a day in the life of brooke nescott
TRANSCRIPT
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A Day in the Life of Brooke Nescott
by Devon Pitlor
I. Brooke Nescott discovers herself alone
On a rather fresh spring morning well before sunrise, Brooke Nescott, now nearing her
thirty-eighth birthday, was pleasantly surprised to be pleasantly surprised at finding
herself alone in her home in Aristock. Her two lovers, the peerless Dragonsnort and the
equally inimitable Eric Palobay, were uncharacteristically absent on that morning, each
for logical reasons that required no elaboration either for the reader or for Brooke herself.
Likewise, her handsome and precocious son Jared was off with his club on a summer
excursion planned by a religion-neutral group that often provided pseudo-educational
outings for pre-teens during spring break.
So Brooke was alone, and, despite her unconditional adoration of the three males in herlife and the congenial domestic ménage-à-trois that they had perfected over the last few
years, Brooke was happy and somewhat relieved of the pressure of performing her usual
role of mother and mistress---a role that consumed her life, but at times wore thin, leaving
Brooke with very little time to uncover the things about herself that still needed discovery
before the last shreds of her first youth dropped away from her and gave way to the
unavoidable archway beyond which loomed the sullen promise of advancing age and its
heightened gift of harder-edged maturity.
Just yesterday, Brooke had caught herself striding far too rapidly down one of the main
streets of her city and had made a weak joke about the pace she was maintaining for no
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apparent reason: Faster, she thought, middle age is gaining on you.
Slowing down after a few steps farther, the lame witticism ceased to be funny, and Brooke
forgot it. There was no way of outpacing middle age, and Brooke, still radiant, slim, agile
and young in mind and form, had no reason to try.
So that morning, in the void of her menfolk, Brooke wove herself gradually into a posture
of self-rediscovery. She had lived a strange and extraordinary life, punctuated by many
inexplicable events which can be found in other stories relating to her somewhere nearthese pages, and with a faultless sense of rationale, she had several months previously
decided to sit down at the kitchen table in her breakfast nook and write about them. It
would be a way a re-inventing herself and reviving some of the thoughts that she had, of
necessity, suppressed in order to complement the domestic bliss she enjoyed with
Dragonsnort, Palobay and her son Jared.
In front of her was a spiral notebook full of her scribblings--bits and pieces of her early
life, anecdotes about her rather distant father and her inscrutable mother, both dead at an
early age. There was the story of how she met Dragonsnort, Jared's father. And of course
her experiences with representatives of a future society which she was certain she hadsaved from despotism and destruction. Eric Palobay and his strange, life-extending vap
parasite also came under her pen, as did her very concrete arc into a dream world
inhabited by creatures resembling gnomes and porcine ogres who had tried to kill her.
Her rescue from this imbroglio by the mysterious Joel was not forgotten either. Amidst
the anecdotes, Brooke interjected a good deal of herself: Her apathy toward convention,
her lack of close friends, her abhorrence of her one-time classmates, her world-weariness
with stultifying routine. She had always been prepared to write about it all.
But Brooke cast the pen down finally in disgust. It was all disjointed. Who cared about
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the boys she had first had sex with? Who really needed to know the arcane origins of
Dragonsnort? And the reality of Eric's vap was sworn to absolute secrecy, anyway. So she
couldn't really write much about that.
Before the sun had risen over the rooftops of her street, Brooke realized that she was never
going to complete a work about herself. There was simply too much to say and explain,
and most of it did not come easy to her anyway. She often found herself in a deportment
where she was not even sure of how she felt about the weird and wonderful events of her
life. Ambiguity about herself loomed like a dark shade over the handwritten pages shehad already composed.
"I'm not sure even who I am or how I feel about me," she said aloud to her coffee cup.
And scribbling about herself in notebooks that would never be published did not awaken
any special insights either.
Another course was necessary. Brooke wanted to write. She wanted to contribute
something to the world's record, if only a small footnote.
And so for that reason, she had planned at ten AM on that very Saturday to meet with a
hazy woman named Torri Whack---certainly not her real name---at the Aristock Central
Library, where Torri, who transitioned back and forth through Aristock's streets wearing
of all things a gray veil over her eyes, conducted a free group of would-be creative writers.
Brooke was not a joiner by any stretch, but she had decided to give Torri's group a try
because it had been so highly praised in the local paper. If Torri or the others became too
weird or, worse, insufferable, Brooke would simply go to the toilet and slip away. It might
be fun to see what other people interested in creative fiction were writing about. There
would be stories other than her own. Stories which she might understand better because
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she had not been a part of them.
And that was Torri's specialty. Investigative bio-fiction. Apparently Aristock and its
sister city Marshcove were full of remarkable stories and unsolved mysteries that were
largely unknown or only the unfinished stubs of whatever strange occurrences had
prompted their telling.
In a flyer describing the group and its intentions, a flyer garnished with a seductive facial
photo of Torri Whack and a brief, non-informative summary of her qualifications, Torrihad assured those interested that "Great writers have often gotten their start from the
investigation of little unsolved news stories."
So Brooke decided to be present at ten AM at the library. She also decided to walk. A
exquisite spring day seemed to be announcing itself, and maybe Brooke, walking fast
again, could outrun the middle age that was supposedly gaining on her.
No. Not really. The joke still wasn't funny.
II. An incident without beginning, end or resolution
Brooke slid easily into the same jeans she had worn fifteen years ago and had probably
been wearing twelve years ago when she met Dragonsnort and ultimately created Jared.
That in itself was an act of outrunning middle age. Likewise, her other garments dated
from much earlier eras and still fit her perfectly. She shoved a wallet into her pocket, left
her cellphone at home, and walked out the front door of her house in the direction of
downtown. Aristock was waking up. Brooke was waking up. She sensed that adventure,
something she craved, might be stalking her right now ever bit as much as middle age.
She relished the thought, but did not accelerate her pace. No need to outrun anything, she
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thought.
And then the unexpected.
As she crossed the tiny wooded park that separated her neighborhood from Fleetwood
Avenue, a man wearing a dark hooded parka approached her with a gun in his hand, a
gun which was pointed directly at Brooke's chest. The hood cast a shadow over his face,
but Brooke could see that it was a relatively young man with very large and arched
eyebrows and what must have been a prominent nose.
"Don't say a word," he sneered. "Just act normal and come with me."
Brooke, who had faced danger in the past, realized that this was something she could not
avoid. Panic and hysteria were not a part of her make up. She complied, therefore, and
walked alongside of the stranger who kept his handgun pointed at her side. He brought
her to a small, dented Toyota pickup truck parked on Cale Street by the side of the park
and motioned for her to get in. He had apparently left the door unlocked. Brooke slipped
effortlessly into the truck, moving aside accumulations of collected trash and old rags
which seemed to be throughout the passenger side. "Don't move or I'll kill you," said thehooded man, who rushed around to the driver's side and jumped in, starting the motor
and pulling away from the curb almost instantaneously. He drove with his left hand,
keeping the gun pointed squarely at Brooke's chest as he navigated toward the Marshcove
Highway and out of town. For the first few minutes, he was totally silent.
Brooke casually crossed her legs and asked if she could smoke a cigarette which she had
secreted in a pocket of her jacket. The man did not answer.
As the country became more and more evident and Aristock began to peter out behind
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them, he pushed back his hood and glared at Brooke with a crazed stare of pure
malevolence. His eyebrows were indeed full and arched. His eyes were bloodshot and
seemingly multicolored. His nose was well formed and characterized mostly by a pair of
huge flaring nostrils.
"Don't touch me," he snapped out of nowhere.
Brooke shrugged and maintaining her calm said: "I thought that was supposed to be my
line."
"Shut up."
When they finally arrived at the entrance to the state forest, the man, shaking slightly,
pulled off onto a trail that was occluded from the main highway and parked between a
row of pine trees which shaded the truck with the shadows of what was still early
morning. This is where I get raped, Brooke thought. I wonder if he can do it.
The stranger, still holding Brooke at gunpoint, shifted in his seat and said: "I want you to
listen." Brooke motioned with her head that she would.
The man, in a raspy nervous voice, began: "After I did four years in the military, I
worked as an attendant in a trauma center. It drove me nuts. The people we saw were all
crazy in one way or another. I used to drink a pint of whiskey every night. Sometimes I
followed it with a six pack. I finally lost it when this homeless guy came in. He had long,
stringy hair---like dreadlocks on a white man---that were so full of lice that he put ethyl
alcohol all over his locks and then lit a cigarette and went up like a torch. That was all I
could take."
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Brooke looked at him somewhat puzzled and emboldened herself asking, "So that is why
you kidnapped me and drove me to the woods? To tell me that?"
"Yes," said the man. "I needed to tell someone, anyone. After I left the trauma center I
did a few infomercials. I looked better back then. I did this routine about self-propelled
toilet scrubbers. You put them in the toilet...."
"And they scoured it out all by themselves."
"Yeah. That was it. You never had to touch the toilet. Give me your cigarette."
Brooke fished around in her pocket and found the lone cigarette she had been avoiding for
weeks. Guarding her cool, she handed it to the man, who broke off the filter, stuck it
between his lips and lit it with the truck lighter. He puffed out clouds of smoke, much of
which seemed to be sucked back into him through his ever inflating nostrils.
Then he put the gun down between the seats and said "Don't touch me" again.
Finally, after some moments of reflective silence, he turned to Brooke and said "Let's getyou back."
Brooke smiled and said that would be a good idea. She had an appointment at the library
at ten o'clock. Without further prologue, the man replaced his hood, started the truck
engine and drove back out onto the highway and into Aristock. He skillfully navigated the
snarl of little streets at the city limits and pulled out onto Gramercy Avenue in the
downtown section. He kept looking at the building tops until at last he saw the town hall,
the federal building and the huge and perennially broken clock tower which marked what
was generally acknowledged to be the center of Aristock. These buildings were arranged
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in a small, nameless square where Gramercy Avenue intersected with Column Street and
the state business plaza. The courthouse and jail were also in the general vicinity.
"Look at these buildings," he mumbled. "They have something to teach people. Maybe
someone will learn someday."
"Learn what?" said Brooke, her curiosity piqued.
"Something I can't talk about---ever."
"It's just the downtown. All cities have them. This is Saturday. The government offices
are closed."
"And the clock is broken," added the stranger.
"It has been for as long as I can remember," said Brooke. "I was born and raised here."
"Longer than that. I was born and raised here too, and I have to be older than you."
At that moment Brooke made note that several locks of gray hair were indeed starting to
show above the man's temples, although he was far from being old. Just older, thought
Brooke. Maybe middle age had gained on him. The joke still wasn't funny.
"My name is Nathan Sorrell. I want you to know that I am not a pervert. I never killed
Draven and Raven."
"Who in the fuck are Draven and Raven?" said Brooke, putting special emphasis on the
word "fuck."
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"Girls. Time for you to leave. You have a half hour before your appointment. Goodbye."
With this, he reached across Brooke's lap and shoved open the passenger door, motioning
for her to get out. The minute Brooke's feet touched the pavement, the Toyota sped away,
leaving Brooke in a kind of puzzled daze. Certain vague memories were churning
somewhere in the back of her mind. The name Nathan Sorrell, as well as Draven and
Raven, seemed to mean something to her but she couldn't say what. It was not a repressed
memory but rather the sort of thing that people who have lived in a particular town alltheir lives think they might know something about----events from an era that just barely
preceded hers, something her parents or older classmates may have once spoken about.
All towns are like that. They have semi-recent histories which are still nonetheless
histories even if one is too young or naive to remember them.
Next to the deserted courthouse was a small theatre. Inside, a group of men dressed in
straw hats and striped shirts were practicing a song, an old retro tune. A standing sign
inside the alcove of the theatre said something about a forthcoming performance of a
barbershop quartet. This must have been them. Practicing. Brooke paused for a moment
and looked at the men, who, taking no notice of her, broke out once again into asyncopated a-cappella song:
She's old and gray and thrown away. All her tomorrows were yesterday. Her heart she has
sold for jewels and gold, and it's time to pay.
Fucking annoying lyrics, thought Brooke moving away. Fucking annoying barbershop
quartet.
III. The mystery of....
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The library conference room was bustling with women who were, Brooke observed,
mostly a few years older than her. In their midst stood the perennially veiled Torri
Whack, whispering approval to whatever tales the others were starting to relate. "Yes, I
remember that one too," said Torri at one point. "I have been here a long time."
The ladies, bored housewives to be sure, all had scratch pads, and some had brought
notebook computers. They were prepared to write. This was not their first meeting with
Torri apparently. Brooke, once again, had to play the role of the newcomer...the outsider.
Nobody was introducing anybody, and when the meeting finally began, some of the ladies
got right into their "investigative bio-fiction." As they spoke, Brooke had the vague and
uneasy feeling that she had once known some of them, or at least known about them.
Likewise, Torri Whack and her veil and cape. Torri had once been someone else. Like
Nathan Sorrell, the women sitting in front of their notepads at the table were like wraiths
from an era that had just preceded Brooke's. They all had mysteries that they were
exploring. Aristock mysteries.
Brooke listened intently to some of them. The mystery of this. The mystery of that.Glancing occasionally at Torri with her signature veil, Brooke wondered about the
mystery of Torri Whack. She wondered about the very fresh mystery of Nathan Sorrell.
What had all that been about anyway?
At one point, Brooke felt like interjecting herself into the conversation and asking about
Nathan Sorrell, Draven and Raven, but thought the better of it. These ladies were already
in motion. Their reading agendas were set amongst themselves. Everyone knew who was
going first and then second, etc.
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There was the mystery of Philomena somebody who had vanished in plain sight of her
comrades while riding her white show horse in Watershed Meadow in 1973, a year before
Brooke was born. Brooke thought she might have heard something about that but
couldn't say what. Like everything else, the Philomena story was inconclusive. No one
could explain why Philomena had disappeared, but many had theories---fictional theories.
Then there was the unexplained dual murder of Winston Lamb and Latasha Palange by a
drifter known only as The Cowboy and whose motive for the killing was never known.
The Cowboy got off on insanity and was consigned to the state mental hospital where hewas summarily strangled in his cot by parties unknown. Brooke knew nothing about that.
Then there was Kizzie Flavell, otherwise known as Jalisa Tacy, Tiffany Loren, Tangela
Dawn and finally just Tiffany when she returned from Los Angeles, hooked on
prescription drugs and cocaine, and shot herself with a twenty-two caliber long rifle in
her parents' house on Davey Street at the age of twenty after a short, two-year stint as a
pornographic actress.
Brooke knew a lot about Kizzie because Kizzie had gone to the same high school as Brooke
before dropping out and moving with her boyfriend to California. That had been in 1985when Kizzie was eighteen and Brooke was eleven. Kizzie had been a cheerleader and later
became a fashion model, only to fall into first nude modeling and then making a splash
entry into the porn world. She changed her name several times and finally ended up
acting under the single name Tiffany until some stress in the demi-monde of pornography
got to her and she came home and committed suicide. The story was well-known in
Aristock. By the time Brooke entered Aristock Memorial High School, it had become a
type of cautionary caveat against creeping dissolution repeated and embellished by
teachers and parents alike.
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Kizzie had been so sweet, the assembly agreed. How could she ever have done the things
she did? That had always been the question. Bad company and drugs was always the
answer. And in the words of its middle aged storyteller, these were still the answer. And
that made Brooke wonder. A question came to her mind that buffered out all other
thoughts. In fact, it became Brooke's central question of the day: How can one human
being ever pretend to know another? The storyteller didn't seem to care. Drugs and the fast
life had killed Kizzie, even though she had already won several awards from the sort of
academies that honor erotic film actors and had been named the Penthouse Playmate of
January, 1987.
"The bullet pierced Kizzie's left temple, went through her brain and came out her right temple.
The gun was discharged from such close range that the bullet left virtually star-shaped holes.
Brain dead, Kizzie was rushed to the Aristock Medical Center where life support systems were
disconnected after two days."
The woman investigating and writing about the case was very pleased with her own
graphic details. It would, Torri Whack agreed, make an awesome story.
As more story summaries came forth, Brooke, still silent, noted that many were aboutdisappearing people.
And it was generally left to the aspiring fiction writers to creatively construct either a
fabricated ending for these disappearances or supply a working theory in order to flesh
out their tales.
IV. Disappearing people
As Brooke remained and listened to the often truncated and fractured accounts of the
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unsolved mysteries of Aristock as told by their middle-aged fictionalizers, it became
evident to her that baffling and unexplained vanishments were nearly as popular in this
group as unsolved murders.
There was, for example, the case of the Bastian brothers, Jeremy and Tristan, two little ten
year old white boys who lived in the post-war veterans’ housing section of town. Jeremy
and Tristan were both dirty-blond and very cute. They were both born in the late 1960s,
which again made them older than Brooke. And once again, Brooke felt that she may
have heard something about them but didn't know.
The thick matronly lady who reviewed the details of their story, however, provided some
details that caught Brooke's interest. They had both attended Baygrove Elementary
School, as had Brooke, but that was not the most important detail. Apparently both
Jeremy and Tristan liked to dig in the fields surrounding the veterans' housing project.
No one knew exactly why. They were just diggers. Maybe they found stuff from the old
jeep factory which had once been on the property. Maybe they just liked to dig. One day
they told their mother that they were uncovering some carroty orange rocks which glowed
faintly in the dark. And the speculation was that they brought a few of these rocks home.
At any event, agents of some unnamed government office visited their house andconfiscated whatever it was that the boys had brought in. And then a chain link fence was
suddenly erected around the hole where the boys had been excavating. And then some
men in suits arrived in a large unmarked sedan one day in 1978 and took both boys to the
courthouse basement for some sort of questioning. And then they never returned home.
The police were notified but could do nothing. For a time their parents, both longstanding
citizens of Aristock, had run around frantically looking for help. They had even contacted
psychics and private detectives, but nothing came of it. Finally, the Bastians themselves
announced that it was too painful for them to live in Aristock anymore and vanished
themselves, although in a rental truck filled with hastily packed boxes of their most
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important possessions. The Bastians did, however, drop off the face of the Earth, as had
their boys. No one knew where they drove off to.
How in the hell does one disappear from a courthouse basement? thought Brooke.
But then Torri raised her hand and called for a short break in the narrative and its
subsequent speculations, which were starting to fly from seat to seat.
V. The Bastian boys' story continues.
When everyone was re-seated, the same unnamed lady who had been reviewing her work,
replete with wild conjectures of the most elaborate guesswork about the Bastian boys and
their parents, lifted up her notepad and was about to resume when Torri Whack waved
her hands frantically and said to stop.
"It's not a story," Torri said firmly. "No hard details and no room to surmise any."
A murmur went through the group, but Torri's words were final. It was not a story. Thenarrator closed her notepad and sat back down. The Bastian boys' story was over. Torri
said so.
And then Torri made a point of looking at her watch and announced a somewhat early
lunch break.
As the ladies ambled out of the meeting room, to a one ignoring Brooke, Brooke spotted a
younger woman who had been seated at the far end of the table. She was faintly
acquainted with the woman because of one of her son's friends named Subaru (Darien)
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Devaney, a member of the awe-inspiring Plus Sized Club, about which this story will not
concern itself.
The younger woman was closer to Brooke's age, and Brooke edged her way beside her at
the doorway of the library. Her name was Simmony Devaney. She was Subaru's mother.
Brooke knew that much and nothing more.
"How's Subaru doing?" Brooke asked, anxious to strike up at least the semblance of a
conversation.
"Okay. What about Jared?"
"Okay."
The conversation would have probably ended there if Brooke had not interjected: "That
last story seemed the most intriguing of them all. Wonder why Torri stifled it?"
"Let's get away from here, and I'll tell you what I know," said Simmony quietly. "Let's
eat lunch around at the Carbon Grill." Simony was a slim, angular woman with large,doe-like eyes and a naive-cum-aggressive manner. Brooke had no idea that Subaru's
mother was interested in creative writing or investigative biographies. Unlike most of the
other women present, Simmony Devaney wore a strapless dress and displayed bare and
lightly freckled shoulders, something that was probably disapproved of.
It was, however, enough to attract the attention of the waiters at the crowded Carbon
Grill, who rushed over to Brooke and Simmony's table offering snappy services. It was
clear, as usual. that pretty women got better assistance than others.
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"Let's have a drink too," said Brooke. "These mysteries are starting to grind on my
nerves."
Over clinking vodka tonics, Simmony opened up. "The Bastians were from old money in
Aristock," she began somewhat cautiously. "Even though they had fallen financially and
lived in that veterans' zone, they still kept up pretenses and had a maid. She was a black
woman named Charisma. When the boys disappeared and the Bastians left town, my
father hired Charisma part time to take care of my grandmother at our house. That was
when I was only four, of course. But my grandmother just kept on living. And Charisma just kept on working for us part time. When I was about eleven in 1985, I heard
Charisma tell my parents what had gone on in the Bastian house. It was about those
rocks."
Brooke sipped on her drink and raised her eyebrows as if to say "Carry on."
Simmony went on to relate Charisma's second-hand tale of how the boys lugged two large
cantaloupe sized ginger rocks into their family's house. At first, the family thought they
were just some radioactive detritus left over in what had been essentially a dumping
ground for war surplus, but the Bastian father had a Geiger counter somewhere in hishouse and ascertained that, although the rocks did exude a faint glow in the dark, they
showed no discharge of radioactivity. Nor did they disrupt the electrical circuitry of the
house or any appliances. In all, they were just rather misshapen dull orange stones that
Charisma would have preferred to have taken back outside. But the Bastian mother,
having an artistic streak in her, felt they could be washed up and put in the patio near her
other growing things. She told both boys that if they wanted to keep the rocks, they would
need to clean them thoroughly. And so Charisma was summoned to bring in a couple of
huge stewpots and fill them with water. The rocks were placed inside these to soak.
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A large, hybrid-looking butterfly flapped around the lips of their drink glasses, as if
deciding which one to finally land on. Brooke brushed it away with her hand and
automatically reached into her jacket pocket for the cigarette she had given Nathan
Sorrell earlier that morning. Realizing its absence, she grimaced and wondered briefly
whether she should share her episode with Simmony.
"And then what?" she said, deciding that the fate of the Bastian boys had to be far more
interesting than her encounter with a homeless drifter armed with a pointless story in
need of an audience.
"The way I heard the story was that about fifteen minutes later, Charisma, who used to be
excitable as all hell even when she worked for us, ran back into the house screaming that
the water in the pots was boiling "something furious." And so it was. Whatever was in
the orange rocks made water boil. The family proved that to themselves over and over
again. One of the boys, Jeremy I think, chipped off a thumb-sized fragment and brought
it to his 5th grade teacher who got the same results by clunking it into a glass of cold
water."
"Boiling?"
"Yep. The stones heated water." Simmony seemed pleased with her revelation. "The rest
of the story we've already heard. Some sort of agency people show up, confiscate the
rocks and later take the boys downtown. They wanted to interrogate them and learn as
much as they could about where in the ground the rocks had been found. They needed to
keep the boys somewhere other than the jail, so the rooms under the old courthouse
seemed the best place. They say there are tunnels under there and..."
"I know," interrupted Brooke. "That is one story I have heard all my life. The caves and
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tunnels under the courthouse. The teachers used to tell us that to scare us, remember?"
Simmony remembered. They had indeed been in some of the same classes together,
although never friends or even much of acquaintances.
"The town has a lot of mysteries," said Brooke finally. "This writers circle...well, for my
part, it's a lot of hypothetical supposition. None of those old hens are going to solve any
cold crimes or find out who shot John and where the bodies are buried."
"We can try," said Simmony. "It beats writing romances."
"The weirdest part is how Torri Whack wanted to squelch the thing. The sordid crap of
Kizzie Flavell and her suicide is totally okay for her to dredge up, even if some of Kizzie's
family are still in Aristock, but the Bastian boys..."
"Off limits," said Simmony. "I told Subaru the story once, and he informed me---as those
Plus Sized Clubbers do---that it was all perfectly clear. The Bastians in 1978 had
discovered new source of energy that could have been cheaply mined and available to
anyone at little or no cost. In an era of gas rationing that wouldn't have done. Thegovernment or what passed for it under Jimmy Carter needed to suppress any kind of free
energy. They even tried to outlaw solar power in those days."
"And they will do it again," rejoined Brooke, "when the need arises. What happened to
Charisma?"
"She could be spooked easily. My father told her it might be some sort of witchcraft and
to never talk about it outside of the house. The Bastian parents had moved. That was all
anyone needed to know."
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"Your father was wise."
Finishing her drink and poking invidiously at her broadleaf salad, Simmony added "I hate
government conspiracies. There are too many of them. I don't think any government in
this country is even capable of keeping a secret, let alone making two boys and their
families disappear."
"There may be governments other than the one we know," said Brooke, arising from thetable and preparing to return for the end of the writers meeting.
VI. Aristock Memorial High School, class of 1992
As they returned to the library through the crowded streets of the central business district,
Brooke once again heard the faint and disjointed strains of the barbershop quartet issuing
from the tiny theatre next to the courthouse. She's old and gray and thrown away..." Etc.
Brooke didn't want to hear anymore. She was neither old nor gray nor thrown away.
And neither was Simmony. Both, it turned out, had been in the same graduating class atA.M.H.S. 1992, an unremarkable year, and Brooke had been far more focused on boys
and having fun than on other girls. For that reason, she and Simmony had scarcely been
aware of one another. Simmony ran around in the very pack of so-called college-bound
girls, preppies, that Brooke had always keenly avoided.
"You were bad," laughed Simmony at some point. "Now we're both just aging mothers.
Subaru and Jared and the others will be teenagers next year, and pretty soon off to college
themselves. That's why I joined the writing circle."
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"That's what this writing thing was supposed to be about," said Simmony. "Finding our
voices...our memories...applying them to something outside of ourselves. Something
bigger."
"Like Kizzie Flavell, the evaporating Philomena and her horse and the still unaccounted
for Bastian boys."
"I guess," shrugged Simmony, no doubt getting bored with Brooke's apathy. Then she
pointed toward the restroom near the library stairwell. "There were mysteries there too,but I don't suppose you remember any."
As Simmony spun away toward the restroom, Brooke realized that they had been sitting
on opposite ends of the huge conference room table and would probably reassume their
initial seats. She would probably not see Simmony again. She wondered briefly whether
this was good or bad. "Like what?" she said as Simmony blended into the crowd waiting
for the toilets.
"Like what?" Brooke repeated louder.
"Like Draven and Raven Ganzersky," came Simmony's voice from the crowd.
Brooke was thunderstruck. The strange vagrant who had briefly kidnapped her that very
morning had said those names. Staggered, Brooke realized that she had no idea of who
they were. She had a vague memory of some shy, unassuming twins who went to her
school and who had rhyming names, and there was some funny business about them that
students in the senior class used to allude to at times, but Brooke had never seen Draven
or Raven and knew nothing of the story except that the girls were identical twins.
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More stupid mysteries, thought Brooke as she regained her seat. I need to get out of here
on the next break. Brooke also realized that she needed to at least ask Simmony about
Draven and Raven because of her own cockeyed adventure that morning.
The lady who had been sketching out the details of the unfortunate Bastian boys and their
parents had not returned to the meeting. Brooke wondered why.
Torri Whack gave no explanation and simply went into a long diatribe about the nature of
investigative bio-fiction. "When the facts run out," she said, "you have to invent yourown. This is a creative writing platform. We are not cops or private detectives. Change
the names and make up a good story. That is how you get published."
Brooke timidly raised her hand. For a minute or two Torri, absorbed in her own
monologue, ignored it. Then she finally pointed at Brooke to speak.
"If you ask me, Ms. Whack, the Bastian boys vanishing in a courthouse basement should
be a great story in itself. I could think of all sorts of imaginary details."
"I bet you could," said Torri with undisguised disdain. "But that old orange rock storyhas been around for years. Nobody has ever found any orange rocks. That brownfield
outside of the Veterans’ Project was fenced off because it was a dangerous dumping
ground of War Department surplus. The Bastians should not have been digging in there
to start with."
Another attendee muttered some sort of muted agreement and added "We decided not to
explore any so-called government conspiracies. They are just
too...too...well...commonplace these days." Others in the room grunted their approval and
Brooke once again fell silent.
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Then another story stub came forward. The lone black woman in the gathering mustered
up some vocal courage and began talking about a girl named Tomeka who had a girlfriend
named Danea whom she smothered to death for no apparent reason in 1990. The group
hushed to gather in the scant details. It was obvious that lurid murders were much more
to the liking of the gathering than disappearances and orange rocks. The Tomeka and
Danea story degenerated into a free-for-all discussion of teenage mores, and once again
the twin demons of drugs and obscene music were invoked. There was a general and
spirited agreement that these things were bad and often led to teenage murder andsuicide.
Brooke, disgusted, wondered whether Philomena, her horse and her friends, had been
doing acid when the first two vanished in plain sight. That would have made a lot of the
middle aged ladies very pleased. An easy explanation.
As the early afternoon wound on, Brooke found herself thinking more and more about
Draven and Raven and the outlandish Nathan Sorrell who had mentioned them. Maybe
that would be her story, seeing as how she had already been a small part of it. Maybe she
could find herself with Draven and Raven...what was their last name? Ganzersky. Sheneeded to waylay Simmony when the meeting was over.
When her mind finally regained consciousness of the discussion around her, Brooke began
hearing a lot of breast beating about pedophiles and child molesters. The entire gathering
was, apparently, against them. How this discussion had got started she did not know. But
some unnamed person was being flaunted as the worst child killer to ever live in Aristock.
Brooke did not hear a name, and so she did not know at the time that the ladies in
somewhat hushed tones were discussing someone named Nathan Sorrell.
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This was something she would learn later.
VII. The Tax Party
"I hate school carnivals," grumbled Brooke as she and Simmony Devaney purchased a
ticket and walked into the now dusty and crumbling and soon to be demolished structure
that had once been Aristock Memorial High School, a huge three-storey brick edifice that
had outlived its usefulness but most certainly not its memories.
"It's for a good cause," said Simmony. "We need an extra penny sales tax to pay for new
sewers."
A different group of much younger adults and their children roiled about the stage and
gymnasium, the floor of which had been transformed into a carnival ground with several
home made booths scattered over the rutted boards of the old indoor basketball court.
Looking in all directions at once, Simmony seemed pleased. She greeted a few old friends
and shook hands with children who seemed to be automatically drawn to her. "I was a
cheerleader here once," she blurted to no one in particular. "But I don't suppose youremember."
"I don't," said Brooke, somewhat annoyed. "This gym and that stage hold no memories
for me. Oh, except one! I lost my virginity in the ninth grade behind those old seating
stands."
The remark was calculated to shock Simmony but failed.
"I did too," said Simmony quietly.
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Brooke was starting to see Subaru's hitherto unknown mother in a different light.
Perhaps the two of them did, after all, have things in common.
In all, the gym floor was speckled with little knots of happy, chattering citizens
intermingled with local civic figures who, unlike Brooke, did not hate school carnivals. At
every attraction booth there clustered excited little throngs who issued disconnected sound
bites, the shreds of various truncated conversations that, taken as a whole, meant very
little to Brooke, who had always maintained herself as a staunch outsider to Aristock society. Words flew up from the crowds. At one booth which featured bean bag throwing,
a persuasive activist whom Brooke knew as Melody Chapman proclaimed to all present "I
took a Xanax before I came here. Maybe that is why I am speaking slowly."
Another end of the gym floor had been staked out as male territory, and a podgy man
wearing a striped business suit announced to those around him that " It was because of
drug deal gone bad." Brooke did not remain long enough to learn what the "it" was, but
the words were pronounced with the kind of ersatz solemnity that marked the fringes of
the evening's merriment.
At a rather sloppy refreshment table, two women with retro beehive hairdos were
rhapsodizing over how lovely the children were. One of them, a flabby, hair-dyed lady in
too tight spandex pants exclaimed that she could not wait to see the children perform.
A somewhat clumsy magician wearing a top hat and a gold -braided waistcoat was pulling
balls and scarves out of people's mouths. At one point he reached inside his cummerbund
and produced a rather sleepy rabbit which was coated in pink powder ostensibly in an
effort to make it look brighter. He dragged the bunny forth and deposited it on a card
table. The rabbit, immobile, immediately began sneezing and coughing.
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"I didn't know rabbits coughed," said Brooke abstractly.
"You'd cough too if you were covered in pink powder and stuffed in that dude's vest," said
Simmony.
Farther toward the raised stage, another group of excited mothers were dusting up and
brushing off a little girl whom some of them eagerly deemed as being "just too cute." The
girl's name was Janeen something, and she was preparing, somewhat reluctantly, to recitea epic poem which she had written in crayon on a long scrolled roll of brown paper.
Janeen walked up to the microphone, stuttered a bit, and began. "Why We Need Sewers"
was the title of her work, and she began in a squeaky, halting voice:
"Yipes, yipes, we need pipes." The mothers in attendance clapped, encouraging her on,
and---redfaced---Janeen continued. "Doers make sewers and we are doers."
"Oh Jesus," said Brooke, "do we need to listen to this?"
"Not really," said Simmony, tugging her away from the stage. Janeen, oblivious to whowas listening or not, continued. "Yipes, yipes, we need pipes."
Farther along, a group of four men dressed in broadly striped pants and straw hats were
clearing their throats and preparing to perform something vocal.
The goddamn barbershop quartet, thought Brooke. It is impossible to get away from
them. Before Brooke and Simmony had worked their way through the crowd to a
makeshift lottery wheel decorated with various clown faces, the quartet had already
begun. She's old and gray and thrown away. All her tomorrows were yesterday...
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"I can't stand this anymore," said Brooke suddenly taking Simmony's arm. "Let's get out
before we're driven totally bonkers."
"Not before we see something," said Simmony with a slightly cagey look creasing her face.
"Remember we are investigators."
Unfortunately, Simmony's last comment was overheard by a tall, feisty man in pantaloons
wearing a chest badge that announced he was the master of ceremonies for the evening'sevents. As he was a member of the mayor's council and a local dignitary of sorts,
Simmony was quick to introduce him to Brooke. His name sounded something like
Arthur Armpit, and he was someone that everyone was supposed to know in Aristock.
Simmony wasted no time in telling Brooke that Arthur had once been a coach at the high
school, a job which he was now too old to perform.
"Arthur was the last man to ever talk to Nathan Sorrell," volunteered Simmony.
Brooke was dumbfounded upon hearing the name. She began to stammer out a question
about Sorrell, but was interrupted by Arthur Armpit, whose real name turned out to beArdpett. "That was a long time ago, ladies. Before you graduated. And I assure you that
the filthy pervert is dead in a ditch somewhere. No one has seen him in Aristock for
decades. I hope to god he is somewhere where he can't do any more harm." Ardpett
seemed satisfied with his righteous role in this hushed-up scandal which passed totally
beyond the comprehension of Brooke, but about which Simmony had an all-knowing look.
"Who is Nathan Sorrell?" Brooke babbled in spite of herself. She was very close to
divulging the events of the morning.
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"I'll tell you later," said Simmony. "I'm surprised you can't remember. I guess we really
did go our separate ways in high school." With that she steered Brooke away from the
former coach-turned-civic-leader and sought refuge in a less populated corner of the
bustling gymnasium. Behind them, the two women could hear the maddening jumble of
mangled conversations punctuated by little Janeen who had not yet brought her
unmitigated poem to a conclusion. "Yipes, yipes, we need pipes" she kept repeating.
And then the barbershop quartet decided to roast up their act. They tapped their canes
on their brimmed straw hats and gave a long and ramblingly melodramatic reprise of "She's old and gray and thrown away."
"Yeah, we know," blurted Brooke, "All her tomorrows were yesterday."
"This place is really getting to you," said Simmony. "Let's slip upstairs and find some
memories."
VIII. Room 303
The stairwell, one of four in the ancient condemned building, was lit only by a flickeringbulb of the lowest possible wattage. Across the stairs was stretched a yellow folding fence
with a handwritten sign: CAUTION DO NOT ENTER. STAIRS UNSAFE. Beyond the
fence, the shadows closed in like the curled fingers of a somnolent giant. "C'mon," urged
Simmony. "Let's not let an old stairwell scare us."
"One can only imagine how many times we passed going up and down these steps," mused
Brooke, lifting her legs carefully not to disturb the barrier.
"Your problem was that you never gossiped with us enough back then," whispered
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Simmony. "Just like now. You kept to yourself. Anyway, I lied."
"About what?"
"About not knowing you. I was well aware of you since the tenth grade. You were one of
the pretty ones, like me, and I always wondered just what you were up to, why you didn't
join us."
"I was daydreaming of this very day," said Brooke with a tinge of sarcasm. "My future. Iwas preparing for it."
The two women climbed higher and higher over the broken tiles of the school stairs until
after a right angle turn they emerged in front of a door marked SECOND FLOOR.
"Want to re-experience the second floor?" said Simmony.
"I'm sure it is full of ghosts. What I really want is a cigarette."
"Here," said Simmony, holding a mostly empty pack in front of her. "I've been saving one
for you."
"You smoke?"
"Yes, and I drink too. And I dropped a lot of acid. And blew a lot of weed back then."
"I did my share. Let's not tell Jared or Subaru about the cigarettes now. The club
disapproves."
"They disapprove of everything," said Simmony, shrugging her shoulders in the dark
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stairwell. "Well, what about the second floor? We were in a biology lab together. Of
course you don't remember."
"Not really."
"No big deal. As I said, I noticed you. I remember some of the classes we had together."
"And now we're older and in another one. Which reminds me: Who is Nathan Sorrell?"
"Go ask the folks below," said Simmony. "Lots of them are our age and older. They'll tell
you exactly what Coach Ardpett did. Nathan was a pedophilic child molester and
probably murdered two girls. You could start a great conversation with that."
"Where and when did this all happen?"
"Right here at Memorial. Once again, you were lost in your own world. Out of the loop."
"No, I wasn't. I was fucking Josh Bratphram."
"El-O-El."
"What about Nathan Sorrell? What if I told you I kind of know him?"
"You used to. We both did. Briefly. And that is part of the mystery. Remember we're
supposed to be solving mysteries or at least adding to them. I started with the Bastian
boys and their rocks but the trail led me to Sorrell."
"I kind of figured you had more than a passing interest in those boys."
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"Yeah. Old Charisma did her trick on me. But I reached a dead end, kind of."
"So we knew Sorrell?"
"Yep. But that is another floor up. Want to go? This is a cabinet of lost memories, this
school."
"Sure. Hey, what about a light for this cigarette? All I have is the habit."
Simmony found a plastic lighter and reached out in the filmy darkness to light Brooke's
cigarette. In the quick glow of the flame, Brooke saw the face of someone she now
recognized even more clearly as a former classmate from over twenty years ago. A
different Simmony flared up in her view, a kind of sinister drama queen reigning over a
whole tribe of others like her. Brooke searched her mind for extended reasons to dislike
her but found none. It really is impossible to say you know someone, she thought once
again. We never get inside each others' skins until it is too late to care. But in some
corner of her thoughts, Brooke was starting to care. The mother of her son's friend was
transforming into what Brooke might have called a person of interest, and those were fewand far between in Brooke’s life.
Once again, the final staircase was illuminated by a dim security bulb, and there were
other signs warning trespassers that the stairs were hazardous. Old plastic notebook
covers, sheets of wadded paper, and ripped up textbooks littered the steps. Moving past
them, the two women ascended into a denser darkness and arrived at the unhinged door
of the school's third floor.
"Let's stroll down the hall," said Simmony. "Maybe memories will start cascading into
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your mind."
"Memories of you? I don't think so."
"Why not? We had some classes together. Twelfth grade. American Civics. Room 303. A
required class where we did very little but fuck off. Taught at first by a coach like all the
useless classes are. Taught by none other than...."
"Arthur Armpit," said Brooke. "Didn't we used to call him that back then?"
"Guess so. What a fucking waste. All he did was talk about the teams. We didn't learn
shit until....Until in around February, when snow was up to our asses. Ardpett couldn't
take any more, and they hired a new teacher because coaching season for baseball or some
shit was coming up. So they finally got a new guy. You probably never noticed that either,
fucking what's his name as you said."
"Probably not. I hated school. Boring classes taught by coaches..."
"Yeah, I know. But this new teacher was special."
"No teachers were special."
"This one was. Ah, here we are. Room 303, east corner, third floor. Wonder if the room is
unlocked?"
"Who was this new teacher?" persisted Brooke, "and why was he special?"
"That, madam, is going to be in my book: The Mystery of Room 303. But let me say for
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one he wasn't much older than us. Right out of college I guess. And kind of handsome.
Suppose you didn't notice that either. He was lively and interesting, unlike the coach, and
he actually tried to teach us something."
"None of these goddamn teachers ever taught me anything. The first thing I ever really
learned for sure was in college."
Simmony, still in the semi-darkness, put her hand over the doorknob of Room 303 and
twisted it. The lock creaked and the door swung open with a greater ease than it shouldhave. Inside, the space was illuminated by the lights of Aristock shining in through four
corner windows which, although filthy, admitted enough of the cold city lights to make the
desks and bookshelves quite visible. "Any memories yet?" said Simmony.
"A few," said Brooke glancing around. "But none of you."
"You sat here," said Simmony pointing to a desk in the second row close to the door. "I
sat back there with the girls."
"Sounds like school to me. What great mystery took place here? And who was this newteacher?"
"You haven't guessed? Who is this story about?"
"Sorrell?"
"Bingo."
"So the child murderer was our teacher?"
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"Yup, for about two weeks in February. Then he disappeared."
Wiping some accumulated dust from a desk chair, Brooke sat down and stubbed her
cigarette out on the wooden floor. "Another disappearance? This is getting old. I think
you have been hanging around Torri Whack too much."
"Remember she said that disappearances were less interesting than murders. There was
supposed to be a murder...a dual murder here."
"Who?"
Simmony sat down beside Brooke in the deserted classroom without dusting off her desk.
She found another cigarette, offered it to Brooke who refused, and lit up, blowing mangled
rings of smoke into the street light luminosity. "That Josh Whatever must have really
been good in the sack. You don't know a damn thing, do you? I guess I'm going to have to
tell you what I remember, what has been known in most parts of town now for a long, long
time."
Suddenly, a soaring shadow blocked the classroom door. A stern, businesslike voice rang
out. "You mean like how Nathan Sorrell brought the Ganzersky twins to this room, had
some kind of hush-hush buzz with them, and that the last that was ever seen of them was
in his car during the week before he left town himself?" It was, of course, Arthur Armpit,
former coach and now civic leader promoting the one cent sewer tax. "You girls are
trespassing, you know."
"We know," said Simmony with some defiance. "I also know that you called the police in
on Nathan Sorrell. For what reason I have no idea, but it was after he had a quick
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conversation with you one day outside the school that the cops began crawling all over
Sorrell looking for evidence. Evidence which apparently they never found. You were a
one man show, Coach, in promoting your replacement's reputation as a murderer. But
there never was enough data. Only you and your persistence. I also know that it was your
wife Marie who called in the authorities years before on the Bastian kids, but that is a
separate story."
Ardpett entered the room and assumed a pedagogical pose in front of the two women.
"The facts stand alone," he began. "You were here that day."
"How would you know, Coach? Did you have your lecherous little beady eyes on senior
girls too?"
"Maybe. You were both very pretty back then."
"Both?" said Brooke. "Back then?"
"Oh, you're still pretty now, if that is what you're wanting to hear Ms. Nescott. And no, I
only took note of who was in the class that day because I thought I would have neededwitnesses. As it was, the facts were pretty clear. Right before the bell, Draven Ganzersky
came up from her class on the first floor and spoke to Nathan. She had no business here.
Raven was in Nathan's class. She arrived early and took a seat as usual. Nathan had
some secret conversation with her before the start of class. Then Draven came in."
"Really unusual, Coach. Enough to convict a guy for child murder?"
"Yes, especially after both twins were seen in his car two days later. That alone was
confirmation. Teachers are not supposed to be chauffeuring students around. And then
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the girls were gone."
"Just like the Bastians?" volunteered Brooke.
"Very much so," said Ardpett. "Only that was years before."
"But the funny thing," resumed Simmony is that the Ganzersky parents refused to
cooperate. They eventually moved away from Aristock. It was like their twin daughters
never existed or never mattered. They pressed no charges and asked for no investigation."
"And let me guess," said Brooke, "Neither girl was ever seen again."
"Never."
"But you see," continued Simmony unruffled, "nothing really happened until Coach
Ardpett came running up to Mr. Sorrell a day later in front of the school, where I and the
others just happened to be. It was after that that the girls were seen in Sorrell's car. The
whole story, therefore, hinges on whatever it was that you said to Nathan Sorrell outside
the school. You were both trying to shout and whisper at the same time. You attracted alot of attention that day."
"You've done your research well, Ms. Devaney. But that was twenty years ago. The trail
has gone very cold."
"And yet you still persist in painting Nathan Sorrell as the grisly perpetrator of a crime.
You have added your own details too over the years. Like how he molested the twins just
before he kidnapped and killed them. Purely your details."
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know, but it doesn't matter anymore. Sorrell has no business in Aristock."
With that, Ardpett thumped audibly in his descent down the litter-strewn stairs. Opening
the hallway doors, he admitted the jumbled sounds of the carnival festivity. In the
random noise that filtered upward, Brooke thought she heard little Janeen still bleating
"Yipes, yipes, we need pipes." And, feeling twenty years older than the eighteen year old
she had once been in this very room, she very definitely identified the barbershop quartet
who endured with "She's old and gray and thrown away...etc."
"I wish they'd all stop that shit" was the last thing Brooke muttered as she followed
Simmony down the "dangerous" stairs and back into the festooned bunting and makeshift
merriment of the tax party.
IX. Brooke's day is still not over
Brooke Nescott, without asking, settled down in the warm May evening air on a little
wooden bench in the center of a tiny park nestled in the shadow of the Aristock Town Hall
and Police Department, as well as in close range the requisite Federal Building and City
Administrative Offices, all of which were clustered together and seemed somehow to beconnected to one another. "Buildings tell stories," she said aloud to Simmony who had
accompanied her away from the school carnival and was now sitting alongside of her in
the park.
"Suppose they do," agreed Simmony. "Lots of mysteries. Right here. Corrupt town
officials. Government secrets. Conspiracies. Disappearing people. I suppose that is what
it is all about."
"Maybe not," said Brooke, thinking of her domestic partner Eric Palobay and his ultra-
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secretive vap wearers society. "Maybe not."
"So are you going to write something?" asked Simmony.
"Not a word," said Brooke, who at length realized that on her day alone she had learned
absolutely nothing about either herself or any of the other mysteries that had hounded her
life. "What have we really learned today? Murders are more interesting than vanishing
people. The Bastian twins were never seen again, nor were their rocks. An old coach from
our school is now all enmeshed with town politics and probably knows more than he willever admit. You and I kind of--sort of--knew one another in school. Yipes, yipes, we need
pipes! And of course we're soon to be old and gray and thrown away. I don't feel like I
know any more than what I began the morning with. Except...."
"Except what?" said Simmony, showing a slightly elevated level of interest.
In the emergent brightness of the full spring moon, Brooke then took it upon herself to
relate the uncanny events which had preceded her arrival at the library writing club
assembly that morning. Simmony listened fixedly, taking every detail in. At length she
said "We could try to find him! There has to be more to his story. He must know aboutthe government conspiracies...more than one. He would be old enough to remember the
Bastians too. I know this is the work of the government at its worst. They have always
lied to us."
"Maybe not," said Brooke.
"You said that before. Mind explaining?"
"It's this way," began Brooke. "Lots of things are going on all the time which pass above
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and beyond our detection. The world is governed in ways that we do not and probably
could not understand, and it is not all government. Somewhere, somehow there are other
powers. Powers which far exceed anything we know as simple government. There are
groups, groups which have always been there since the dawn of civilization, groups which
wield vast influence and forceful clandestine authority. That is the only thing I am sure
of."
"So we're at another dead end?"
"Fraid so," said Brooke with a prolonged sigh of resignation. "Who are we to delve? We
might discover things that were never meant to be discovered in the first place."
"Like what is really behind the façades of those buildings," said Simmony.
"Maybe. Or what is really organizing our destinies from somewhere else. I'm willing to
bet that Nathan Sorrell has some idea." Brooke sighed again. "We're going to each be
thirty-eight this year. I have a happy life and a great domestic plan. Jared, Eric and
someone else you don't know named..."
"Dragonsnort?"
"Yes, and I'm not even going to ask how you know about him or what he is."
"But we do have the disconnected pieces of the story of the Ganzersky twins. It's worth a
line or two of semi-fiction. Something to please old Torri."
"Hardly. Even their parents didn't care."
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Unexpectedly, a shaky male voice issued from behind them. It was the voice of someone
who had been there all along, someone who had been watching, no doubt following. It was
a voice edged with years of strain and the corrosive damage of every sort of self-inflicted
abuse.
"That should tell you something," rasped the voice. A silhouette emerged from the
gloomy, untended bushes in front of the courthouse. "I've been listening."
It was, of course, Nathan Sorrell, hooded parka and gun. A ravaged and tremblingskeleton of what had once been a strong and reportedly handsome man.
"Too much of a coincidence," said Brooke. "You've shadowed me all day, haven't you?"
"Not until I saw you going into the jamboree. I hang around here. I sleep here sometimes
I am a bum, to use a precise term. I suppose you saw that this morning. But I heard your
comment about powers beyond our knowledge, and I want to tell you that you are right."
Brooke looked at Simmony, wondering what the latter would do. She had come to faintly
respect the courage and non-conformity of this woman. She wondered if Simmony wouldbe alarmed by the sight of a down-and-out man in a hood with a gun. She was not. "An
opportunity to get some answers," Simmony said. "Too bad he doesn't come with a fifth
of whiskey and some smokes."
"Maybe I do," said Sorrell. "Maybe I do. If you want to find out, let's get away from
these government whorehouses and whatever secrets are behind their walls. Let's go sit in
the parking lot of Mega-Mart. The store is closed and no one will bother us. I won't have
to share my whiskey with the other tramps here either."
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And so as the temperate spring Aristock evening darkened into night, the trio trudged off
down Fleetwood Avenue to the dimly lit but spacious parking lot of one of Aristock's
largest emporiums.
"This may finally get interesting," said Brooke. "The day is not over, is it?"
"Not by a longshot," agreed Simmony.
X. Conclusion if there can be one: The account of Nathan Sorrell
"Hope you ladies don't mind the accommodations," said Nathan, passing around a fifth of
bourbon and lighting three cigarettes at once.
"Not at all," said Brooke. "Most of the fun things I have learned in my life, I learned
from homeless bums with a bottle of cheap booze in some out of the way place. I'm also
guessing that your gun is and always has been empty."
"Right about that," wheezed Sorrell. "You two were pretty in high school. But you have
no fears from me. I'm done in. You can see that."
"Yeah, and we have no plans to rescue you," added Brooke with an air of nonchalance.
"You promised some explanations. My bet is that you have a need to talk and that will
suffice."
"Right again," said Nathan Sorrell. "Where should I start? The Bastians? That
happened in 1978 right before I started college. Or should I jump right into the
Ganzersky twins and our friend Coach Ardpett?"
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"Just tell me one thing," interjected Simmony. "Our old family maid told us that the
Bastian boys had discovered rocks that boil water, a new and free source of energy, and
for that they were whisked away. Is that true?"
"Yep. By a special association that protects the world from such atrocities as free energy
as long as there is money to be made on petroleum, natural gas and such. So if you ever
run into a source of free force, keep it quiet. Next question."
Brooke took a long swig from the whiskey bottle and a deeper than usual drag on hercigarette. "I'm bored," she said. "I don't want to hear about super powers."
Nathan Sorrell smiled pleasantly at her and winked his watery eyes. "Not into super
heroes with real special powers either? Like in the movies."
"Maybe that, but not agencies, associations, groups, assemblies, governments...etc."
"Okay, I'll tell you about some super powers. If we had a Batman or a Hulk here,
someone would be sure to use them unwisely. That is what happens to super powers, not
like in the films."
"Now I'm getting bored," sighed Simmony. "Why don't you start with Room 303. That
day with Draven and Raven Ganzersky and take it from there."
Nathan Sorrell took a big swallow from his bottle and began, almost in a nodding, dozy
stupor. It was not clear that he was actually talking to Brooke and Simmony but rather at
some unseen spirits emanating from behind the invisible curtains of a now-distant past.
I was new at your school. Took over from that super patriot Ardpett whose sole mission it was
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to inform the authorities about anything unusual like the Bastians. He had no idea of who he
was relaying information too either. Never has. Just doing his duty. He had government
connections back then too, but, as you know, we are not necessarily talking about government
per se. Government officials are only conduits to something much, much larger.
It was February. Snow covered all the streets of Aristock. I was finally out of college and on
my first teaching assignment, and I wasn't really sure if that was what I wanted to do in my
life. In so many ways, I was bored.
"I can relate to boredom," interrupted Brooke. "I really can."
I arrived at your class earlier than the students and was staring out of one of those third floor
corner windows in the room, and I saw Raven and Draven Ganzersky walking down the street
toward school. The only thing that struck me then was that they were in point of fact true
identical twins. No one could tell them apart. That intrigued me for some reason. Raven was
in my first period class. Her sister Draven was in another class on the first floor---gym with the
famous Arthur Ardpett. That was about as far away from my room as one could get.
Raven arrived, shyly as she always did and sat down in the back, opened her book and wasquietly reading. Both girls were modest and undemandingly plain. I had a minute to talk to
Raven alone, and so, on impulse, I did. I went back and asked her if ---as an identical twin---
she had any special connection with her sister. It was like I was the first to ever show an
interest in her or ask that question, so she looked up and answered me. She said of course she
did. They were joined----mentally. Each was in contact with the other all the time.
So I asked her to prove it. I asked her to get her sister to request a pass and come to my room
without Raven budging from her seat. Could she do that? Of course she could. I said just get
her to come up here right then or a little after class started. She could make an excuse to her
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extraordinary gift could be used for...and you can be sure it would have been, to say the least,
evildoing on some large scale. I risked my own reputation to save Draven and Raven, and
saved them I did.
Along with their parents, they got beyond the reach of ...of ...whatever. Some people call it The
Centre, the ancient masters who direct and manipulate most human activities on Earth and
could have well used bookend twins capable of mentally communicating over long distances.
Think of the possibilities. It ruined my life. Ardpett warned me never to return to Aristock
because of his friends, and he subsequently smeared my reputation, making me out to be thechief actor in their disappearances. And later he added child molestation and murder.
Although neither have ever been proven.
After finishing his monologue, Sorrell rose erratically to his feet, swayed a little under the
influence of the alcohol and said a simple goodbye. "I am going to glide back into
wherever I came from. Don't tell my story. Not here or anywhere else. The twins are still
safe. They have changed identities and even faces, so I've heard. They deserve a normal
life." Then he walked away. Neither Brooke nor Simmony would ever see him again.
Later as midnight turned into early morning, Brooke, still alone on her free day, sat at herkitchen table with a pen in her hand and a yellow legal pad in front of her. She had the
story now. As did Simmony. Simmony, however, had said she had no plans to write or
embellish it. She never bothered to tell Brooke why.
Brooke felt for a brief moment or two that she could do so. All I have to do is change the
names, she thought.
She stared long and hard at the legal pad in front of her.
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And then the paradoxes of both her checkerboarded life and the intersecting stories of the
Bastians and the Ganzerskys began clouding up in her brain. Life was inexplicable and
bewildering. Her own strange experiences had already shown that. Did everything need
to be explained? Nathan Sorrell had sacrificed his entire productive life to shield two
seventeen year old, unnoticed and unseen, former classmates of hers. Who was she to get
involved at thirty-eight? Where was the use in it?
How could one human being ever hope to understand everything possible about another?
In a sunken and now quietly comprehensive resignation, she looked at a family portrait of
Jared, Eric and Dragonsnort.
Then she threw the pen down on the table, rose to her feet and said: "Fuck it."
_______________________________________________________
Devon Pitlor April, 2012
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