NOT AN AMERICAN

by Stanley W Rogouski

  "If Boston had the Lowells and Cabots, if Massachusetts has the Kennedys, Poison Springs has the Feltons. Elizabeth Felton, the brilliant 41 year old candidate for the Democratic nomination for mayor of Poison Springs, managed to pass the bar at the age of 23. She went on to get a medical degree and to do a residency in pediatrics, and became a founding member of Doctors for Human Rights, and all before the age of 30. She spent most of her late 20s and early 30s abroad, a fact much noted by her potential opponent Michael Catalinelli, but from the moment she returned last year, she became as vital a part of the civic life of our city as her father has been for decades and her family has been since the city's founding in 1728. If she does nothing else, the free clinic she founded in East Poison Springs will easily surpass the 20 year legacy of sound and fury signifying nothing left to us by our current mayor."

  "You sir are a first rate ass kisser," Avellanos said to the writer's picture, which showed an elderly looking man who taught economics at a local community college.

  Avellanos wrapped the scarf around his neck, put one of the edges back up to his face, inhaled, and then went back to the editorial. When he finished, he put the newspaper his lap. He began to drift in and out of sleep, but still felt each bump, sharp turn, and sudden stop the bus made. There was a steadily throbbing pain in on the side of his head. When the bus jerked to a final stop, he looked out of the window through the snow, now falling in earnest, to notice that they were alongside Reagan Plaza. He put the newspaper under his arm, threw his knapsack over his shoulder, and walked up to the front of the bus. The bus driver put out his hand and touched his arm.

  "Are you going to be alright son?" he said, holding onto his sleeve. "This is no night to be walking around drunk."

  "I'm fine," Avellanos said, slurring his words.

  He stepped down off the bus and started talking to himself.

  "I am a Kennedy, a Cabot, and a Lowell," he said. "I come from a family distinguished in the affairs of Poison Springs. You beautiful woman are mistaken. I am no drunken bum. The cops broke Andy's arm."

  He walked out onto Reagan Plaza, and sat down on a bench near the fountain. It was the first time he had ever seen the out-sized public square. He looked up at the fountain. The water had been turned off, but the metal pipes were all covered with ice. City Hall was visible through the thick swirling white curtain of snowflakes. Scahentoarrhonon Station and most of the small skyline was not. He wanted to sit there all night. How beautiful it all seemed in the driving snow. After noticing that he was shivering violently, however, he threw his knapsack over his shoulder and ran through the snow to the north side of the park, where he bounded onto the Number 18 with only seconds to spare.

  "Does this bus go to the First Presbyterian Church of East Poison Springs?” he said to the bus driver.

  "Yes."

  "If I fall asleep, would you wake me up when we get there?"

  "It's the last stop, so if you're not up I'm going to wake you up anyway."

  Avellanos sat down in the front row, and pressed his forehead to the window as another flash of lightning lit up the sky. When the bus began to move, he looked out at the wooded side of Reagan Plaza, counting the trees going by until he saw the bright lights of Scahentoarrhonon Station emerge through the thick snow at the corner of Reagan Plaza East. The bus made a sharp turn and started up the bluff to East Poison Springs. Soon the lights of Scahentoarrhonon Station and City Hall were a distant glow. He watched houses, first small, then large and poorly kept, then large and very well kept pass by in the window until the tall, white steeple of the First Presbyterian Church of East Poison Springs caught his attention in the front windshield.

  When the bus driver opened the doors, Avellanos got off, hopped over a puddle onto the sidewalk, and continued in the direction of the church, looking up at the wind-blown flurries swirling about the towering white spire as he walked along. He had intended to run straight for the church, find the office door, and knock, hoping someone would let him sleep in the basement, but there had been a brief gap in the clouds. The snow had let up. He lost the focus that came from desperation. He wandered aimlessly through the neighborhood, walking around the block twice, examining the various houses, some large, elegant, looking almost like manor houses, but most modest, typically suburban and middle class, before he finally came back to the church. He paused. He spun around slowly. He took a deep breath and inhaled his surroundings. Here he was, at long last, the neighborhood where his mother had grown up. There it was, unmistakably, brilliantly illuminated, the big blue house where she had spent her childhood.

  Avellanos walked, or rather staggered up to the front door of as if he intended just to knock, and introduce himself. He looked up. There was the three story turret his mother had told him about as a child. Was that her old bedroom on the second floor? Every light in the house blazed, but there was no sound of music or of revelry. It was not a party, but a gathering, and a somber one.

  It was Nicholas Felton's Memorial Service.

  John Avellanos briefly lost his nerve, and walked back down to the sidewalk. The street was lined with cars on both sides. The snow was starting to pick up again. He looked past the church off the bluff to see the twinkling skyline of downtown Poison Springs begin to fade into the now thickening white curtain. He walked in the direction of the city lights, onto the front lawn of the church, past the main building, past a second building which was lit up and which did in fact have an office, through a black iron gate into the small, ancient cemetery in back.

  When the weather was clear and cold, and the trees denuded of leaves, the old cemetery behind the First Presbyterian Church of Poison Springs provided a panoramic view of most of the Winterborn Valley. Even in the middle of a snowstorm, it was a dramatic setting. To John Avellanos all of the headstones looked as if they had been set next to a drop of what seemed to be at least 200 feet, as if one mudslide could carry the whole thing away, and sweep hundreds of colonial graves, headstones, and bones from revolutionary war soldiers down onto the road below. The hill actually sloped gently downward until it reached another plateau, 25 feet below, where there was another road and another line of houses, after which, there was still several hundred yards until you reached the edge, but it made him run back towards the street. He stopped.

  John Avellanos looked up, startled to realize that he was now directly behind the old blue house, which threw enough light down onto the cemetery for him to read the headstones. He resumed walking, making his way carefully past each memorial as he went along until he came to a large cluster of graves lined up directly up against the wooden fence that separated the backyard from the cemetery. There were about 30 of them, all clustered together, a family plot, and, as he quickly recognized, his family's plot. He started to read the inscriptions. "Lieutenant Titus Felton," one said, "born January 12, 1841, died September 17, 1862." He looked at another, much older headstone. "The Reverend Amos Northland," it said, "born 1678, Glasgow, Died 1770, Poison Springs." Even in his semi-delirious state of mind, Avellanos nodded his head approvingly, as if to indicate that traveling to the far edge of the western frontier all the way back in 1700 and managing to live past 80 was an impressive achievement. He walked over to a cluster of headstones that looked more recent in origin. "Ellen Grunstadt Felton," one of them read. "Born 1950. Died 1993." He gave a start when he looked at the newest.

  "Nicholas Reynolds Felton, born 1946. Died 2014.

  Avellanos looked down at the freshly dug grave. The blizzard had picked up, but the soft, newly dug up and newly replaced earth was still visible beneath the gathering snow. He put his two hands over his head and started to pace back and forth, shivering, looking at the brilliantly lit wing of the big blue house out of the corner of his eye, realizing finally, it seemed, that he needed to get inside. When he took a careless step onto the soft ground, however, he tripped and fell. He wasn't injured, but he lacked the will to move. He tucked his knapsack under his head, and looked up at the clouds. Why make
the effort to beg for shelter inside the church office, or inside the house, when the ground over his uncle's grave was as comfortable as a bed? He heard a car start up a few hundred feet away on the street. He noticed that a band of light from one of the windows of the house had fallen over his knees. He felt the snowflakes come down onto his eyelashes. He was no longer shivering. The fine cashmere scarf that young woman had given him had indeed kept his neck warm. In a few minutes, he was sound asleep. He began talking to himself when he heard the dog bark.

  “The dogs are coming to dig up my bones. The dogs are coming to dig up my bones."

  The dog, a big, fierce looking German Shepherd, barked louder when it realized something was alive on top of the grave. He came over, straddled Avellanos on either side of his chest, and barked in his face, but Avellanos drifted back off into unconsciousness, not responding even after some of the dog's warm drool dripped into one of his nostrils. When the dog realized he wouldn't be able to wake up the man lying on top of Nicholas Felton's grave, he threw his head back, howled, and then ran around and around the headstone barking even louder. He stopped when a hand grabbed him by the collar.

  "Demosthenes," a male voice said, pulling the dog back from the edge. "How did you get loose? What the hell?" he added. "Come on. I'm going to take you inside."

  A few minutes later, the man came back. He was African American, about 30, and a little below medium height. He was wearing a dark suit. There was a woman alongside him. She was in her early 40s, tall, and had a round face and long, dark hair just like his mother. Was she a ghost? Like the man, the woman was dressed in dark, very sober looking clothes. She bent over Avellanos, took his hand in hers to feel his pulse, and nodded to the man that he was still alive. He sat Avellanos up, pulled the knapsack out from under his head, and started to rifle through his possessions.

  "David, what are you doing?"

  "Looking for some ID."

  "But that's his private stuff."

  "It stopped being his private stuff when he decided to bed down on your father's private grave," the man, who was indeed David Sherrod, said.

  "Let's get him inside first before he freezes to death," the woman, who was indeed Elizabeth Felton, answered.

  After a few minutes trying and failing to help Avellanos to his feet so he could walk, they picked him up and carried him through the gate, into the house, and up one flight of stairs. Almost everybody who had come for Nicholas Felton's Memorial Service, including Michael Catalinelli himself, had gone home, and the house, which had been brilliantly lit, was now dark. David Sherrod had stayed late. Catalinelli had instructed him to sound out Elizabeth Felton about whether or not, in light of her father's death, she had intended to stay in the race.

  "Put him on the floor until I come back," she said, pointing to a spare room overlooking the cemetery. "I need to go get some dry clothes."

  David Sherrod opened the door, turned on the light, and put Avellanos on a rug next to a large, queen sized bed. Felton came back a few minutes later with a set of dry clothes and a small leather bag.

  "How tall would you say he is?"

  "About your father's size."

  "So he'll fit into my father's old sweats. Let's get him changed before he freezes to death."

  They put him into a dry pair of sweats and socks and lifted him up onto the bed. David Sherrod recommenced rifling through the knapsack. Elizabeth Felton examined the back of his head, and ran her fingers over his skull looking for bumps or cuts. She took sterile tissue from the leather bag and cleaned off the wound under his eye, then put a band aid on the cut near his mouth.

  "He doesn't really look like a homeless guy," Sherrod said, emptying the contents of a wallet out onto the floor. "I wonder what happened."

  "I'm pretty sure he doesn't have a concussion," she said, taking a package of smelling salts out the leather bag. "But if he does, I'll have to drive him to the hospital for a CAT scan."

  She broke one of the capsules under his nose. Avellanos bolted upright, stared into her eyes, then lay back down and started muttering, half deliriously.

  "You may think I'm a bum but I come from two distinguished families."

  Felton frowned but also appeared to be relieved that Avellanos had come back to consciousness.

  "What's your name? Why did you fall asleep on my father's grave in the middle of a blizzard? Were you trying to commit suicide?"

  "I'm a Cabot. I'm a Cabot, a Kennedy, and a Lowell."

  "No you're not. What's your real name?"

  "I would have told you. I should have asked yours."

  "Why can't you tell me your name?"

  "I can't tell you my name because you're not my pretty girl at the bus stop."

  Sherrod laughed.

  "Elizabeth Felton take the bus, not very likely."

  "I grew up riding the bus system in this town."

  "What's he doing now?" Sherrod said as Avellanos began running his hands over his own body, and stopping only when he reached down onto the floor, found the monogrammed scarf, and pulled it back up onto the bed." He looks like he's drunk."

  "He's got a fever, and he's probably sleep deprived, so yes, let's just say yes, he's drunk."

  David Sherrod started to look through the contents of the wallet, which he had emptied out onto the floor. Elizabeth Felton turned back to John Avellanos. When saw him adjust the pillow and the covers, then turn over on his side, she appeared to be relieved. He was coming back to consciousness.

  "He's got a full set of ID," Sherrod said. "So there won't be any trouble checking him into a hospital, but I don't see a local address. His driver's license says Canton Ohio. He's got a VIC. He's got a birth certificate, and a social security card. I don't see any credit cards or ATM cards."

  "Maybe he got robbed. What's his name?"

  "His name is Martin James Ruiz."

  Sherrod looked over to see the normally phlegmatic, self-contained Elizabeth Felton place her hand on the bed post, so startled by the name Martin James Ruiz that she had to brace herself to keep from tripping over her own feet.

  "Martin James Ruiz?"

  "Yes."

  "Of course."

  "Of course what?"

  "I bet if you look at his birth certificate it says he was born on November 28, 1983."

  Sherrod looked even more startled than Elizabeth Felton.

  "What the hell is going on?"

  "I understand why he passed out in the cemetery. He probably came for the Memorial Service then lost his nerve at the last moment."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "David Sherrod. Meet my brother, Martin James Ruiz."

  Hearing name "Martin James Ruiz" made Avellanos sit up briefly then lay back down on pillow.

  "Where am I? What happened?"

  "What happened is you almost killed yourself," Felton said. "But you didn't."

  Avellanos continued muttering half coherently.

  "I'm not drunk," he said in a weak voice. "I'm just sick, I think."

  "You're very sick," she said. "But you got lucky. My father's dog saved you."

  "Thank you and thank the dog," Avellanos said, closing his eyes. "May I ask you a question?"

  "Go ahead."

  "Have you seen a man around here who looks like me? He'd be a few years older, and he'd have longer hair, but aside from that, he looks just like me."

  Felton looked worried. Was there another homeless man out in the snow in danger of freezing to death?

  "You were alone when we found you."

  "He might have been wearing a green and yellow hat, a green knit hat with yellow ducks."

  Sherrod walked over to Elizabeth Felton and held up the Veterans Identification Card.

  "There's nothing to worry about," he said, showing her the photo. "Here's the man with the hat."

  Elizabeth Felton looked at the photo. Ruiz had convinced the photographer at the VA to take his photo while he was wearing his trademark green and yellow hat. She leaned over the bed to
get a closer look at Avellanos. The hat, the long hair, the beard, their striking physical resemblance, and the fact that he was pale and expressionless, made her conclude that the man in front of her and the man in the Veterans Identifications Card and driver’s license photos were the same. She pushed the covers up over his shoulders.

  "Have you see him?" Avellanos muttered, drifting back into semi-coherence. "I'm a little taller than he is but it's a green hat, a green knit hat with yellow ducks stitched into the sides."

  "Go to sleep," she said. "It's dark outside and the weather is horrible, but I'll go out and look for it tomorrow morning."

  "Thank you."

  Elizabeth Felton walked over to the door while David Sherrod went back over to the pile he had dumped out onto the rug, and started putting it all back in the wallet. He held up Ruiz's Veterans Identification Card. A contrite, almost mournful look came over his face.

  "That hat," he said quietly and regretfully. "I used to have a friend who did things just like that. I'd like to apologize to you and your family," he said, turning to Felton. "I knew you had a half-brother before tonight. Michael had us doing research. I should have refused."

  It was nothing personal. I'm public figure."

  "Your brother isn't. What Michael had me do was not only wrong, it was a waste of time. I knew the name. It just took a few minutes to sink in. Martin Ruiz did three tours of duty in Iraq."

  "I probably know less about him than you do," she said, turning off the light. "I wrote his mother when our father got cancer but she never responded."

  Sherrod walked over to the bed. He looked at the square of light the window had draped over Avellanos, went over, and closed the drapes.

  "A man who served three tours of duty in Iraq deserves better than to die out in the cold," he said to Avellanos.

  He walked over and joined Elizabeth Felton at the door. She stepped out into the hallway.