The One Way (Changes Book 1) Read online

  THE ONE WAY

  Book I of Changes

  Ted Persinger

  eBOOK EDITION

  © 2015 by Ted Persinger

  All Rights Reserved

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine, or journal.

  The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.

  Second printing

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-0-9862521-3-6

  PUBLISHED BY FARFALLA PRESS

  Formatting by Mayhem Cover Creations

  Cover Design by Dave King of Black Rose Writing, and Melissa Ringuette of Monark Design Services Many thanks to both.

  DEDICATION

  For my Thubtim…my Pomegranate

  Ever-patient, ever-loving. You have my heart…always

  &

  For Eric, Kevin, and Julia

  Three amazing people who won my heart the moment

  I saw them open their eyes

  INTRODUCTION

  Some of you may be wondering why there’s a new edition of this book. Well, let me tell you…

  When I signed with my previous publisher, I was in a transitional period in my primary career. As we came closer to publication, I accepted another position, which required a move. As I began that move, the editing for the book came due. Rather than outsourcing it, as I should have, I simply gave a quick glance and said “go ahead.”

  When the book was published, I was shocked to find so many errors in my text. Absolutely gobsmacked. Appalled. Horrified. Any other adjective you’d like. So, after six months with my book on sale, all the while with me blanching about these errors (and apologizing often), I decided to take back my book from the publisher, fix the errors, and publish myself.

  Now, all that might sound like I am angry/bitter/sore about my dealings with my previous publisher. That’s absolutely not the case. I signed with a small house, and they said all along I would have to handle my own editing. Therefore, I goofed by not taking their advice. I hold them blameless. And, most importantly, I learned a lot by working with them; they’re a great little house, and I am so grateful that they took my little dream and put it to print.

  However, I will say that most of the errors in my original edition were introduced, somehow, in the preparation for publishing. That is, when I went back to the original manuscript I submitted, I did not find those errors. Somehow converting the text to final form introduced additional errors…I know not how. It doesn’t matter, honestly…they were there, and I still blush that my first book was printed with so many of them.

  So while I’m confused as to how these errors were introduced, let me say I’m VERY glad to be republishing this book with my own press, and moving forward in my own direction.

  After all, most of us indie writers sell less than a thousand copies; this is just a labor of love for us. So I want to be happy with my little loves, and always be blissful about the experience.

  So, thank you for your patience, and I hope you like the editing this time. If not, tough!

  Ted Persinger

  2/4/2015

  FOREWORD

  Writing has always been just out of reach for me. As a young highschooler, I tried my hand at poetry and short stories. Most of what came out was junk. Clichés. Bad writing all around. When I tried my hand at music during and just after high school, I penned a few verses here and there, but again mostly just as bad. Clunky at its best, offal at its worst.

  Though I had not produced anything readable, I still felt writing was something I was meant to do. I thought I would practice, build my skills, and become a writer. It always seemed like something just up ahead for me. That may sound arrogant, but that was what I felt. Maybe you’ve felt the same thing? Have you ever felt a novel was in you? I did.

  But work and life got in the way. I joined the military, grew a family, divorced, remarried, and found myself just far too busy. Or too tired. Once in a while I would sit down to write, only to hear my kids playing outside. Receiving a call from my job. Moving to a new assignment. It definitely takes an investment of time to write, and who really does have that time? Who has weeks of available time to turn a blank page or computer screen into a novel? Aren’t we all just a little too busy? Even the great Harper Lee needed a friend’s investment; a friend funded her for a year so she could write her great (and only) work.

  So time marched on, as it does. Before I knew it, my kids were grown and I had an empty nest. I was dissatisfied with my job, and felt completely detached from it. Instead of pouring myself into writing, though, I guess you could say I experienced a “mid-life crisis.” I dumped most of my worldly possessions, put the rest in storage, and traveled abroad for what I thought would be a one-year sabbatical. I would “find myself” and then the novel would come out of me.

  Five years later I found myself in my fifties, and I had never written that novel. I had, though, gained some wonderful experiences that I think will always inform my writing. Maybe, instead, I had finally found a viewpoint of the world I could create from, if that makes any sense. Before, I think, my view of the world was clouded with all that went on in my life. Maybe, perhaps, the time abroad was the spark that caused a brushfire within me. Maybe it “cleaned house” and emptied the excuse bin.

  But I still had so much going on, didn’t I? I have grandkids on opposite coasts. I have a third career. And, doggone it, there are so many great movies and so many great places to go for dinner. You can’t possibly expect me to write when I haven’t seen the latest installment of (insert singing/dancing/performing show), can you?

  As my wife and I were leaving Thailand, we found ourselves with about six weeks free. I had signed the contract for my next job. We were packing and moving…and moving…and moving. Boxes, bubble wrap, and tough decisions. We were sorting through our material lives, wondering what was worthwhile and what was expendable junk. This little window of time opened up just a crack of opportunity for me.

  We were staying at the J-J Resort in Phetchabun, four hours outside Bangkok. We were just a few short weeks before the long flight to San Francisco. My wife went to visit her family, and I was left alone for the sweltering day. I remember sitting on a wide balcony that extended over a small muddy pond. Stocked fish would swish around below me and snap up bugs (there were plenty of them to choose from). Large ants moved over my creaky bench, occasionally finding me delicious. Other than that, it was as quiet as a cemetery. Hot June day. I balanced my MacBook on my lap and just started.

  Started! Oh, those first few words seemed miles away. Far off and distant, like the Nebraska horizon. I had no outline, no character sketches, no timeline. Nothing of what I now know are necessary tools. I only had the image of a man mourning his wife…so that’s what I wrote. I just started typing. I stopped questioning myself. I just put down something…anything. I had to finally put down whatever my brain dealt me. I remembered every sad day in my life and put that down, describing images that flashed through my mushy mind.

  That first day I poured out maybe a thousand words of what was to become this novel. While a thousand words isn’t much, it was the first big step down a path I had longed to travel my entire life. I was overwhelmed with the idea that I had finally…finally…commenced. If you can’t do your best then do wh
at you can, I guess. A thousand words are more than I had written since I was fifteen or so, unless you count college papers (and I don’t). I was elated!

  Though most of the words I turned out that day I have since changed, the spirit has stayed the same. In fact, I recently found the original draft I turned out in those early weeks of June, 2013. Crap, for the most part, but the best I could produce in that moment. Those words seem distant now; a whole new me sits here writing this. You may read this novel and think it is still crap. If you think this is bad, you should’ve seen what I started with! But at least I’m writing…and that for me is reward enough. If nobody but me ever reads this book, at least I finally wrote something.

  Now that nearly a year has passed, I feel I have changed so much as a writer. What that tells me is that every book I write is going to be a step down that long path. An evolutionary change. Each work I produce can and should change me at the deepest levels, and hopefully for the better. I guess that’s the major lesson of writing, or any job worth doing: you’re a new you when you finish a large project. In the same way I was a better military officer at twenty years in than I was on day one, I think my twentieth novel will be so much better than this first one. Unfortunately, you don’t get to twenty unless you start at one.

  A friend recently asked me if Danny Shields is me. Yes and no. I guess I put some of myself in him, though I am nothing like Danny. Instead, I like to think Danny is what any of us could become with the right forces applied to us. Danny is a lens through which I viewed the events of his life. He is certainly not the only person to have gone through a devastating event, nor the only person to have blamed himself for it. I have met many people with similarly tragic experiences. Sadly, I have usually found them perched resignedly on a barstool, diligently drinking through their issues. Pain is, after all, a harsh teacher. Sometimes she is a necessary teacher. But she will teach us, won’t she? Danny’s erudition has taught me much.

  I hope you enjoy the book. It’s the best I can do…at this moment.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PART I : SACRAMENTO

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  PART II : MEXICO

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  PART III : A SLIGHT REFRAIN

  XXII

  XXIII

  XXIV

  XXV

  PART IV : SOUTHEAST ASIA

  XXVI

  XXVII

  XXVIII

  XXIX

  XXX

  XXXI

  XXXII

  XXXIII

  XXXIV

  XXXV

  XXXVI

  XXXVII

  XXXVIII

  XXXIV

  XXXV

  XXXVI

  XXXVII

  XXXVIII

  XXXIX

  XL

  PART V : CODA

  XLI

  XLII

  XLIII

  PART I: SACRAMENTO

  I

  Earth is littered with the ruins of empires that believed they were eternal.

  ~ Camille Paglia

  He was drowning in God’s black ire. Shoved under. Struggling. Gulping for air. Blackness filled his mouth, twisted in anguish. Fighting. Wildly. Praying for a golden ray of light or a sliver of clear blue sky, but sinking lower and farther from them with each desperate movement. Clawing for a single breath. Just that one single breath…one saving breath. Losing. Old life, gone. Dead. Nothing old would survive. Ashes. He saw the ashes of all that had gone before. A dark Hell of ashes, floor to ceiling. He could taste those ashes as surely as he tasted his bile. Acid and ash, burning. The scorch marks covered all that went before. There was no going back. Acceptance. All he could do was watch and accept the destruction, the way he had watched…her die. He had only watched. The destruction of his life wasn’t over. It was only beginning. The only way out was through.

  He couldn’t believe how hot his tears were. He couldn’t believe how hard his chest racked. His cheap suit, disheveled, as his chest humped up and down. Black tie pulled to the side. His entire body was heaving, pushing against the force that threatened to suffocate him. He burned. He ached. The pain was immense. He was choking on snot and tears. He could only feel burn. He couldn’t look around. His eyes couldn’t focus. He knew what others were thinking. Knew what he would be thinking. Knew what she was thinking. He could feel the heat of their stares. Red pokers jabbing into his body, cutting and burning.

  He felt this while they lowered the coffin into the ground. The creaking straps. Squeaking frame. Movement…rolling bars releasing more of the straps…rolling and lowering. The casket jiggled, sending rose petals to either side. Her fucking body is in that box. As it sunk below the ground, he could picture her ghastly white and aureate face, and the amber dress she wore. Her favorite dress. He pictured her as clearly now as the open casket just a short while before. He saw her sinking, hands clasping daffodils at her breasts. He knew her body rocked with the lowering straps. He was at fault. I killed her.

  He had seen her look at him. Just four days ago. She had looked at him expectantly. Her eyes were filled with terror. What had she felt? He already knew. Surely as he was standing here now, he had killed her then. Her look had told him exactly what he knew now. You just killed me. As she fell to the ground, she had only looked into his eyes. As those eyes turned blank, they told him what he had done. Her last gagging, rattling breath blew into his face. Her stink. Her gooey blood. Her urine. Her shit. Everything inside flowed outside, leaving emptiness and ruin. It all judged him. Every drop of her blood told him who he knew he was.

  He failed. He killed the woman he was to protect. He was not a man. He caused the death of the only person he loved. He murdered her. He deserved to be in that box, not her.

  The heat was intense. His flushed face burned. The Sacramento sun beat down on him. He was wet with sweat. His clothes stuck to him. Flies and gnats buzzed around his head. He had hoped for a beautiful ceremony. He wanted to celebrate the life of the woman he loved. But an oppressive pall snuffed the pageantry. It wasn’t the heat, but the heat didn’t help. As the cars had moved down Fruitridge Boulevard to the cemetery he felt the minds and thoughts of all the others…heard the whispered tsking. Felt their eyes on him. Felt their disgust. He felt from them the same reproach he felt for himself. Their thoughts bored into him. Their loathing shamed him. He couldn’t blame them for it…they felt just as he would have felt were he another. He deserved every cluck of their tongue, every sidelong stare, every accusatory glance. Especially from her. From them.

  The ceremony droned. Buzzing in his ear. He was unable to hear the words. He only heard the tone, felt the buzz of the heat and his swimming thoughts. There were steps to be taken…there was a process to death, after all. The priest stood dutifully, sweating in his black cloak. Reciting words with meaning and weight that Danny couldn’t understand. He could only live in his own head at this moment. All was whirring and chaos and heat and sweat and tears. Nothing sequential…a maelstrom of thoughts and memories and emotions whirling, and leaving destruction in its place. A tornado was decimating his city of life, replacing the homes of his memories with flat desolation. His happy images of her disappeared in this destruction, as if he were burning photos one by one. It erased her smile, her curly flaxen hair, her tiny freckles. In their place, blood and death and stink. Cold white hands holding bright yellow flowers. It put darkness and despair where once there was light.

  As the coffin sunk nether, his head drooped, his chin on his chest. The tears began to flow faster. He could no longer see. Furious tears. Breath came in raspy gasps. He felt the arm of Jim around him, supporting
him. Not a word was exchanged, but he knew his brother was holding him up. The timing was good, because he could feel his knees weakening and his balance shifting in all directions.

  The squeak of the support straps became more pronounced, and the coffin sunk into the shadows until it rested at the bottom. The squeaking and tugging stopped. Movement stopped, if just for a moment. A man in a black suit pulled the straps out and walked away silently. As if on cue, family and friends began to toss flowers into the grave. Melissa’s family went first. Each with their head lowered. Except her. Her sister Meghan looked right at him as she dropped her flowers in. White flowers. Roses. Through his raging tears he saw her. Soft sandy hair, curly like Melissa’s. Pretty face. Freckles. But the eyes said judgment. The eyes said hate. The eyes said, “You killed her!” and he agreed with them. He looked away from her damning stare. He knew that she knew. She saw into his soul and saw his guilt.

  Others took turns dropping flowers. Some carnations. Some roses. Some daffodils. Whole bouquets and single flowers. The dark mouth ate flowers and love and beauty, but returned rot and stench and decay. When it was his turn, his body began to shake violently. Jim helped him to the edge. The lowering frame was still in place. He dropped to his knees beside it. He put a hand on the bar, and sobbed uncontrollably. While others moved to comfort him, he looked up and through his tears saw Meghan. She didn’t want to comfort him. He could see what she wanted. “You should be in that box, not her.” And she was right. He knew it. She knew it.

  The three sunflowers fell out of his hands into the yawning grave. It hadn’t been his intention to drop them…they just fell from his lifeless grip. Jim and someone else helped him to stand. He felt his friend Scott pulling him up. “I’m here for you, Danny,” Scott said. He fell against him. Jim and Scott walked him to a chair under the canopy. It was hot even for Sacramento, but the shade helped.

  Danny finally spoke. “Thanks, guys,” was all he could squeak out before the tears started again. Scott hugged him, and then Danny wept against his shoulder. He felt Jim’s hand on his shoulder. Two women hovered around the men. Scott’s wife, Linda, and Jim’s wife, Kim, were sobbing softly, holding hands, wiping tears. Linda was heavy with child, and needed to sit herself. Kim tended to her, though she pushed a large-wheeled stroller with a baby girl sleeping soundly. Both ladies were dressed in black, but the baby wore white. They made face work towards Danny, trying to show support and comfort and love without saying anything, though they were both sharing the same loss. After a few minutes, Scott spoke.