Wyatt, Richard

by Fathers of Myth

  Could it be, that Kelly and I and Charles Lindbergh somehow know the same secret? I find this hypothesis to be most inconceivable. Why; because first of all, I have no hidden secrets. Well, except maybe that I really am a little afraid of my boss and that I think Kelly is the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, but nothing else. Then too, how could Charles Lindbergh and I, decades apart, possibly be partners in a secret that is worthy of death?

  What it is I have uncovered, I know not. I do know that what I have uncovered brings me no pleasure, for my head aches with the ache of perplexity.

  Stunned a moment from this quagmire of intrusive thoughts, I sink down into a chair that is close by. After the wave of mental weakness passes, my mind turns back again to the mysterious reappearing fellow that I have found posing in one of Jack the Ripper’s murder scene photos.

  In the last few weeks I have come in contact with this man either by threats or by photos or even face to face.

  These things that I have dug up by happenstance seem to suggest that Charles Lindbergh was just another victim of some kind of abstract conspiracy. Are Kelly and I also in danger of becoming victims of some sinister phantom? I wonder, if I dig deeper into Charles Lindbergh’s personal history, will his past surrender further secrets into my hands?

  I catapult from the chair and return to the glass of the display, with almost one jump. What else did Charles Lindbergh leave behind, that will shed some light on who this ageless stranger is, and what this cryptic secret we are accused of possessing is.

  With my hands and face against the glass, I slowly walk through the exhibit. I scrutinize every photo, study every document, and peruse every artifact. When I am almost at the end of the exhibit I find what I am looking for.

  A photo of a Hunterdon County courtroom, dated February 13, 1935. Here in this photo, Mr. Bruno Richard Hauptmann is on trial for kidnapping and possibly murdering Charles Lindbergh’s twenty-month-old son.

  I notice that some of the more notable historic personalities are present in the photo. Charles Lindbergh is here, of course. The famous journalists Walter Winchell and Lowell Thomas are also present. And sitting in the back of the courtroom, attempting to be incognito sits J. Edgar Hoover. Even with his attempts to be invisibly present, I think I could recognize Mr. Hoover anywhere he would show up.

  It is so crowded in the courtroom that many of the spectators are standing along the side wall. There, in the middle of those that are standing, I see the ageless stranger once again. I knew it, I just knew it! I don’t know why, but I had a gut feeling that I would find him here somewhere.

  How could he be someone who was alive in the past and at the same time, one who occupies the present?

  Suddenly, I feel like my brain cells have just been detonated like a road flare. What is the possibility of this guy showing up in photos from the other exhibits? Why not? Lately, finding photos of this gentleman living in the past is beginning to be commonplace. Why couldn’t there be more photos. I guess the question should be; how many more are there? If I discover more photos, what trophy of knowledge will I take possession of?

  A surge of fervor invades my insides with a wild mission of pursuit. My mission of pursuit; to find further photos of this reoccurring man of past and future, in order to authenticate his existence. To find the key that will at last open up this locked box of mystery.

  Whirling around and away from the displays, I head for Kelly and the next exhibit. As I approach Kelly, she labors to capture the pangs of distress of the Lindbergh baby on film; her camera repeatedly clicking snapshots of the tragedy of a defenseless infant.

  “You’re ready to go? Let’s go on to the next exhibit.”

  “OK, all right. I just want to finish using up this film in the camera and then we can go.” She continues focusing and taking pictures without skipping a beat.

  “I’m surprised!” she says without looking at me.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well nothing, I just thought you would be here for another hour or so. Are you bored with Charles Lindbergh? Not enough blood and guts for you?” She sings sarcastically, as she positions her camera for the optimum focus.

  “No; nothing like that,” I attempt to be nonchalant.

  “I just can’t wait to see the other exhibits. I think they will have some great stuff for our story.”

  “OK then. I’ll go, if you carry my bag.”

  We enter the History of War exhibit next. Most of mankind’s bloody wars are depicted here; from early Egyptian wars and conquests, down to the human conflicts of our modern day.

  Kelly grabs her camera and prepares to take more pictures. I begin my mission, in searching the possibilities of finding more photos of my reappearing charlatan of history. I am in hopes that there will be enough photos of history, to fill my basket of enlightenment.

  After walking only five steps into the exhibit, a short round and somewhat grizzled old lady confronts me. She at once crosses over the forbidden zone of my personal space, standing only twelve inches from my thorax.

  She crumples her neck back, straining to look up at me as if I were standing on the tenth floor and she on the first. She smiles, and then her face emits the serious determination of a salesman. I have no alternative but to speak some kind of greeting to her.

  “Yes ma’am, what can I do for you?”

  “Hello sir. My name is Margaret. I am a volunteer for the battered women’s aid society of Seattle. Today I am offering a set of photos, which consists of Civil War photos you will see here in this exhibit today. Twelve photo prints for only ten dollars.”

  “Well ma’am, I don’t think...”

  “Just think sir; this is your chance to be helping women find happiness in their sad lives once again. It may seem very little to you sir, but it will make such a big difference in some battered woman’s life.”

  “OK, I’ll take a set.” As I dig in my pocket for the ten bucks I look around, hoping that no one has witnessed my weakening in the face of an old lady’s emotional chicanery. I take the package of Civil War photos and quickly stick them in my back pocket.

  §

  SEVENTEEN

  The Civil War has always interested me for some reason. Maybe because it was the first great war that photographs were taken. Photographs have given us the ability to peer into the past like a glass window.

  By the amount of photos Kelly is taking, and the pleasant look upon her face, Kelly seems delighted with this exhibit. There are so many human stories here to experience, feel and touch.

  The silent and motionless images sketched onto these Civil war photos, come alive and speak. They beckon all to step back in time and to know what they have known, feel what they have felt, and to see what they have seen. The piercing eyes of the men and women staring back at the camera in these pictures seem to transport the importance of understanding their plight.

  I have viewed a hundred photos by now, not to mention soldiers’ boots, uniforms, saddles, guns, tobacco pipes, and even a pair of army issue underwear. Nevertheless, I have not yet come upon any photos of the man I am in pursuit of; the one who has threatened my body and captured my mind.

  In my search for truth, I chance upon a 120-year old hand-written letter that had been sent to the mother of some long forgotten soldier. I immerse myself within the throb of emotion found there.

  While I continue to stand there preoccupied, Kelly comes up behind me and stands there silently still. Without turning around to see, I know it is Kelly, because of the delectable perfume she is accustomed to wearing. I stop reading. In fact I stop and barricade all Civil War exhibit data from coming into my brain. I close my eyes and just enjoy the sweet bouquet of her presence.

  “I’d say this exhibit is the most interesting and productive yet,” she breaks the silence as she loads another roll of film into her camera. I turn around and face her, and at once become captivated with the spell of her eyes. She abruptly breaks the spell.

  “You know, you have
the same look on your face as when you lose your keys or wallet, and can’t find them. Is something wrong?” She asks in kind of a perky manner.

  “No no, I’m fine. I haven’t lost anything that I know of. Maybe what you see is the look of disappointment. I just thought there would be more to the exhibit that’s all.” I shove my hands into my pockets and display a slight pout on my face

  “More? This is probably the best exhibit of the whole place. I think a real professional journalist would appreciate that.” She jabs at me.

  I look up at her face in response and see her eyes display their trademark sparkle.

  “By the way, were you going to frame those prints or put them in an album?” She has a most annoying tone. I sense a trap of harassment close at hand.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I mean those beautiful prints you bought from that nice old lady. What do you plan to do with them?”

  It’s amazing to me, how a beautiful young girl can be so cunning and skillful at the art of harassment. She can swoop down and do her dirty work, and then be off. Then, no matter what damage she has inflicted, she still is guilty only of being beautiful.

  “OK, OK. Yes I gave in to that little old lady and bought some prints that I really didn’t want. Yes, I am a real big soft touch when it comes to little round old ladies. There; you have the admission that you desired. Now let’s get going.”

  “No, I wasn’t interested in any admission of guilt. I just thought it was nice to find out that you have a heart after all.” With that said, she scampers off like a playful kitten. She trails off in front of me, her head bobbing from left to right.

  I pull out the photo prints she has so cleverly reminded me of and begin to glance through them. I notice right away, that a few of these photos are new to me. Some of these prints are not of those displayed in the exhibit. I decide to take a load off, sit down and closely examine these photos I’ve taken possession of.

  Of the twelve photos I’ve purchased, I concentrate on five that the exhibit had not displayed. The first photo is of a sequence of smoking cannons. The cannons seem to be silently emerging from the morning fog, heartlessly searching for some life to target. Behind each cold cast iron implement of death, one or two Yankee soldiers bear the continued burden of wretchedness.

  The next two photos are scenes of dead bloodstained soldiers in both blue and gray coats. Their bodies lifelessly carpet the ground, which has now become their eternal abode. I find little tolerance for such emptiness and casual discard of life. I demote these to the bottom of the pile and move on to the next.

  The next photo is of a group of Yankee soldiers, posing for the camera. Three foot-soldiers stand on each side of an officer on horseback; instantaneously and permanently engraved into time.

  Even though I should be comfortable with the idea by now, I am again astonished and amazed to find that the officer in the photo is none other than my time-traveling friend I have been searching for. He postures on horseback, saluting and grinning with that grin of his, as if he were playing some unpalatable prank for amusement.

  I look down at the cold concrete floor for a moment, lost in deep thought. My mind swims with this emerging bizarre revelation, until it numbs my brain. I look back at the photo and begin to slowly rock my head back and forth.

  All of a sudden everything around me is ravine black. The lights in the exhibit are out. The usual clamor of voices rises to a crescendo of shock that penetrates the instant blackness. Someone steps on my foot; another abruptly bushes against my arm. After a moment or two, someone clicks a cigarette lighter to flame, then another. People then begin to calm, whisper, and even chuckle at the event.

  Lights abruptly switch back on and consume the darkness, revealing our true surroundings once again. Nervous sighs of relief and laughter are expressed. After a brief hush, everyone becomes engrossed in the exhibit once again.

  Snickering a little to myself, I watch everyone as things return to normal. I see Kelly across the other side of the room. She looks over at me and waves a dainty little wave, moving only her fingers.

  I turn my attention back to my photos I have purchased. I look down at my lap where the photos once lay. The photos are gone. Thinking they must have dropped to the floor during the blackout, I begin to search the floor for them, but find nothing. The photos are nowhere to be found. What in the world could have happened to them in just a matter of minutes? I must be losing my mind.

  Looking up and around me, I notice a man rushing to the exit of the exhibit. Just before he reaches the door, he looks back. He looks directly at me. In that split second, just before he disappears, I see what looks like my photos in his right hand. Astonished, I sit there in shock. Then I realize! It is him, the stranger! Yes, the same man I had just seen in the photos; the same man that keeps appearing wherever I go.

  As the postcard thief reaches the doorway, he collides head on with another person that is entering the room, causing my postcards to burst from his hands. Without stopping to pick up the postcards, he flash darts out of the room.

  I bolt from the chair toward the exit door. The room is too crowded; too many people. Move, everybody move out of my way, I think to myself. I reach the door, then rush outside the room to the middle of the isle way. Desperately I frantically look left then right, then back again; nothing. He is gone.

  I am so frustrated that I feel like hitting something or someone. I turn around and see a man about to pass me. I have an overwhelming desire to punch him out. Despite my frustration, I am able to grab control of some sagacious sane reasoning, until the overwhelming desire subsides. This is good, especially since the man about to pass is over six feet tall and at least one hundred pounds heavier than I am.

  After searching the crowd in both directions in vain, I go back to the doorway of the room and pick up my postcards that have been strewn on the floor. I then reluctantly head back to the exhibit where Kelly is undoubtedly busy taking more photos. I go directly back to the chair I was sitting in and collapse into it, like a half-empty gunny sack of potatoes.

  What kind of creature is this strange man anyway, I ask myself. There is no doubt in my mind now, that he is the sort of man with the capacity and capability, to inhabit both my past as well as my present. What do I do with such a farfetched discovery as this? How should I react to it? To whom do I, or to who should I, reveal this discovery?

  Then it occurs to me, is this mysterious character man or spirit, or dare I guess. I have met him now face to face several times, so he is very aware of my existence, and he is aware that I know of his conniving covert activities here as well as in the past. He knows that I know.

  He tried to take the post cards I had bought from the little old lady. Why? Might it be that these photos would shed light and reveal more of his identity, of which he would prefer to keep in the dark?

  Since he is the one that took advantage of the darkness to seize the photos, he must also be the one who turned the lighted room into darkness. He must have known just when it would be the right time to turn off the lights and to steal the photos; to know that, he would have had to follow and observe me for a very long time.

  Am I in danger? How far would he go to protect his identity? Is keeping his identity secret that important. If I were to find out more about his secret identity, would I be sorry I discovered such a secret?

  I sit with this burden, weightlessly laboring against a mauling claustrophobic feeling. I am exhausted. I need to find Kelly and get out into the open, out into some fresh air.

  “I need to get some air. You want to go with me and get a Coke or something?” I call out to Kelly as I pass her, taking for granted she will follow me out of the exhibit.

  “Where are you going?” Kelly calls out to me. I look back at her and become aware of the expression on her face. She stands there with her mouth open wide in surprise. I walk back over to her, never taking my eyes from her face. I contemplate the moist border of each one of her red lips for
a moment.

  “Matthew! It is three in the afternoon. How am I supposed to get a complete photo shoot of this assignment, if you keep going off and taking breaks?”

  “I just want to...”

  “I know. I’m tired too,” she interrupts.

  “Let’s get this done and then take a break. The exhibit closes in only two hours, and there is so much more to see. If we just knew where the good stuff was in each exhibit, I could take a picture of it, and we could go home early.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, we could run into each exhibit, walk right over to the most important part of each exhibit, take a picture, and then on to the next. As it is, we have to make a search through each exhibit, to find something suitable for framing.”

  My mind was racing now. Kelly has come up with the formula. Why didn’t I think of it myself? If I were to only search each exhibit for this secret evasive stranger of mine, what more would I discover? Where else in the past has this furtive fellow sojourned? Will still other ancient photos be on display that further betrays his being present at other episodes of history?

  “Kelly, you have got an excellent idea!”

  “What idea?” Her face is looking puzzled.

  Without acknowledging Kelly’s question, I step lively to the next exhibit.

  “Where are you going? I’m not done taking pictures with this one yet.

  “Matt?”

  I walk a good fifty feet before Kelly decides to pick up the rest of her equipment and catch up to her wildly unpredictable partner.

  I reach the World War II exhibit and rush inside the entrance. I then remember Kelly and poke my head back outside the entrance to see if she is somewhere close by. I see her coming quickly, laboring under the weight of her photo equipment. The sight of her struggle and the strain displayed upon her face gives me a stab of guilt. I swing out of the doorway to help her.