Chapter 1
Just as I stepped into the cell, Agent Peter, a.k.a. Simon the Mad-Dog in his straitjacket lowered his head and charged at me, but two staffs grabbed his arms and shoulders and pressed him onto the tile floor. I backed away until my back hit the steel door and while Simon struggled to free himself and tried to bite the man on his right, a third staff jabbed a syringe into his shoulder. Simon bored his teeth and growled at me. When I heard that he had broken down after Jim Whitfield ran over Sylvia with a used car, I didn't know how he would handle another loss. If I were to lose my sister, two wives, and my daughter, I would probably check into a sanitarium and mumble gibberish also.
"Where's Ichiro?" I leaned against the cold steel and smelled his bad breath and wanted to leave, but I had come to the sanitarium to find my friend and I intended to know his whereabouts. When Ichiro's phone went out of service, I expected Camellia to call and tell me he had committed seppuku, but she didn't call and I couldn't reach her. Both had disappeared for two months and the police couldn't locate them.
"Jim, you son-of-a-bitch, I'll castrate you, I will."
"Ichiro. Remember Ichiro? Remember your daughter Sonya?" I stepped away from the door and approached him but the staff with the syringe stopped me and I stared at Simon's dripping teeth.
"I'll avenge my beloved Sylvia." Simon was drooling onto the tiles but he still raised his head to bark at me.
"Tell me where's Ichiro and I'll let him know you're here."
"Ichiro, help me. Help me cut up the son-of-a-bitch."
Simon raised his head and smiled at me and opened his mouth but his eyelids began drooping over his eyes and he lowered his head onto the floor. The staffs lifted him and put him onto the bed and strapped him into position and Simon began to snore, at first breathing evenly but then the thundering and shaking the bedposts. I gazed through the grate out the window and search among the bobbing branches and twigs for a blossom that would defy the snowflakes. But I found none.
#
I drove down Route 50 toward Chantilly, the snowflakes reminding me of the night many years ago when I visited Daphne to counsel her. I hadn't visited the place for more than twenty years, but today I would confront that stone-front ranch again. I turned right just before the mall and recalled the days I had eaten at the McDonalds in the corner and the night I failed to help Daphne. The same houses lined the side street, but I couldn't find the welcome sign that used to stand in front of the corner house.
After parking my car on the street, I got out and walked onto the driveway where Daphne had greeted me. That night, I was afraid Simon might come out and punch me in the nose, but toady, only the snow path greeted me. I stood and felt the flakes nipping at my nose and cheeks and I recalled how Daphne would dance in the schoolyard whenever it snowed. And I heard the wind-chime's crystal notes, soothing in the cold breeze.
The distance between that night and today isn't a straight line. A path through space and time too convoluted for me to calculate, even with differential geometry. How does one calculate the distance from one point sadness to another of grief?
I walked onto the porch and turned to review my footsteps, lonesome in the white path and wished there were another set beside mine. I brushed the snow off the bench and sat down facing my car and I pretended I was waiting for Daphne to return home. But I knew no one would walk up that path, not even Simon. I stood and stepped on the mat and I opened the storm door. I grasped the handle to open the door, but as expected, the door was lock. I knocked knowing no one would come and open the door.
I walked around the to the backyard where the swings that Daphne used to play on were wriggling in the wind and shedding snowflakes. In front of the back door, the same trashcan still guarded the house, though the lid and side were rusted. I bent down in front of it and tilted it and I slipped my hand beneath to feel the soil until I found plastic case. After picking it up, I opened it and took out the key.
I opened the front door and stepped into the musty air and felt the cobweb on my face. I swung my arm to clear the way and walk onto the dusty hardwood floor on which the clothes stand still stood amid cobweb. I coughed and covered my nose and mouth and I could hear the mice scurrying away. I gazed at the sofa where I had sat when Daphne started crying and again I felt helpless. I clenched my fist and wanted to punch Jim Whitfield in his snout. I wanted to curse him but wiped that thought from my mind and walked toward the kitchen.
I noticed the footprints on the floor. Not mine. Fresh footprints about a week or two ago.
I followed them into the kitchen wondering whether Jim Whitfield had returned to savor his triumph. If I found him, I would punch him until his nose and lips bleed. I owed that to Daphne, and to Charlotte, and to Camellia, and to poor Daisy. And even to myself.
Mouse droppings covered the tile floor and cobweb decorated the ceiling but I navigated through the minefield to the oak table in the middle of the kitchen where a mug sat on the torn and dusted tablecloth. Several dead roaches lay on the counter beside the sink and I could hear the wind brushing against the window screen.
I shivered from the cold and pulled out the chair I had sat on while drinking a hot chocolate to warm myself. Daphne was sitting across from me sipping her chamomile tea. Those moments scattered among time lost somehow returned to haunt me and remind me of the path traveled. When I was drinking that hot chocolate, I couldn't imagine myself returning here these many years, Daphne in the grave and Simon in the sanitarium.
Where would I be in another twenty years?
Then I saw it. The note. On the counter, next to the refrigerator. I walked around the table and picked up the note. Slightly dusted.
Go to Daphne's grave for a message from Ichiro.
Camellia had signed the note.
