Who Wants to Live Forever?

There's no time for us.
There's no place for us.
What is this thing that builds our dreams, yet slips away from us?
Who wants to live forever...when love must die?
- Brian May

As a child, like most children, I had my fascinations. History, society, technology and the future were the topics that most occupied my young mind. You see, for as far back as I can remember, I have felt like a man out of time. I have never felt that I fully belonged in this time in Human history. If you ever read a story or watched a Twilight Zone episode that involved someone who was suddenly displaced in time, that is how it feels to be me. I know. I'm frigging weird. I've learned to live with it.
I have always imagined what it would be like to go back to various points in history and see, firsthand, what it was like to live through those times. I have also wondered what it would be like if I could go far into the future and see how things turn out for us. This last musing naturally led to thoughts of immortality. What would it be like to live forever? To be able to watch it all unfold, see how (or, perhaps more appropriately, if ) we made it in one piece. Will we survive ourselves? As I have grown older, I have not lost my fascination with history or society. I have found, however, that my fantasy about living forever has waned. Understand, I'm not talking about eternal life in Heaven or Hell, nor am I talking about the eternal life in a Paradise here on Earth, like the Jehovah's Witnesses believe in. I'm talking specifically about the idea of living forever in the world as it is and as it shall become.
With the passage of years, two things have happened that have put me off the idea of being immortal. First, after much observation and contemplation, it has become clear to me that our world will likely never see an era of marked improvement. This planet won't get any cleaner. It is not one of our goals to reduce pollution. The damage we are doing to our planet will never diminish, mainly because not enough of us are at all concerned about the environment we create for ourselves and our progeny. Some of us don't even believe that pollution is bad. Many believe that the Earth and the resources upon which we depend are impervious to contamination, damage or destruction and even if they aren't, we are. This is nothing short of stupidity but it is a widespread and proudly held stupidity, therefore it is likely to be a part of our world view until the very end. There are people, many of them in undeserved positions of power, who could sit on a melting block of ice and swear that it is growing instead of shrinking. That they could do so vehemently and with a straight face does not bode well for our future.
From a societal perspective, the future is even more bleak. There will never come a time when the majority of us will be willing to put aside all the differences we create and imagine in order to do what is best for the only race that ultimately matters, the Human race. Humanity is determined to resist the idea that we are all one People and that we need to see ourselves and each other that way in order to ensure our own survival. If survival depends on accepting each other, caring for each other and cooperating with each other, and it does, we would rather welcome our own extinction with open arms than put aside our petty bullshit and save ourselves. Humanity's unparralleled ability to be deliberately obtuse will most definitely be our undoing because, to most of us, this outcome is preferable to exercising the humility necessary to let go of our many excuses for hating anyone who is even slightly different. Over the years, it has become clear to me that I have no desire to see how this ends, any more than I would want to watch a schoolbus full of first-graders hurtling over the side of the Grand Canyon. I know how that will end. There is no reason to watch it.
The other thing that has quelled my desire for immortality is a little more personal. Over the course of my life, I have been forced to bury nearly every person I have ever loved. At this point, all that remain are Anita, my kids and a handful of half and step-siblings. I am already tired of saying goodbye, even as I know that I have more farewells left to say before my time is done. To have this continue for generations, centuries, millenia, while I lived on and on, is an experience I have decided I can live without. The Human heart, at least on a personal level, seems to have an unlimited capacity, as well as a pressing need, to love. When all of your loved ones have died, it would only be a matter of time before your heart led you to open up and love again, only to lose them, too. I don't know how much of that a person could take before they went mad but I have no desire to be the test subject.
So, those are my reasons for not being in a hurry to achieve immortality. What about you? Would you be interested in the oppportunity to live forever? Why? Why not?
Let me know first, then you can call the nice men with the white coats and the neat little van to take me away...

The Journey

By way of introduction, I offer this brief (sort of) work of fiction, first published on my Myspace blog, August, 2007.

Great. Just frigging GREAT!
She stood there, squinting into the engine compartment of her '93 Escort, wishing that the moon would peek through the scaly overcast of clouds and shed a little light on the subject. Not that it would do her any good. She was as short of tools as she was a flashlight, tools that wouldn't do her much good if she couldn't figure out what had gone wrong. Tools that wouldn't do her any good at all if the problem required a part. She doubted that there were many parts stores open at this hour in this particular God-forsaken part of Eastern Tennessee. It was just past ten o'clock on what she presumed was an average night in the Great Smoky Mountains as Autumn was about to wrap it up and make way for winter. Average being cold and rainy. Okay, not really rainy. The moisture in the air was more of a thick mist. She had been watching it in her headlight beams for the past two hours; not quite forming into drops, just a soupy mist being swirled through the twin tubes of her high beams by the steady mountain winds. She stood in front of her car, hands stuffed into the pockets of her coat all the way to the elbows, head bowed into the upturned collar, mentally trying to break down her current situation into its most basic elements. My car is dead - well, maybe not dead but at least critically wounded. Either way, it won't be going another ten feet under its own power, that's for sure. Another thing that's for sure is that I have no idea how far it is to the next town but I definitely know how far back I have to go to find civilization and that is completely out of the question - about 30 miles out, as a matter of fact. I don't have AAA and even if I did my cell phone hasn't had a signal for almost an...
"Need some help?" She must have jumped two feet, straight up into the air. Her throat, already chilled by the frosty mountain climate, suddenly felt as if it had been stuffed with a block of dry ice as she sucked in a panicky gulp of air in preparation for the thin, reedy squeal of shock and terror that managed to escape before her pipes clamped shut in response to the shock of cold. Her mouth snapped shut and she backed away from the sound of the voice and the looming shadow to which it seemed to belong, glancing back over her shoulder for a path of escape only to be reminded, just in time as it turned out, that she was standing two feet from the guardrail which was the only thing between her and a precipice that led steeply down to the treetops filling the ravine along this particular stretch of road. The long shadow advanced, followed by a tall, dark shape that stopped in the roadway at the front of her car.
"I'm sorry, Miss. I didn't mean to scare you. I guess I just assumed you had heard me pull up." She glanced behind her car and saw another car, its headlights illuminating her trunk. It was still running, she could hear the low rumble of what sounded like a good-sized engine. She turned quickly back to the source of the voice. He had stopped about ten feet away from her but now he began to advance. She could see him removing a hand from his pocket as he came toward her and she realized again just how vulnerable she was out here. She took another step back and felt her calf hit the guardrail. The hand was still coming out of the pocket, it seemed to be taking forever to make the trip and now she could see something - a long, dark object emerging with it. She was about to start screaming, not that it would have done any good, as isolated as they were out here, when the engine compartment of her car was suddenly awash in light and she realized, with a mixture of nervous embarrassment and stark relief that the man was holding nothing more than a flashlight. He stepped forward and began peering around under the hood. He held the light high in his left hand and reached into the engine compartment with his right. As he did so, she took the opportunity to observe him. He was tall, probably around six feet or better, not quite skinny but she guessed no one had ever described him as heavy, either. His age was hard to determine.The closest she could get from what she could see of his face was somewhere in his forties - maybe early fifties. His most striking feature was his hair. It was long, well past his shoulders, and pure white from root to tip. He ran his hand along the crankcase of the engine, then reached down further and seemed to be checking something more toward the back, by the firewall. He stood up after a moment, playing the beam of his flashlight back and forth around the Escort's tiny engine. He finally shook his head, almost to himself, then turned to her. His white hair was blown momentarily across his face but he solved this problem with an absent flip of his head. He looked at her for a moment, seeming to study her, before he spoke. She had the time and just enough light to notice that his eyes were a bright, bottle green, deep-set into his open, careworn face.
"I'm afraid if you were going any farther, you'll be going without your little buddy here," he said, gesturing toward the car with the beam of the flashlight.
"Do you know what's wrong?" she asked, watching his face closely.
"Let me show you," he said, turning back to the car and bringing the light around so she could see. She moved carefully over next to him and stood where she could see what he had to show her while still keeping her distance, wondering at the same time what good it would do.When he saw she was close enough to see, he went on.
"You see that spray all over the place?" He shone the light around and she saw the dark splatter everywhere, even coating the underside of the hood. "That's oil. And down here, " he shone the light down along the right side of the engine and she had to move over, right next to him, to see. "You have a blown head gasket and your block is cracked. I'm afraid until you get another engine, this little fella has seen his last mile."They stood in silence for most of a minute, although it seemed much longer, at least to her. He watched her quietly, aware of the warfare that was taking place behind her eyes, knowing how she must be feeling, the decision she was trying to make and the terrible shortage of information she had to draw upon for it.
"What's your name, Miss?" he finally asked her when it seemed like she would be content to stand forever on the side of this mountain road, the decision unmade.
"Amber. Amber Flynn," she said after a moment. As she looked up at him, he could see that her eyes were shiny, too shiny, as if she was on the verge of tears. He supposed she was. He also supposed he knew the reasons why. He tried on his best put-'em-at-ease smile and stuck out his hand.
"Nice to meet you, Amber." He saw her flinch as he put his hand out and felt an instant of pain for her. This was clearly a situation no girl her age should have to deal with. She regained the tenuous hold on her composure long enough to place her hand in his and give him a quick shake. He wrapped his long fingers gently around her small ones and returned the gesture. Even though it had come out of her coat pocket, her hand was ice cold. He supposed his wasn't much warmer, given their situation. "Folks mostly call me Whitey," he said, releasing her hand.
"Whitey?" she asked. He smiled and reached up, grasping a lock of his long, white hair and waving it at her in response to her questioning tone. She nodded her understanding and then just stood there, looking down at her blown engine.
"Are you from around here," he asked her.
"No. San Francisco," she replied.
"San Francisco? he echoed, unable to mask his surprise. "If you don't mind my asking, where are you headed?"
"Virginia," she said.
"No kidding? I'm from Virginia myself." He saw the look that came into her eyes at this unlikely news and smiled to himself. Can't really blame her, he thought to himself.
"You can check my licence plate, if you want." She had the grace to look embarrassed at the implication, though there was certainly no need for it, She was out of her element and within her rights to be wary.
"No! I'm sorry. I don't mean to be - it's just- I...oh HELL!" she finished, clumsily and close to tears.
"Hey, don't worry about it. I understand," he said gently. "But it is what it is. You can't very well stand around out here all night. You'll catch your death...or worse." She glanced up at him at this last and he could see that she had taken his point. "Can I at least offer you a ride to the next town? You can call someone from there." She seemed to struggle with this for some time, although it seemed to Whitey that she wasn't struggling so much with the idea of being alone in the middle of nowhere in a stranger's car so much as something else, something deeper and more profound.
"There IS no one," she said. "There was my mom but she's...she's gone," she finished miserably, a lone tear stealing down her cheek. He wanted to wipe it away but, unsure how she would take such a gesture from a stranger, he kept his place and gave her a moment to gather herself.
"I'm sorry," he said finally. She nodded to him, accepting the almost perfunctory expression of sympathy. "I could take you on to Virginia, if you'd like."
"Oh, I couldn't ask you to do that," she responded, a little too quickly.
"You're not asking, I'm offering. Besides, I'm going that way anyway, as it turns out. No funny business, Amber. Just trying to help someone who seems to be fresh out of options." She thought about it, studying him plainly as she did so. He really did seem like he was just trying to help her but how could she be sure? She supposed she couldn't. She also knew he was right. She was fresh out of options unless she was prepared to consider spending the night huddled in her dead car along this deserted road, helpless, hopeless and freezing. It was what it was, as he had said. In the end, it was the reality of the situation that mad up her mind...and sealed her Fate. It took no time at all to get her two suitcases from the trunk and her few personal belongings from the floor of the passenger seat and load them into his car. Within five minutes, she was easing herself into the passenger seat of his car, where the first thing to hit her was the blessed warmth emerging from heater vents. The good heat reminded her body of the damp coldness in which it had spent the last twenty minutes and she shivered. Whitey had finished stowing her things in the trunk and hopped into the driver's seat, briskly rubbing his hands together and blowing on them.
"Seat belt," he said to her as he brought his own across himself and clipped it home. She put on her seat belt, even though she had never worn one as a rule and the big car eased back onto the road. She turned and watched her little Escort, Faithful Companion of so many years and so many miles, vanish into the dark behind them. When it was gone from her sight, forever as it turned out, she turned back around in her seat and looked around the inside of Whitey's car.
"This is nice," she said, partly for something to say and partly because it was true. For Whitey, this small conversational offering seemed to have the same effect as pulling the string on a Chatty Cathy doll.
"1972 Barracuda," he intoned. She couldn't help but catch the note of reverence in his voice. "Rebuilt it myself, from the ground up. Took me all of six years. This was my very first car. Well, not this exact car, of course, but one just like it. That one I got for two hundred dollars and, except for gas and oil, never put another dime into it. I always wanted to fix it up like this one but I guess in those days I was always a day late and a dollar short, as they say."
"What happened to that first one?" she asked. The heater was taking that blocks-of-ice feeling out of her feet and the gentle warmth of his rather deep voice was taking a similar feeling out of her chest as well. She relaxed a little as they clipped along through the swirling mist.
"Indifferent maintenance, my Dear," he said promptly and without shame. "The vagaries of youth, when you believe that everything is forever, including your car. The specific cause of death, believe it or not, was a cracked block." In the glow of the dashboard lights, Amber could see the ironic smile he sent her way. This time, she smiled back. They drove on, sharing a silence that was surprisingly companionable, given their short acquaintance. After a while, he spoke.
"I don't mean to be too nosy and if I am, just tell me to mind my own, but what has you making such a trip by your lonesome?"She considered his question, wondering to herself (and not for the first time, either) just why she was making this journey. A continent was a lot of land to cross on such a slim possibility. In the end, she decided that the plain old truth of it would be better spoken aloud.
"I'm looking for my father," she said quietly. "I think he may live in Virginia."
"Looking for? You mean you don't know where he is?"
"More like I don't know who he is. I guess I'm not sure where, either. I think I've got it narrowed down to a place called Windsor."
"Why, I know where Windsor is!" Whitey responded immediately. "I know some folks down that way. I'm headed to Norfolk myself, so I'll be passing right near Windsor on my way. Navy man. I've got some business to finish up there. What did you mean, you don't know who he is?"
Although she was unsure why, Amber felt comfortable in the company of this man, something that wasn't all that typical of her. Besides, she had traveled, alone, three quarters of the way across the country with this whole mess rolling around inside her head like an errant marble. To finally have someone to bounce it all off of came as something of a relief. So, for the next several miles, she recounted her tale. How her mother had once been married and, while her father was out of town on business her mother had taken up with another man and just up and left town with him one day, her then one year old daughter in tow. How this ill-fated relationship had vanished with the fumes of too many double scotches and her mother had lived out the rest of her years raising her little girl alone, if "raising" was the right word for the kind of parenting that took place in such a semi-coherent state. How her mother, eighteen years later and now on her deathbed, had finally relented (or repented) and told Amber the one thing she had been wanting to know since the age of six: The name of her father. After her mother's death, Amber had gone through her things and happened upon a box of old, yellowed papers. In this box, she had found the marriage certificate containing her father's full name and some tax papers (God only knew why her mother had kept all these things but who knew why that batty woman had done anything, when you thought about it) that provided his Social Security number. Amber had spent the next year mining the Internet for traces of the only man for whom she had ever longed in her short life. Finally, she had traced him to Windsor, Virginia, or so she hoped. With no other family and no other plans to speak of, she had set out to find him, hoping for the answers that had evaded her all of her life. Whitey seemed to have nothing to say following her rather lengthy reminiscence, so they drove on for a while, not speaking. Now that they were coming out the eastern side of the mountains, the radio, its volume so low as to be barely audible above the sure, solid rumble of the Barracuda's engine, began to crackle to life. From far away, Amber could barely make out the strains of Bon Jovi singing "Who Says You Can't Go Home?" Suddenly, but quietly, Whitey spoke, his tone reflective and, Amber thought, a little sad.
"You know, I never knew my father, either. I think it's important for a child to know their father. Maybe more important for a daughter than a son."
"Why would it be more important for a daughter?" Amber asked, not wanting to push him too far on something that obviously made him so sad but somehow needing to know what he meant by such an observation.
"Well," he began slowly, "for a little girl, your father is your first experience with men. He's your first opportunity to get to know a man up close. Your first lesson in understanding us and interacting with us. They say that a girl almost always grows up to marry a man who is just like her father. From what I've seen, that holds true even if her father was a total jackass. Pardon my French, Dear," he added quickly.
"Don't worry about it," Amber assured him. "I've heard worse." She returned to his point."I guess what you're saying is true. I've read that same thing somewhere, I'm sure of it. I don't know how much of it applies to me. All I know for sure is that, if he is still out there and he IS my dad, then he's the only family I have left in the world. Besides, haven't you ever just wanted to know where you come from? You know, family history? I feel like a freak sometimes when people start talking about "my father" this and "my grandfather" that and then look at me as though I had similar stories to tell and I don't. I just...don't."
Whitey seemed to consider this for a while. "You know, Amber, maybe I'm just getting old, I don't know. Lately I've been thinking that it's a lot more important to know where you're going than where you're coming from. I mean, when it's all said and done does it really matter where you started or where you wind up?"
She thought about this for a while but she also found herself thinking about the familiar way he used her name and the feeling it gave her when he did. She found that she liked this man, a simple country man, not at all like the men she had encountered growing up in California. Their conversation continued, ranging over a variety of topics as the Barracuda ate up the miles before them. They stopped briefly for gas and something to eat just after they had crossed into the western reaches of Virginia. It was a short stop, barely half an hour. Whitey seemed to be on a schedule, so they had made short work of a light breakfast and then moved on. That was fine by Amber. Although she was over her fear of Whitey's intentions toward her and she really did enjoy his company and his easy way of making conversation, the pull of her father was stronger here, she could feel it, and she too was eager to make her destination. She was also getting tired. It had been a long trip across the country and although it was sure nice to have someone to talk to, she was having some trouble keeping up her end of the conversation, as well keeping her eyes open. They were back on the highway a little after three and, with her belly full and the weariness creeping into her bones, she felt herself nodding before long. Whitey seemed to sense her need and fell largely silent, driving along through the night and humming softly along with the radio which he kept turned low.
Amber woke with a start to Whitey squeezing her shoulder and calling her name. She looked around groggily and noticed that they were sitting in the tiny, empty parking area in front of what appeared to be a small, mom-and-pop grocery store which sat just back from the highway. "Where are we?" she asked sleepily, trying to get her eyes to focus.
"Windsor," Whitey said. "Do you have the address we're looking for?"She fumbled around in her purse for a moment and brought it out. Unfolding the piece of notebook paper, she held it up to the passenger window to bring it into the dim glow of a single yellow street lamp. She read off the address and Whitey nodded, putting the Barracuda back in gear and edging back out onto the highway.
"Hang on, I'll check the map," she told him, heading back into her purse.
"That's okay," he replied absently. "I told you, I know some folks who live out this way. I can find it."
As they made their way up the highway, she noticed the first traces of light Purple coming in over the trees. The sun would be up soon. Ten minutes later, Whitey turned off the main highway and now they were on the back roads, paved but narrow ribbons that wove their way through the woods that encroached on either side. If someone came along going the other direction, she thought, one of us will have to pull over to let the other pass. Another ten or fifteen minutes went by, with Amber going over all of her reasons for making this trip in the first place. There was a knot forming in the pit of her stomach that seemed to almost mock the youthful optimism that had carried her across some three thousand miles of the Big Empty, supposedly leading her, finally, to the answers she so desperately sought. But what if it was just leading her to more questions?Whitey slowed and eased the Barracuda onto an even narrower dirt track that wound its way through thick woods on his side of the car and open fields on the other. After about a quarter mile, it opened into a large grassy area and a dirt dooryard next to an old, two story frame house. There were two chimneys, on opposite sides of the house. A wide porch that stretched across the front of the house, from side to side and some outbuildings in the back. Amber could clearly make out a barn, as well as at least two smaller structures like sheds. At one end of one of these smaller buildings was a large pile of cut wood, likely intended to feed the fireplaces through the winter. The Purple in the morning sky was turning to pink. They got out of the car just before the spot where the driveway opened to the dooryard on the side of the house. Amber went around to the trunk, where she and Whitey removed her suitcases, although she could barely take her eyes off the front of the house. They took the bags and walked slowly up to the front porch. Whitey set down the bag he was carrying on the front edge of the porch. Amber lowered her own to rest beside it. They stood in silence for a moment, both looking at the front of the house.
"It doesn't look like anyone is awake yet," Amber whispered, the words coming out of her mouth in cloudy little puffs and wafting away on the brisk morning air.
"This is the country, Sweetie," Whitey replied softly. "Won't be too many sleeping in around here. Too much to do. Besides, when we were comin' around the car, I thought I saw some lights on toward the back of the house."
"Still, I don't feel right knocking on a stranger's door at this hour. The sun isn't even up yet."
"What are you gonna do, child? Wait?""Sure. It won't be long before it's light out and like you said, no one one sleeps in too long out here, right? Besides, I think I can use some time to work up some courage. I'm a little nervous. A lot nervous, now that I'm actually here. You know what I mean?" she asked, looking up at him sheepishly.
"Yeah, I guess I can understand that. If that's how you want it why, I guess it's up to you." He turned to face her full-on. "I really am glad I met you Amber. I hope you find what you're looking for here. You surely deserve it."
"I'm glad to have met you, too! You saved my life. If I'd have had to spend the night alone on that lonely mountain road, it might've been too late for me. Thank you so much!"
"Well, better late than never, as they say," Whitey said and turned to go.
On impulse, Amber stepped in front of him, cutting him off. She looked up at him, that pure white hair blowing in the morning breeze, those feckless, bottle-green eyes set into his careworn face. She stepped to him and put her arms around him. He seemed surprised for a moment by her gesture, then he returned her embrace with a warm embrace of his own, at once strong and gentle. They stood that way for a moment then slowly parted.
"Thank you," she said again as Whitey turned toward his car once more. He turned to look at her.
"You're welcome, child. Good luck." He had walked almost halfway to his car when he stopped, his back still to her as if considering his next move.
"Amber," he said, turning to face her again. His eyes scanned the front of the house, then returned to her own. "You may not find the answers you've been looking for here, but you'll find answers just the same. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Whitey. I understand. And that's okay. Just so I know, one way or the other."
"Good," he said, smiling, then, "Good," one last time, as if to himself. Then he was getting into his car. He backed up in an arc, almost backing into the empty field as he turned around. He pointed the Barracuda back down the dirt lane, giving her a final wave out the window as he made his way toward the trees. She waved back, just before the car slipped quietly past the first few trees and into the curve in the lane that took him out of her sight. Amber turned and walked back to the porch, climbed the steps as quietly as she could and sat down on the top step to wait. She leaned her back against the top post of the handrail to the right of the steps and listened to the Barracuda make its way back to the road. After a few moments, she could hear the car idling at what she guessed was the point where the dirt lane met the road. It seemed to linger there, as if deciding what to do next. Then it was off. She heard the tiny chirp of the wide tires as the car left the dirt for the pavement and the smooth rumble of acceleration as it headed down the road, back the way they had come. The sound carried back to her easily in the clear morning air and she listened until it had faded to the point where the breeze across her ears was enough to drown it out. Then it was gone. Amber sat with her back to the rail and waited. There was a growing light in the Eastern sky, although the sun had not even begun to crest the horizon. She could hear no sounds from inside the old house and her reluctance to disturb the occupants kept her where she was. She leaned her head back, resting it against the flat side of the post, enjoying the fresh, chilly breeze on her face. Although she wasn't aware of it (and it would have surprised her if she had been) she began to doze.Amber awoke some time later to a voice. The sun had risen fully but barely, during the time she had napped. As she tried to get her bearings, the voice spoke again.
"I said, who are you?" She turned to see a young man standing on the porch, just outside the front door. No, not a young man. A boy, really. He looked like he might be around fifteen, maybe sixteen at the most.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, apparently unmindful or unconcerned that his first question, though obviously asked twice, had as yet gone unanswered.
"I'm sorry," Amber stammered. Her knees popped like gunshots as she rose to introduce herself to this boy who's expression could, at best, be described as sullen.
"My name is Amber Flynn. I've come from San Francisco." She paused, uncertain of how to continue, knowing that she must.
"I'm trying to find a man named William Bishop. I think he may be my father."
The boy looked at her levelly, his expression never changed. He seemed to be appraising her, in an absent sort of way that made her decidedly uneasy. After what seemed like an eternity, at least to Amber, the boy turned, without a word and opened the screen door. He stepped back and held it open. Amber stood for a moment, unsure of what was happening, until it dawned on her that, without moving, saying a word or even changing his expression, the boy was inviting her inside. She glanced back at her luggage and immediately decided that bringing it inside at this point in their relationship would be a little premature. She bent and picked up her purse, then accepted the boy's silent, invisible invitation and made her way past him and into the house.He entered behind her and she stepped aside. He pulled the screen door quietly closed, then closed the heavy, wooden front door just as silently. He made his way down a short hallway and Amber followed. There was a stairway to her left and, from what she could see through the partially open door, a bedroom to the right. Ten feet beyond this was an archway. She followed the boy through it and into what was clearly the living room. To her right, in the far corner, was a fireplace. Two tables stood on either side of it. Both the tables, as well as the mantle above the hearth, we crowded with pictures and bric-a-brac. None of this registered beyond the level of a broad overview as her eyes fell upon an older woman sitting in an overstuffed chair to the side of the fireplace, looking out the window. The woman didn't even look up. The boy spoke from just behind and to the left of Amber, startling her.
"Mother?"
The woman by the window looked up at the sound of his voice but said nothing. Her pale blue eyes settled on Amber, who, for her part, couldn't have spoken if she wanted to. The boy moved to his mother's side and hunkered down, bringing their eyes to roughly the same level.
"Mother," he spoke again. There was a gentleness in his voice.
"Mother, this girl says her name is Amber. She says that she's come from San Francisco and she's looking for her father. She said his name is William Bishop."
The woman looked at her son for a long time, then slowly turned her gaze upon Amber. The silence in the room was heavy as the two women, young and old, regarded each other. Finally, in a voice that belied her appearance with its power, the older woman spoke.
"Your father's name is William Bishop." It struck Amber as being more of a statement than a question. Amber found her voice, surprising herself, if no one else in the room.
"Yes Ma'am," she replied, meeting the woman's eyes with great effort.
"And your name is Amber." Again, Amber was struck by the idea that this was not a question.
"Yes, Ma'am. It is. Amber Flynn. From San Francisco." The woman regarded Amber cooly, seeming to size her up. To Amber it was a look she had seen before. She had seen it on the faces of people who were watching a magician, watching him a little too closely, seeing a particularly good trick the way it was meant to be seen but looking for the tell anyway, the chink in the magician's armor that would reveal him for the fakir that they all knew he was anyway. To her credit, she kept her gaze steady and waited.
"Come here, child," the woman said. She accompanied the command with tired gesture. Somehow, Amber got her feet to move across the wooden floor. She approached the woman slowly, the boy still kneeling at his mother's side. As Amber reached them, he stood and stepped away, leaving the two women alone, the older looking up into the face of the younger with an unsettling frankness. Slowly, but suddenly, all the same, to Amber's surprise, the woman reached up and took her right hand and held it in her own dry left hand.
"Your father has been talking about you for years." Amber's heart leaped at the words! She had done it! She had found her father. Her people. A great weight was lifted from her soul and she felt that she was finally home.
"He-he has? He remembered me?" She could feel the tears welling along with the gooseflesh that had erupted from head to toe.
"Of course, Dear," the woman said, never letting her eyes leave Amber's face. "He always wondered if he would ever see you again. And now you've come."
The woman stood to face her, still holding her hand. Amber was a few inches taller than the older woman."
Then he's here?" Amber asked, looking around the room as if she expected to see him standing next to the boy. "Is he home? I'd love to see him!"
The woman glanced away, her eyes meeting the eyes of the boy. She cut her eyes away to his left for half a second, then back to Amber. The boy moved to his left, as if he were following an unspoken command. The woman circled Amber, holding both of her hands.
"Your father isn't here, child. He passed away last night." Amber didn't quite hear her, it just didn't register. The woman went on anyway.
"Last night, he got up and left, saying he had something to do. We all thought it was strange, since he never left the house at that hour. Just before eleven it was. Jimmy here found his Daddy - your Daddy, an hour later, sitting in the dooryard in his car. The Doc says he must have had a heart attack, since he was just sitting there, behind the wheel. The key was turned on but the engine wasn't running. Only the radio."
Amber stared at the woman in shock. The boy (jimmy-his name is Jimmy) her mind gibbered, had approached them. He placed something in Amber's hands. She stared at it, barely hearing the woman as she continued.
"He loved that car so much! Built it himself from the ground up. Took him all of six years."
Amber couldn't take her eyes away from the picture in her hands. From far away, she heard the woman speak."Whitey would have been so proud of you," the old woman said.