Whatever is going on, he thought, I am definitely involved. That thought made him feel strangely more secure. He wasn’t just chasing boyhood memories anymore. There was something tangible behind this. He couldn’t see it yet but all the evidence pointed toward Alcie being at the center of something from long ago that effected people like Mouse now. His writers mind began to explore what he had seen and heard: Alcie dead?...But Mouse said she had moved on. Carl’s family had the land. The site of the old trailer had been given to Alcie’s father for his service during World War II. Could Alcie have sold the land? Nothing indicated that kind of relationship with the townspeople. Why would Mack say she was killed? For the land? Nonsense. It was less than an acre. There was nothing there now. Just a vacant lot. ...And all that talk about making it right. Making what right? Had there been a crime, someone would have expose it after all these years...

Looking over at the package given him by Mack, he was suddenly filled with a consummate melancholy. Somewhere inside he knew that she was dead. He didn’t know how or why but his gut told him she was not among the living. He didn’t believe in ghost but there was something otherworldly about this experience...about his long time preoccupation with Alcie. So many people he had forgotten in life and yet he remembered Alcie. Enough to stop his work and fly two thousand miles in the middle of winter. Weird business, he thought.

Looking up at the dark descendant skies, he saw that the winter geese no longer dotted the sky. The full moon displayed a rain filled heaven with few clouds other than dark ones. Passing Willow dairy, it looked new and well maintained. There must be a lot of money in dairy products these days, Jake thought. That place looks better than it ever did when I was a kid. Funny but in these days of automation and computers, they still need cows for milk. Where were the cows, Jake didn’t see any. Strange. Must be in the barn, he found himself thinking... Maybe they don’t use cows anymore for milk. Maybe they use computerized cows. Cows like that, when they have to defecate, instead of cow chips, they shit computer chips.

Continuing to drive, he didn’t feel the glassy cold stare of the binoculars glaring at him from the hilltop across the way from the house. The evening was well upon him as he approached the driveway. The driveway descended round and down from the entrance. Jake could remember enough about the cold New York winters to have his contractor build an underground garage in the space where the old root cellar had been. The place where the old coal furnace once stood. It was one of his responsibilities as the oldest male child to get up first and build the fire in the furnace. He shivered as he picked up his garage door opener. Remembering the freezing cold, as he would place the wood shaving on the balls of paper to start the fire. Then watching the flame rise higher as he would shovel the coal on top of the fire. Soon there would be a raging fire, which sometimes made the place too hot. And sometimes not soon enough.

Lost in reverie, he sat holding the garage door open marveling at his accomplishment. The three story colonial type dwelling masterful columns guarding the front door. He felt light headed almost as he sat looking at what was once his father’s house with its only serious upgrade being storm windows and aluminum siding. He wanted this feeling for a while longer so he continued to sit with the garage door opener in hand. But there was something else beginning to nag at him. He saw the patrol car pull up behind him.

Stepping out of his vehicle, Jacob walked toward the police car. The officer inside opened his door and stepped out. The binoculars hanging around his neck had gotten entangled with his steering wheel causing him to move slowly out of his dirty black and white cruiser. Watching his turgid movements and his obvious propensity toward being overweight ignited a lantern of memory in Jacob.

His faculty for remembering facts and faces had always been an asset to Jacob, but not necessarily a pleasurable experience. As the cogs in his brain began to work on the fat figure walking toward him, his stomach began to churn as he began to strip away the years in his mind, to reveal a particularly loathsome classmate with the nickname Butch. His real name was Brian Montell. He was not a bad guy in school, so much as having a penchant for making off color comments that he thought were jokes.

“ Can I help you Officer?” Jake asked having placed his raincoat over his shoulders. The sight of the aging, balding, fat cop with the wet binoculars hanging around his neck gave rise to a visceral revulsion in Jacob.

“Just thought I’d come by to introduce myself and maybe shake the hand of real big shot.” Only he didn’t extend his hand. Instead he placed his hands on his pistol belt, resting one hand on his holster. It was obvious that he was being disingenuous with his toothy grin more hostile than friendly. The two men stood quietly glaring at each other in the ever-increasing rain.

Maintaining eye contact, Jacob asked: “ How did you know I was here?” Butch laughed: “ I am a lawman, it’s my job to know who comes and goes around here.”

“ Yeah...But who told you I was here.”

“ I know things. That’s all.”

“ You wouldn’t happen to be spying on me out here in the rain would you?”

Butch smiled and nodded up toward Jacob’s front door, an attempt to get Jacob to invite him in.

“ Well, Officer, I got to go. It’s getting late and I’ve got a case of jet lag...”

“ Heard you been asking about Alcie Hough.” The statement came with the delicacy of a sledgehammer on glass.

“ Yeah and what else did Mouse tell you?” Jacob yelled over his shoulder as he began to climb back into his car.

“ Nobody has called him that around here in years, Jet!” “ Nobody has called me Jet anywhere for years, Butch.”

“ Just curious, Jet, why someone would come back after twenty years looking for somebody that disappeared from around here way back in the sixties.”

“ Like I said, Butch, nobody has called me Jet for years!” He got into his vehicle and drove into his garage with no further words. Butch scowled at Jet’s garage door while the rain beat down on his baldpate. He then got into his vehicle and drove away muttering under his breath.

The winter sky gathered her evening skirts and pranced into the darkness as Jake stood alone looking out his window. His fireplace was soon crackling with flames leaping and their shadows dancing on the wall.

Where did this begin? Was it the flutist on fisherman Wharf in San Francisco? The girl with the hopeful eyes. He remembered how over a year ago he had met a young lady with eyes that filled with compassion and understanding. As he walked through the crush of tourist n Fisherman’s Wharf, he began to question his life and the path that brought him there. He was a successful writer though not a great writer. He had readers to whom he could give flights of fantasy that subverted the banality of their lives. His books were comic books without the graphic art. His talent was that he could contrive a story so elemental and so clear that he grabbed the readers mind in a grip of sorts that never really let go. It was powerful stuff.

And still there was something else. A phrase began to run through his head: Though the winter was unforgiving, he still had his dreams. Dreams of what? It would be fair to say that he was searching. Not for anything in particular ... Just searching.

And then one day He noticed the young lady of maybe twenty San Francisco wintry summers. She was carrying a flute case - a street musician, to be sure, as she was setting up her tip jar as well as staking out a site that would make accessions to many tourist. A mime was drawing a large crowd across from her. It was one of those clear San Francisco days when the sun served up its radiance while maintaining actual warmth to sweater wearing levels. The air was sweet. The crowds on the pier stood waiting to be entertained.

The girl was African American dressed in kente cloth from head to foot. She must have been a successful artist by the obvious quality of the clothes she wore. Her ears, eyelids, lips, and tongue were replete with piercings. There were two diamonds protruding from her nose. Her face glittered in the sun with the piercing shining bright in the sun. She was more attractive than beautiful in a convention sense. But she had something as the crowd began to grow even as she began to set up with cleaning her flute and finding a suitable place to sit.

Having found her place she placed the flute to her lips and began a soft rendition of summertime. The melody rode the wind causing heads to turn. She danced as she played, moving her hips and shaking her head to the music she created.

The irony of her show was that in spite of her youth, there was something old school about her style and her dancing. But her eyes told the tale. Her eyes scanned the crowd entrancing all who came to listen to the music. There appeared to be something for everyone in her persona. Jacob found by the look in her eyes something of yesterday. His yesterdays. A mystery, which he wasn’t sure, he wanted disclosed. He felt the hope of too many years past in her face. He didn’t really want to know her or even be entertained by her. But there was something that compelled him to stay and sway to her music. The concert was a good one. He found his spirits soaring by the time she had finished her first set. In appreciation he tossed a fifty into her flute case. The bill sat among the coins, singles, occasional ten’s, and rare twenties like royalty. She noticed, then thank the crowd repeatedly as she prepared to leave.

“ Mr.! Mr.!” He stopped and looking over his shoulder made sure it was a voice directed toward him. Picking up her cash, she beckoned for him to wait. He stood while she quickly packed away her flute. Then she fairly floated over to him: “ May I buy you lunch?” Her voice was like music skipping on the light breeze.

“ Thank you but I’m not hungry.” He noticed the bill in her hand almost handing it back to him.

“ Well, I’m hungry and I just got a nice tip,” She giggled. “ So I can afford to share the wealth.”

“ Do you always spend your money so freely on strangers?” “ Sometimes.” She spoke quickly, “ How about you?” She said, tugging him gently toward the crosswalk.

“ Sometimes.” He let her pull him along toward the seafood restaurant on the other side of the street as he watched a gull moved slowly across the ground oblivious to the tourist trying not to step on its feathers. Entering one of the many restaurants standing like temples dedicated to the gustatory predilections of out- of- town palates. Eyeing the menu on a stand just inside the door, Jake asked: “ What’s your pleasure: fish or fowl?”

To which she replied: “ I don’t eat the flesh of animals, Mr. Wakesly, and I am surprise that an artist like yourself would either.” She knew whom he was that explained a lot.

“ I wouldn’t call myself an artist, more like a purveyor of pulp fiction. Now you are an artist.”

“ Thank you.” She said handing Jake her flute as she fumbled for something in her rather large purse.

A middle aged waiter wearing a tuxedo and carrying two menus popped up as though from the ethers of the air: “ Smoking or non?” He asked. Looking up at the waiter, she quickly replied: “Non, please!”

The waiter led them over to window seat where they got a commanding view of the golden gate bridge. The waiter pulled out her chair from the white tablecloth covered dining table for two. Jake continued to stand until she sat. He then placed her flute on the table near her hand.

They sat in silence while she culled the menu for meatless dishes. Quickly making up her mind, she summoned the waiter. Her assertiveness could easily been construed as an affront had Jake not continued to remind himself that she invited him to lunch. Once her salad arrived she ate for the most part in silence. Just before her eggplant entree arrived, she began: “Do you believe in God, Mr. Wakesly?”

“ Not in the Christian view, I don’t.”

“ Then what do you believe in?”

“ I believe in a Universal mind. What we Buddhist call big mind and small mind.”

“ So you are a Buddhist... Like Tina Turner.”

“ Not like Tina Turner, no. I am a Zen Buddhist.” “ Do you chant?”

“ Only during service. Tina is a member of Nicherin Shoshu of America... NSA for short. They do a lot of chanting.” “ Why do so much chanting?”

“ Accession to greed I guess. They want things and the allure of their philosophy is that by chanting they can get it.”

“ Wow! Never thought of Buddhist as materialistic.”

Jake finished his chowder. The waiter showed up with his Lazy man’s chipino just in time. The crab and other shell fish lay there in the shallow red tomato sauce like gustatory debris - delicious. After placing his napkin around his neck, Jake delved into his entree.

“ You know my name but I don’t know yours.” The young lady had just taken a bite of her egg plant when Jake made his thinly veiled inquiry as a statement. Chewing the egg plant its requisite number, the flutist spoke: “ It’s Sheree. Happy to know you Jacob Wakesly.”

“ Happy to know you also Sheree. Is there a last name?” “ I am sure there is but I prefer Sheree.”

“ Gotcha.” Jake smiled. “ You know there was someone once a long time ago. She was nothing like you but you remind me of her in some strange not easily defined way.” “ What does that mean?”

“ I mean it was over twenties years ago during the sixties...Things you probably take for granted were considered big deals in those days.” “ Things like...?”

“ Well there was this girl during my Senior year in high school...” “ High School... Groovy Man.” She gave him a peace sign as she smiled. “ Not so groovy. We were small town kids...Country really. I was kind of a high school hero and she was kind of...not much of anything.” “ Except?”

“ Except she considered me her friend and I really wasn’t.” “ So you are working on some high school thing...eh.” “ I wouldn’t say working on it. Just seems to be on my mind.” “ Why not working on it. “

” Working on it implies that there is some kind of a problem. There is no problem. I have a good life. I have accomplished so many of my goals. I do what I want. I go where I want to go. My life is good.’ “ So what’s the problem?”

‘ Just she crosses my mind a lot. Always has for the last twenty years or so. Now that I have more leisure time, Alcie ...that was her name...is like a burden. A weird kind of burden that I really don’t understand.” “ Then why? Twenty years is a long time.”

‘ That is the question now. Isn’t it. Its like today. I feel like I should be somewhere else. That I should be doing something else.” “Kind of like unfinished business. That is what it sounds like.” “I wish that were true but there was no business between us. No big secret. We were kids during sixties and I may have deceive her to avoid taking her to an event for no real reason. I understand that with all the things that go on in the world, that means very little.”

“So what makes you think it has to do with her?”

“ Because I haven’t been back for a long time.” “ No family back there?”

“ None to speak of. I have a nephew. But that’s it. Except maybe the old homehouse as my Dad use to call it. In the end, the house was all his life amounted to and he lived long enough to know that it was lost. That he had no legacy to leave his children.”

“ So there are two things. Whatever it was that keeps this girl in your head and some kind of debt you feel like you owe your father. Sounds like maybe you should go back and see what you can do. If nothing else you maybe can fix what is bugging you.”

“ Go back where? I am not even sure if she is still there.”

“ Well whatever keeps your focus there needs to be identified. You know where the house is. You can find that. Maybe that will lead you to the reason for the preoccupation with this girl. Nobody needs to be haunted by twenty year old ghost...If they can help it.

With that she began to clean her flute and Jacob began to plan his trip back to the home house.

... Jake didn’t know how long he had been staring into the fireplace when the doorbell rang. It was a good time. He was pondering taking a drink. Maybe it was the jet lag or maybe just the questions pounding in his head, but he sat there in limbo, unable to go to sleep and too tired to stay awake. And bouts with substance abuse had taught him that drink was a catalyst to sex, drugs, rock, and roll. He just wanted to rest. But there was something else. There was always something else... He opened the door. There stood Vadra.

His hands trembled as he beckoned her inside. “ Come in. I didn’t expect you so soon.”

“You want me to leave?” She uttered knowing that was not the case. “ Of course not, please stay.”

Surprising, he found himself thinking, unexpectedly surprising. Outside of his house the night was all abuzz with ghosts scurrying around trying to understand his motivations. Inside the fire was blazing and he had just put the kettle on to make tea... and talking.

“...And so after the divorce, I traveled for a while sometime with other people and sometime not. I travel some. Not too much. Been a love a few times...Not too much. Have had success with my writing. Success that I have earned through many hours, days, weeks, and even years of hard work. But through it all I seem to keep thinking of Alcie. You remember Alcie from high school. You and she were good friends. Remember?”

At the mention of Alcie, she seemed to involuntarily squirm in the massive overstuffed arm chair that practically swallowed her up, as it was comfortably portly and all-embracing. He was so engaged in his reveries that he missed the furtive glances she made toward the window. But her smile never ceased through what must have been the ordeal of hearing him talk about himself. But she just continued to listen patiently. It was perplexing but throughly satisfying for his ego. Beyond the sound of his voice, the silence of the room was oppressive. He thought he saw a shadow outside his window, but didn’t take it very seriously as nothing other than the trees swaying with the night breezes. But still it wasn’t a moonlit night.

“ Why so quiet all of a sudden? She whispered.

“ Nothing really, I just thought I saw something or someone pass the side window.

“ Probably nothing is right.” Eyelids fluttering, she looked over at him. Too much, he found himself thinking, this is too much. “ Anyway I think I will take a look outside.” She pouted with the eyelids fluttering again.

“ This isn’t the big city: People don’t go sneaking around other people’s houses at two in the morning.”

Getting up and heading toward the door, he said: “ That is going to take some getting use to. I have spent the last twenty years in the big city. So you are going to have to be a little patient with me. I just got to take a look.”

“ Are you sure that’s where you want to look?” She smiles as she crossed her legs exposing her caramel colored thighs as her dress rustled up then settled down across her knees. This was so out of character from the girl he remembered... And equally out of character for him in that he didn’t even care. It made no sense. He was thinking. There was nothing between them but time, and that ran out long ago. Yet here she sat treating him like he was special. Star struck? No. She had no idea of who he was really. Didn’t know his work at all. She had never been a reader. What was up?

Walking over to the window he saw a car hidden by the shadows of the trees at the entrance to his driveway. Could the car belong to her? He could see the crescent moonlight revealing a late modeled Chevy.

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About the author Azel Jones: I'm a writer with forty years experience during which I've done free lance work for over three decades with multiple stories and articles to national publications. Presently I do a blog column entitled "Downtown Stories."

I do mostly gritty intercity related work, but I've authored a text book "Port Royal Sound" for high school history classes and church groups. The book can be obtained through Glorybound Books.

I have two publication ready manuscripts for which I'm seeking a publisher or reputable agent. If you can be helpful in this process, I would appreciate it. No vanity publishers please, I can do that on my own.

Email: azelj@cox.net

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