One Over X News

Tribute to the Soul and Spirit of a Great Man

As a tribute to a great man that humanity lost in 1968, I am posting in its entirety an as yet unpublished short story that I have been working on for several months, titled "In The Way of Humanity":

(Disclaimer: what follows may be revised later on as it is technically still a work in progress.)

The Story:

He remembered the way. During the first eighteen years of his life Brent had been over this very same road many times, having driven on it to and from school for the last two of those years. Even in the worst conditions he knew what was just ahead. After all the time that he had been away, he still remembered.

His first home was nearby. He expected that some things had changed but hoped that some things still remained. At least the course that the road cut through the gently rolling hills of the farmland was the same. At the bottom of the ridge just ahead was a bridge that spanned the river that had formed a wide and fertile valley. He pulled off to the side of the road and carefully steered the rental car onto the berm to park. Wisps of pre-dawn mist hung low clinging to the tops of trees on either side of the river transforming the innocence of the rural valley into a dark, forbidding fantasy world where some unexpected evil might lurk. He remembered a similar morning in his youth when he had imagined seeing dark, shadowy beasts that dwelled in the fog. They had turned out to be only cattle but in his mind they seemed a legion of demons.

The low beams from the rental car’s headlights illuminated the feathery bottom of the low hanging clouds, lending a surreal quality to everything. He shivered and smiled as the sensation of fright passed leaving gooseflesh even more so than the chill of the air.

He walked over to the edge of the abutment. Despite the inconsistent eeriness of the mist-diffused light from the car, it was pretty much as he remembered it except that it seemed much smaller and was just as weathered and cracked with age as he felt he had become. Brent had crossed the bridge a thousand times but this time he had come a thousand miles just to confirm that it was not just a fragment of memory. The bridge was unimportant to him except that it symbolized a period in his life. Recently he had been reminded of something that had happened when he was very young. He did not need to return home; no one was expecting him and frankly he doubted anyone would even remember him. He had come to confirm the validity of the place as well as the memory he had recently revived.

He had fished from the edge of the abutment and several times he had actually caught fish. He didn’t recall ever landing anything larger than a silver-sided minnow but for a five and a half going on six-year-old it still counted as an achievement that made getting up early in the morning well worth the effort.

Bill, the man who took him fishing, had always climbed down the side of the abutment and onto the bank of the river where it passed beneath the bridge and from there he seemed to catch a few mud cats every trip. He’d fill an old five-gallon metal paint bucket up to half witrh river water to keep his catch alive until he could take them home and clean them. Bill was good at fishing but in Brent’s opinion he was much better at cooking.

Bill was a good friend of Brent’s father. At least that was how Brent perceived their relationship. He was too young to fully understand the intricasies of roles and relationships. As anyone his age might think, he believed that others were there for the sake of his care or amusement. Even if he had known that Bill was a hired hand who worked on the farm that his father operated it probably wouldn’t have mattered much.

He was best friends with every one of Bill’s seven children, their two hunting hounds, and three barn cats. He was closest with Beverly and of course her favorite cat, Lulu. It was natural enough. Beverly was his age and since the cat was with Beverly much of the time, Brent played with Lulu as well.

Not only did Bill take Brent along fishing with whichever of his kids that wanted to wake up in the dark before dawn and join them but also Brent spent most every summer afternoon playing under the cool shade trees in Bill’s yard. In Brent's mind Bill was an uncle, one that happened to live close-by and not in that faraway place that his parents referred to as Kentucky.

Bill had already played an essential role in Brent’s early life, having saved his life. It happened when he was a toddler and therefore he was too young to personally remember the incident. Still he knew what had happened. The story had been retold so many times that he knew every detail from as many different perspectives as there had been observers and participants.

His father had been standing on the far side shoulder of US-42 talking to Bob Ingles, a seed corn salesman and brother of Jim the mortician in nearby South Charleston. As a young child might want to do Brent had wandered away from his mother in search of the father that he idolized and managed to open the front door that had been left ajar when his father had gone outside. He made it all the way down the driveway undetected and ventured out onto the highway, trying to cross over so that he could be with his father.

Bill had been thrusting and hauling a rotary mower up and down the banks of a ditch cutting the tall grass that had been allowed to grow there since the last time that the county had trimmed the roadside. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed where Brent was and the proximity of a rapidly approaching tractor-trailer rig. By the time that the driver of the truck saw what was happening, it was too late to stop. He tugged an overhead the cable to sound his air horn as a warning even as he applied pressure to his brakes and downshifted in an effort to at least slow his progress. Bill had thrown all caution aside and assumed that the agility and speed that had once been almost legendary when he was in high school could successfully tempt fate one last time before he once again accepted that he was getting too old to try such crazy things. He ran out in front of the oncoming truck, snatching-up little Brent in his arms before diving headlong, rolling down into the ditch on the far side of the road and narrowly averting tragedy. Had Bill not acted as fast as he did, Brent would have surely died.

Brent’s parents were extremely grateful, even expressing their undying gratitude to Bill. Although nothing had ever seemed to come directly from expressed gratitude, Bill continued his employment until his untimely death some ten years later.

As Brent grew a bit older, he was very fond of playing with Debbie, Bill’s niece. Debbie was large for her age and outweighed Brent by at least half. She loved to wrestle him and, of course in the end she would always triumph just by sitting on him and laughing as he pleaded with her to get off. Unable to accept the humiliation and being too immature to understand the meaning of a lost cause, Brent would wrestle her again and again expecting a different result but always suffering an all-too familiar outcome. It was crazy but it was not in Brent’s character to give up.

As his school years approached, it was Bill’s next-to-the-youngest daughter that had really caught Brent’s attention. He had decided to his immediate satisfaction that Beverly was the prettiest girl he had ever seen. It was possible that she was the prettiest girl he would ever meet. It seemed very likely that she was the prettiest girl in the whole world. Of course Brent had not consulted with others for their opinions, but he knew what he liked. She had wonderful freckles adorning her cheeks and reddish brown hair that she usually braided into pigtails. What he liked the best of all was her eyes. They were as dark and rich looking as a Hershey bar, almost black as they were so deep brown. Whenever he was around her he could not help but look into her eyes. He could lose himself for moments at a time locked in her gaze. Sometimes his attentions made her uncomfortable but other times she rather liked it even if he was staring.
In his youthful innocence he even fancied that one day he would marry her. It seemed natural enough. They were neighbors, really. They were growing up together and were already inseparable friends. They got along so well. She was incredibly pretty. It seemed to Brent that it had to be their destiny.

He remarked to his mother something that he would later and forever regret. He had learned the hard way that words once uttered cannot be taken back. He made a huge mistake and because of it his world changed abruptly. It turned out to be one of the greatest errors of his childhood if not his life but it was said and so he had to live with the fact that he had confessed, “When I grow up I think I’ll marry Beverly.”

He couldn’t understand why his mother was so adamantly against the prospect. He didn’t understand her objection at all. Didn’t she always like having Beverly around the house whenever she came for visits? Beverly always helped her in the kitchen. What was it that she meant when she said: “You and Beverly are from different races.”

“She sure does run faster than I do,” Brent confessed innocently misunderstanding.

“Her skin is darker than your skin. She is a colored girl, a Negro.”

“I like her skin, especially her freckles.”

“You can’t marry her. God never intended for white people and colored people to marry.”

As Brent finally began to understand, he was devastated. He even tried to defend his case for a while but his mother was adamant.

He ran off to his room, closing the door, burying his face in his pillow so that no one would hear him cry. When he had cried about as much as he could, the thought of the pain he felt returned and from somewhere deep inside him, more tears came but thoughts accompanied them He began to reason as best a six-year-old could manage. For the first time he allowed that his mother could make mistakes, that in this instance she was wrong. Even so he would not confront herdirectly. For the time being he had to obey.

Of course he had noticed that Beverly’s skin was a little darker than his. He wasn’t blind. He kind of liked that about her. It suited her very well. Her skin matched her enchanting eyes and her auburn hair. He wasn’t even certain if his skin matched his blue eyes and almost white hair. He suspected it was normal as no one had ever indicated that it was not. Still his skin hair and eyes didn't seem to be a color-coordinated as Beverly's.

Beverly certainly didn’t get sunburned as easily as he did. He envied her that. She could play longer in the direct, west central Ohio summer sun. That seemed like a pretty neat thing to him. He even wished he could be more like her in that way because whenever he was outside without having applied lotion to his skin he immediately turned pink and very shortly it turned red and soon after that it started to hurt. After an hour it would start to blister so badly that he had to stay in bed for a day or so and writhe in agony as his raw skin clung to the bed sheets every time he moved.

As pretty as Beverly was it was her personal charisma and charming smile that had really completed her perfection. He would always regard her as his beautiful even if forbidden soul mate. He had to be content to watch from the sidelines as the events in her life passed him by. He did not accept the pseudo differences that his mother had determined were grounds to keep them separated but he did not know how to fight back. How could it be that in his mother’s mind such a good girl was excluded from any consideration of suitability? She was Bill’s daughter! That was his uncle, the very same man who saved his life and to whom Brent’s mother and father had expressed their undying gratitude. Had all that been merely a platitude?

It wasn’t until school started that he even saw her again. When she asked him why he no longer came to play, he had resorted to using the convenient excuse that he was getting too old to play with girls anyway.

Over the years, he had never really forgotten the pain but he had to set it aside. Many times he had probed his mother’s logic but it always came back to what she had told him.
“God never intended white people and colored people to marry,” his mother’s words echoed. Had she presumed to know God’s exact feelings on the matter? Why was it even possible for members of different races to conceive a child? Immaculate Contraception has to be at least as simple a feat for the All Mighty as Immaculate Conception.

Even as a youth, Brent knew the way of humanity. People largely have no power over nature. When someone is compatible, there is no resisting the physical and emotional need for companionship. He had heard about something that was supposed to have been hushed-up. In the community there had been an interracial baby. He had even seen the little girl before the girl’s mother forced her to give her up for adoption. She had darker skin and very curly hair but everyone said that she was cute. Apparently it was not only possible for different races to conceive children but very often the resulting offspring was amazingly beautiful and often gifted as well.

His elementary school teachers used to boast of the American 'melting pot', stressing the importance of cultures intermingling in American society to give the United States a unique character as a nation and a people. Strength comes from the synergy of multi-ethnic diversity. It was a lofty ideal but made a good deal of sense to Brent. As he matured he decided that it was also largely a myth. In the America of his youth anyone was welcome as long as they were willing to learn English and adopt the prevailing majority’s values.

By the time that Brent was a teen he was mature enough to understand that his mother was human and not only was she capable of making mistakes but like anyone else she was the flawed product of her upbringing. He suspected a lot of things that he had previously accepted at face value. He had to wonder if it was only the darkness of Beverly’s skin that offended his mother. What confused him was his father’s proud assertion of his Native-American heritage. The inconsistency was perplexing. Even though the ancestor was sufficiently remote on the family tree to have rendered the relationship statistically if not genetically insignificant, it was an historic fact. Still, he wondered why to his father and implicitly his mother as well Native-Americans were more acceptable than anyone of African descent. To be considered worthy of association, how light would skin need to be? Would someone that looked white be okay or was it just the stigma of slavery that superseded any other consideration in the overall appraisal of a person’s worth?

There was something in his mother’s logic that just didn’t jibe. To Brent it was as irrational as it was indefensible. His mother was a decent and devoutly Christian woman. She had always insisted that he be honest and truthful. She told him that he should treat others with respect and dignity as that was also the way he would want to be treated. She had taken him to Sunday school throughout much of his childhood and so he had read a good deal of The Bible even before he understood much of its meaning. He had read enough to know that the people of the Old Testament were once slaves and that Jesus of the New Testament was born of those people. Brent had to assume that God must hold a special place in His heart for the souls of those that through no fault of their own except for the accident of birth were bound to serve others. Even the idea that God might condone treating another race differently smacked of self-serving hypocrisy. Of course slavery had existed for a very, very long time and barely a hundred years before it had been defended as a right even in the America of the free with the shed blood of thousands. Obviously the hypocrisy of one human owning another was not at all beyond humanity’s periodic tolerance if not outright acceptance.

As Brent went away to college, he allowed some wiggle room in defense of his parents and especially his mother. There might be something that he had missed. After all, what made him an expert in all things? Maybe there was segregation even in Heaven. What if a part of it was under the power a White God while another part was under the rule of a Black God and for whatever reason the two Gods just hadn’t been on speaking terms for eons? There might even be a separate Heaven for each of mankind’s other races. There could be Heavens for other religions as well. If that were the case then there could easily be a Heaven for every species? As best anyone could tell, there had always been lot of emptiness in space, or rather a whole lot of nothing in the Universe. There was certainly more than enough room to accommodate all sorts of separate, extra and special-condition Heavens.

Brent shook his head within the recollection of the troublesome and sometimes painful confusion that he had wrestled with even until his early adult life. Inadvertently perhaps, his mother had passed a life sentence of frustrated confusion upon him and the only reason for it was that he had confessed sincere love for someone that was only a little different. The difference was less than a fraction of one percent of the human genome, he had learned in the process of researching a book that he was writing.

As a man he was rather proud that he had once had a certain kind of blindness. It was a gift, not a disability. Until his mother had exposed the harsh truth of the way the world to him, everyone was a person first and foremost. Until she had pointed out that there even was a difference called ‘race’ he had believed that people were just people; all the same except that each was a unique minority called a person. The blame for the loss of his innocence to the way of humanity was all his. He should have never said a thing. Some secrets were intended to be kept from a man’s mother.

He could have lived very well without thinking that his mother was racist. Until the fateful moment of her decree he had not even known there was such a thing and certainly it was some years before he knew the label for it. After he knew what to call it he denied that his parents and especially his mother could be so unenlightened, so deviated from the truth that he knew deep in his being. Certainly his parents were the products of their environment and their upbringing. They had been children in Kentucky in a time when segregation was not only accepted but considered a proper solution to the dilemma of dealing with Whites and Blacks in the same community.

He had never broached the subject with his father but Brent had always doubted that his dad would have had the same issues with his intentions toward Beverly. He might have been concerned with the social stigma for the sake of any children. The social climate at that time was hostile toward interracial relationships and was not forgiving of those that decided to buck traditional values.

Even his mother may have had the same best intentions to protect him from the hurt that society might inflict. Who else but his mother would ever matter enough to him to stand in the way of whatever he desired, of whatever would make him happy? Perhaps it was that his mother was thinking of her embarrassment. Had she not raised him in the right way? Then he considered that his mother might find any woman unacceptable for her son. It was finally that answer that allowed him the delusion to deal with the otherwise blatant bigotry. His mother had some personal reasons for not accepting Beverly.

Too many days had turned into weeks, months and finally years as his path diverged from Beverly’s. She grew-up to be more than just pretty; Brent had become merely another young man with aspirations as yet unrealized. She matured with elegance and style that transcended her modest, rural upbringing; he had left the community and except for brief visits with relatives he had become a stranger in his old hometown.

The last time that he returned home to see an infirmed aunt, no one outside of his cousins and siblings recognized him. Even then some had commented as to how much he had changed. He had matured and filled out. It was understandable. Ten years was a long enough time to become a stranger in appearance. His hair was much shorter than it had ever been since he was a child. He was a little taller and much more muscular. His stint in the military had hardened his body and stiffened his resolve on many things that were immediately and suddenly relevant to him, such as standing up for and defending what he believed in.

It was during those years of absence, away from the direct and continual influence of everyday American culture that Brent had lost track of Beverly. He had thought about her often enough to rekindle some of the hurt that he had endured, but each day seemed to separate him even further from the places and traces of his origin. The hurt was hidden away, behind obligation, service and duty. Memories of the past and the dreams that he had once held dear were locked away or perhaps buried along with the passing of this or that relative. Such things mattered only marginally to his maturation and integration into the mainstream of the gainfully employed society of which he was a military member.

Over the course of his experiences in the larger world, occasionally there had been some news from home. For instance, he knew that Beverly had been something of a track star in high school. It had been all over the local papers even when he was attending another school. She even set a state record in a couple of running events. That didn’t surprise him at all. As fast as he was, he could never keep up with her.

As she was somewhat tall and lanky as a teen, she had played basketball on a district championship team that in her senior year had competed in the state tournament and made it to the semifinals. Somewhere along the way when he was starting college his sister had told him that Bill’s daughter, the girl that he used to play with had won a state beauty pageant. As pretty as she had always been the news did not surprise him.

She had earned scholarships for her academic and athletic accomplishments as well as the awards won in several beauty pageants. Wisely she had stockpiled her cash prizes and consolidated the scholarships. She had applied for study grants to help her pay for tuition, room & board and expenses in pursuing a degree that she could fall back on for whenever her speed and beauty began to fail her.

Brent did not know the extent of her success as he didn't have the time or inclination to really followed such things. If it had not made it onto the front page of a national newspaper or onto the national news that he might have seen on the Armed Forces Network he would have never known about it. He was narrowly focused on surviving and accomplishing his mission as his chain of command defined it.

Although it was largely obscured from Brent at the time, while he was outside of the country she had not only won a statewide pageant but also had gone on to finish second runner-up in a national beauty competition. He only heard about it in passing well after the fact and then only because his oldest sister had sent him a newspaper clipping. The article was enlightening for him and served as a way for him to catch up on some of her recent accomplishments.

While Beverly was in college she accepted modeling jobs in order to make some extra spending money. By the single accident of showing up for a specific modeling shoot, she had learned that she had perfect feet and her ankles were exactly suited for modeling shoes. For a couple of years, modeling new shoes led to a fairly steady income.

One of the other models that had become her friend told her that she had the sort of face that the camera would appreciate and suggested that she attend a facial makeup seminar. As a result she met an internationally known and respected photographer that wanted to work up a portfolio for her. Later, because of the pictures that the photographer had shown to an agent, she obtained representation. Within a few weeks, she landed a photo shoot for some facial makeup products that were directed at the ethnic market. All along the way she was making contacts, remembering people and more importantly their names and the commitments that they had made to lend her support if she ever needed anything…anything at all.

Her image had already adorned the pages and sometimes even the covers of catalogues and several trade publications that were directed at the fashion industry. Even as she was finishing her degree and graduating cum laud, she had wowed a campus recruiter and landed an entry level position with a major fashion design firm. Even though she pursued two careers, one official and one unofficial, she never really focused on modeling. It had always been a temporary job, something to tide her over until something better came along. To her amazement, even after she had landed what she considered a dream job with wide-open opportunities, she was still offered modeling jobs.

Within six months she had advanced three rungs up the proverbial ladder. She was an administrative assistant to an executive director. She barely had a moment to herself to feel as if she had arrived when suddenly she realized that time had blown right past her. For the most part it was her routine that carried her along. She was a very busy young lady and had been ever since she had started to support herself. She hardly even noticed when she turned 25. She might have even forgotten about her birthday altogether except that her mother called her to express her well wishes. Every weekday was filled with activity except it was largely indistinguishable from any other day’s tasks. Had it not been for the modeling jobs that she took on weekends or evenings, she might have submitted completely to the routine and totally lost sight of her overall dream.

Another promotion came as her boss moved up and he brought her to the next higher floor with him. In only three years she had scaled the virtually unassailable wall to become an administrative assistant to an executive vice president. She did eighty percent of the work and as he had learned that he could trust her to look out for him, he merely glanced at most of the operational memos and status reports that she produced before he signed to release them into distribution.

Although the modeling opportunities had diminished in number the quality of the work had improved dramatically. Whenever an offer came she was flattered. She felt that she was already past her prime and she was pushing the age that most fashion models expect to retire to start another career. Despite people telling her what great shape she was in and that she still looked 19 or 20, she was already beginning to have doubts. She was the one that had to deal with her face everyday in the harsh florescent light reflection of the unforgiving morning mirror. She had to apply more makeup than used to be necessary for her to present the look that she desired. With every ache and pain that she felt, she was certain that soon the camera would not be as forgiving or tolerant as it had thus far been.

More than anything else modeling had forced her to exercise regularly, which contributed to the energy that she felt throughout the day. As long as there were offers and she could work her other career around them, she intended to continue modeling. Still she did not count on it lasting for much longer.

As cautious as she had been there was one time when a modeling job had nearly interfered with her other job. She had some problems with a flight back from photo shoot in Cabo San Lucas. It was an important event and she stood a very good chance of getting into a national magazine if she was there, else she would have never risked it. However, getting back to New York City for work on Monday created anxiety of a sort that she had never expected or ever before had endured. Fog in Los Angeles had delayed a connecting flight in Dallas-Ft. Worth. As she sat alone at the gate in the terminal she was so worried that she might have to call in sick for work for the first time in four years that she could not sleep. Even though she could have used a few hours of rest, she was unable to relax.

Even when she was finally on her way back home she could not unwind. Anyway, she had never been able to rest well on a plane. By the time that she arrived at La Guardia she was physically exhausted. She had thought again of calling off sick but as she was bucking for a promotion that would have not been a good thing on her record. Even though there were only a couple of hours left before she needed to be at work, barely enough time to shower, get dressed, put on her makeup and grab a cup of yogurt as breakfast for the train ride into the city, she stayed awake. Once she made it to work she had to fight the misery of the sleep she had missed.

The reason that she was still modeling even as she was approaching the dreaded age of thirty was that Beverly had ‘the look’. As nebulous and intangible as 'the look' might be, some had it in ample supply while others came up lacking. The exact nature of it changed from time to time and from generation to generation. She was one of the fortunate ones that happened to have ‘the look’ that was exactly right for her times. Because she had it, the more that she modeled the more popular she became until finally, with some of the photos taken in Cabo San Lucas adorning the pages of a national magazine, she broke through into the mainstream and finally landed on the cover of a popular national publication.

It was more than coincidence that around the time that she was becoming a highly sought fashion model, the unofficial tolerance for her two careers changed. She had never kept her modeling career a secret. Early on it was even lauded. After all, she worked in the fashion industry and her presence had been used on several occasions to legitimize the firm’s presence in some key and very lucrative ethnic markets. She was a high profile example that they were attuned and in step with the culture. However once she had become too large for the corporation to control, a promotion that she had been desperately seeking, certainly deserved and was very well on her way to achieving was suddenly and unexpectedly awarded to another. Even her co-workers were surprised. Her immediate supervisor told her off the record that it was because they were afraid that she was using the company as a stepping stone for her modeling career. When she asked for the official rationale she heard for the very first time that it had been determined that her attentions were largely focused elsewhere and such distractions could not be permitted at the level of the organization that she was seeking. Even though she had never missed a day of work since being hired and had always worked her modeling career around her primary career’s schedule they suddenly suspected that all that was about to change. They needed someone totally dedicated to the corporation and willing to devote full energy to advancing corporate interests. They wanted to enslave her soul as well as her body and mind. She was not willing to give them what they expected. So they had chosen a less qualified candidate to fill the vacancy.

Despite her immediate disappointment and overall anger she maintained focus. She quickly made some plans and within the week she had tendered her resignation. In the following two weeks, on her time-off she made calls to the people who were in her address book, informing them that she was leaving the firm and that it had been a pleasure to work with them. She did not venture anything beyond that.

The way that she had been sidestepped was clearly in anticipation of her resignation and that might have been what really infuriated her the most. It wasn't that she was unprepared for the eventuality. In the back of her mind, maybe she even sort-of expected it. She had saved some money, lived in a nice but modest apartment, rode the train, always wore very nice clothes but it was usualy the articles donated to her in lieu of partial compensation for modeling.

She lived very comfortably even by Manhattan standards. She had considerable assets for a single person her age and had already thought of striking out on her own. Although the firm's treatment had come as a surprise, she had been ready. She made calls to friends and acquaintances. She called in all the favors and promises from the people that had told her along the way that if she ever needed anything to let them know. She had already assumed that most of the offers lacked substance. Much like promising to have lunch together sometime most had been vague and there was never any intention of tangible support even at the time that they were uttered. Still she tried them all, even suspecting which ones had been sincere. Even so, the support that had been offered in earnest was ample to establish the necessary foundation for a viable business. Along with the support of her six closest friends donating a week of their vacation time she was able to launch the enterprise, her own line of clothing.

At first she did photo shoots for the signature products that she designed, developed and planned to bring to market. Her image brought customers to the market and helped bring buyers to her company’s doors. It was hoped that within a year, just having her name on the label would sell the product. It was a lofty goal in a highly competitive business but she was determined to succeed, even if she had to compete against fashion industry giants, including her former employer.

After a few months, the insightful genius of her entrepreneurial efforts became evident. The fledgling business that had struggled for a few weeks was clicking just about according to the business plan that she had first created on a bar napkin. Due to her professional experience she had anticipated many of the potential pitfalls and difficulties. She refined her plan midstream to offer a somewhat detailed and intuitive approach to make necessary interim course adjustments in the future.

The company began to connect with distributors and wholesalers. Soon after, the initial orders turned into reorders and several supply contracts were signed with some essential outlets for factory-direct shipments. Her personal image and her promotional efforts created a sustained demand for anything with her name on its label. Cross-licensing ventures with exclusive distribution were further explored and several lucrative deals were inked.

In the first year the company turned a small profit while still expanding the business base and production capacity. In the third year the business incorporated. By the fifth year of operation stock was issued to fund further expansion into international markets and the stock was listed on a major stock exchange.

That also coincided with the official end of her modeling career. At age 33, she was apparently well past her prime and the offers for any photo shoots were mostly gone. The end of that portion of her life was bitter sweet. Fame ever fleeting and fickle had always been expected to end so when it came there was no surprise. Even so it was ironic that it was her products that she was now hiring other models to represent.

Despite the meteoric success of her company she was still the same ‘good girl’. She would forever be the little girl that had blossomed into a beautiful, considerate woman. She had never forgotten her roots or how hard she had to work at establishing her place in the world. She always made a point to look behind her and give back to those that needed a break or some help in getting a start.

In contrast Brent’s life had been anything but simple. He did not care for the comparisons to others that he had known in high school or college as he almost always came up looking like the lacking loser. Despite his failings he had served honorably in the military and experienced the sights and sounds of parts of the world that otherwise he might have never visited. What had he ever done in his life? At that point he was serving in a lower echelon component of a military intelligence unit 13 thousand miles away from home. All that he ever knew about Beverly was what little had filtered to him through the media or his sister.

Around South Charleston, Beverly was about as famous as anyone had ever been. Most everyone that lived within ten square miles of town knew a little something about her. Some things that people thought they knew were true while other things were fabrications or myths. Success was generally attributed to Beverly’s luck and to her looks. Most of her accomplishments were on a scale that invited abject disbelief and dwarfed the success of any other. The only other celebrity that had ever emerged from the town was Wayne, a basketball player in the late ‘50’s that had been a star for The Ohio State Buckeyes and had gone on to play professional ball for a couple of seasons.

Brent understood how hard she must have struggled to become who and what she was. He was not particularly amazed as it was her quality of character as much as anything else that had played in her favor. She was not a quitter. Like her cousin, he had wrestled her on several occasions and just as her cousin Debbie had forced him into submission so he had always pinned her. It had to do with size, weight and strength. Even so Beverly would always take on the challenge and fight hard. She never gave up. Brent had to tell her to give up. Even then she wanted to wrestle again. At the time he thought she was crazy to want to be punished again and again. But over time he began to understand that he had confronted her indomitable spirit. It became one of the lingering memories that inspired him whenever he confronted difficulty.

Beverly may have been born to be famous. It was even possible that she could have done anything at all and have still been successful. Still, it did not diminish her travail. Even if the force in the Universe that determined the allocation of good fortune had favored her, she recognized and seized the moment to exploit it. The success belonged to her.

When Brent returned to the States he heard the full extent of her accomplishments it stymied him. She had become a superstar, famous beyond anyone else that he knew and while she was only in her thirties she was already a successful CEO. He lamented not having kept in touch with her. There was no graceful way that he could congratulate her. He suspected that she had forgotten him, anyway. Had he stayed in touch maybe things would not have turned out differently but it bothered him that he did not even know her well enough to have her phone number to call and tell her how important her example was in inspiring him. If she could attain her dream then there was a chance for anyone with the determination. He had to get back on track and start writing again.

Despite the discouragement his parents, siblings, teachers and finally his wife, he had persevered with his dream for a very long time. He had made attempts to write even while he was away in the Service. When he returned home there was every excuse not to write. He had a family to support. Now that his marriage was over and his kids were grown-up there was no excuse. He found a day job to tide him over with his expenses even as he rejoined the course that he had long ago departed.

He wrote. In the warped way that he looked at the world, even the initial rejection of his material was an inspiration. Brent had already amassed a collection or polite rejection letters from every major magazine and publisher in the nation and hung them on the walls around his desk. He knew that when he became famous that he could point to each one of them as an example and inspiration to others that struggle. He found strength and resolve in that goal.

Most of the rejections were obvious form letters. More than likely his submissions were not even read prior to the edict of summary rejection. He wondered how many unsolicited submissions and spontaneous rejections letters it would take before someone actually bothered to read one of his stories.

Brent figured that as he had a relatively easy childhood so his adult life needed to be less facile and forgiving. Nature had always defined the quality of life through balance. Since leaving home his life had always been a struggle from one day to the next. Even so he kept faith. He did not have nearly the number of obstacles that Beverly had already negotiated and overcome. Her example and his knowledge of any portion of it continued as an inspiration to him. Whenever his troubles depressed him he had decided that he needed to take a hard and realistic look at himself before assigning blame for any failure in attaining his goals. He had determined that failure was beneficial in lending character to his inevitable triumph. He merely had to keep working at getting past the failure. Failure was usually set squarely in the path that would lead to eventual success. It was there to dissuade the faint hearted and prevent success from coming to easily to those that did not deserve it.

He had walked out onto the bridge and stood at the guard rail, looking down through the wisps of fog into the dark waters. A smile tickled his lips and finally emerged as a slight laugh. He was never one to show much emotion but as there was no one to see, what did it matter? He laughed about how seriously he had taken things. He had wasted enough of his life worrying about the next moment and finding a suitable destination. He had always believed that he was on the right course. He had decided that life was all about the challenge or the journey and not about arriving at all. With Beverly as his inspiration, he began every day with the faith that he would make it. There had been other people that mattered to him and almost all of them were gone from his life, either through death or the distractions of making a living. He was certainly on his own. Despite everything that he had been through he still had his dignity and his pride.

He was tired of trying to please everyone else. Some people just refuse to be impressed. It was just as well as everyone except for Beverly was gone. Maybe Beverly was the only one from his past that had mattered anyway. He had buried both of his parents, and the few aunts and uncles that he had known in childhood. There really was no one else that he was in touch with except for his two sisters, his children and on a rare good chance, his ex-wife. Except for birthdays, holidays and emergencies he barely spoke to any of them anymore. They expressed their love for him as a brother, a father or an ex-husband while ignoring much of if personal agenda and the irony that he found in an uncaring world to write about. They didn’t quite understand him and never really had. Once upon a time when he was too young to know any better maybe he had actually cared what others thought. Even so they all expressed their pride for his having finally finished some of his many projects.

As he stood upon the bridge a memory of a moment in the recent past warmed away the chill of the otherwise cool, wet morning. He had finally found the real Brent again, reconnecting with the curious little boy that he had once been as he looked into the eyes of someone he had once hoped to marry one day. After all the time they had been apart he had a freshly updated pretty face to associate with her name. He had been surprised and almost appreciative that someone of Beverly’s stature would even remember him at all.

After all of the expired and largely wasted time when it happened she might have been the very last person that he would have ever expected to see. Even so there was coincidence enough that if he had believed in such things it might have amazed him. There was an essential truth that served to bond them and in a saner world they might never have been apart. Each of their lives would have been different had they been together. Perhaps neither of them would have arrived at the levels of success but really did that matter? It was the cruelest sort of irony that unbeknownst to one another destiny along with whatever other forces of nature had finally conspired to bring them to the same place at the same time just to see what the two of them might make of the once in a lifetime, special made-to-order, gold-plated opportunity.

Unexpectedly, the keynote speaker for a seminar on technology and small enterprise had taken ill and regrettably he had to cancel. As a result an unexpected series of last minute urgent messages and frantic phone calls went out to publicists across the nation. In response Jonathan, Brent’s publicist had called to present him with what he considered a rare chance to expound his point of view to a number of influential people.

As a novelist and futurist, Brent had attended a few seminars and at times he had even been called upon to give a presentation. As a rule he hated giving speeches and despite his publicist’s insistence he avoided any chance of public humiliation. For whatever reason, this time was different. “It is a very important organization that is heavily involved with several important charities,” Jonathan said.

“Why call me? Is the organizer that desperate for a speaker?” Brent asked, just wanting to confirm his suspicions.

“He told me that he has read your books and feels that you think along the same lines as his organization.”

“Even if that were true, why would he ask for me? If he has really read my books then he obviously knows…”

“That you hate crowds. A lot of people hate crowds? Look Brent, here it is, plain and simple. Paul’s in a jam and he is a personal friend of mine. We went to high school together. He sat next to me in English and world history. The fact that I remember that trivial fact is an indication of just how well I know him. You know I am in a bind or I wouldn’t even call you. You are the last person on Earth I would normally impose upon to go off on short notice and pontificate on some subject that I am certain you can fake with one of your wonderful but meaningless speeches. Regardless what you think he had read your book and he did specifically ask if you were available. I wouldn’t ask at all if I didn’t think you were up to it. It is a subject that you enjoy even if you know next to nothing about it. It is a chance to promote yourself and your writing to an audience that probably thinks a lot like you do. To me it seems like a perfect situation for both you and the promoter.”

In the past whenever Brent had given a speech, most often it had been well received. At times he could seem brilliant and sometimes he was even entertaining. Jonathan turned down requests for him to speak on a fairly regular basis. Still Jonathan knew it was a gamble, putting Brent in front of a large group on such short notice.

Brent had always been odd. He was prone to say and do some rather bizarre things, depending on his mood and which version of him showed up at the event. At times he had been known to simply throw away his prepared notes and attempt to ad lib an entire speech. Often as not that meant utter disaster as the presentation disintegrated into the ramblings of a middle-aged man whose mind was operating at a level that was somewhat beyond the audience’s appreciation, tolerance or ability to comprehend.

“So where’s the event?” Brent finally asked.

“New York City.”

“Well, then that is a ‘definite not’,” he replied

“You told me you have always liked New York.”

“I do but for only for fun not for work and especially not for giving speeches. Put me in a room of real people and I can connect. There are too many phoney people in the big city.”

“Are you afraid they will detect you for the charlitan that you are?"

"Something like that," Brent laughed. "I might have to do some research."

"Brent, as your publicist I am giving you the offer but as a friend I am telling you that this is precisely the sort of thing that you need to be doing. The exposure alone would sell a few books. If you come off sounding like you know what you are talking about it might actually establish your credibility and may get you onto some national talk shows as an expert of this or that subject.”

“I am eccentric, aloof and all that. Whatever became of that image?”

“That is your goal, not mine. When you are more successful there will be ample time for you to run away from publicity. For now you can’t afford to be eccentric. Just for your future reference it takes a cadre of expensive lawyers to establish real eccentricity while keeping you out of mental institutions. You are not quite there yet. Take my advice, please. This is a onetime opportunity.”

“The reason I need a publicist is not to make me famous. I am already famous,” Brent said as he laughed.

“You could have fooled me.”

“Well, it is just that I have neglected to let anyone else in on the secret.”

Jonathan laughed in relief knowing that he had finally reached the innermost sanctum, the kernel of Brent’s strange logic that was the last refuge of the real Brent. It was the self-deprecating sense of humor that he hid behind concealing the writer within as he jealously clung to the curtain in the shadows off stage protecting a great intellect but also a tormented mind. “That is why I am here,” Jonathan continued. “Your previous publicist failed to properly promote you.”

“Is that what happened? Then, I should have fired him, er uh me a long time ago.”

“Well rehire the part of you that writes, just for me and get his butt up to New York City, please.”

“Whatever you want Jonathan,” Brent sighed, resigned to take the offer and the advice but then he also laughed. “God, do I have a great idea for a speech.”

“Keep it relevant and on the subject please.”

“Well it is I just need to research it a bit.”

“Good, then you really are going to make an attempt to sound like you know your stuff. Just to confirm before I tell Paul it's a go, you are completely on board with the presentation, right?”

“The hotel must be close to the venue, though. That is a requirement,” Brent said. “I hate riding around in the city, especially when I do not know where I am.”

“The seminar is in the very same hotel where you will be staying.”

“Okay, that is good. Book it then."

"Great!"

"You seriously owe me, though.”

“How is that? I am getting you some rare and very important publicity.”

“I am sorry. Did I miss something? I thought that I recalled accepting the offer as a personal favor to you for your dear friend Paul, the promoter.”

Jonathan laughed, “Well, whatever it takes.”

“I am appalled that you attempted to take advantage of me.”

“You can believe anything at all as long as the writer will make it to the engagement.”

“The writer will be there,” Brent affirmed. “I dare not speak for the rest of me at the moment. The multitude that is us isn’t completely on speaking terms.”

“You will make the flight to New York City, right?”

“Jonathan, I will be there. I promise. I will even be prepared and they will all be asking for copies of the books, begging for more words of wisdom and fruits of my diseased mind.”

“Great. That would work out beyond my wildest dreams.”

The presentation that Brent was expected to deliver was on the advancements in automation that would help control startup costs for small businesses. He had spent the better part of three days perusing the Internet and creating a rough draft of a speech. Even on the flight up from Florida he was on his laptop still revising the speech.

It was good that his itinerary had been arranged for him. He did not like to be bothered with the details of coming and going. It was enough for him to make a scheduled appointment. Brent was a little early when he arrived at the hotel. Even so the staff expected him. While the desk completed his check-in the staff took his bags up to his room. Afterwards, he went up to his room to check out the view, which was nice enough for a night stay over and then he spent some time walking around determining where the important things like ice and vending machines were located. Then he went back to his room and showered.

He arrived at the auditorium precisely on time. The organizer met him at the reception table outside and immediately ushered him off to one side, thanking him for coming on such short notice, the asking him for a quick personalized autograph for a copy of one of his books. “You really are a fan.”

“You have remarkable clarity of insight,” Paul said.

“Thank you.”

“I can’t believe you are really here.”

“Jonathan can be very persuasive,” Brent said as he sat down the leather case containing his laptop and projector.

“Well it is an honor. I know you hardly ever give speeches.”

“Let’s just say that Jonathan owes me for this one,” Brent replied. “He said you are a close friend.”

“I dated his sister for a while.”

“Oh, really. He mentioned something about classes you were in together. Somehow that never came up.”

Paul forced a smile. “He set me up with her and…well lets just say that it did not work out at all.”
Brent pursed his smile. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“His sister was very pretty at the time.”

“At the time?”

“Well I haven’t seen her recently. I assume she still is pretty.”

“I’m sure that she is,” Brent said.

“You’ll need to get set up before we start. I’ll make a few opening remarks then you can begin. I’ll show you where to go.”

Brent had crammed a crash course on the emerging technologies that could impact small business and had become remarkably conversant in a relatively short time. On some key points his knowledge even bordered on expertise. Even before his research Brent had some familiarity with associated technology and what he didn’t know he was quick to assimilate. Brent had always had the ability prep late for an exam and preparing for the presentation was hardly any different.

The moment that he stood-up from his chair and walked across the stage to the podium Beverly felt that she recognized him. As a key contributor to the foundation, she had been invited to attend the conference long before any of the slate of speakers was announced and she was sincerely dismayed when the keynote speaker had cancelled. She knew him personally and had always looked forward to hearing a refresh his points of view. She had not even known that Brent was to be the surrogate speaker and even if she had she might not have registered knowing him simply from seeing his printed name on the program. It had been a very long time.

For whatever reason, she had not associated the Brent that was going to speak with the author that shared some of her rural roots. It was only after he had started to speak that she made the associations. He was in the process of recanting an anecdote from his elementary school experiences that compared acquiring a new technology to the overall learning process. Of course Beverly remembered the incident. She had even been there to witness his first experience at making copies of a school newspaper the old fashioned, messy way - with a mimeograph. It was the reason that Brent had purple hands and a purple mark on his right cheek for a few days afterward.

Of course she had heard something about the books that her childhood friend had written. She had been meaning to make the time to read his work and suddenly felt guilty for not having found the time.

His speech was exactly the correct length and it was generally well received. Despite a couple of bizarre anecdotes, an outlandish proposition and a few farfetched predictions he had the attention of everyone in the room. Many of the things that he had said caught Beverly a little off guard. She was not certain what he favored in the balance between technology and humanity. At the conclusion when he asked if there were any questions, she stood and he immediately looked her way.

His first impression of her was that she was very well dressed and highly attractive. As she stood there before him she posed a question that cut to the heart of the social dilemma: “If automation controls costs by eliminating job opportunities for people, should the social cost be weighed prior to implementing automation?”

His answer was certainly not contingent on his failing to recognize her. He was halfway through answering her question before there was any suspicion that he might know her. “I believe that the intended purpose of technology should be to improve and enhance the lives of all people at every level of the social strata. Technology should never be used to replace productive individuals or eliminate opportunities for meaningful and productive employment. Technology should focus on the elimination of the menial jobs that hinder human progress, thus freeing the hands and minds of talented people to express their wealth of ingenuity and creativity in other more socially beneficial and productive ways. Technology should be used to encourage and even foster greater human development.”

It was the smile that she flashed in response to his answer that finally confirmed his recognition and afterwards he had great confidence that he knew her. Even so he doubted that she remembered him.

After the final speaker had spoken and the assembly broke out into the large ballroom across the hall for the reception, he had lost track of her. It was not until he had made his rounds, meeting and greeting others that he worked his way across the floor to where he spotted her.

As he approached, she was talking with a group of her friends and Paul, the organizer.

“Oh, Beverly,” Paul said as he tapped her on the shoulder to gain her attention. “Have you met Brent?”

“I feel like I have known her all my life,” Brent said.

“Because you have,” she said with a broad smile. “How have you been?”

“I wasn’t sure you would even remember me,” he confessed as his smile grew with his self confidence. He was exactly where he wanted to be, talking to the most beautiful woman in the room.

“How could I forget you?” she asked as she laughed.

“I must say I miss you in the braided pigtails. But this look is good, too.”

Beverly grinned in response before admitting, “I didn’t match your name on the program with the Brent that I grew up with.” It seemed that each of them had changed just enough that the other had not realized their relative proximity. She turned to her entourage of assistants and proclaimed, “We used to play together when we were kids. We were neighbors and our fathers worked together.”

Brent smiled and nodded in confirmation of what she said. Even when she was a little girl she had always said that their fathers worked together. When he was young Brent had not even realized that Bill worked for his father. Even after he knew it had always seemed to Brent that their fathers would have worked together regardless who was nominally in charge. They were both decent, hardworking men that respected one another.

Beverly’s father had worked with Brent’s until the tragic car accident that took Bill’s life when she was only twelve. Brent remembered that he and his father had attended the funeral in South Charleston. Brent had come to pay his last respects to a man that to him had always been his uncle. He was grieving as certainly as any other family member. He needed to be there. He had been unable to offer any comfort to Beverly, though. He had not known what he could say to her. He should have offered something. He should have told her how sorry he was for what had happened, for how her life was suddenly inverted.

“You’ve done very well by yourself,” Beverly said finally deciding that changing the subject altogether might lead beyond the uncomfortable silence of recollection that each of them had experienced for a few moments. Her words shook him from his reliving the past.

“You have done well too,” Brent returned the praise. “I am very proud of you. I always have been. I admit that I have even bragged about our past relationship. Admittedly knowing you when we were both six-years-old is hardly the basis for a good story or the sort of relationship that seems significant to others but it was the best I had and it was what it was. Anyway, when you became famous, and I heard about it no one believed that I knew you. I mean even though someone somewhere has to know the pageant queen or the cover girl, what are the odds?”

He could tell from the blush of her lightly freckled cheeks that he had embarrassed her but fortunately all the others that had been standing around them had taken their cue and migrated on, leaving the two of them alone near a corner of the ballroom.

"It was not all fun and glamour, and there was some air brushing involved with that magazine cover. I am surprised you even recognized me," she said.

"I know. They removed your freckles. That made you look unreal. That is really your most endearing quality, well, that and your eyes.”

“Thank you,” she shyly demured.

“You always had to work hard for what you achieved. Even so you did it."

"It makes it seem all the better to be enjoying the benefits of it now. I'm sure you know that feeling. When you accomplish a goal that you have been going after for a long time, for a while nothing can deflate your bubble."

He shrugged. “I was lucky to get a few key breaks. I had some good experiences in college even though I never felt like my education did much in preparing me for the real world. I guess college is what you make of it, though. I accept the blame for never using my education to it fullest. Even when I was in the military I had some good times and worthwhile experiences. Then I eventually realized how ill suited I was for the structure and tasks. Maybe it was a good thing that I learned about myself early enough to be able to adapt. It all served as experience and gave me material to write about. It was scary when I first got out of the Service. It was the middle of a recession.”

“I had some scary times, too. Starting a business and having people depending on me for their livelihood was a lot of responsibility.”

“You were good at it, though.”

“I am sure you were always good at whatever you did, too.”

“I guess I was, for the most part. Well, at least I was to some extent but I hated doing it. I did what I needed to do. I guess I made the most of it. You have done much better than I have, Beverly. You have made a difference in other people’s lives. Not only have you created jobs but you have also given advice or guidance to so many others. You have benefited many people.”

“A lot of good people look out for me,” she admitted. “I choose my friends wisely and always trust in the friends that I choose. To say what I have done benefited many people, well if that is the truth then it is gratifying to know. But look at yourself. You write books. I am certain that the people that read your books feel the same way about what you have done for them. You never really know what affect and influence you have on every person.”

“Sometimes at signings or events like this I get to talk to real people that have read some of my stuff. Sometimes it is scary what they derived from my writing. It’s like they read a completely different book than I thought I had written. I doubt I have affected very many people with my writing, though. I am not all that famous.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Well, it is like I was telling my publicist, I am famous except it is just I have neglected to let anyone else know. I am pretty much an obscure writer. Ordinarily I am fine with that. I avoid large gatherings. I always was shy if you remember.”

“We both were shy.”

“You know that I missed the point of a lot of things in life but lately I have been reflecting on some of the really bad things.”

“I try not to dwell on the bad parts,” Beverly said. “You learn what you can from the bad things and move on. The bad things that happen to you in life will destroy you if you let them.”

“I never wanted anything so much as to be around you, even if it was just to be friends,” Brent confessed with a flash of a smile. “It is probably the worst thing that ever happened to me, when I couldn’t even talk to you anymore.”

“That’s sweet,” she choked back the emotion of the words as her voice cracked.

“It’s the truth,” Brent looked directly into her eyes. After a few moments she had to look away. It was not one of those times that she desired that level of his attention.

It was a couple of minutes before she regained her composure. Again it felt like she was changing the subject but then again, it was on point. “I remember the day that your mother called my mother and they were both against, well...I have to ask - did you really tell your mother that you wanted to marry me?”

“I was six-years-old.”

“Yeah, I thought so.”

“No, no you misunderstand. Even though I was six-years-old I knew what I had in my heart,” Brent said. “At the present moment it happens that I am available again.”

She laughed. “I can’t believe that you really told your mother that you wanted to marry me”

“Of course I did. I mean look at you. In a heartbeat I’d still be there, on my knees begging if I thought I even had a chance.”

“You’re so sweet.” Beverly leaned over as she tippy-toed in her high heels to kiss him on the cheek.

“I am sure you hear the pickup lines all the time.”

“Not as often anymore, but it’s always nice when I know it is sincere.”

Brent looked into her eyes again. They still looked the same as when his eyes had first met them. “You are being too kind to me. I think about you ever so often. Sometimes the thought lingers and evolves into a myriad of ‘what if’ scenarios.”

“That never amounts to anything,” Beverly judged.

“Yeah, it is something like: we were so young, what did either of us know? What right did I have to think of a future with us together? It was my fault. I ruined our friendship.”

“No, Brent a lot of other things intervened and all of that ruined it.”

“History, culture, bigotry, social stigma...”

“That is just to name a few.”

“Even so we have always been friends.”

Beverly laughed but then confirmed with a gentle hand laid upon his shoulder, “We vowed to be friends forever, didn’t we?”

“It seems as if it has been deferred to a more socially tolerant time,” Brent bowed to her.

Beverly smiled. “Maybe so. You never know.”

“I never even thought to ask if you felt as strongly,” he continued. “I guess I just assumed it. It was probably one of those male things.”

“Yes, I suppose it was.”

“I should have asked you first.”

“That would have been the right thing to do.”

“What if I had?”

Beverly was silent for the immediate moment. Then the moment lingered long enough to be extended well past the next five consecutive, uncomfortably silent moments.

In response to the unexpected lapse of conversation between the two of them that had already lasted for almost a minute, Brent asked, “Did I say anything wrong?”

“No, of course you didn’t. It is just I was doing a little remembering and some reliving. I remember it so well, when we were both six-years-old. You were so cute the way you’d pout if you thought I was mad at you. Oh, and you were so innocent!”

“And now, look at me.”

“You have matured into a very distinguished man and have become a published author as well. I am very impressed and also proud of you.”

“Yeah, who’d have guessed back then that any of that would emerge from the likes of me?”

She laughed. “How can you always be like that? Anytime anyone compliments you, you turn it into something sideways and self-deprecating.”

“It is the way I am. I have never taken myself more seriously than needs to be. Some people misinterpret it. That’s okay those people are usually the ones too full of themselves to have any room left for a friend anyway.”

Again she laughed.

“I’ll venture a guess even though it is almost a given. You are still a cat person.”

“Yes, of course,” Beverly laughed. “Definitely. I always have been. I have two, now. One is Leeli, the great, great, great granddaughter of my Lulu, and a tabby to the bone. She is getting on in years though.”

“You always had a sort of attachment to tabbies.”

“Yes. That is true.”

“Two cats though. I thought you were always a one cat person.”

“The other is a relative kitten named Samba.”

“Where does that name come from?”

“It comes from the previous owner. Samba is a Seal-Point Siamese that I adopted from a friend that could no longer have pets in her apartment.”

Brent shook his head, “A tomcat.”

“What?”

“You always told me tomcats are too mean.”

She laughed, “Oh my God, you do have a good memory. Well, yeah, I used to feel that way but Samba is a real sweetheart. He has a certain kind of gentleness about him that surprised me. In fact he sort of reminds me of how you were when you were a little boy.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, really.”

Brent smiled, and then shook his head.

“What now?”

“You were always an easy mark…for a cat, I mean.”

“But not for you.”

Brent shrugged, “You tell me.”

“I guess so. I am impressed at what all you recall: my affection for cats, and other things.”

“Other things?”

“Do you remember that one morning that we went with my father to fish from the side of the bridge?”

It was Brent’s turn to blush. “Yes, of course I do.”

“What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking how pretty you were and how nice and kind you were to me and well, everyone else and your cat Lulu.”

“Really and that is why you did it?”

Brent nodded.

“Are you sure?”

“I was afraid of what might happen if I didn’t when I should have been more afraid of what would happen if I did.”

Beverly nodded, then seeing that Brent was emotionally affected by the exchange, she changed the subject as a favor to him. “Do you have pets?”

“Pets? Well, I had a Samoyed named Sebastian. He was a very nice dog, very good with the kids when they were very young. But he was such wimp. We acquired a stray kitten a while later that we named Sid after Psycho Sid the professional wrestler in due consideration of all the strange behavior the cat exhibited. Sid did all sorts of very unpredictable things and perhaps that was why even Sebastian was afraid of the cat. Even so it was very funny to watch a little cat chasing a big dog around the house.”

Beverly laughed as she imagined it. “You see, it is just like I always told you. Cats rule!”

Brent shrugged in response, and then added, “I have no pets now. I would do them a great disservice if I welcomed any into my humble abode. I neglect so many things when I am writing. I do not want to add a life into that mix.”

“You indicated that you have kids?”

“Yeah, I reared three,” Brent said. “They are about two years apart and they are all adults now.”

“That must have been a challenge.”

“It was at times. I guess it is better for the kids that they are closer together in age but it is harder for the parents, I think.”

“You were like a super dad.”

Brent laughed, “You’d have to ask my kids on that one. I tried very hard to be there for them but sometimes I failed. I doubt that constitutes ‘super’ but maybe there is something interim like ‘special’. I could live with being ‘special dad’.”

“Maybe it is a surprise in some ways but I always knew you had something that made you special.”

“Yeah well you should talk about being special. Maybe you didn’t always hear it but I was the one who stood in the background cheering for you.”

“I had hoped that you knew some of it,” she said as she blushed again. “You know,” she said as she noticed that the reception was beginning to break up. “We should go somewhere more private, I think. I could use a drink and I would like to have a long conversation in a quieter place with someone I knew once but never quite well enough.”

“I’d like that.”

“We need to catch up on things. Uh, before you ask me again, though the answer was, ‘yes’.”

“Yes?”

“As in if you had asked me I would have had to confess that I loved you even back then. I guess I always have and still do.”

It was Brent’s turn in the volley of blushes. He tried to look away but could not as the tears welled up in his eyes. His attention was transfixed on her deep, rich, sultry brown eyes. Her eyes shackled his mind and he could not free himself. After a few valiant attempts he submitted to the power of her eyes. She sought sincerity and he really lacked the heart to even try to lie to her even though there were many times in the past few minutes that in the background of his thoughts he had considered telling her that he had to go. He always ran away from dangerous complications. He wanted to return to the safe haven of his privacy even if it meant the continuation of his misery. He was not certain that he was ready to start over again. Whether it was self defense or self denial, this time he had wanted to stand firm, to resist the temptation to tell her the horrible truth he had hidden for all the years.

Then he looked into her eyes again and he forgot what had been so important that had compelled him to prefer running away over staying and getting reacquainted. For a moment he even forgot his own name. The jealously guarded truth fell to inutterable insignificance. He had nothing to do until the flight out the following afternoon. There was more than enough time for them to spend together. What’s more, he really did not want to spend another night in a strange hotel room all alone, regardless the quality of the accommodations.

While they were together, time did not matter. He could have died at any moment and have been satisfied that his life was finally complete in one essential way. There was a wrong done in the past that was finally set to right. It was a near perfect continuation of that feeling that might have been if only they had been aware.

Beverly had lived in the city for sometime and therefore knew all of the best places to spend an evening. She took charge of deciding the places that they might go. For his part, Brent wanted to change into something more appropriate than dress slacks and a sweater that was pulled over an open collared shirt. So he went to his room to get dressed, while her driver took her back to her penthouse so that she could change into something more appropriate for a night out on the town.

When she returned he met her in the lobby. He was early and eager; she was fashionably late and blaming it on business. Immediately she turned off her cell phone, holding it up before his eyes for emphasis to forestall any other urgency that might interrupt the two of them. They decided that since the bar in the hotel seemed mostly empty they could start the evening of reminiscing there over a few drinks.

She filled in the gaps of his knowledge of her story, beginning with the fact that she had never married. Brent responded in kind, telling her that he was divorced. Each of them had put a career ahead of all else and each had suffered but also succeeded in different ways and at different times. He confessed that he had thought about her many times and lately after the soured relationship with his ex-wife he had even lamented at what might have been. “I guess some feelings never die regardless how much they are hindered from reaching the light of day.”

“How long have you been divorced?”

“Long enough that the anger is over and my ex-wife and I are friendly enough again that we can talk and the kids believe we have each regained our sanity. There were three wonderful kids in the course of the marriage. They are grown up and amazingly well adjusted despite their dysfunctional home life.”

“I’m sure that is not entirely true.”

“As I said I tried to be there for all of them. I put a lot of effort into making it a good life for the kids but I suppose that while I was working on that I was sometimes ignoring my wife in the process.”

“Yeah, I hear that happens a lot.”

“Yeah, well I still have strong feelings for her. You never can just walk away from someone you loved and not still have feelings.”

Beverly said that she understood, draughting heavily from her drink and then confessed that she felt that she inherited world from her parents that she did not appreciate. The color of her skin alone made a difference to some. She could not and really did not need to change. As she matured she became proud of what she was and the potential obstructions she had obviated with her foresight and attention to detail in planning. She adjusted to the reality of the world around her even if she did not completely accept the preconditions for social acceptance of her triumphs. What needed to change was the perception in the world that anything but the quality of character should matter between individuals or groups of individuals. It was wrong that the color of her skin had even mattered at all.

Even in an altered world, the one over which she now had a modicum of control there was recognition if not acceptance of the unassailable wall. It did not matter how intelligent, talented, pretty or ambitious she was. The sum total of all that she was demanded her acknowledgment of the obvious. She wanted that to be irrelevant. What did the label matter? The fact of her race may have opened a few legally required doors but there were always at least as many others that were barred. There were also hidden agendas and unofficial quotas that frustrated and confused the overall goal of progress. She was welcome and her advancement was applauded until she reached the limits of tolerance. She even had to acknowledge another obvious truth, that she was a woman.

For a very long time she had to stay inside her world, amongst her family or her friends that shared at least one of her obvious truths. If she pushed against the seam of America’s social fabric, it was permitted only briefly and only for as long as she respected the strictest interpretation of the rules. She had to be a good role model, as unfair as that was. What offended her was the presumption that others in her community needed to pattern their lives after her example. Should they ever aspire to anything greater than their lot in life, why did they need to do as she had done? That was how those that were in Brent’s portion of the society even knew about her, though.

The enlightened accepted her without regard to either of the differences that had always dominated her self image. What if she had not been fleet of foot and pleasing to the eye? Would she have received any of the opportunities that had benefited her? What would have become of the others that the fruits of her success had assisted in attaining their aspirations?

What had happened when as a six-year-old he had spoken from his heart had separated them but it never really divided them. The division would have had roots in the intolerant fabric of the world that was beyond a child’s control. It had seemed mostly a family thing. Beverly’s mother had understood completely why the two children needed to be apart. Her acceptance of the wrong did not make it right but still it was understandable. It was the way of the world in the summer of 1962. In many places the color of skin decided whether people rode in the back of a bus or drank from different water fountains. Race was the barrier, racism was the disease and segregation was the means of quarantine lest anyone realize that in humanity there are more similarities than differences.

Beverly elaborated about her past, speculating what if things had been different. She admitted that when he moved away to attend another school it had upset her. She accepted it though the reality of it was not that different from any other of her the everyday frustrations. Even if they barely spoke to one another she felt that she had lost another friend to the insidiousness of bigotry. When her life began she was ‘colored’ or ‘Negro’, if not called something worse. There was no such thing as Black or African-American as a status for her to cling to with pride and purpose. Even if each term was more relevant and less condescending, it offered her little solace after the fact of the hatred that she had felt. Taking offense was pointless as it would brand her as a malcontent. She pretended not to hear the slurs or play dumb and not care, even though it mattered a lot to her on a very deep and privately guarded level.

What she was would always be there as a barrier or an opportunity; a hindrance or a help. She could either accept what she was in defeat or assume that it was a foundation for her to build a better life. She had decided to do as much as she could with the gifts that others kept telling her that she had. Just then the world around her had begun to change. Suddenly her inner voice was no longer the only voice that she heard in protest to the way that she was being treated. Even if the changes were marginal at best it felt to her as if a revolution had begun. She might have desired a more radical transformation or a social revolution but she would settle for the slower progress of evolution. As long as the desire to change the wrongs in the world did not perish from malaise and apathy borne of the frustration of the snail’s pace that the social reform had finally adopted, she would endure it. She would contribute whatever she could to change the way that others perceived her differences.

“I have to admit that if I had not known you I might have had different ideas,” She admitted. “I don’t know what it was but there was something about you, how you treated me and how you always looked straight into my eyes. You never feared my differences but embraced them. You respected me as a person even to appreciate my differences. I never forgot that.”

“I really didn’t see how you were all that different from me. The differences were minor and I liked what I saw, especially the part where you were not a guy.”

She flashed a smile, and then continued, “Because of your example I never lost hope. I never gave up believing that the world could change, that it could change before my eyes, in my lifetime. People could be different if they wanted to be. The changes that were happening around me were encouraging but over time they have proven to be barely negligible. Still, there were opportunities for me that even a generation before were not there. More could have been done but I accepted whatever changes were firmly imbedded in society. That established a basis for the next generation. Someday we can become one race,” she concluded.

“We are already one race,” Brent said. “The challenge is convincing everyone that we are more the same than the sum total of our differences.”

“See that is you. You have that unique way about you. You know the truth and can encapsulate a very complicated thing into a few words.”

A waitress interrupted for a refresh of their drinks and even after the drinks arrived, the subject seemed altered yet again.

As they continued to share a conversation over drinks lightheartedness finally replaced the heaviness of the social issues that had interfered with their friendship. Whether it came from the libation or the cordial atmosphere of the bar, they were laughing as they recalled the most pleasant two summers that two kids could have ever shared. Childhood had seemed idyllic as they revisited the places they had gone fishing and the feelings they had shared. It seemed just a single wish that had emerged, a resurrection of a dream lost of misplaced.

At the immediate moment their feelings were so strong that neither of them could resist the temptation to consider the irrational, unrealized destiny that over the intervening years each of them had dared to dream about in the quiet solitude of a motel room or in the loneliest hours of the cold night alone at home.

When they left the bar arm-in-arm and braced themselves raising the collars of their coats against the chill of the night. They continued on down the street in search of the nice place for an evening dinner that only Beverly knew. The owner was a man she knew from way back. He had confessed his dream to her in confidence when they were both in the employ of her former employer. She had never forgotten the twinkle that she had seen in his eyes whenever he talked about his own restaurant. Before she had left the company they had abruptly severed his employment. She had called him with the only positive words that he had received that day. She spoke of his chance to realize his dream, of her willingness to invest in his concept. At first he had declined her offer. Then she had persisted, “Look I think you can do it. It is a bet but to me it is a safe bet. You have it in you to succeed.”

As she retold the story over the most excellent Italian dinner that he had ever consumed, she had called Guido over to the table. She leaned over and kissed her lightly on the cheek, then turned to Brent, and said, “Without her you would not have a place to sit and eat. She believed in me.”

“This is the best meal I have ever had,” Brent admitted.

Guido bowed, “Your praise inspires me.” He turned to take Beverly’s hand and kiss it. “She is the Queen of New York City as far as I am concerned.”

Beverly laughed, “That is why I come here. He makes me feel better.”

When they left the restaurant they took in a show. Not surprisingly Beverly was a supporter of the arts and had invested in establishing a small company within her community, so in the theater where they went, she always had a reserved balcony box. When the show was over Beverly escorted Brent backstage and introduced him to the producer, the director and several of the actors and actresses.

It was almost midnight before they left the theater. They decided to go to a little club that she had also invested in and therefore always had a reserved table in a secluded corner off to the side of the dance floor. It seemed the perfect place for them to catch breath between dances and talk until the wee hours of the morning.

No one wanted to close the bar while she was still there. It had been years since she had brought anyone there except for business and this time she was staying well past the norm. Even so she was a class act, mindful of the lateness and respectful of others. It was past the time for the bar to close and she was cognizant of it. Beverly and Brent thanked and tipped them heavily for having put up with them for a half hour later than usual, bidding them a good night as the tow of them went outside for a long walk in the cold that they hardly even noticed.

Shortly before dawn, they went to Beverly’s place. Her two cats greeted them at the door, looking for their mommy and their food.

“No,” she scolded them both, then looking up to Brent she could not long linger her eyes upon his.

“You spoil them, of course.”

She shrugged, “Look at them. They are so cute.”

Brent laughed. “Hey they are your charge. Deal with them as you must.”

“Let me feed them so at least they will leave us alone for a while.”

Brent smiled as she looked up at him.

“What?” she asked.

“It’s nothing.”

“Look, they are my family, especially Leeli.”

“Beverly, you really do no have to answer to me at all. I fully understand. You have always been a cat person. I think that is a very cool thing for you. It serves continuity with the past very well.”

Beverly’s smile grew and she directed Brent to gather a blanket and head on out to the balcony where they could spend some more quiet time together. When she rejoined him she closed the sliding glass door behind her to prevent the cats from visiting with them. She hurriedly joined him under the warmth of the blanket and they huddled together for a time enjoying the mutual warmth of their bodies, looking at the few stars that were bright enough to rival the illumination from the city below them.

Together they enjoyed what remained of the rapidly fading night. Despite the dangerously temporary nature of their being together again there were no lingering regrets or any glaring impediments. They shared the incredible view from the high-rise’s balcony. Below them and out toward the horizon the restless city glowed yellow and as the dawn began a golden-red hue was cast out over the edifices as the first piercing rays cast the illusion of peace over the concrete cliffs and valleys of steel and glass. They cuddled in the chill of late autumn and spoke quiet promises that might have otherwise seemed ridiculous except that they were rational adults that had become like teenagers for a while as they had decided to stay out all night in defiance born of their suddenly re-established youth. In the faint fresh dawn, there was finally a peace within their reach that diminished the circumstances and consequences that surrounded their past. They were finally sharing a memorable moment in a way that no one could ever take away.

It seemed an apt epilogue for their desires to be elsewhere and to be anywhere else. The harsh truth was that their careers could not possibly mesh. Each of them cherished independence and were so set in ways that were unlikely to change in order to accommodate enduring relationship, regardless the strength of enduring desire. Their paths had converged and what they shared was intense. Yet in the light of that new day, they submitted their wills to the moment allowing the ember of a desire born in their childhood to finally erupt into a flare that would burn forever if they both wanted it to. The trouble was could they continue to feed the flame? Sadly the answer was no.

It had been a long time, Brent thought as he looked up from the water that was passing under the bridge. Only a few months had swept past him since the rendezvous with an almost forgotten past and the love of his life. He was grateful to whatever providence that had allowed him to share that incredible interlude with Beverly. He wished that there could have been a way found to make it work but too much time elapsed and too many other obligations had intruded in their lives.

Oddly it was as Beverly’s driver had said even though Brent was certain that he did not know or even intend his words to be taken in the manner that Brent received them. The driver had approached him on the street below Beverly’s apartment. Brent smiled as it was not the same driver that he had seen before, the result of an obvious shift change.

“It is time for you to go,” he said.

Her driver had taken him from her place to the airport. Just as they were pulling into the airport, Jonathan called Brent’s cell phone to tell him that he had scheduled some book signings in Ohio, in cities close to where he had grown up. All of a sudden he had received a few phone calls so it was hopeful again.

“Could you schedule some slack time for my visit,” Brent asked. “It has been a while since I have been there. I want to look around and see what all has changed.”

“And what has not,” Jonathan added, indicating that he fully understood the emotional implications of going home after a long absence.

The driver held the door open until Brent stepped out of the limousine, then he helped him bring the bags to the baggage check in.

“Thank you, really. You made this a lot easier for me.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You promise me to take care of her.”

“Who would if we didn’t?” the driver said.

“You love her as much as I do.”

“If not more,” the driver said. “I see her everyday. I feel sorry for you. You are leaving her.”

Brent smiled. “She is in good hands then. I am good with that.”

“You need not worry,” the driver said as he turned to look Brent in the eye as if to give the point that he was making the finality of punctuation. “I take care of her. That is my job.”

When he arrived at the river, it was likely to be Brent’s last time in Ohio for a long while. He pulled over to the side of the road at the bridge that spanned the Little Miami. There were memories that he had wanted to revisit and emotions that screamed to be rekindled. For a couple of summers this was the place that he had made his best memories of childhood. One midsummer morning, before it was really light enough to see all that well, behind Bill’s back he had first kissed Beverly and had begun his waiting for a second kiss that would take much of a lifetime for him to earn.

Life had spiraled away from both of them. What had seemed so inevitable to a six-year-old had turned out so strangely stretched, warped, twisted and oddly contorted beyond any recognition. He had been in a hurry to grow-up mode but now that he was an adult he lamented the loss of the simpler times, when it was easy to be with Beverly, when his life had made some sense. It was only in the idyllic past that they had created that they could be the unique minority that was once the two of them. Despite the advancement toward tolerance of the simple truths the masks and costumes that were worn still remained. For an uncomplicated moment they reconnected with their childhood. There was a special bond of ‘us’ defining everything that they desired that had progressed from an inconceivable past that had to be finally proven impossibly irresistible. They were together forever in the memories of those times and events.

For a single night in a big city in a complicated, callous world they had revisited the wonder of a misplaced time to make a memory everlasting and finding the peace to continue on each in their separate ways.

posted by Unknown @ 9:46 PM