Final Chapter of Stewart and Joshua's Story begun 11-24-09

Here is the final installment of Joshua and Stewart's story.  It's been a long time in coming, I know, and I have appreciated your patience and support as I have written my way through to its end.  It is my hope that you have enjoyed the crazy little journey I, they, and we have been on.  I welcome your comments, insight, and thoughts about the ending, the story, the proces, etc.  For those new to the blog, this story began on 11-24-09 and ends here.  Please use the tag cloud to navigate back to the beginning and read from there.

Without further ado...


Chapter 14 - Freedom

Before he knew it Joshua had run right into the heart of the chaos filling the hall. There were people dressed in orange bio-hazard suits carrying black boxes on straps and wielding long black wands over a pile in the middle of the floor. The air was filled with an irritating clicking that grew in intensity the closer a wand was brought to the pile. Near the door, the door he wanted so badly to reach, were police officers and paramedics, several of whom were in the process of putting on orange suits.

On instinct Joshua headed for the nearest doorway and pressed himself into the shallow depression. The door behind him had been shut, but not latched and, as he pushed back to avoid the searching eyes of the men who had been chasing him, the door gave way and he stumbled backwards into an office. The door swung slowly shut, but stopped short of closing, coming instead to rest on the latch and leaving a thin window between the doorframe and the door.

Joshua looked quickly around himself. The office held a desk, a file cabinet, a computer, and a several chairs, all of which were turned this way and that, one was tipped over completely. There were papers on the desk and also on the floor beside it. The handset of the desk phone was dangling off the edge of the desk and making nasty buzzing sounds over and over again. He felt Stewart wrap his body tighter around his neck and patted the salamander on the back.

Shouting out in the hall drew the boy back to the door and he peered out through the crack left by the latch. Across the hall was another doorway, the familiar male stick figure on a black square posted next to it. People in orange suits were walking in and out, some carrying the black boxes and wands, some carrying red bags with white crosses on them. Eventually a silver cart with silver wheels and a mattress on it came into view and was steered into the men’s room.

All around his door Joshua could hear the voices of men and women, all of them speaking fast and a bit too high. Someone in regular clothes walked by and then another person, a woman, stepped up to the door.

“We can talk in here,” the woman said and Joshua watched in horror as the doorknob began to turn. He stepped back but there was no where he could dart to hide.

The woman took a step into the office and caught her breath as her gaze fell on Joshua in the stolen lab coat. “You…” she whispered.

Joshua swallowed. It was the woman who had grabbed him the other day. He decided that he would run right at her and kick her in the shin to get away.

“John,” she said and turned her head to look over her shoulder, “there’s not enough room in here for the officers. Let’s try the conference room instead.”

“Yeah, all right,” a man answered.

The woman turned back and looked at Joshua. “I imagine the emergency crews want us out of their way while they take Mason out to the ambulance,” she continued. “The conference room would be better.” She held Joshua’s gaze and then whispered, “Leave the coat here and wait until they take him out.”

“What did you say?” the man asked.

The woman started to close the door. “I said the coast will be clear once they take him out.” Her voice grew softer as the door came back to rest against the latch.

Joshua let out the breath he had been holding. She hadn’t told on him. She had looked right at him and then left without telling. His knees felt weak.

“Gggggoooo lllloooookkk,” Stewart growled from under Joshua’s chin.

The boy walked back to the door and peeked out the slit once again. The silver cart was sticking out of the men’s room door and two paramedics in orange suits were holding on to it. The one nearest the hall stepped on a pedal near one of the cart’s wheels, then both paramedics disappeared into the bathroom. There was a lot of scuffling and grunting before they reappeared, each one carrying one end of a stiff board with someone lying on it.

“Careful…up and over…” someone said as the board and person on top of it were lifted onto the cart. There was a thump as they set it down followed by a deep groan.

“Mason,” one of the paramedics said, leaning close to the head of the person on the cart. “Mason, can you tell me where you are?”

“Hell,” came the weary reply.

The paramedic looked up. “Let’s get him out of here.”

The other paramedic finished fastening straps across the man lying there and then flipped the pedal near the wheel with his toe. The cart started to roll and the two orange-suited men maneuvered it out into the hall.

After the cart came clear of the bathroom and they pushed it down the hall toward the outside door. Joshua caught a glimpse of the man lying on it as it passed. His face was white with red patches on it and his mouth was hanging open. The sight of him sent a shiver all the way through the boy, one so deep that it made his stomach turn. More people in orange suits came out of the bathroom. The ones that didn’t have the clicking black boxes were carrying other things: pieces of clothing, a pair of shoes, one had a clear plastic bag that had a wallet and some loose change in it.

All of these people turned and headed for the outside door as well and the hall grew quiet. Joshua opened the door a bit wider and looked out. The only people left were near the door at the end of the hall. He could see the flashing red and blue lights on the police cars and the ambulance just feet beyond it. He took a tentative step out when Stewart hissed in his ear.

“Lllleeeevvvv tthhhhhe ccccoooooattttttt.”

Joshua pulled his foot back into the office and let the lab coat fall from his shoulders. He put his hand over Stewart’s back to make sure the salamander didn’t fall and then he peeked out the door again. Now the hall was silent and empty. He stepped out and started walking fast for the outside door.

“Hey!” a gruff voice rang out behind him. “What the hell are you doing in here?”

He took another step.

“Hey you! Who the hell said you could come in here?”

Joshua peeked over his shoulder. A policeman was just coming out of a room at the far end of the hall, his face stern and angry. “This isn’t a playground!” the cop shouted.

Joshua swallowed hard and started to take another step.

“Rrrrrruuuuuunnnnnnnn,” Stewart growled in his ear and the step became a leap and the leap turned into pumping legs.

In less than twenty feet Joshua was out the door and dodging through orange-suited bodies and surprised cops. The summer air hit him like a wave, filled his nose with the scent of fresh grass and car exhaust. Adults shouted at him as he ran, but he didn’t stop. With his hand firmly over Stewart he ran flat out until he could no longer hear the angry voices, until he could no longer see the flashing red and blue lights, until he could hardly breathe for the stitch in his side. He ducked between two dumpy houses and skittered across the alleyway behind them, rounded a corner and slipped through a thin copse of trees. In front of him was a pond that he nearly fell into. He slid to a stop and sat down hard on the bank and breathed in great gulps of air.

Stewart uncurled himself from around Joshua’s neck and looked out at the lake from the boy’s shoulder. He lifted his glossy black head and smelled the warm air. Satisfied, he crawled down Joshua’s arm and stood on the boy’s knee.

“This might be a better place to live, Stewart,” Joshua said as he regained his ability to speak.

“Yyyyeeeeesssssss,” Stewart hissed.

“I don’t think they’ll be able to find you here.”

“Ssssaaaaaffffeee.”

Stewart climbed down off Joshua’s leg and made his way through the grass to the waterline. He stepped into the pond, felt the cool, soothing water as it caressed each of his six legs and then turned and looked at the child, his child.

“Ttthhhhiiissssssss iiiiisssss gggggooooooodddddd. Ggggggoooooo hhhhhooooommmmmme. Ccccccoooooommmmmmeeee bbbbbaaaaacccccckkkk.” He turned and faced Joshua, rearing up on his hind pair of legs, his tail curved in the water behind him for support. “Ppppplllleeeeeeesssssseeee ccccoooooommmmmeeee bbbbaaaccccckkkkk.”

Joshua smiled and nodded at the salamander. “K. Don’t get eaten before I can get back here.” Stewart stared at Joshua for several moments, his bright red eyes unblinking and clear.

“Iiiiiii wwwiiiilllllll bbbbbeee ssssaaaafffeee. Ccccoooommmmmeeee bbbbbaaaccccckkkkk.” Then he lowered himself into the water and swam off.

Joshua watched the expanding wake as the salamander slipped away. After ten minutes or so he tossed a few handfuls of ripped up grass and twigs into the water, then he wiped his eyes with the back of his hands, the dust on them mingling with tears and leaving brown smudges on his cheeks. He stood up and looked out over the pond.

“Bye, Stewart,” he whispered and walked back the way he had come.

~ Peace and completion

Chapter 12 of the Stewart and Joshua story started on 11-24-09

Chapter 12 – Suddenly

He had barely reached the next depression, barely caught his breath when another voice called out.

“Stewart!”

For an instant Stewart panicked, fear gripping his entire body. Now the voices knew who he was. Then, from somewhere deep in his mind he realized…he knew that voice. He opened his eyes and forced himself to look in the direction his name had been called. There, beneath a long ledge, behind shining silver sticks and branches, was the child.

The boy shoved some of the shining sticks aside. “Stewart!” he said again, his eyes wide and compelling.

Before he knew what he was doing Stewart turned and ran at the child. He no longer cared about the long whiteness, or the disembodied voice, or the people running around carrying things. Here was his child. Here was the one he wanted to find. Here were warm hands and kind eyes. Here was home.

The child reached down, spread his fingers on the floor and Stewart found speed in his legs that hadn’t been there before. His front feet touched the child’s palm, carried him up the boy’s wrist, and pulled him under the long white cloth that covered the rest of the child’s arm. He ran upwards until he found the child’s neck, to the warm, soft place where the boy's shoulder made the perfect spot to sit, and there Stewart stopped. He pressed himself tightly against the child’s throat, wrapped his body, his tail, everything, around the boy’s neck and clung to him.

He could feel the child’s heartbeat, could feel every breath the boy took, and the warmth, the safe warmth of him through his skin. The child reached up and laid his hand on Stewart’s back.

“Stewart, you’re so cold,” he said softly, his voice sending vibrations into Stewart’s body. The boy took the sheet he was wearing and pulled it up against Stewart and hid him from the cold air. “You’re too dry,” he said next. “You need water.”

He felt the boy look around, his chin brushing over Stewart’s head as he looked to the left and then to the right.

“There’s no water in here,” the child told him. “We’re gonna have to leave.”

At first Stewart didn’t say anything. He would stay or he would leave with the child. Where the child went he would go. As long as he was with the child the rest didn’t matter. Then he remembered the empty shadow and the man who had worn it. And he remembered the word the woman had used only moments before.

From deep in his throat he pulled the word out. “Ddddaannnggrrruuussssss.”

The child’s whole body went rigid. Stewart could feel the tendons on the boy’s neck stand out. He took another breath and tried again. “Ggggeetttttt ooooouuuutttttt.”

The child bolted out from under the ledge, shoving shining sticks in all directions. Several fell over and made a tremendous crash that rang painfully in Stewart’s head. The child stumbled forward, caught himself on his front legs and then got up and ran for the door, one hand held against Stewart, the other waving wildly in front of himself as he ran. A dozen steps and they were out in the bright white of the hall and Stewart closed his eyes in response to the painful light. He could feel the child look right and left and then run again. Running was good. Running meant leaving. Leaving meant grass, and fresh warm air, and water. Running meant life.

“Rrrruuunnnnnn,” he hissed and held on.


~ Peace and motivation

NaNoWriMo

National Novel Writing Month - better known as NaNoWriMo - started Sunday, November 1. The general idea behind it is to encourage writers to write - with abandon, sans criticism - for an entire month with the goal being a 50,000 word novel. This is both a thrilling and frightening task. To actually write that much in 30 days sound impossible, yet if you calculate it out it comes to about 7 double-spaced pages everyday - or roughly 210 pages by 11:59pm, Monday, November 30th.

To participate in NaNoWriMo you must be starting a novel from scratch or from a preexisting idea. You should not have written anything about this novel before November 1st. That, unfortunately disallows me from the "competition" since I am uneasy stepping away from my novel so completely for such an extended period of time. I use NaNoWriMo, instead, as a motivator for serious focus on my novel - write everyday, as much as I can, and by the end of November I should be significantly further along. That’s the plan anyway.

So today - Monday, November 2nd, I am committing to that goal - to write everyday, as much as I can, in order to make forward progress on my novel so that I might complete this 1st draft before the end of the year.

What will you do this month? Keep me in your thoughts and I will keep you in mine.

~ Peace and forward momentum

Of truth and memory - a response

I received the following comment from Michael after posting “A Taste of Memory”. I decided to respond via a standard post when my reply to him began to grow the more I thought about the comment. Pardon my long-winded response and feel free to add a comment of your own.


Michael M. wrote:

Your preface [to "A Taste of Memory"] raises the interesting issue which contrasts the concepts of truth versus fact. One's truth is not necessarily their perceptions. The truth of the sweater color, for example, would be what it was, not what he or she remembered it to be. Saying that "It is in the telling of the memory that the truth ultimately lies", suggests that everyone has their own truth, which suggests relativity, which in turn denies the definition of Truth.

I think that one difference we have is in the use of “truth” – lower case t - and “Truth” - upper case T. Truth with the upper case T is a metaphysical ideal – the essence of what is actual and factual and absolute. In contrast, truth, with a lower case t, is that which one believes to be accurate, but is still subjective to some degree, especially, I would argue, when referring to memory and to memoir.

Take the sweater color example again – If I am red-green color blind then my memory of the sweater being black may, in fact, be accurate, since it may look black to me. If I am never told differently by someone who sees it as red, I have no way of knowing any different and, therefore, would retain my belief as true. Let’s complicate it a bit more. If I am unable to see red, yet I am told my perception of it as black is wrong and the sweater is red according to another set of eyes, I have to decide if I will accept the new information as true or maintain that my original thought is. Whose truth is right? To what degree does the sweater’s color affect the purpose of the piece written?

A psychologist friend of mine and I had a discussion about childhood memories of an incident between a child’s parents that was witnessed by that child and the parents' memory of that same situation. The memory retained by the child of the incident, which is observed from a child’s point of view, processed by a child’s brain, and stored in that fashion, does not necessarily reflect the same memory (or truth, if you will) of the situation as recalled by the parents. Yet both child and parents will believe his/her memory of the situation to be true. Who is right?

As a teenager I remember having an extremely heated discussion with my mother about an incident that I was adamant happened to me during my 2nd grade year at school. She had no memory of the situation, though I clearly remembered coming home with a black eye and bloody lip. She told me that she would remember such an incident since it would have startled her badly to see me in such a state. Since she didn’t remember it it couldn’t have happened. I refused to accept her answer at the time, convinced I was absolutely right.

Writing “A Taste of Memory” got me thinking about that 2nd grade situation and I realized that I could no longer clearly recall the circumstances. Does that mean that it didn’t occur? Does it mean that it did, but I am losing access to the memory? Does it mean that my mother’s adamancy about not remembering something so significant colored my own ability to remember it? And how do the answers to these questions affect whether I write about it later and how?

At this point in my life, knowing myself as well as I do, I am fairly certain that what I did as a child was create a wonderful story, probably acting it out to some degree on the playground that day, and then incorporating it into my memory as real. Having done that, I would then defend it with vehemence to anyone who would challenge my recollection of it. As a child I firmly believed what I remembered as true. Today I would suggest otherwise. Yet which is right? And, how much does it matter?

At some point the writer must decide why s/he is writing – what is the purpose of the piece – so s/he can also decide how to write it. Questions arise regarding the accuracy of the memories written down, which memories have significance and which do not, what voice should be used in the retelling, how much should be told, and how much withheld.

I could attempt to verify my own story by searching for Allen and asking him to recall the day I wrote about, but I no longer remember his last name and have no idea what became of him since he moved away from that neighborhood a little over a year later. Does this complication and lack of corroboration detract from the story I shared? I say the story is true. You only have me to believe. Do you trust me well enough to accept my version?

We know that memoirs have been written that contain nothing but fact. They exist, in part, because that level of attention to detail was deemed important. Others have been written with great literary license and the apparent lack of accuracy made way for a more poignant story that connected deeply with readers. Still others find some way to successfully blend those two extremes. The point where “the truth” of a memoir becomes a problem is when the trust between writer and reader is some how broken.

The responsibility for this bond does not end with the writer. As readers we need to ask ourselves why we are reading the memoir we have chosen. That answer informs us of just how much trust we will put in the writer, what we expect from him/her in terms of accuracy and proof, what type of connection we need between the writer, his/her story, and ourselves. Our reason for choosing the piece in the first place is as important as why it was written. When these two things don’t mesh the issues of truth and trust and merit arise.

~ Peace and musings