Note from Esther Mitchell: It’s been great having Barbara Scott here for the month of July. I’d like to thank her for taking the time to join us once a week all month, and sharing her insights, characters, and more with us. Don’t forget to join us next month as the incomparable Raine Delight takes center stage for a month of Tuesdays… Now, a final post from Barbara Scott:
Well, here I am on my fifth July Tuesday, enjoying my last day as a guest on Esther’s blog and loop. First, I want to thank Esther for this opportunity to communicate with all of you. I hope you have enjoyed my visits as much as I have enjoyed being here.
I’m posing a couple of questions for you today, one here on the blog and another over at the loop. Come on out and answer or just say hi. If you do you will be entered in my July prize drawing. Today’s the last day. I’ll be announcing the winners at the end of the day.
This excerpt from Cast a Pale Shadow shows Cole Baker the alter ego of hero Nicholas Brewer shortly after he has come into control of the body they “share.” The transition period is posing some difficulties.
I guess I became intrigued with the idea of a multiple personality hero from seeing Sally Field in Sybil, or, even further back, Joanne Woodward in The Three Faces of Eve. I wondered what it would be like to have separate, functional personalities deal with different aspects of my own life.
What about you? If you could have a second personality (without all the psychological trauma that might bring it into being) what parts of your life would you want it to take over? Answer in the comments here or join me over at Esther’s loop.
Cole
The telegram was creased and finger-smudged from repeated unfolding and refolding, but Cole was sure he had never read the words himself until now. It was dated May 23, three months ago.
DUNCAN BREWER TRANSFERRED TO STATE MAXIMUM SECURITY PSYCHIATRIC FACILITY IN SPRINGFIELD STOP VITAL THAT I MEET WITH YOU IMMEDIATELY
FITAPALDI
Two months. Mechanically, Cole began to pack, hardly aware of how he knew where the things he needed were stored in this unfamiliar apartment, in God knows what city. The telegram was addressed to Erie, Pennsylvania but the newspaper told him Cleveland and the date, if it was a local paper and today’s. Maybe he was already headed in the direction of home. He had lost track of his intentions when he had lost track of himself.
It made little difference, a day or two, or a month or two, this city or that. Cole had misplaced more time, great precious chunks of it, on other occasions. He had gone to sleep in Philadelphia or Dayton or Terre Haute and awakened in Detroit or Chicago or Atlanta with no memory of the trips. He found it best to gather the fragments of life without searching for reasons. It was better not knowing what went on in those times and places between.
TWO FREIGHTERS COLLIDE OFF NANTUCKET; 20 FEARED DEAD
Cole read the first few paragraphs of the sea disaster story with its photograph of one of the doomed ships on her beam-ends moments before plunging to the bottom of the ocean, and another of a rescued seaman, round eyed with shock.
He thought it not unlike his own story with two lives colliding, one being sent to the murky depths of consciousness, the other left in startled awareness that some kind of life must go on. He had long since learned to handle such madness with a semblance of sanity. Cole was the only one to suspect the truth of it, that he was his father’s son and probably insane beyond redemption.
He found a set of car keys next to the coffee pot. At least he had a car, a Ford this time. He never questioned whether it was stolen, or paid for, or bought on time. Some dab of self-preservation must remain in the dark cavern of his lost time to spare him that. The purchases made, decisions rendered, and actions taken during the blanks in his memory had always been easily reversible, at least any that Cole had found out about. Sometimes he suspected that the prospect of a long-term commitment was what returned him to himself. Cole had learned to be a master of escape and extrication.
He lifted the curtain and scanned the parking lot to see how difficult his search for the car would be. The worn condition of the keys and his obvious and chronic state of financial distress hinted that the Ford would be old. Spying but two likely prospects in the lot, he shouldered his bags with relief and made his way to the dark green ‘85 coupe parked closest to his own door.
Success. The keys fit and he opened the trunk and loaded his belongings. He would not be returning here. Whatever boss expected him to report for work tomorrow morning would be disappointed. Whatever utility bills he had accumulated would go unpaid. Whatever human connections he had made were just as well severed. When traveling down the road to insanity, one learned to travel light.
The first stop had to be a service station. With the tank filled and the oil, air, and water checked, Cole studied the road map the gap-toothed attendant had provided him. He was in Cleveland, a city he had never visited before to his conscious knowledge.
“Going on a trip, Nick?” The attendant asked as he counted out his change.
It took a moment for Cole to respond to the name. He was not used to being called that anymore. “Huh? Oh, yeah. Ann Arbor,” he lied. It was close enough. “Got any advice on the fastest route?”
“Sure. My cousin lives there. Used to go up there all the time and fish with him. Gimme that map.” Cole handed him the map and his pencil, and the attendant sketched out the roads for him. “Sure would be nice to be able to go fishing right about now. Is that what you’re up to?”
“Naw, family business, I’m afraid. Not a vacation.” It was another talent necessary to the pretense of sanity—to be able to fake familiarity with total strangers who knew you on a first name basis—a first name that wasn’t really yours.
“Sorry. Not sickness, I hope.”
“Not serious.”
“That’s good. Here.” He poked a grubby finger at the penciled map as he handed it back. “You’ll wanna watch this junction at Toledo. Heavy road construction. This way is shorter. I marked it, see.”
“Thanks. Catch you in a couple weeks.”
“You betcha, Nick. Drive careful now, you hear? Say, hey what about your gal? You’re not leaving her here unattended, are you?”
Cole felt a claw of anxiety clutch at his stomach. “No, uh, she’s gone. You know how these things are. Hot one day. Cold the next.” This Nick and his ’gals‘ would be the ruination of him yet. He shrugged and flashed the attendant a knowing, who-the-hell-cares smile.
“Ah, well, shit. Plenty of fish in the sea. See ya, Nick.” The attendant thumped the counter to send him on his way.
Images of Nick’s gal haunted the drive toward Lansing. Cole would find out soon enough how close the imagined came to the real. There would be a picture of her in the file or undeveloped in the camera. They always turned up there. He had found no other evidence of her in the apartment he had left, so it was probably true that she had gone on her way sometime in Nick’s regime.
