Open Book Selections From Fuel For The Fire
by Elizabeth Phillips Goehringer Your registration has brought you to Open Book Selections from Fuel For The Fire. The Prologue through Chapter 3 are previewed below.
By registering you are among the first to be offered a 15% pre-publication discount. A limited number of pre-publication Fuel For The Fire owners will also receive autographed copies.
Thank you for your interest. You won't be disappointed. I challenge you to try and untangle the inter-twining mysteries of this end times novel of political corruption as it paves the way for the New World Order!
Enjoy your Open Book Selections from Fuel For The Fire!
Warmly,
Beth Goehringer, author
Open Book Contents for FUEL FOR THE FIRE
If you have read the Prologue at www.fuelforthefire.net or athttp://www.joyfulexpressions-photography-art.com/FuelForTheFire.htmljust skip this section & scroll down to Chapter 1.
If you have wandered to this page without seeing or reading the Prologue to Fuel For The Fire - WELCOME!
Now - dig right into Fuel For The Fire!
Open Book - Prologue
The late April day was unseasonably hot and the intermittent drizzle had brought humidity instead of relief. The woman mopped at her pink cheeks while peering myopically down the block. No bus! She frowned, looked in the opposite direction and then over her shoulder as she pushed back a damp lock of silver and brown hair from her forehead, snapped open her shoulder bag and retrieved an eyeglass case.
While she pulled out a pair of glasses and tucked the arms behind her ears, she impatiently searched the distant street corner for the familiar glass domed shape. The unexpected heat had squeezed more than the usual number of sweaty, miserable bodies from the South End's three and four layered apartment houses, but there was no sign of the bus.
She lifted her wrist to glance at her watch, and the eyeglass case slipped to the sidewalk. As she bent to pick it up, a dark hand suddenly plucked it from beneath her. Startled, she straightened up as a young black man handed the case to her."Let me help you ma’am.” His accent was Jamaican, but he dragged out the words in an exaggerated drawl. The words were polite, but there was something unpleasant about the way he said them and the combination of his sleeveless leather jacket, heavy gold jewelry, dark glasses and tattoos didn't inspire confidence. His lips were smiling, but the rest of his face was hard.
She had never seen him before and moved back a step. "Thank you for helping."
She wanted to get away and anxiously searched for the bus again. Two other young men in similar apparel were strolling purposefully toward the bus stop.
"Irie - no problem. Get my drift?” His head was high. Cocky. He looked down at her from under his sunglasses and stepped closer to her.
She didn't get his drift, but her heart thudded and her hand trembled slightly as she pulled her purse tightly to her side. Get a hold of yourself, she thought, He’s right. There's no problem. They're just coming to the bus stop.
Behind her a roar sounded and she gratefully turned toward the bus as it squeaked and hissed to a halt. She sank into a seat in its middle as the three tough looking men headed for the rear. She was glad there were other passengers, but there was still something wrong. She could feel it. There had been something wrong for a long time, but the sense of impending doom had accelerated since she had quit her job.
But I had to quit, she rationalized. There was no longer a choice. Not if I wanted to live with myself. And now there's just one more task I have left to do and then I can pack up. She smiled a slight smile, and whispered faintly to herself, "And it's a good task. A wonderful task."
The bus stopped and picked up additional passengers. Safety in numbers, she thought with relief. She shifted in the clammy vinyl seat and sighed as she mused, besides this fear is nothing but a feeling. No facts. Just feelings. She took a deep breath. The air-conditioning felt wonderful! And it was almost rush hour. The bus would be full before she got off.
Everything is going to be all right. No problem. Irie, like the man said. She allowed the West Indian colloquialism to reassure her as she recited to herself, I’m close…so close. Just four more stops.
She reached into her bag, took out a compact, angled it so that she could see her face in the mirror and brushed some blush over her cheeks and chin. She readjusted the mirror as the bus jolted to a stop and the doors folded open. In the momentary lull while passengers loaded and unloaded, she applied a fresh coat of lipstick, but suddenly caught a reflection of the back of the bus. The aisle seemed to be filled with gang types. She squinted into the mirror. This is the last downtown stop. They should be getting off, she worried. But then her eyes opened wider and the hand with the lipstick froze as a new passenger briefly stepped in range of her mirror.
The gang was forgotten. Everything was forgotten. The lipstick and compact dropped into her purse. There were other stops, but she hardly noticed.
Her stop was next. She reflexively reached up to pull the cord to signal the driver to stop. It was her habit to exit by the front door. It was safer, but now her curiosity propelled her toward the rear.
As she rose from her seat, she nervously turned to see if she had correctly identified the passenger in the back, but as she entered the aisle someone suddenly bumped hard against her. She staggered and her glasses tumbled from her face. She squatted precariously and frantically clawed at the floor for them, but the aisle was full of irritated people awkwardly avoiding those who were pushing toward the exits. Suddenly a dirty athletic shoe squeezed through the sea of legs and crushed the glass.
A familiar voice sneered, "I'm so sorry. Let me help you ma’am,” and a hand reached down to snatch her arm. She looked up into the same leering face she remembered from the bus stop as his hand yanked her toward the steps and other hands roughly shoved her down them.
"Stop. Please stop!” she pleaded as she began to lose balance, but their momentum had already forced her down the stairs and through the door. One ankle was buckling under her. The door swooshed closed. Twisted, jeering faces were all around her pushing and shouting. "Ho.... Snitch.... Cracka.”
She screamed and caught a quick glimpse of a mocking smirk in the bus window. In her fleeting distraction, a husky brown skinned youth ripped her purse from her grasp. The contents dumped across the pavement and as she grabbed for it her feet tangled in the straps. She tripped and slammed against the steamy side of the bus.
She tried to yell, "Help,” but her parched tongue wouldn't twist around the word. Only a guttural whisper erupted to be absorbed by the roar of the straining engine. Her sweaty palms slid down the surface of the vehicle as she desperately grasped for a knob, a crack, anything to help her regain her balance. But as the bus jerked into movement, a hard rubber sole rammed her knee and she lurched uncontrollably toward the huge vehicle's underbelly. Its hot breath spilled against the pavement and wrapped her stumbling body in smoggy billows as she frantically struggled to escape its wide double wheels.
Open Book - Chapter 1: Mrs. MilesThe early May shower had trickled to a stop and the warm, heavy air was laden with the delicious spring scent of damp earth. It drifted lazily through open windows and drew the city out to its terraces, patios, balconies, porches and streets.Jeremy and Janisa Clark were also pulled by that magnetic weather away from the promise of the 'Nine O’clock Movie', through their French doors, and onto their ornately filigreed white balcony. She snuggled against him, but despite their physical closeness, he seemed distant. In fact he had been strangely silent all evening.
"What's wrong Jer?"
"Didn't you read today's paper, Jan?" He moved toward the edge of the balcony and peered into the darkness. "There's been more trouble in the projects. Rent strikes. Today the city evicted twenty-five striking families." His olive-brown complexion was flushed, and his voice rose imperceptibly. 'Literally evicted!" His eyes flashed. "Sent sheriffs and police and put them and their belongings out on the street."
Obviously distraught, he paused thoughtfully. She waited, wondering. As if to himself, he continued, "Today on the bus I saw...terrible things. A woman was shoved and jostled as she tried to leave the bus. I thought she fell, but the bus was crowded and I couldn't tell for sure. At any rate the driver didn't see and she left by the rear door along with a bunch of young bangers. As the bus was leaving, three of the ‘brothers’ knocked her down, kicked her and grabbed her purse. The bus was just pulling off. A couple of us yelled for the driver to stop, but it was too late."
He hesitated, his jaw moving in a choppy rhythm. Almost as if in a trance, he remembered his wife and looked hauntingly into her eyes. "Baby,” His voice was very tight. "They had to hose her off the street."
"Oh no, Jeremy." She slumped onto the wrought iron love seat.He looked down at her. "There's more. Worse."
She stared at him, silent, the back of her neck prickling ...chilled despite the heat.
"Some people laughed. No,” he knew what she was about to say. "No, not in shock. They laughed. Some clapped. They were glad."
Her hands and neck had become clammy. Her stomach contorted. Strained and staccato, he continued, "She...the woman...looked well off, was white, wearing a suit, and they were glad."
Regaining almost normal composure, he became increasingly provoked. "Jan, I don't know where this will end. People are really hurting. We've been lucky. You've been promoted. If my research grant isn't cut, I'll continue my work at the lab. And,” he swept his hand at their surroundings with an almost disdainful glance, "we live here. In all this affluence."He raised his voice, angered, "You remember, Janisa. You remember our roots. You've told me of your childhood in the ghetto and of your anger and frustration. Those were relatively good times. Multiply that hostility ten or a hundred times. Unemployment has reached the highest level since the thirties! Welfare, food stamps, medical benefits have been cut. How can people manage? How Jan?"
She rose thoughtfully from the love seat and stood beside him, "I don't see how they can. I thought a few years ago that we were finally beginning to climb out of the quagmire of race wars, but now...."
She gazed across the wide boulevard at the other gracious, reconstructed row houses gently illuminated by filigreed, wrought iron streetlights. She looked up at him and suddenly grabbed his right hand with her left and stretched their intertwined arms in front of them. Her pale skin contrasted starkly against the darkness of his.
"How can people destroy each other just because of color? That would be like me murdering you because your eyes are brown and mine are green! It's insane." Her hand trembled as she raised tortured eyes toward his face. "I'll admit it. I'm scared. I'm afraid of the racial implications. And no, I don't know how the poor will make it. I'm not sure how we'll manage either. No one's job is that secure."
She looked pensively into the night sky as she considered the unknown future. "You've never known poverty Jer! I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy." Her voice trembled and trailed off. He wrapped his arms around her and they stood as an intertwined silhouette against the muted glow from their living room until she haltingly whispered, "That poor woman. If that can happen to someone just because of her color, what's next?"
-----------------------------------
April showers bring May flowers. The childhood chant beat through Janisa's head as she avoided thoughts of the previous evening and looked at endless streaks of rain. She busied herself with breakfast for six-year-old Sandy and four year old Lora, washed dishes and wiped noses as her mind churned through the events of the previous day.
She left Lora comfortably watching a Sesame Street rerun to wave 'good-bye' to Sandy as he boarded his school bus, and to retrieve the 'CITY NEWS' from beside the front door.
She rapidly scanned the front page expecting to relive the horror of Jeremy's experience, but the paper stared back vacantly. There was nothing. She noisily flipped the pages. Nothing. Finally in the obituaries there was a notice of Mrs. Vera Miles; died May 7, 4:15 p.m. when she fell under the wheels of a commuter bus; no known family; resided in the West End.She suppressed a feverish chill as she nervously tapped the Medical Center numbers, listened to the announcement and punched the digits for Jeremy's extension. His Voice Mail was activated. Where is he, she thought as she left a brief message for him to call her, and impatiently replaced the receiver.
"Come on Lora!" Her voice was brusque and nervous, and she did her best to sound more motherly. "You can finish watching Oscar at Amy's. Her mommy will take you to school." It was Diane Martinelli's job to drop Lora and her own daughter, Amy, off at the Tiny Tot Day Care Center, and Jan's or Jeremy's to pick them up.
Lora enjoyed the Day Care Center and loved life. With her usual high spirits, she jumped up and grabbed Janisa's hand. "Okay Mommy...but I can't forget Gina."
She quickly ran to her bedroom and brought out a well-worn rag doll with curly black yarn hair. Jan handed the four year old her flowered raincoat as she skipped through the door, then wrapped her enthusiastic little body in a quick hug."Mmm, that felt good. Bring me home some pretty pictures.""Okay Mommy. You have a nice day."
Smiling absently she focused on Lora's buoyant black curls, so much like her favorite doll's, as the little girl padded down the wide front stairway to the Martinelli's first floor apartment.When Diane answered the door, Lora waved a kiss back up the stairs. In a morning ritual, Janisa caught it between her hands, tucked it in a pocket and ducked back inside her apartment. Jeremy was still not answering his extension. She glanced at her watch and dropped the phone on the table as she grabbed her trench coat, opened the door and rushed into the hallway. As the door locked behind her, she heard the phone ring. She ignored it and dashed down the stairs, knotting her belt as she ran for the bus.
She had delayed too long. The bus was already on the next block. Sweating and damp, she reversed her steps and hurried toward the parking lot behind their building. Despite her preoccupation, she looked with pride at her new silver toned company car.As she pulled out of the driveway, she involuntarily shuddered. Was it just a tragic accident that took Mrs. Miles life? Or were people frustrated enough to vent their tensions on a stranger? She hoped not, but she knew it was possible, perhaps even probable. Such a brazen mugging was alarming enough, but murder? And why the low profile in the ‘CITY NEWS'? As a Senior Ad Rep for Women's Way Magazine, she was convinced that news is usually greedily uncovered...not hidden.
She thought again of Jeremy and fumbled in her pocket for her tiny cellular phone, but there was nothing there except a tissue. She quickly checked her other pocket. "A great beginning to the day,” she mumbled to herself as that pocket also proved empty. Then with determination she directed her thoughts toward advertising as she exited from the thoroughfare.
------------------------------
She squeezed her compact into an empty spot in the subterranean parking garage, took the elevator to the twelfth floor, dropped a contract on her desk and checked her voice mail. There was a message to call her husband, but he had left the lab.
Finding no other messages, she decided to work on layouts, but as she gazed thoughtfully through a window, the sight of a city bus nudged her thoughts back to the puzzle of Mrs. Miles. She impulsively grabbed her purse and rode the elevator to the lobby. Rain sputtered outside the plate glass windows, but while she hesitated, the sun slid hazily from behind a cloud and suddenly burst free. She quickly exited to the sidewalk, crossed the street and hurried three and a half blocks toward the CITY NEWS. Maybe, she mused, I'll get some answers there...professional courtesy, etcetera. Knowing she would probably end up working late, she ducked into a hotel to use a pay phone and called Jeremy's lab. This time the hospital's primary line was busy.
"Unbelievable,” she muttered. She retrieved her coin and phoned Diane Martinelli. Diane was going to her mother's and agreed to pick up her daughter, Amy, on the way. She would let the Day Care supervisor know Jan would be there to pick up Lora before six. She also offered to put a note on their apartment door for Jeremy.
Abe Mercier, the reporter assigned to the story was at the CITY NEWS, and he too was troubled with questions about Mrs. Miles' death. He was young and dark with broad features, tight black hair cut close to his scalp and bright, inquisitive eyes behind dark rimmed glasses.
They decided to cross the street for coffee, but were surprised to find the wind gusting and a sullen sky split into dark and light. They quickly entered the drab little coffee shop. The waitress smiled and seemed glad to see them, but as they sat in a worn out booth, the sky spontaneously opened with a thunderous explosion that rattled windows and shot vibrations beneath their feet. The rain poured down in sheets and hammered against the glass.
"Whew - we just made it,” she blurted as he stared at the surging streams already rushing beside the curbs.
He turned back to her. "Jan,” he began with just a hint of a drawl revealing his southern origin, "I'm new on the job. 'Uncle Sam' just let me go. I've been assigned to Obits - usually very cut and dried. But this Mrs. Miles' accident thing bothered me. My position is mostly at a desk, but the reporter assigned to cover the accident arrived on the scene, she said, after everything was uh, well, pretty well mopped up, so to speak. She didn't have many details. She said the police didn't seem to know much. In fact, according to her, the police said no one actually saw her fall."
"But my husband was there!" Jan could barely contain her self. "He must have given a statement. He saw her attacked by several black gangbanger types. He felt there was a racial motivation involved."
"Then why,” Abe shook his head, "didn't our reporter get any of that info?"
"There had to have been other witnesses, Abe. Jeremy said some people actually laughed and clapped."
"Oh no!"
She continued, "I know people, especially minorities, are going through a lot of hardship right now. Things were rough when I grew up, but we were more likely to take it out on each other than on someone just because she's white."
Abe looked at her sharply and raised an eyebrow."Yes. I'm mixed...bi-racial. My mother was white".
"Was?” he asked quietly.
"She died a few years ago...of poverty more than anything else. My father died of a heart attack my senior year of high school."He mused, "I never knew who my father was. My mother never knew. There are all kinds of identity gaps when you're missing part of your history. And kids are so cruel. They never let you forget you don't have what they have."
"Or,” she interrupted, "you're not what they are. I think that's part of my interest in Mrs. Miles. It's so unreasonable, unfair that someone could, maybe, die because she wasn't their color."
His eyes sparkled and he reached across the table, slapping the palm of her right hand with the palm of his. "Go ahead sister! We're going to find out what happened. Now where are you parked? Can I give you a lift?
Open Book - Chapter 2: The StreetsThe storm had ushered in a premature dusk, so Jan flipped on her headlights as she slowly drove to pick up Lora. For the first time that day, she listened to her radio. With an increasing sense of despair, she heard the news....
“H & W ELECTRIC, one of the largest employers in the city, has tragically been unable to resolve its credit and labor difficulties. After months of labor and loan negotiations, H & W has finally been forced to declare bankruptcy. At 4 p.m. today...."
She glanced at her dashboard clock - 5:15, and unrelatedly thought, Jeremy should have just picked up Sandy from the After-School Club.
The broadcast continued,"Fifty-five hundred H & W employees joined the thirteen percent in the state already seeking employment".
She quickly recalled what had been left out: Located on the fringe of the ghetto, H & W had been in the forefront of affirmative action, hiring large numbers of minorities long before it was popular or law. The company had eventually become sixty to seventy percent minority. Her mind continued to race: thirteen percent unemployment translated to about thirty-five percent minority, and sixty percent minority youth unemployment!The pit of her stomach felt hollow. This bankruptcy was an especially terrible blow to the minority community, already at the saturation level. Like a phantom she could hear Jeremy asking, "How can they manage, Jan?"
The newscaster continued, "Faced with an escalating deficit and a cut in Federal funds, the city today evicted ten more families from the Haddom Heights scaled-income development all of whom owed three or more months past due rent. These evictions followed on the heels of last week's Congressional action lifting the winter ban on evictions and the earlier Supreme Court decision outlawing rent control. On the other side of the coin ninety percent of all remaining tenants at Haddam Heights have instituted a rent strike vowing to deposit their rents in a special escrow account until their neighbors are returned to their apartments.
“In my interview with Mrs. Maggie Wright, spokesperson for the Haddam Heights rent-strikers, she said, 'If ah'm laid off, it could be me next. Mah brothers and sisters has hardship. The government ain't got no right puttin peoples on the street.'"Janisa was very familiar with Mrs. Wright's reputation in the black community and recognized her husky drawl. Despite a minimal formal education, she was a very shrewd and committed activist - a staunch advocate of the militant tactics of Rapp Brown, Stokely Carmichael and others from the 1960’s. Younger adults had been spokespersons for her causes in recent years. If she was involved, the city had better carefully consider its actions. Jan was afraid for the future, yet proud of Maggie Wright for helping the helpless. As the announcer turned to sports, she switched the radio off.
The rain had slowed to an intermittent drizzle. By the time she arrived at the Tiny Tot Day Care Center it had stopped, although the sky remained blanketed with charcoal-gray, restless clouds. As soon as she walked through the door, Lora ran to her with her promised drawing.
"Don't wrinkle it, Mommy,” she implored as Jan gave her a damp hug. "Can I hang it on the refrigerator?"
"Of course darling - it's beautiful. I can't wait to show it to daddy.” It was a surprisingly accurate sketch of their apartment building. Even the balcony and two large maples were included. Lora had been showing unusual aptitude for drawing. Jeremy and Jan had discussed the possibility of a class for her at the nearby Craft Center.
Lora's teacher told Jan that Jeremy had called for her around three p.m. For the umpteenth time she wished Jeremy would stop leaving his cell-phone in his car. She used the Daycare phone to call home again. No answer. He had probably stopped to buy whatever groceries he had been calling to ask her to pick up.Janisa helped Lora into her raincoat while the exuberant little girl chattered about her day. Hurrying to the car, she tightly cuddled her rag doll with one arm and held snugly to her mom's hand with the other. As they drove though the city, unexpected hazy hot sunshine caused the wet streets to sizzle, and Jan reflexively lowered her window.
Suddenly the sun burst from behind the clouds, and as she turned a corner, there were just as suddenly people on the streets…lots of people. As she stopped for a traffic light her eyes locked with the bitter eyes of a dusky, beaten looking man sitting on the curb. Her memory flashed to Jeremy's story of the white woman on the bus, and she became uncomfortably aware of her own - and Lora’s fairness.
Change light, change, she thought as she nervously raised the windows and punched on the air conditioning. Another angry looking man joined the first, and they stared toward the car with open hostility. Change light. She wished her car wasn't so new, so sleek. She wished she had taken the bus. She wished she had picked up Lora earlier. She wished herself darker....
The light changed. "Good!” She eased into the intersection. People, dark people, on all four corners were standing and staring. Someone yelled, "Cracka!" as a rock crashed into her door. She screamed and Lora began to cry.
"It'll be okay, darling,” Jan tried to reassure her, but the thudding in her chest said, get away, get away, get away. In her rear view mirror she could see a growing crowd. Her car seemed alone on the street. Where is the traffic? Not far in front of her was another group - watching much too quietly. A chill swept down her back and she hit the accelerator, changed direction, and slid into a side street.
Oh no, she thought, how could I have forgotten. H & W Electric is in this block.
Her squealing tires attracted the attention of the milling crowd of protesters in front of the factory. She noticed a large placard, 'MONEY TALKS - POVERTY WALKS - WHITEY SUCKS'.
As she brought the car under control hoping to 'out-cool' the crowd, she glanced at Lora. The warm skin tones of the four year old had blanched to almost gray and she was staring hypnotically at someone lighting a Molotov cocktail. Janisa stamped her accelerator and Lora squealed, "It missed Mommy!"
She frantically turned down a side street. Someone yelled, "Run whitey". A rock hit the back window and Jan thought, Dear God - they’re going to kill us.
She was in a maze of little streets, no longer sure where to turn, but the crowd had no trouble following. They took short cuts across driveways, through yards and behind buildings. She wished she had remembered her car phone. Where are the police? She wanted to scream, "Help!” She wanted to yell, "I'm not white,” but no one would have heard.
She turned another corner. Ahead of her, at the end of the block, was a raised grassy area with three large monuments. Any possible automobile exit was completely blocked. As if in slow motion she remembered the installation of the concrete pillars which were provided to insure a residential neighborhood ...ironically to provide safety for children and all residents.
She rammed her brake, still looking for any possible egress when suddenly a dark youth jumped in front of the car and hurled a huge rock directly into the windshield. At the same instant, she pushed Lora's head to the seat with her right arm, threw her left arm across her eyes and inadvertently stamped on the accelerator. The car plowed full force into an unmovable bulwark as the windshield dissolved into hundreds of flying missiles. Her head hit crumpling metal and all was black.
Open Book - Chapter 3: Missing...She was exhausted. Waves pushed her first one way then another. Thick fog stung her eyes. She could barely see her own hands, but twice thought she saw a light blinking in the distance. It would have been easier to give up and drown, but she could hear a faint voice crying, "Mommy, Mommy". She tried to swim, but kept going under. A tremendous wave swept over her. She was trapped, tumbling over and over. Then sucked down, down....Sometimes she called for "help,” sometimes for "Lora". Sometimes she mumbled of "niggahs". Like the sea, her delirium seemed to stretch on endlessly. She thrashed in her bed, pulling her I.V. and other tubing loose, enacting dreams or reliving the terror that put them there.
The morning sun streamed through the hospital window and sliced across her eyes. She moaned and threw her arm across her face, then looked wildly around the sparse room. In an instant Jeremy sprang from the single armchair and gently smoothed his fingers through her hair.
"Oh Jan, are you really awake? I'm right here. I'm right here.” He leaned over and carefully kissed her lips.
She visibly relaxed and hesitantly said, "Jeremy?"
"Right here baby. I'm right here."
"Where am I Jer?” She looked carefully around the room. "In a hospital? What happened?"
He looked at her searchingly, not sure what to say and finally ventured, “There was an accident. The car was totaled. You've been in a coma."
She looked at him blankly and repeated, "In a coma".
"You’ve been out for almost a week. We’ve been very worried."She closed her eyes for a moment, then suddenly pressed her fingers to her temples, looked at him with anguish and said, “I remember. They were chasing us, weren't they?"
He nodded. "That's what I've been told. When you're able you can fill in the details, but for now I’m so glad you're awake.” He brushed at his eyes and choked, "I've been so worried, but you're going to be okay now."
She gave him that blank stare again and dozed off for a minute, but then her eyes flew open again and she urgently clutched his hand. "Lora! Lora!” she whispered frantically. "Did Lora get hurt? Is she all right?"
He looked over her head to the nurse who was entering the room and quickly responded, "She wasn’t hurt Jan. Only you. And you’re going to be all right. Just get some rest and get strong."As the days passed and her surroundings became real, she began, with increasing frequency, to ask of Lora. Jeremy told her of Sandy's school successes and recounted how he had tried to reach her by phone throughout that fateful day to warn her that the city, and especially the minority community, was edgy - to warn her to avoid the ghetto. He hadn't wanted to alarm her co-workers or the daycare teachers by leaving concrete messages when she didn’t answer her cell-phone. Now he blamed himself. At first she listened and was distracted, but something hidden in his eyes hinted at...she didn't know what, but it frightened her.
Once she was off the I.V., she began to pressure to see Lora. Although her equilibrium was poor and she was unable to venture far from her bed, her mind was clearing and she wanted to see her daughter. She insisted on it.
Jeremy’s face was anguished, "Jan. Oh, Jan.” He grasped her hand tightly, "It’s been a nightmare not telling you, and yet I don't want to tell you. I don't know how.” He paused lengthily and her stomach tightened as the blood rushed to her head. "We had to wait for you to be strong enough. I pray you are."
Her hand in his was clammy and she trapped a scream in her throat. He was nearly whispering, "Baby, the truth is...” He stopped again, and looked wildly around the room as if for someone to help him. Then he determinedly plunged on. "Jan.… Jan. We don't know where she is.”
He stopped and she stared, unable to comprehend what he was saying. It was as if he were speaking in some unintelligible language. She expected...maybe some terrible injury...not death. No. Not death. She wouldn’t accept death, but what was he saying?
He saw the blankness, the incredulity in her eyes, and repeated, “It’s true. We don’t know where she is. She’s missing. We think...kidnapped.” She gasped and he added too quickly, “We’re sure she’s all right though."
He leaned over to hold her, but she weakly pushed him away, "Lora?” she asked hoarsely, "How?"
Mutely he handed her a newspaper dated the day after the accident. He pointed at a headline: RACIAL TERROR ERUPTS.... CHILD MISSING. A recent photo of Lora glared at her. Tears blurred her vision as she haltingly skimmed the article, rereading portions several times. Some words though, seemed to scream at her:
WHITE woman and daughter - child MISSING - possibly wandered - FOUL play suspected - Related incident - WHITE housing inspector beaten...
She looked up from the paper. The words pounded through her head, WHITE, WHITE, and WHITE.... MISSING, MISSING, MISSING. Across the page another headline blared - H & W ELECTRIC FIRE-BOMBED
"Why?" she began, and then interrupted herself to say, "White? Jeremy, don't they know we're not white?"
He handed her a second page of newsprint and pointed to a small article... RIOTERS MISTAKEN - VICTIMS NON-WHITE
"We don't know what the kidnappers want now,” he interjected, "or even what their original purpose was. There's been no contact.”
Unaware that she was staring blankly past him, he paused and then reflectively added, "It's been a terrible week Jan. There have been horrible reprisals. After the first headline, the Klan, Skinheads, and other racist factions,” he choked, "set fire to a car with a black family...mother, father, two young children and a baby. They wouldn't let them out."
Like a massive whirlpool, despair sucked her into its depths. She wanted to scream, "Stop it! Shut up,” but nothing came out.
His voice droned on, swirling around and through her as he continued, "The fire department arrived too late. Black businesses were firebombed. A white deliveryman was pulled from his vehicle and emasculated in a vacant building. There was more rioting. Looting.” Like the rumble of an approaching aircraft, his voice seemed to grow louder and louder until she could no longer understand the words.
She threw her hands over her ears, closed her eyes and screamed, "I want my baby. Lora, Lora, Lora."
The next morning a quick knock on the partly open door and an official sounding voice awakened her, “Janisa Clark?” Startled, she flinched as she opened her eyes. She slowly turned toward two darkly suited men. Resentment suddenly rose up within her and she brusquely answered, "I'm Mrs. Clark."
The two men glanced at each other. The older, a lean gray-haired man with a strong, hard jaw, raised an eyebrow, but explained, “I’m Lieutenant Daly, Mrs. Clark. We need to ask you some questions.” He pointed toward a straight-backed chair near the bed, "May I sit down?"
She opened her mouth to say, "Why?” but instead turned her back to him as he pulled the chair closer to her bed and opened a notebook.
He ignored her attitude and asked, "Can you tell me what happened just prior to your accident, Mrs. Clark?"
She shifted her position and reached for the button to raise the back of the bed as she bitterly met his eyes and spat, "Maybe I’m the one who should ask the questions. Like where were the cops when we needed help?"
The two men again exchanged a glance, but said nothing. She noticed their look and suddenly became aware of her own impotence. A shudder momentarily raced down her frame as she realized that her attitude could jeopardize Lora.
She quickly looked away from the penetrating gaze of Lieutenant Daly and toward the younger man as she choked, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
With tremendous effort she forced her voice into a semblance of calm and haltingly asked, "Have you found Lora? Do you know where she is?” Her breath felt trapped in her chest and a cold sweat beaded on her forehead and palms as she waited a response.
The younger man shuffled some papers and cleared his throat. Lieutenant Daly looked searchingly into her eyes. She was afraid. She wanted honesty if it offered hope. If not, she wasn’t sure what she wanted. She met his eyes, hoping her rigidly enforced composure was convincing.
He scowled, then almost imperceptibly shrugged, and began, "Mrs. Clark, we’re doing all we can to find your daughter". He paused, looking at his fingernails and then glanced appraisingly back at her again, "There was a woman at the scene of the...accident. Neighbors saw her pry open the passenger door before any emergency vehicles arrived. She leaned into the car. Your daughter seemed to go willingly with her."
Janisa’s head swirled. That seemed impossible. Lora knew not to go with strangers. The detective continued, "We have created what we hope is a composite drawing of the woman. No one saw her very clearly. Maybe, though, it is someone you recognize."
The other officer shuffled his papers again, and pulled out a sketch saying, "We know it's not exact, Mrs. Clark, but look for any possible resemblance to anyone Lora might know."
He handed her a sketch of what appeared to be a fair-as skinned black woman in her early thirties wearing large, oval sunglasses. She had a short, sculpted Afro. Something in her face reminded Janisa of Angela Davis, a female revolutionary prominent in documentaries of the sixties.
She slowly shook her head as she handed the paper back to him, murmuring, "No. Nobody we know. Why?” She stopped in mid-sentence, unable to speak past the lump in her throat, and stared at the ceiling.
The older officer had just a hint of compassion in his voice, "We’re sorry Mrs. Clark. Since your husband didn't recognize her either, it was, frankly, a shot in the dark. Your daughter had to have been in shock. There could be many reasons why she went with the woman."
She looked at him sharply and choked, "Reasons?”
He gave her that appraising look again, and said, "You're tired Mrs. Clark. For example the woman had a light colored smock on. She may have looked like a medical attendant. We're exploring all possible angles. As soon as we know anything concrete, we will be in touch."
The two men turned to leave as a nurse entered the room. She checked Janisa's blood pressure, took her temperature, gave her a pill, and left, but it all seemed very far away.
How can this all be happening! Where did it begin? I should have answered the phone before leaving that morning. I should have tried harder to reach Jeremy, she accused herself. Why of all days did I choose that day to go home late? After hearing that news broadcast, why didn’t I take the highway instead? How did I get so confused? What happened to Lora? Where is she! Oh please, she can't be dead!
She suddenly hated her color...and her parents. If she had been white there would be safety. If she had been dark there would be acceptance. What kind of a world destroyed because of color? Oh God, I want Lora. I want to know she's okay. Please God keep her safe. She's so little, so young. She turned over, hurting her cuts and bruises without caring, and dissolved into tears of fear and frustration.
Shortly after lunch, Jeremy stopped by. He said the police had also stopped to see him at the lab. They had told him the composite sketch of the woman thought to be Lora’s abductor was being broadcast on national television and the web as well as in the daily newspapers.
He continued, “Jan, I’ve also been contacted by the FBI.” She blanched and he quickly added, "I know it must be very difficult for you to continually repeat yourself, but for Lora's sake we have to talk to them."
She drew in her breath and held the tears back, "I know Jer. I know. When will they be here?"
"Tomorrow morning.” He hesitated, “How are you feeling? Physically, I mean."
She sighed again. "Much better. The dizziness is mostly gone. My ribs hurt, but only time can take care of that.” She paused, the tears welling up again, "I just wish I knew that Lora was all right and,” she whispered, "alive.”
Jeremy sat on the edge of the bed and gently cradled her in his arms. She wept against his shoulder. His strength surrounding her felt comforting and protective, yet she felt it was a lie. There was no such thing as comfort or protection. She pulled away and busied herself looking for tissues.
He handed her a glass of water and said, "Jan, the hospital and I have been keeping the reporters away from you here, but they’ve been badgering me both here and at home, as well as contacting Diane Martinelli, the nursery school and your job. Fortunately Dad and Mom’s phone is unlisted, so they haven’t been bothered. Sandy’s been there the last few days, so he has been buffered too."
She was relieved. She hadn't given enough thought to Sandy. She suddenly realized how confused and frightened he must be and how very much she wanted to see him. She was glad he was with Jeremy's parents.
Jeremy continued, “The doctor said, if you feel up to it, he will discharge you tomorrow after lunch. Since it's Friday I thought I would pack some bags and we can spend at least the weekend at Mom and Dad’s. What do you think? We would be away from reporters, and,” he paused, ending rather weakly, "everything."
Her mind quickly churned. To return to the apartment right now without Lora would be horribly painful. She was never out of her thoughts, but Jeremy's parents could help if anyone could. They were the most caring people she knew. With inner relief she answered, "Yes Jeremy. I think that's a good idea."
Open Book - Chapter 4: Sleeping Beauty (A Tease)Talking to the FBI agent was unpleasant, but not as awkward as she had thought it would be. A strange numbness had been settling over her since the previous afternoon when Jeremy had wrapped her in his arms. The safe, secure world she had so carefully built during her years with him was rapidly slipping away. Part of her felt as though none of the past eight years was real - that it had all, including Lora, Sandy and Jeremy, been a dream - just a light-hearted pause in the pain of a world where she felt she didn't fit.
Later in the day she was discharged and Jeremy picked her up. Leaving the relative shelter of the hospital was a caustic shock. It had been just ten days since the accident and not only her world, but also the city had been turned upside down. Turning the corner from the hospital they passed two or three recently blackened buildings. Another charred structure in the following block confirmed her silent speculation that arson, and not accident, had been responsible.
Despite that precursor, downtown was still unbelievably appalling. She felt as if she had been asleep and, like some reverse sleeping beauty, had wakened a hundred years later to a nightmare world.
She thought, How can all the urban reconstruction we took such pride in be so horrifyingly decimated in one short week?
There was hardly a building without boarded windows or doors and obscenely hand lettered epithets: 'NIGGER', ‘WHITE TRASH’, ‘LATIN LONERS’, and ‘BURN BABY'.
She looked away. Across the street chalky nicks marred the surface of several buildings. Jeremy pointed to them and commented, "Bullets".
A scream welled up inside of her. The historic City Hall was a blackened shell. There was no purpose in boarding it. A plywood fence bore signs warning: 'DANGER - KEEP OUT - MOVED TO MARTIN LUTHER KING ELEMENTARY SCHOOL'.
Do the city officials think they would be safer in a black school, she silently wondered and stared. The few merchants optimistic enough to purchase glass had installed bars or a grill over it. Even those 'OPEN FOR BUSINESS' had their armor in place. Except for the traffic and pedestrians, she felt transported to a surrealistic combat zone in a city under siege. Somehow the creative contemporary glass mega-structures were to her the most grotesque with their lower floors boarded and scattered patches scarring their upper levels.
"How could the destruction have reached so high?"
She didn’t know she had spoken out loud until Jeremy answered tersely, "Looters. Snipers. National Guard."
She shuddered as tragedy other than her own momentarily washed over her, but only momentarily.
Lora. Her chest constricted as pain gripped her like something alive. She clenched her eyelids closed and her drowning dream was real again. Too real. Breathing heavily, she forced her eyes open and looked wildly down every side street, between buildings, hoping she would see Lora's familiar dark curls and petite, exuberant form....
If my Open Book Selections have wet your appetite for more, you are invited to visit the official site for Fuel For The Fire.