I’m Scotched up and stewing in the back seat.  Mister Chuba guns the engine, and the cab barrels south on the turnpike, away from downtown, toward what they call the New Rise District where my hotel is located.

This is bullshit! I think.  If Purcell wanted to make a point, why didn’t he just come out and say it to my face instead of playing this junior high school game of: Guess What’s Eating Me?  I feel more outraged by the minute.  I’m beginning to surmise, however, that Purcell pulled the plug on our interview because it had something to do with Henri Roaché, another billionaire I interviewed recently.  Why else would Meilin mention him? I ask myself.

It’s a conspiracy!  Roaché’s fingerprints are all over this; I know it.  It was a setup from the beginning and the call by Purcell to Trumbeau should have tipped me off.  I’m a fool!

“Trumbeau,” by the way, is Donald Trumbeau.  He’s the CEO of the publishing house for whom I do most of my work.  Yes, I’m technically a freelance writer but I earn the lion’s share of my income through the Zircon-McCade Corporation, writing stories for one or another of their several holdings; as you might have guessed, ZMC is a publishing conglomerate.  The other much smaller but also necessary portion of my income, I earn with independent work gotten through my grifting literary agent, Mark Tank.  But, back to the story—

See, when the interview was first set up, no one, as far as I knew, had ever interviewed the elusive Marcus Purcell for an in-depth profile.  So it came as a thunderbolt when, out of the blue, Purcell himself called up Donald Trumbeau to ask if I was available for an interview before Christmas.  Trumbeau, without blinking an eye, said yes, that I was available anytime, anywhere, and that all Purcell had to do was name the time and place.  So that’s how today’s luncheon and interview came about.  But it did seem odd that Purcell would, himself, pick up the phone and call Trumbeau.  Billionaires usually don’t do that; they employ a hundred flunkies for that sort of thing.  But now, the pieces are starting to fit together, the more I think about it.

But where does Roaché fit in?  Well, I’ll tell you where I think he fits in:

See, I interviewed the Napoleon complex afflicted Henri Roaché several months ago—April maybe.  In fact, Roaché was the last billionaire I interviewed before Purcell, and I’d caught flack from my managing editor over one of the questions I’d asked him during the interview.  From my perspective, however, it was a nothingburger question.  I actually included it for Roaché’s benefit because I thought he’d enjoy climbing his soapbox to answer it.  And, at the end of the interview, he acted as if everything was fine:  He was all handshakes and smiles and slapped me on the back and told me how much he looked forward to reading the article when it came out.  But that had all been for show apparently, as I soon found out.

When I returned to the office later that day, Willingham, my managing editor, sidled up to me laughing and said: “Leave it to Thakur to stir up a hornets’ nest.”

I said, “What?  What are you talking about?”

“Yeah, Trumbeau called me.  Said Roaché was disappointed that you brought up the Anarchists during his interview and that he hoped you weren’t going to glorify those—what was his term? oh yeah—terrorists by including them in the article.”

“What?” I said.  “That’s bullshit!  I asked him about the Anarchist social critics, thinking he would enjoy lambasting them which everyone knows he loves to do every opportunity he gets, though this time, for some reason, he passed on the question.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Willingham.  “I wouldn’t worry too much about it.  These rich prima donnas get their panties in a knot over fly shit.  Then the next day, after he’s read your article, and you’ve made the prick look like Mother Theresa, he wants to have you up to the mansion for one of his galas and hire you as his own personal biographer.  It happens all the time.  But maybe next time, you might—just to be safe—give our boys in legal a first look to, you know, make sure everything is kosher.  Once in a while, Henry, the blind crows in legal find an acorn; that’s all I’m saying.”

Willingham’s suggestion that I clear interview questions with the publisher’s legal department before using them incensed me and I told him so:  The day I have to ask permission from a lawyer to do my job, I said, is the day I’m out of journalism.  “It’s your call, Hen,” said Willingham, “just a suggestion.”

But the Roaché article went to press on schedule and without further repercussions and ran as submitted.  So I naturally assumed that everything had been ironed out and that Roaché had been placated and was as happy as any billionaire could be.  The article made no mention of Anarchists whatsoever and, in the words of my eloquent editor, it painted billionaire Roaché in the very likeness of Mother Theresa.  So as far as I knew, everything ended well—until now.  Now, Purcell eighty-sixes my interview for no apparent reason.

I know these guys.  They stick together, even when they hate each other’s guts which, by the way, they often do.  And there isn’t a single billionaire among the whole cabal who will tolerate an impertinent journalist.  Impertinent.  Yes, now I remember hearing a rumor about that:  The rumor was that Roaché said he couldn’t stand an “impertinent journalist,” implying, by it, that I was the journalist in question because the rumor circulated through the back-channels for about a week after my interview with him.  But then it disappeared.  I didn’t give much thought to it then, but now I’m beginning to wonder.

The reason I was supposedly impertinent was because of one question I asked near the end of the interview.  The question was this:  “We’re hearing more and more, these days, this argument, put forward by Anarchist social critics who claim that the concept of private property is passé and ought to be abolished.  Mr. Roaché, how do you respond to these critics?”

It was a grapefruit and I figured Roaché would knock it out of the ballpark since he was well documented in the press, expressing his fervent support for the unbridled accumulation of property by private individuals such as himself.  It was a topic he really seemed to relish talking about.  In fact, Roaché, in one interview I read, had gone so far as to suggest that the idea of monopoly no longer existed, that society had freed itself from such “counterproductive and non-progressive restraints”.  Of course, his position on monopoly was quite logical given the fact that he owns millions of square miles of land around the globe and accumulates more every day.

But for some reason, on this particular afternoon, he found my question offensive—impertinent.  Apparently, even the mere acknowledgment of his detractors—the Anarchists, who are also detractors of Roaché’s social class—was enough to make him see red and view me as an interloper, overreaching my rank.  Neither the question, nor the fact that Roaché refused to answer it, even appeared in the Polylama article.  But apparently, I had broken some obscure rule in the billionaire class’s code book by asking it, or perhaps I framed it improperly, I don’t know.  But whatever the case, word of my crime has apparently gotten out to other billionaires like Purcell.  If this theory is true, then I’m screwed—blackballed, and that is why Purcell canned the interview.

Too wily to address the matter directly, he probably feigned giving me an interview, only to reel me in—to Tulsa—so he could deliver the vindictive message, on behalf of his billionaire class, which states:  Your license to interview us—the ruling elite—and enjoy our favorable treatment has been revoked!

It’s starting to feel like I’m in deep shit professionally as well as financially.  But I can’t be completely sure at this point.  Maybe Purcell really did have urgent business in New York.  Probably not, though.  The whole thing smells fishy.

 

The next morning, I board an early bird flight to Columbus.  My mother lives forty minutes south of the capital in Churchill, Ohio, in the same house where Patsy and I grew up.  But the flight out of Tulsa takes me first to Houston where I have an hour layover.  After the layover, I board another plane and fly north to Columbus, passing almost directly over Tulsa on the way.  From there, the plan is to rent a car and drive the rest of the way to Churchill.  There are more direct flights from Tulsa to Columbus, but my habit has always been to buy the cheapest ticket available and go economy class, even when I can afford better.

On my layover in Houston, while sitting in Terminal B waiting for the boarding call, Todd Willingham, my managing editor, calls me from New York.  I see on the caller ID that it’s Willingham.

“Hey, Todd, what’s up?” I say, answering the phone.

“Yeah, Henry, hello.  Where are you?” asks Willingham.

“I’m laid-over in Houston at the moment.  What’s up?”

“Right,” he says; there’s anxiety in his voice.  “Yeah, Henry, I wish this could wait till you get back, but it can’t.  Orders from upstairs.  Actually, I volunteered to call because, well—because I consider us friends and because I didn’t want you hearing it from Trumbeau.”

“Todd, you’re scaring me.  Is something wrong?”

“Yeah Hen, we’ve got a crisis here this morning.  Roaché’s suing us—well, suing ZMC.”

“Suing us?  What the hell for?”

“Ah, you know, the article you wrote—defamation, he claims.  Legal says he doesn’t have a leg to stand on, but we’re going to have to deal with it anyway.  That’s why I’m calling.”

“Wait.  What the hell are you saying, Todd?  You’re calling to fire me?  Is that it?  Over the goddamn phone?”

“I’m not firing you, Henry.  Hell, you’re one of my best writers.  But it wasn’t my decision.  This came down from the top: damage control.  That’s all it is.”

“Is it Trumbeau?  Is that who it is?”

“Hell no, Hen.  This goes way above Trumbeau.  Trumbeau can be a pain in the ass, everyone knows that, but he’s not stupid.  He wouldn’t fire you because you make ZMC too much money.  But anyway, yes, that’s the shitty news: you’ve been let go, effective immediately.  Hey, tell you what, when you get back to New York, why don’t you and I meet at Blarney’s and knock back a couple and discuss this whole mess.  How does that sound?  But right now, Hen, I’ve gotta go.  Wish I had more time, I really do.  But my nine-thirty is breathing down my neck.  But, ah, don’t forget to call when you get back, okay?  Will you do that, Hen?”

“Sure,” I say.

“Okay, that’s good.  I feel bad about this; I really do.  So, you okay?”

“I don’t know,” I say.  “I don’t know how I feel.  I think I’m in shock.”

“Yeah, so let’s talk when you get back.  Oh god, I’m late for my nine-thirty.  Sorry, got to rush.  But hang in there, Henry.  Hey, maybe now you can write that novel you’ve always talked about.  There’s a bright side to everything, you know?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“See you when you get back.”

Then there’s a beep and the line goes silent.

So this is the other shoe! I think.  First Purcell ditches the interview, then they get me fired.  There goes my career, down the toilet!  Hell, there goes my life; I’ve been blackballed!

Now I know for sure Roaché and Purcell are in this together and Purcell had no intention of sitting for the interview.  It was all a ruse.  But why?  Why would Purcell get involved?  Why would he volunteer the role of Brutus in this treachery?  Why would Roaché’s insult become Purcell’s cause?  There’s no connection between them.  None of this makes sense! I tell myself.

But at the moment, I’ve got other problems to think about.  For example, what will I do with my apartment in New York?  I’ll need to find somewhere cheaper to live; I’ll have to wiggle out of my lease, though that shouldn’t be too difficult, given the number of people, I know alone, who’ll be drooling all over themselves at the prospect of getting their greedy paws on my great apartment.  But to avoid financial ruin, I’m going to have to put my ducks in a row, and fast.

Yes, Purcell and Roaché, have hurt me, caught me off guard, but I can, and will, survive, if for no other reason than to find some way to bite them both in the rump for this conspiracy against me.  They’ve kicked the wrong dog, this time! is what I think while sitting in Terminal B at the George Bush Intercontinental Airport in Houston.  But none of my mental bluster prevents my hand from trembling as I dial Mom who’s waiting for me in Churchill.

“Hey Mom.  Everything going okay?…

“Not yet.  Houston.  I’m in Houston.

“Yes Mom, Houston, Texas; I’m on layover.

“It was the cheapest.  It was the cheapest.

“I’ll arrive in Columbus at eleven-ten, your time.

“No, this morning.  Right.

“No, that won’t be necessary; I’ve already taken care of it.

“I rented a car.  Yeah.  I’m driving down.

“So you wouldn’t have to deal with Columbus traffic, Mom.

“It wasn’t that expensive.  Besides, aren’t you up to your elbows in flour, baking pies or whatever for the prodigal son?”

I smile as I say this.

“Mom, don’t fib.  I know you’re baking pies or something; you always do.

“That’s what I thought.

“Sounds good, Mom.

“I’d tell you not to go to any trouble but we both know I’d be wasting my breath.

“Ah, I don’t know.  I doubt it.

“Because I have to get back to New York.

“Because I live there, remember?  And I’ve got a deadline,” I fib because, at this point, I don’t even have a story.

“Mm—not so well.  I’ll tell you about it when I get there.

“Depending on traffic, I’d say close to two; two-thirty, at the latest.

“Well, I might have to stop—you know—eat something.

“But I didn’t eat before—

“Okay Mom.  But if I pass out and wreck, it’s your fault.

“See you around a quarter till two then.

“Mom, I can’t get there any faster.

“All right.  I won’t.  Love you too.

“See you soon.  Bye Mom.

“Right.  Okay.  I’m hanging up now.

“Byeeee.”

I smile and shake my head as I press the “end call” circle with my thumb.  I glance at my watch again.  Only thirty minutes to boarding; not enough time for breakfast.  I decide that when I get to Columbus I’ll hit a drive-thru and pick up a burger on my way out of town.

 

I arrive at Mom’s at two-twenty; she’s been waiting impatiently, probably, since one.  But as I pull up to the house in the rental car, I realize how little Mom’s world has changed.  Hers is a majestic Victorian house; white with forest green shutters; way too much upkeep for a widow of sixty-five who lives alone; but she hires help when needed.  The lawn, though a bit patchy in color because of frost, is dandelion free, evenly trimmed and edged, and the hazelnut hedge that borders the yard on the east-side has recently been trimmed—shaped into a continuous caterpillar.  The place looks exactly as it did when I came home for Thanksgiving, my first year at college, except the large buckeye tree that used to stand in the front yard has been removed.  Several other houses in the neighborhood don’t look so good, but everything in Mom’s world is apparently right as rain, or so one would surmise, judging by the appearance of her home.

She fusses at me for not getting home sooner because she has prepared an early supper of roast beef and potatoes that have been drying out in the oven waiting on me.  I don’t mention, of course, that I ate a hamburger and fries in Columbus before hitting the road.  And yes, she has baked an apple pie and a batch of oatmeal-raisin cookies—both my favorites—as I suspected she would.

I must admit, it feels good to be home.

The first debate happens over supper.  It’s about how long I plan to stay.  If she were to have her way, I would stay in Churchill, under her roof, for the rest of her life, and mine too I suppose.  But I cannot stay here.  It seems like the opportune time, however, to sketch out for her the “little crisis” I have in New York with my employer and my apartment and how I need to get back very soon to fix things.

“Well, there you go!” she says.  “Get rid of your overpriced apartment in New York and come stay here—at least until you get back on your feet.  I’ll bet the Churchill Gazette could use a seasoned journalist.  You should talk to them while you’re here.”

“Thank you, Mom, for your very generous offer but—”

“But what?” she demands.  “Henry, son, I’m asking for this because I need you.  I know you’re a grown man and have your own life—though it seems to me like a very empty life—but be that as it may, I wouldn’t ask you to give up your stimulating life in New York if I didn’t really need you.  Please son, give it some serious thought, won’t you?”

“Yes, Mom, I will,” I say, though the possibility of relocating to Churchill is extremely remote.

“And I insist that this time, at least, you stay a couple of days before going back because I don’t see enough of you.  Then go back and get rid of that dreadful apartment.”

Mom has never seen my apartment; she just assumes that if it’s in New York it must be dreadful.

Then the phone rings.  It’s the landline so Mom goes to the kitchen to answer it.  I can overhear her side of the conversation from the dining room:

“Hello?

“Yes, I’m Abigail Thakur.

“Who did you say you were?”

There’s a minute-long pause or so as she listens.

“Oh, I’m sorry but could you please talk to my son?  He happens to be here from New York and I think he would be better able to answer your questions.  I’m sorry; I need to sit down a minute.  Let me pass you over to my son, Henry, if you will, please.  Yes, Henry Thakur; he’s my son.  Thank you.”

I get up and head for the kitchen even before Mom calls me.  Her voice trembles when she does.  She’s white and short of breath, her knees seem ready to give out as I reach for the phone.

“Just one minute please,” I say into the receiver then lay it on the counter.

“Mom!  Mom!  What’s wrong?”

“I need to sit down.  I’m afraid I’m going to pass out.”

I help her to her recliner in the living room.  She leans back and closes her eyes.  Her lips are gray.

“Mom, are you having chest pain?” I ask.

“No, just dizziness.  Please, talk to the man on the phone; it’s about Patsy,” she whispers, “I’m okay now.  I’ll be okay.”

“Take some deep breaths, Mom,” I say as I turn toward the kitchen.  “I’ll tell whoever it is I’ll them call back.”

“Honey!” she squeaks in an attempt to raise her voice.  “Please talk to him.  I’m all right.  It’s about Patsy: they think they’ve found her.”

“Okay Mom, I will.”

“I’m okay now,” she says again, trying to reassure me.

It turns out that the man on the phone is a fellow by the name of Jim Fulbright MD.  He’s the Medical Examiner for Somerset County, Pennsylvania. His office is located in Central City.  He says they have the body of a female, age somewhere between late twenties and mid-thirties; height, five feet, seven inches; dark-blond hair in color.  He asks if Patsy had any distinguishing birth marks or tattoos.  I say, none that I know of.

“Though the body was found several days after TOD—” he continues.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “but may I ask what ‘TOD’ means?”

“Of course.  It means: time of death.  Anyway, it appears that the deceased died approximately two weeks ago, so the body is not in the best of conditions.  However, in spite of that,” continues Dr. Fulbright, “I could find no wounds or other injuries suggesting foul play.  I’ve listed the cause of death as: acute pneumonia, complicated by untreated COPD—that is, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease.”

“I see,” I say.  “Are you certain the body is my sister’s—Patsy Thakur?” I ask.

“Well, no, that’s the problem.  I can’t confirm anything without more information.  You see, Mr. Thakur, these cases are always referred to me—”

“What cases do you mean?”

“Transient cases,” says Dr. Fulbright.  “Homeless individuals; they are routinely sent to the Medical Examiner’s office here for determination of cause of death, just as a matter of policy.  This Jane Doe was found at a campsite on Indian Lake, a few miles south of here.  Usually, there’s never any ID or anything to help us identify the victim—or, I should say, the deceased, in this case.  But among Jane Doe’s belongings, police did find a pocketbook which contained Ms. Thakur’s driver’s license, a couple of photos, and a slip of paper bearing Ms. Abigail Thakur’s contact information which was how we contacted you.  But the problem now is: the photo on the ID does not match the body very well and—we also found two other female IDs among our Jane Doe’s personal effects which poses a somewhat obvious question.  Look, let me just say this straight: we don’t know if our Jane Doe lifted the IDs or if one of them belongs to her.  The other two, however, seem to be the wrong age, according to our determination of the approximate age of the individual.  Mr. Thakur, is there any way you might be able come out here and identify our Jane Doe from Indian Lake?  Whether she is or isn’t your sister, we’d like to be sure.”

The ambiguity that Dr. Fulbright expressed concerning the Jane Doe in Central City helps me to discuss the situation with Mom.  Still, it isn’t easy.  And to be truthful, I have this sinking feeling in my gut that the body in Pennsylvania probably is Patsy.

Needless to say, Dr. Fulbright’s call ruins the rest of our evening.  Mom retreats to bed, feeling ill.  I’m left alone, wrestling with ghosts of the past.  And for me there are many.

I don’t see Mom again until breakfast the next morning.  She’s twitchy and silent and doesn’t want to discuss Patsy any further.  I’ve agreed to drive to Central City myself to identify the body; it’s a five hour trip, one way.  I plan to go straight there and come straight back, which may take twelve hours altogether.  As soon as I know something, Mom wants me to call her with the news—good or bad.  God, I hope it’s not Patsy.  I can’t bear the thought of giving Mom bad news over the phone and being three-hundred miles away.  But somehow, I see the hand of providence in everything that has happened, at least for Mom’s sake.  But for me, it’s just more of the shitshow that began in Tulsa.

 

I know as soon as I see the body it isn’t Patsy.  This poor gal looks rough.  She wears a patchwork of tattoos over various areas of her anatomy.  In an odd way she reminds me of Scrappy, the fellow who was shot in front of the Mann Hotel and died on the sidewalk, the day before yesterday.  I guess it’s impossible to understand anything about the real person just by viewing their corpse.  Maybe this gal had a great sense of humor and a noble spirit, like Scrappy.  But whether or not that is true, Dr. Fulbright and I will never know.

But certainly this woman is not Patsy—her face, hands, and ears reveal that much to me.  Dr. Fulbright gives me the pocketbook and it’s contents which were Patsy’s at one time.  In the wallet there are two photos: an old photo of Dad whose image is partially obscured by the smoke of a campfire in front of him, but he’s grinning broadly at the camera, and a 5th or 6th grade school photo of Patsy herself who wears a pleasant expression, though she’s not really smiling.  There’s also her driver’s license in the wallet—the one she got at age fifteen—but, of course, it expired long ago.  And lastly, I find the slip of paper on which, in her neat and flowing hand, is written Mom’s name, address, and telephone number.

I call Mom with the good news and she starts sobbing.  The relief is overwhelming.

“I just knew it was her,” she sobs, “I was so certain.  But not knowing what’s happened to her is almost worse.”

I let her cry.  Mom’s stoicism over the years has misled me to believe that her pain in losing Patsy was not deep.  I see now, I was wrong.  I attempt to make her feel better by asking what’s for supper and approximating for her when I think I’ll get home.  My strategy works and Mom, through involuntary sobs, begins giving me instructions so that the coordination of supper with my arrival comes off smoothy.

Without stopping to eat and with only one pitstop at a roadside rest area, I manage to arrive back in Churchill thirty minutes before Mom expects me.  This makes her happy.  We eat a quiet supper together and catch-up a bit, afterward, with conversation and coffee before retiring to bed.

“I love you, Henry,” she says and kisses me goodnight.  I give her a squeeze and tell her I love her, too.

In my room as I undress and prepare for bed, my thoughts return to Patsy.  I wonder if she’s still alive out there somewhere?  I feel a pang of nostalgia, thinking about my kid sister, and miss her.  Though she could be a royal pain in the rear at times, she also carried with her an irrepressible beam of curiosity and intelligence.  If you twisted my arm, I would have to admit she was smarter than me.  She might have become a renown professor who turned her academic field upside down or some such thing, if only she had entered college.  But even more than Dad, she was born with wings and could not help but fly away.

Copyright by Dale Tucker.  All rights reserved.