of war—the man said to the woman, Give me your body, while the woman said, Give me a future. And I had to admit that it was the smart woman who didn’t give in too quickly because if she was unable to find some way to guarantee her future, then she probably wasn’t going to have much of a future.

But even though I could understand Savannah’s position, I instinctively felt that she and I would never marry. I’m not sure why—it probably had something to do with her family. They were a lot richer than my parents and lived in one of those Georgia mansions that you see in the movies. My father had a decent job, and I was well-provided for, but when it came to material success, my folks couldn’t hold a candle to Savannah’s folks. Savannah had, of course, introduced me to her parents, and I had eaten dinner there a few times, but I always felt awkward and out of place when I was at their dining room table. Everything was so formal! They even had a cook and a butler, and when we ate, the butler would bring everything out from the kitchen and put it on the table in front of each one of us. He always addressed me as Sir, which made me feel ridiculous.

One day, after I had been there three or four times, Savannah’s father took me into a room that was off the dining room, closed the door, and had a man-to-man talk with me. Although I was understandably nervous, it made me realize that Savannah must have told her family that she was seriously interested in me.

Daren, he said, I understand that you and Savannah have become friends.

Yes, sir, that’s true.

He stared at me for what seemed like a very long time before he said, As I’m sure you know, she’s our only daughter, so I can’t help but be protective. I didn’t approve of her last boyfriend, but you seem to be a young man who has a good head on his shoulders.

I hope so, but I realize that I’m only eighteen and have a lot to learn.

He laughed. Don’t be afraid of me, Daren—I’m not going to be the one to choose Savannah’s friends. It’s just that you’re both so young. They say age brings wisdom, but about the only wisdom that it’s brought to me is that I can look back at my own youth and see what I might have been able to do better.

Yes, I said, sometimes, when I try to look into the future, there seem to be a bewildering amount of choices.

Exactly, he said. And in my opinion, there are some choices that it’s not wise to rush into too quickly because in life, haste does often lead to waste.

Sir, I said, I know you’re concerned about whether Savannah and I are rushing things, but I want to assure you that you have nothing to worry about. Savannah is very committed to the sacrament of matrimony, and that is something I admire in her.

I didn’t marry Savannah’s mother until I was twenty-three, but nowadays, some young men and women are marrying before they reach twenty. That seems far too early to me.

So this meant I was going to have to wait five years until Savannah and I spent some time together in a bedroom. Five years! It might as well have been fifty.

Sir, I said, bravely, I think if two people love and care for each other, then there shouldn’t be any difficulty in waiting a few years before they become married. In my case, I would certainly want to finish college before I married anyone. Rather cleverly, I had chopped my five-year sentence down to four years and two months.

Yes, he said, that would seem advisable. Savannah tells me that you’re planning to attend the University of North Carolina.

Yes, I received a rather large scholarship offer from them.

Very good. Alright then, he said as he rose from his chair, I believe we understand each other.

Yes, sir, I think we do.

Unfortunately!

This conversation took place in the spring of my senior year in high school. Savannah’s father, who had graduated from the University of Georgia, was determined that she would go to college there—the only other college application she had filled out was to Georgia Tech. Savannah was a straight A student, so she had quickly been accepted at the University of Georgia, and by now, I was beginning to regret my choice of a college, although due to my family’s financial situation, I didn’t have much choice because the scholarship that I had been offered by UNC was over double what the University of Georgia had offered me.

However, the distance between the two colleges didn’t seem like a huge obstacle to Savannah or me. It was a five-hour drive, but I had a car, and by the time we graduated from high school, we were planning on my coming back to Georgia every other weekend. But then, the week after our high school graduation, something happened that may have changed the whole course of my life.

On a drizzly Friday evening, Savannah’s mother and two brothers were returning home from a trip to the mall when a drunk driver going seventy miles an hour went through a red light and ran directly into the driver’s side of their car. Savannah’s mother had been killed instantly, and her two brothers were both critically injured. One of them would survive, although the injuries he received would affect him for years, while her other brother died three days after the accident.

The morning after the accident, I heard about it from a friend of mine and immediately phoned Savannah. There was no answer, so I left a message, and it wasn’t until the afternoon of the following day that I heard from her. Daren, I can’t really talk right now. I’m sorry, but I have to be with my family.

Savannah, I’m so sorry about what happened. If there’s anything I can do, please let me know.

I don’t think so—we’ve got to work this out ourselves. Dad is totally devastated, and... I could hear her sobbing.

Savannah—

It’s OK, Daren—I’ll call you back in a few days.

It was almost a week before I heard from her again, and for the rest of that summer, she just wasn’t the same. Obviously, it’s natural to be affected by the sudden death of your mother and brother, but Savannah was severely affected. It was difficult for her to eat, so she lost a lot of weight, and by the time I left for college at the end of August, she seemed gaunt and haggard. Neither was she much fun to be around—she cried a lot and didn’t seem to want to do much of anything. As for our relationship, it seemed to have been almost totally forgotten. We saw each other infrequently, usually only once a week, and when we were together, she seemed listless and dispirited.

I was quite sympathetic at first, but by the end of the summer, I began to feel annoyed. Did I still have a girlfriend? I knew she wasn’t interested in anyone else, but she was treating me more like a cousin than a boyfriend. Just before I left for college, I talked with her about the plans we had made.

I’m leaving for college on Tuesday, I said. I was thinking of coming back to town a week from the following Friday.

That would be nice, she said.

So you’d like to get together?

I guess so. I have to do well at school, so I’ll probably have to use some time on the weekends for study.

Right then, I was so angry at her. Enough with the dead parent and brother. I’m alive—in case you haven’t noticed. How long was I supposed to wait for her to come around? And if she did come around, then I had at least four years of college to grind through before I would be able to do more than hold her hand. Not that we were holding hands much anymore—since the accident, she seemed very uncomfortable on the couple of occasions when we had done that.

But I didn’t say anything to her about my feelings because I knew it was disrespectful to speak ill of the dead, and two days later, I packed my bags and drove to Chapel Hill, which is where the University of North Carolina is located. 

CHAPTER FIVE: I WANTED IT LIKE NOTHING ELSE I HAD EVER WANTED IN MY LIFE

My dear, said the voice, I hope you don’t mind if I talk about some things that a man of my age wouldn’t ordinarily talk about with a woman of your age.

How old are you? I said.

Women aren’t the only ones who don’t like to discuss their ages. Suffice it to say that I am old enough to know some things that may be of benefit to others. The reason I am talking off the record to you is that I am about to touch upon some topics you might find offensive, and if it begins to become bothersome, you can merely say, as you have said before, ‘Stop,’ and I will move on with my narrative. There is, unfortunately, this idea that communications between people in our relative positions must exclusively center on weighty subjects and esoteric theories. Although this may be generally true, it is not always the case—unless, of course, one considers the bonfires of lust to be a weighty and esoteric subject. 

When I drove to Chapel Hill in late August, it was the first time I had ever lived away from home. I was, however, more excited than terrified by the prospect of living away from my parent’s house. The knowledge that I would be making all my own decisions was quite exhilarating to me, and it