|
| Home | Online Novel | Photos | Programmer's Corner | Energy/Sustainability | Learning | Links | E-mail Me |
|
Entries for October 2003
October 3 - A Shattered Window and a Note
A Shattered Window and a Note At 6:45am, the whine of ignitions followed by the rushing sound of engines warming up were normal in my seveties era HUD-built neighborhood. No lawyers or doctors live here; this is the stronghold of receptionists, mechanics, police, teachers and other "regular types." Time to get up and get the day going. My eyelids were still heavy with sleep when a jolting shatter broke the quiet hum of suburbia. It was definitely something in the front part of the house. Shattering meant window. A flood of thoughts reached my mind simultaneously. Was it a Molotov cocktail? I need to get the family out. Is someone waiting to attack? I thought quickly of what could be used as a weapon. A life of tranquillity shattered with that sound it seemed. I need to account for the family. Where are they? Wait, first things first. Get armed and quickly determine the situation. I grabbed a souvenir Portland Beavers mini-bat (hey, you use what you got) and headed for the living room first. I wanted to sneak into the room, but I needed to protect the family first so I decided offense was the best policy. A softball-sized hole in the window peeked from behind the now-mangled shades. All else was quiet and still. The cobwebs were wearing off and I remembered the gunning of a motor immediately afterward. Good, whoever it was is gone. I turned to the darkened hallway and saw the faces of my family looking on anxiously. All accounted for. "It's okay, it looks like a vandal threw a rock and took off," I said, trying to reassure myself as much as anyone. As morning light grew stronger, so did my sense of control over the situation. "Everyone please get back to bed until I get this mess cleaned up," I urged. My right big toe was sore. Oops. I was standing in a room of shattered glass in my bare feet. Crap. Luckily, it was a small cut. By the time I cleaned my little wound and got slippers on, it was getting lighter. Someone hurled a rock through the window and it carromed off of the wooden coffee table leaving a white ding in the oaken surface. Ever since starting a web log criticizing President Bush's policies and flying the United Nations flag next to the American flag on my house, I half-expected some loon to pull something against me. So it finally happened. Pointing out glaring problems during wartime is not the path to synergy. The adrenaline surge subsided into a shakier calm. I reached to pick up the rock and throw it outside. Hmmm. A strange rock. The surface seemed to have edges. It was also denser than I expected and my palm rubbed against a rubber band as I lifted it. Was there a note? As the rock ascended into the light, I immediately identified it as galena. The ample heft and the tumbled mass of cubic silver crystals of lead sulfide were unmistakable. I rotated the underside of the rock and confirmed that a note on yellow lined paper was neatly folded and held in place by the band. But why galena? Somebody knew I studied geology in college. I carefully unfolded the note. In shaky handwriting using a green-inked pen, the following was written:
The show must go on, the composition must be seen The Rocky Puzzle Considered Snabby. Well, that narrowed it down. Snabby was a nickname for me known only to my current batch of colleagues and friends. It didn't explain why whoever it was threw a rock through my window. If this was a joke, I was not amused. With the excitement over, my wife, Carla, entered and handed me the broom. After we put full focus on cleaning up the glass, she noticed with surprise the crystallized stone. I showed her the note as well. Carla gave the "all clear" signal to the children, Lily and Sam, who came bounding into the living room to soak up any energy remaining from the earlier disquiet. Lily, a sharp well-spoken 11 year old, chimed in first, "What is on the note Mom is holding? Is it a poem? Is George Bush going to kill us?" I chuckled hiding my embarrassment, "No honey. George Bush is on our side, I just don't always agree with him," I made a note to avoid venting my frustrations in front of my kids (if possible), "We don't know who wrote the note. I think it might be in code or some secret way of sending me a message." "Oh boy! Can I help? Please, Daddy? I'm great at codes," Lily volunteered. Mom came back, "Not right now, sweetie." I needed to time to think about the note, "Lily, why don't you take Sammie out in the back yard to play." Her eyebrows fell, "Okay," she replied. They went out the back door. I sat with my wife at the dining table and spread the note out, flattening the concave folds. I could only assume whoever wrote this wanted me to be somewhere or to contact someone. "Shouldn't we call the police?" Carla asked. "Not yet," I replied, "I want to know more about this. There is something about this note that tells me it was from a friend. Check out this first line,"
The show must go on, the composition must be seen I puzzled over the sheet, "What kind of show? Composition? A musical show? Are there any musical shows playing?" I said. "What is the rock made out of Daddy? It's pretty." Lily asked from just outside the door. "You are supposed to be playing outside, now SCOOT," I retorted. She was insistent, "You told me that composition is what something is made out of, like the ocean is made out of water, so it has a water composition." I was losing my patience and was still frazzled, "No, I think it is the music. Go out and play. NOW." She disappeared with Sammy closing the back door behind them. Carla said, "What is the composition of that rock? By the way, what kind of rock is it?" I explained, "It is galena. Lead sulfide." I wrote on a blank piece of paper the chemical formula, PbS. Carla said, "Maybe it is a show on PBS." A voice from outside the door said, "I told you so." I rolled my eyes and smiled. The third line immediately rang a bell.
Something old has the key.One of Carla's favorite shows was an antiques appraisal show on PBS. This wasn't definitive but might on the right track. I said, "The third line might refer to your antique show." Carla chimed in, "They are in town this coming week from the seventh through the ninth! It is held at the Expo center. I'll see if I can find that ad." Frustrated I replied, "Oh great. Do I have to go all three days? Surely, there must be a single day to choose from." Then I saw the line... On the density day and the table between. I fetched my mineralogy text that I kept from college. I flipped to the chart that showed the physical properties of galena. 7.4 to 7.6. So, it could have been the seventh or the eighth. Hopefully it was the seventh. Well, it didn't answer all the questions, but we were at least getting somewhere. It appeared that someone wanted to meet me at the Expo Center at noon on the seventh. Absolutely Curtain Carla came back into the room with the latest Oregonian Home Affairs section. There was a full page spread showing the suggested path snaking through the Expo Center. The table displays were arranged in lines like a flea market. However, the prices would be severalfold higher. Antique dealers know their trade. Looking at the S-shaped arrow and the tables arranged, I thought of three lines from the poem:
When times are hard, I will be there. It wasn't perfect, but I thought I found a place to wait. The hardness of galena is 2.7 and, although it would be a stretch, I figured that I would wait between the tables marked two and three on the page. Perhaps the serpentine referred to the arrow winding around the Expo map. That left one line I couldn't explain...
The Nine-men play, that is where I thought of a baseball reference, but couldn't connect it. There was something else I remembered about the "Nine-men" reference, but after racking my brain for two days, I couldn't figure it out. The next day and a half were filled with the normal events of family living. I decided not to call the police and, as a result, worried continually about the wisdom of that decision. Sam, who was 10, kept us busy cheering his budding midfielder skills in the melange of children that was youth soccer. After a fitful sleep, the morning of the seventh started with a clap of thunder. It served as an offbeat reminder to the Day of the Rock as it became known. I checked e-mail for work while Carla helped the kids get ready for school. As the time passed quickly, a sense of nervousness and foreboding gradually welled up within. I hopped into my gray Toyota Prius about an hour too early and drove to the Expo Center. I asked work for a personal day and they assented without too many questions asked. My job as a computer programmer allowed flexibility as to my location while I worked. I was one of those people whose college major had nothing to do with his career. The Expo Center was an institutional gray cement building with "attractive" brown-painted metal buttresses that were there for show and supported very little. A profusion of glass at the entryway was an attractive exception to the drab rule, but it also failed the functionality test by creating a greenhouse oven for 10 months of the year even in this mild Oregon climate. After waiting in the Expo parking lot for half an hour reading yet another technical magazine on the wonders of the Java language, I bought my ticket and entered the Center. There were tables of old lamps, dishes, glasses, and the usual fare that one finds at antique shops. There was a plate celebrating America's bicentennial and another with a hand-painted Elk, the words "Beautiful Oregon" in brush script, and a gold rim. I was a generation removed from most of the exhibitors and attendees. I made my way over to the hopefully designated area a few minutes before noon. I checked my watch every 30 seconds waiting for something to happen. People walked by. I noticed that there was a curtain every 5 tables or so. It appeared that these headed into unused areas of the Expo center. I smelled a dearth of scents as scores of 60+ year old people walked by. The smell of "older" differs for each person, but it seems that it is always there. A smell of perfume or tobacco or DMSO or mothballs. Always something. I moved backward toward the curtain to give my nose a break from this potpourri when I was forcefully pulled behind the curtain by an iron-strong arm.
Morris Code A hand clapped over my mouth and a hoarse, familiar voice whispered in my ear, "Don't say anything Snabby. It's just me." I turned around and looked up to see the tall, slightly hunched form of Chad. Chad Davis attended Northern Oregon University with me ten years ago. He was a 4.0 in physics until a career ending knee injury turned his scholarship to vapor in his junior year. I hadn't seen him since then either. He was big enough to play linebacker and was one of those rare folks who had brains to match his strength. Chad curled a forefinger toward me in a gesture to follow and the other straightened over his mouth to maintain silence. I followed him down a cement service corridor. The corridor turned to the right and stretched onward quite some distance. Painted doors lined both sides every fifty feet or so; a break room, a janitorial closet. Chad turned and stopped before a third door. The humming sound told me that this probably contained a heating system. With a tilt of his head, Chad motioned me to enter behind him. Once inside he shut the door. He propped a stray piece of metal under the handle to keep anyone from entering. Chad leaned close and spoke just louder than the din of the large duct fans, "So you figured out this much. You're probably wondering about Dr. Morris." "Mmmm....no," came my confused reply. What did Dr. Morris have to do with anything? He was just another decade old memory, albeit a good one. Dr. Morris was my natural history professor and his classes made science and philosophy meld into art in the eyes of my youthful self. "You did figure out the poem, didn't you?" Then it hit me.
The Nine-men play, that is where Ah, Nine-Men's Morris. The medieval board game. A sudden feeling of alarm surfaced, "What's wrong with Dr. Morris?" "Physically, he is fine. But he needs our help," Chad replied, "Ben Morris is working on a very important project that may change history and lives in Oregon. However,..." I interrupted, "Whoa. Back up. First, why are we in this hot room and who threw the dang rock through my window? Why didn't you just call?" "To answer your second and third question, you will need to ask Dr. Morris. If you let me finish, I'll answer the first." "I'm all ears." "Thank you. This project. Well, some of the most powerful groups in Oregon and America are out to stop us. There are technologies out there that you are not aware of. We need the noise to maintain privacy so we can speak." I broke in again, "Who is us? And, to be honest with a friend whom I haven't seen in ten years, why should I care?" Chad's eyebrows furrowed and a tone of pleading entered his voice, "I can only hope you will believe me when I say that your questions will be answered by Dr. Morris himself. I am asking you to come with me to Arkham to visit Ben and he will explain everything. I know you, Ken. This is what you were meant for. I can't say any more, even here. Please come with me and I will have you back here in 3 hours." I was skeptical but I never knew Chad to be anything but a man of integrity. "I will need to call my wife and let her know I will be late. She is expecting me in one hour and she will make noise if I don't check in." Chad replied, "It is important that you not mention what we are doing. Just tell her that you met an old colleague and that you are going to lunch. It won't be lying. I'll buy." Chad asked me to follow him quietly as before. We continued down the corridor and took a side door that led to a loading dock. I called my wife along the way. Chad was parked in the employee lot. We climbed in his Honda Civic and headed north toward Arkham and the answers that I hoped Dr. Morris would provide. Lily's Secret "I remember when school was fun," thought Lily, "I remember when everything was funner than this," she said quietly staring at the pages of the standard issue 7th grade math book. Lily considered math to be her worst subject, but she actually was very quick when it didn't seem like a bunch of memorized garbage. Sometimes the numbers on the page blurred and the next thing she knew, Lily was running through the woods with her best friend Shandel. She could almost smell the sweet wind and the most beautiful butterfly was just beyond her grasp when real life intervened like it always did. "Honey, are you finished with your homework!" said Carla from the living room. "Okay Mom! I have five more problems!" Lily shot back, unhappy at being interrupted from a perfectly good fantasy. It would take minutes to reset the scene, but it would have to wait until these stupid algebra problems were done. "Who cares about what X is anyway," she lamented as she ground away at another problem. Just as Lily was finishing the last of the homework, a book report on one of Eva Ibbottson's great stories, Mom called out again, "Lily, you got something from Grandpa!" Wow. Mail was an uncommon occurrence for Lily. An infusion of excitement launched her into the living room to claim her prize. Carla proferred a small parcel wrapped in rough, brown paper. Lily hurriedly pried the tape from the rough paper and brought out a plain white box with the words "Russell Stover" on the outside. Chocolate? or something else... Lily opened the box and found a beautiful necklace with a small amethyst setting. Given that purple was Lily's favorite color, this was very nearly magical. She turned the stone to and fro in the light watching the sparkles." Carla again brought her back to reality, "I wonder what the occasion is? On the other hand, he usually doesn't need one, does he? Okay, take the necklace and box into your room and write Grandpa a thank you note." "Mmmmmmm, does everything need a string attached?" opined Lily, but not out loud for fear of seeming unthankful. As she entered her room, the box tumbled from her fingers. Trying to catch it, she almost lost track of her necklace but decided at the critical moment to let the box go. It hit the floor with a thack. The cotton batting ejected beside the box leaving a small handwritten note. Lily carefully placed the necklace on her desk and picked up the box, batting, and note. She unfolded the note and noticed both the fluid motion of her Grandpa's handwriting and his familiar smell that reminded her of sunflower seeds. She read the note...
I hope you enjoyed the necklace, my Sweet Babboo. She smiled at his reference to Sally's pet name for Linus in Charles Schultz' cartoons. She fretted her brow and became downright serious reading the next section.
Your dad is going to need your help. The sounds of steps down the hall alerted Lily. She deftly stuck the note in her pen drawer and closed it quickly and quietly. Carla said, "Is it okay if I take a look at your necklace, dear?" "Sure, Mom," replied Lily as she already drifted into thoughts of playing chess with Grandpa.
|