Foreseen Demise

dead.

- I -

Tell me what you see, Helen.

The twenty-two-year-old woman reclining in Everett Wiess’s office chair squirmed uncomfortably, struggling with her unease. She required further calming. Dr. Wiess glanced at his watch as he placed a hand on her forehead. It was already 7:30 p.m.

Helen, I want you to take in a long, deep breath of air, deep into the bottom of your lungs, then let it out slowly and relax. What you are seeing are memories of the past, not the present time. You are completely safe and protected. No harm will come to you. At the count of three you will continue on, according to my instructions, and report back to me. He lifted his hand and in a slow, clear and steady voice said, One...you are completely relaxed. Two...you are four years-old again and living in your house in Chesserfield. Three!

He picked up the pen from the notepad on his lap. Now, describe to me what you see.

Helen made a humphing sound, and turned her head; her long blond hair swished against the black leather upholstery. Her eyes remained closed. She shifted her legs and her skirt edged up her thighs. Everett’s eyes rested on the scene for only a moment before shifting back to his notepad.

I’m in my house, she said, her voice timid and childlike.

In Chesserfield?

Yes.

How old are you?

Four years-old. I’m four, she said, over-pronouncing the fs.

In her mental picture, Helen was looking down at her favorite red and white dress. Her chubby child fingers slid across the red satin ribbon that encircled her waist. She reached back and touched the large floppy bow tied at her back. On the front of the dress was a plain white bib, with delicate eyelet lace around the edges and a small red bow at the top. She touched the bow carefully with her fingertips, then slid her hands down the sides of her dress, remembering the softness of the fabric. She spun around, and the material puffed out at her sides.

What part of the house are you in, Helen?

Her attention was drawn back to his voice. She stopped spinning, and her child eyes looked about the room with curiosity.

The kitchen, she said.

What are you doing in the kitchen?

I’m going to the back door.

Why are you heading there?

I’m getting some cherries for Mother. She’s making a pie for Sunday dinner. She said I could help.

The young girl admired the soft blond curls that bobbed on her shoulders with each bouncy step.

Are you going to pick the cherries?

No, they’re–

The adult Helen frowned; her hands seized the leather arms of the office chair.

What do you see, Helen?

I’m at the door.

What door? Where does it lead?

His patient shifted ever so slightly in the chair.

To a room, she said in a hushed voice. Daddy built it onto the house.

Go ahead then and open the door.

Everett watched her with a practiced eye. Any movement, such as a flicker of the eyelids, movement of the head, or curling of the fingers could mean an important event had just occurred in a patient’s mind. In a relaxed state, a patient’s actions might only mimic to a minor degree what they were experiencing inwardly, like someone fighting off dragons in a dream, while only tossing slightly in bed. It was his job to bring out those images verbally. In some cases, the withdrawing of information required sterner coaxing.

A moment passed as she fidgeted. Her hands quietly worked at an invisible doorknob.

The door is stuck... There! She drew her hands back sharply as if she’d been stung.

Now, step into the room, Everett directed firmly, placing a reassuring hand on her forehead, and tell me what you see.

Helen took a cautious step forward.

Through previous sessions Everett had learned a great deal of Helen’s history. The only child of Ray and Evelyn Shear, she had grown up in the north central region of Washington State, in a town not far from his own childhood farmhouse in Oroville. The Shears maintained a twenty-five acre orchard – small in comparison to their more prosperous neighbors, but fruitful enough to support their small family. Some of Helen’s fondest memories were of the hot summer afternoons she spent in her mother’s company at their modest, plywood fruit stand at the foot of their long gravel driveway, discussing whatever the subject of the day. If they were lucky, a car would stop long enough at the small booth where they had so colorfully laid out their harvest, to make a purchase. The bulk of their crop was packed into wooden crates and loaded onto a large flatbed truck to be transported to the nearest packing house for sorting and distributing.

Helen never ventured into the family orchard, where the blackbirds and starlings flitted about the trees, descending in plucky dives to pilfer a piece of ripening fruit the moment the orchardist’s back was turned. Her contact was limited to a distant view.

Helen’s parents were loyal parishioners of the First Baptist Church at a neighbouring town. While her parents were reserved in nature, they were never unkind to their daughter. At least, in no way that Helen could recall. Yet the early years of Helen Elizabeth Shear’s life remained a blank to her.

Everett had found this was often the case when dealing with a patient who had suffered a traumatic event as a child. It was a self-defense mechanism of the human psyche to block out the truly horrible, so that the person can grow and continue on in life in a relatively normal manner. But the memory lapse protection had a flaw. With the source of their affliction locked away in the subconscious, a victim was helpless to understand and deal with the problem.

While Helen’s weekly sessions had not yet revealed a specific trauma in her life, her paralysing fear of birds was most likely the result of such an event. She had come to see Dr. Wiess nine months earlier when her ornithophobia had extended beyond birds to any winged creature. To Helen, a mosquito buzzing near the ear held the same crippling terror as falling off a cliff. Few people understood the intensity of her fear, finding it unbelievable and ridiculous. Friends and schoolmates had been among the worst provokers, finding humor in tossing a bug or pieces of fluff her way to illicit a reaction.

Her phobia restricted her life in many ways. City life only, she once told Everett. No camping or hiking in the woods. No lake or ocean visits.

Everett found it incredulous that Helen had never visited the ocean’s salty waters. Living in Red Oaks, in the mid-western region of the state, meant that it was less than an hour’s drive to the scenic beaches of the Pacific coastline, and even closer to smaller inlets along the way. The feel of rippled sand beneath the soles of the feet, the smell of drying seaweed in the air, eating fish and chips on the sand, lying back in the sun and listening to the hypnotic rise and fall of the waves... How could she never have experienced that?

Seagulls, she said.

The latest incident had affected the young legal secretary’s job.

How a moth got into the building that day, and managed to flutter its way up several floors to the west wing of offices of McClelland, Shea and Associates where she worked, where not one window could be opened, and the air ventilation system relied on a complicated web of ducts, was uncertain, and may have been missed by anyone else.

Helen’s screams could be heard all the way to the east end.

A man by the name of William Bill Barnstone was the first to rush to the scene, finding Helen frozen on the floor against the wall where her chair had toppled backward. She could only point to the fluorescent ceiling light where the flying bug, which moments earlier had circled her head and landed on the brief she was typing, now fluttered above them.

A confused Barnstone stared at the moth for a moment, then back at her.

What the –? he said, his brow dipping. Then his expression changed to one of familiar cruelty. He tugged up his pant legs and sprung up on her chair and the desk, scooped the moth up in one hand, and with an entertained laugh leapt down to the floor and let it go in her face.

The same fear that had kept Helen glued to the floor now propelled her out the door. She ran screaming and sobbing down the hallway, taking refuge in the rest room for nearly an hour. Crying and embarrassed, she was helped to her car by two female co-workers.

That was a Monday afternoon. Tuesday morning she called Dr. Wiess. She chose his name from the long list of psychiatrists in the Yellow Pages.

After several preliminary sessions, Everett felt Helen was ready for some Regression Therapy. This was their second attempt.

His patient’s breathing became audibly faster as she continued to describe what she saw in the small room in her childhood home in Chesserfield.

There are lots of shelves. The walls are plastic. There’s another door over there. She pointed to the left-hand corner of Everett’s office.

Where does the door lead?

Outside. But Mother keeps a hook on it because sometimes the wind blows it open.

What’s on the shelves?

Some jars, and some baby plants that she’ll put in the garden later. Oh, I see them!

What do you see, Helen?

The cherry jars. There’s a whole row of them.

In her mind’s eye Helen watched her tiny hands reach up to the shelf above her head and wrap around a mason jar full of the swollen reddish-brown fruit. She carefully lifted the heavy jar down and clutched it close to her chest so it wouldn’t slip free. Then the child halted.

In his office chair, Helen’s breaths became clenched.

Everett shifted forward in his seat. What is it?

Helen whispered: A scratching noise.

Where is it coming from?

Above me. She motioned upward with her chin, unable to point with the cherry jar held tightly against her chest.

The young girl took a step backward, her eyes slowly scanning the higher shelves. Then they followed along the length of the square wooden beam that reached across the ceiling of the homemade storage room, and the plastic that spread away from it. Whatever it was, it had not moved again, and Helen quickly turned around to the door behind her, anxious to get back to the kitchen.

Just as her small child fingers gripped the fat globe of the doorknob, a wet soupy splatter struck the side of her head. It slopped down her face and onto the bib of her dress. The scratching started again and Helen spun around, dropping the jar. Her frightened shrieks brought the equally alarmed intruder out of hiding.

There was a high-pitched squawk, and a wild fluttering encircled her head. Black wings pounded her face; claws tangled in her blond curls and ripped at her cheek. Helen’s head was jerked sharply upward as the creature worked to free its talons from her hair. Her small arms fought a futile battle as she wailed. Blood dripped from the cut on her cheek and onto her bib, mixing with the excrement.

An adult Helen slapped a protective hand against the side of her face. Her breaths were labored.

Tell me what you see! Everett demanded.

Helen didn’t answer as the young girl struggled to open the jammed door. Then she swung around, and her desperate eyes fixed on the hook on the opposite door. But it was too high for her short body to reach.

What’s happening to you, Helen?!

I can’t get out! she said, with panting breaths. Her hands cupped her ears. The sound. It’s making a horrible noise!

What is?

Black wings!

The large black bird was now slamming back and forth against the plastic walls in its desperate attempt to escape the turmoil it had created. The young girl leapt backward just as two jars of preserves crashed to the floor. A stream of her urine puddled between her shiny black buckle shoes and she withdrew into in the corner of the room, curling up into a protective ball.

Tears tumbled down the face of Everett’s patient. She gripped the arms of the recliner with white knuckles, her knees were halfway up to her chest. Everett’s hand found her forehead.

On the count of three you will no longer be in the tiny room, he said, quickly. "You will be far away from your house in Chesserfield. You will return to a deep state of relaxation. One, two...THREE!"

Helen responded with a deep gasp, then a loud exhale. She lay still for a moment, then sniffled and settled back into the chair; her legs uncurled. Her eyes remained closed. Everett grabbed two tissues from his desk and dabbed her face.

All right, Helen, he said, removing his thin, silver-framed eyeglasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. When I snap my fingers you will awake feeling rested and calm. You will fully remember what you have just recalled, but you will not be afraid, as it will be quite clear to you that you are safe. The bird that was trapped with you in that room in Chesserfield when you were a young girl was as frightened as you were, and only wanted to get away, as you did. You will no longer fear the bird, but rather, feel a comradeship and compassion for it whenever the memory reoccurs.

Everett was not certain that this singular suggestion would work. A powerful tool as it was, hypnotic direction often did not immediately eliminate a behavior that had become a part of a person’s lifestyle. He expected more sessions.

He replaced his glasses, brought a hand to Helen’s ear and snapped his fingers. Helen’s eyes blinked open, and her drowsy gaze drifted about the room. She eventually focused in on Everett.

Dr. Wiess?

How do you feel?

I’m not sure, she said, wiping away some remaining tears with a tissue he handed her. She discreetly ran a hand along the back of her skirt and was relieved that she had not actually urinated. She smoothed her crumpled blouse and tucked her blond hair behind her ears.

You did very well. It was a good session, he said.

Yes... I guess it was, she said absently, still feeling somewhat hazy and bewildered. She eased the footrest of the chair down until the recliner was positioned upright. Then she turned back to the doctor, a sudden clarity rising in her troubled blue eyes. She covered her face with her hands and collapsed into tears. Everett sat with her for several minutes while she recovered.

He eventually glanced at his watch. Their session had already run ten minutes over its slated time. He squared his shoulders and clasped his hands together, drawing his patient’s attention.

Helen, as a young child what you experienced was terrifying. I can not imagine how frightening it must have been for you. But you are not that little girl anymore. Don’t let what you have learned today cause you greater pain. Instead, be happy in knowing that you’ve just uncovered the first vital piece of a puzzle. Finally, something tangible we can work from. You’ve set your own recovery in motion.

When Helen looked at him, she was no longer weeping, the last of her tears were drying on her face. But in her mind she continued to relive the aftermath of the bird encounter. When my mother finally came, the bird was gone, she said. I never talked about it again.

I’m sorry, Helen.

She touched her right cheek where a faint white scar remained. Everett hadn’t noticed it before.

It was well after eight o’clock when Everett finished typing his notes on Helen. He slid the typewriter to the side of his desk, laid his glasses down and rubbed his eyes. It had been a long day, a long week. He scheduled evening appointments for patients who were unable to attend during regular hours. Having an office next to his house allowed for more flexibility. The late day sessions had started out as a occasional convenience for his working patients, but his evening slots had quickly filled up.

His hands worked to knead a knot out at the back of his neck, then his fingers brushed through the gentle waves of his hair, massaging his scalp. In his university days he wore his dark-blond hair in a ponytail that hung down between his shoulders. Now it was trimmed to just above his collar.

The thirty-seven-year-old doctor had retained his boyish good looks. He had a clear, lightly whiskered face, square jaw, and deep blue, penetrating eyes that didn’t diminish through his glasses. He had once been described by a woman as looking serious and sexy. He preferred intellectual and sexy, but laughed at the comment anyway.

Everett loosened his tie and fanned his starched shirt. Despite frequent downpours for most of the spring, this day’s heat had been a reminder that the summer sun was waiting amongst the breaking clouds to make its full entrance. Or maybe it was an internal heat. Maybe it was Helen -- her skirt, her hair, her innocence. Perhaps, it was the drama of digging into her subconscious, uncovering her deepest secrets, playing a part in revealing something about herself of which she was unaware.

He did admit that he felt a pleasurable stirring when he was near Helen. But he had no desire to compromise his integrity. He had penile control these days. Nothing scientific, it came with maturity. At thirty-seven he had control of the reins on his sexual organ, not the other way around.

He wondered how many of the female population educated at Lexington University, during his time there, continued to regard him with disdain these many years later, having succumbed to his sexual advances in their youth, only to be passed on after a date or two. He winced, recalling some of the uglier scenes. He wasn’t proud of those days. He had shrugged off his reckless ways then. Yet he wondered how many faces he’d forgotten over the years. He could only hope they’d done the same of his.

Despite his reputation around campus, the truth was, his true interest lay elsewhere than the conquest of the opposite sex. Those closest to him knew it was education, not sex that was his top priority. He had set his sights on becoming more than a doctor of general psychiatry, but that of a great physician and scientist. The potential of the human mind had fascinated him for as long as he could remember. The brain was much more than a large grey mass of nerve tissue that interpreted the senses of sight, touch, hearing, taste and smell, and provided the vehicle for thought. Within the mind lie the secrets to success, failure, memory, personality, disease, survival, and the control of one’s own course in life.

He had intended on discovering the undiscovered, to achieve a milestone in psychiatric research and become as well-known and respected as Freud before his thirty-fifth birthday.

Everett tipped back in his chair with his hands clasp behind his head, and stared up at ceiling. Stop being so full of yourself! he could hear his father say. You’re not going to be any more than your old man. Less, if you don’t get back to work. It was a familiar speech, after which a young Everett would go and shovel horse shit out of the stable for hours and wonder what it was his dad was so proud of.

On his side was his ability to excel at his studies, and the recognition of his potential by a handful of devoted instructors over the years.

Everett rubbed the sides of his whiskered face, and sighed. He had great dreams back then. But time had a way of changing things. He was resigned to the fact that he was never going to be a great psychiatrist. But, at very least, he was going to be a good one.

Everett shuffled the papers on his desk into a single pile. Forget it. He wasn’t going to think about anything else, but tomorrow – Saturday. He was already picturing himself in his favorite wrinkled chinos and cotton shirt, flipping burgers on the barbecue.

His thoughts of a juicy hamburger were interrupted by a knock on his office door. He swung around in his chair and replaced his glasses.

A brunette head popped through the doorway. She flashed a friendly smile. Hi, are you done?

Toast.

Grace Wiess walked in long strides across the room toward his desk. She slipped off her pumps while stretching her arms into the air and emitting one of those long tough day groans, and slid onto her husband’s lap. Her silky, blouse-covered arms glided slowly up his shoulders and around his neck.

Just get home? he asked in between kisses.

About twenty minutes ago, she said. So, how’s the bird girl?

Everett raised a curious eyebrow at his wife.

I saw her leaving, Grace explained, her massaging hands instinctively zeroing in on that knot at the back of his neck.

Everett smiled. "Helen is doing quite well, actually."

Did you regress her?

I did. We had a breakthrough today.

That’s good news, she said. Her lips brushed against his cheek and he caught a fleeting scent of the remnants of her day’s perfume.

As a social worker Grace’s job was similar to his, -- sorting out other people’s problems --, albeit at different levels and with different counseling methods and customers. Grace had recently started up a Friday afternoon Teen and Family clinic at the Family Counseling Center. It was her responsibility at these special meetings to reunite estranged families, or work to mend troubled teen/parent relationships before a separation could occur. Neither he nor his wife pretended to understand the day-to-day workings of the other one’s job completely, but he appreciated the special insight into each other’s profession they shared. It allowed for a mutual understanding. And for consoling on less accomplished days.

Everett’s hand skimmed up Grace’s stockinged thigh, and she placed her hand on top of his wandering one.

I’m starving, you know, she said.

So am I.

Food. She swatted her husband. I was talking about food.

You know, when I was a kid I was allowed to have my dessert first, he said, his teeth expertly tugging at the material around the top buttons of her blouse.

You liar. Your father would have jabbed a fork in your hand if you’d tried it.

Everett’s grip on his wife didn’t loosen.

I’ll accept the consequences, he said.

Hmmm... Don’t be so quick to make such a promise, she said softly, a discernible change in her tone of voice as she found herself surrendering. Grace pressed against him, her eyes taking on that lofty look he loved. The blouse opened, and his lips moved toward her flesh.

The telephone ring startled both of them. They pulled apart suddenly, as if they were teenagers caught making out in the back of his parents’ car. Everett’s head dropped back against his chair with resignation and he released his grip. Grace snickered as she slid off of him.

You’d better answer it, Grace said on the third ring, still laughing as she tripped backwards across the room, while fastening her shirt buttons.

Everett rocked forward with an exaggerated groan and picked up the receiver.

"Doctor Wiess," he said, with a fake cheerfulness that kept Grace laughing as she retrieved her shoes.

Marian?

Everett placed a hand over the receiver, and whispered to Grace: It’s Frank’s daughter!

No. No, that’s all right, he said, his face growing serious as he returned to his caller. I’m finished for the day. Yes, it has been a long time. How have you–

Grace watched her husband’s expression grow graver as he listened on the phone. His eyes shifted in her direction.

I’m so sorry, Marian, he said into the receiver. Is there anything I can do?

Grace stepped up to the desk.

What is it? she mouthed quietly.

Everett’s hand covered the phone again. He looked stricken.

Professor Frank has died, he said.

- II -

The funeral service was held the following week, at Jamieson and Sons Funeral Parlor on the east edge of the city. A tall white cross at the top of the parking lot marked the location. The red masonry structure had a large A-frame entrance and heavy wood-plank doors. Inside was a built-in chapel and reception hall. The preparatory area was in the basement. Bodies were discreetly wheeled in through the double doors at the rear of the building, embalmed and painted with makeup, and brought up for services or viewing in a small elevator used only by the attendants.

The building was originally built and pridefully used as a non-denominational meeting place for worshippers in the early 1960s. The group was led by a migrated southern California minister, whose loud sermonic voice, grand gestures and spirited displays of emotion evoked an infectious religious fervor. He was ahead of his time, and theirs. Within a few years the novelty wore off and the congregation began to dwindle, affecting the upkeep of the building. It was sold to the Jamieson family in 1968. At the same time the family purchased the thirty acre cemetery next door. It remained the largest of three funeral parlors in Red Oaks.

While located only a short four mile drive from the city center, the area possessed a distinct country setting that could have easily been miles out of town. Rows of hardy Maple trees lined the narrowing two-lane roadway that led to the site, behind which, fields of grazing cattle or horses were intermixed with stretches of hay and wheat. Expansive family homesteads were set back on the large acreages.

Everett made his way along Lexington Avenue East, past the trees and the cows and the wheat fields.

Most of the major attractions in Red Oaks were on, or just off, Lexington Avenue, a lengthy ten-mile road which traversed the length of the city.

Those who were not familiar with the area might think it was called Lexington. It was an easy mistake. In the center of the city was Lexington General Hospital – six stories, newly renovated, and the major acute care facility in the area. Two streets over was the statuesque Lexington Museum, with tall clear windows that stretched higher than the totem poles implanted on the front lawn. Next door was the Lexington Public Library, and in the surrounding vicinity were the Lexington Recreation Center and Lexington Senior Center. There were Lexington tea houses and Lexington-named shops scattered all along the main streets and in some rural locations. The city was most well-known across the country as the location of the highly accredited Lexington University (1938), which had helped developed the intellect of some of the country’s more renowned scholars.

Red Oaks was originally known as the City of Lexington, named after a man of English heritage and wealth – Edward Alfred Lexington – an American citizen since early childhood, and a Washingtonian by the age of thirty. So impressed by the botanical beauty of the region, with its grassy flowered fields and underground springs, the Cascade Mountain range providing a breathtaking backdrop to the east, and the towering crest of Mount Ranier visible to the south, Lexington used his wealth to pull some bureaucratic strings, and with haste, he christened the enchanting rural offshoot the District of Lexington in 1915, after his family.

But in the 1950s, a developer by the name of Rudolf Geist also became enamoured with the quaint rural town, and the city’s first subdivision was developed. He was soon followed by a caravan of other developers who were quick to pick up on a good thing, and soon there was a rapid influx of would-be suburbanites from the neighbouring, larger metropolises. The harsh echoes of hammering were said to have cut through the air, nonstop, for two straight decades. During that time, Geist successfully put the name of Red Oaks on the table, a name that stuck with him after passing through the small community of Red Oaks, Iowa, while on a road trip with his family. It was a fitting name, with a suburban appeal, he convinced the local town council, even though actually finding a red oak tree in the area would be a challenge, since none of the species were indigenous.

At his own expense, Geist had a red oak transported to the re-named town. In a less than ceremonious display, the small, travel-weary tree was planted next to the newly engraved town sign that proclaimed (in the city’s newly painted colours of red, gold and green): The Municipality of Red Oaks.

In the end, the sorry-looking red oak surprised everyone, growing to respectful height of more than sixty feet, providing abundant shade for the four story municipal building in the hot summer months.

Everett was ahead of schedule, so he drove slowly, feeling somewhat somber and introspective as he sat behind the wheel of his BMW. He hoped his presence at the professor’s service would make up for some of the neglect of his old friend. But he knew it couldn’t possibly. They had lived in the same town, yet except for a few unexpected encounters in the city that required a courteous wave from across the street, or a nodded hello, they had never stopped long enough to make plans to get together. It had been thoughtless of him not to visit Frank all these years. He had met the professor during his first year of graduate studies at Lexington University, after a particularly lengthy lecture on The Correlative Patterns of Simple Primate Behavior and the Human Condition. Students had begun filing out of the auditorium before the obligatory applause had even ended. But Everett remained back, staring down the sloped rows of the lecture hall as Professor Frank packed up his notes, working up the courage to introduce himself.

Frank was the first to speak when he noticed the young man lagging behind. His strong voice carried to the four walls of the empty theater.

Either you have been fully captivated by the intricacies of primate/human correlative patterns, or you’ve fallen asleep. Which is it?

Everett had wondered to whom the professor had just spoken. He looked from side to side, and behind him. Then, realizing that he was the only other person in the room, he sat forward.

Sir?

The heavy-bodied man climbed the stairs, his arms loaded down with notepads and hardcover books. He stopped when he reached Everett.

Well? he asked, catching his breath.

Everett shrugged, and then said, hopefully, Captivated, sir.

Indeed. Frank considered the student over the flat rims of his half-glasses. Walk with me and tell me just what you found so profound.

The professor handed him half of his load to carry, which Everett managed, together with his own notebooks, as he scrambled to keep up with the sizeable man.

For the most part, Professor Frank’s study interests were considered experimental psychology, exploring areas of human behavior and response that were considered unconventional. For that reason he’d been dubbed the secret hallway nickname of Doctor Frank-enstein. But the professor’s knowledge of the neurosciences was broad, and his scientific approach to psychiatric medicine was what first drew Everett to him.

During his final year, Everett applied for a part-time position as an assistant for the professor. He got the job, as no one else applied, and Professor Frank quickly took him under his wing.

Everett wondered why the professor had not tried to contact him. Maybe he had been even less forgiving of his protege’s mutiny than the young doctor realized.

Everett arrived at the funeral home ten minutes before the service was scheduled to begin, and quickly took a seat in the chapel to avoid having to participate in the niceties that strangers engaged in at these times. Despite the close proximity of the university where Professor Frank had dedicated more than twenty-five years of his life, only slightly more than a dozen people had come to pay their last respects. Everett didn’t recognize any other former students.

The first half of the service was ceremonious and heavy with religious protocol, then the aging, stooped minister spoke on a more personal level about the man he had heard a great many good things about, and wished he could have known better. Unfortunately, he was dead now, Everett thought.

The minister wrapped up the service with more religion, and announced that the burial would take place at the cemetery next door in about twenty minutes, for anyone who wished to attend.

After the service the small crowd gathered outside the chapel. The rain that had poured on and off for the past week had finally ceased, but a noticeable dampness hung