April 23, 2008 at 5:49 pm — Jeremy Comes Home — Tags: manuscript

Jeremy Crowther turned the corner onto Freeman Drive and saw his house for the first time in a year. His first thought was that nothing had changed. The same cracks ran down the edges of the same beige stucco walls. The same wet magnolia leaves overflowed the same sagging, moldy gutters. The same brown patches of dirt fought the same brown patches of grass for control of the same brown yard.

Jeremy slid his backpack off his shoulder and set it on the sidewalk.

Nothing had changed.

He took a deep breath. It was now or never. He dragged his backpack toward the house, rehearsing once again the words he had practiced a thousand times during the past three days. “Mom, I’m so sorry.” He never made it past those four words. He had no idea what would come next. That would depend on how his mother reacted. And maybe, he hoped, he wouldn’t need any more words at all. “Mom, I’m so sorry.”

He stepped onto the dusty cement porch. The same dust.

He reached toward the doorbell, then hesitated. What would his mother do when she opened the door and saw him standing there? Would she drop to her knees in relief and wrap her arms around him? Would she yell at him for what he’d put her through, what he’d put his family through? Would she turn him away, send him back to the street to punish him for running away?

Jeremy brushed the thoughts aside and rang the doorbell.

His mouth was dry. He licked his lips. If he were going to change his mind, now was time time. In another few seconds–

The deadbolt clunked. The doorknob turned. The door made a cracking sound as it freed itself from the snug doorjamb.

And there stood Jeremy’s mother, looking down at him.

She looked just as he remembered. She wore her usual blue jeans and dark shirt, and the watch she always wore, with the tarnished metal band. Dear God, nothing has changed.

But no, one thing had changed. Her hair was shorter. And darker. She must have dyed it. So that was two things. At least these two things were different.

Jeremy’s mother blinked, then frowned. “Yes?”

“Mom,” Jeremy said. “I’m so sorry.”

Her head jerked back. “What did you call me?”

“Mom, I–”

“What kind of prank is this?”

She doesn’t recognize me, Jeremy thought. Had he changed that much in a year? “It’s me. Jeremy.”

She glowered at him. “What kind of shit are you trying to pull here, Jeremy?”

“Mom!”

“Stop calling me that.”

“But–”

Jeremy’s mother looked over his shoulder toward the street. “Okay, you and your friends have had a jolly good laugh. Now leave me alone.”

“Mom, what’s going on? What are you–”

She stepped back and reached toward the door.

“No, wait!” Jeremy blurted. He reached up and pushed on the door with his hand. “Mom, wait! I want to come home!”

His mother stiffened and gaped at him. She raised her right hand slowly to her mouth. Barely audibly she whispered, “Aaron?”

She’s punishing me, Jeremy thought. Punishing me for running away, for abandoning her the way his dad did, the way Aaron did. She’s punishing me, and I deserve it.

He began to cry. “No, I’m Jeremy. Your youngest son Jeremy.”

His mother wiped the corner of her eye with the back of her hand. “Jeremy, I think you’re at the wrong house.”

“No!” Jeremy shouted. “This is my house. You’re Natalie.”

“How do you–”

“And Gil lives here, too, and Deena. And Aaron used to, but he–”

“How do you know about my family?”

“I am your family! Mom, what’s–”

“You little shit,” Natalie said, her voice cracking. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but this is fucking cruel.”

“What?” Jeremy squeaked.

“You’re a hateful young man, Jeremy, or whoever you are,” Natalie said. She stepped back again, this time more quickly, and grabbed the edge of the door.

As the door swung shut, Jeremy thrust his foot out and blocked it. “What are you doing? This is crazy!”

“Get out!” his mother yelled.

The door jerked back, then smashed hard into Jeremy’s foot. He yelped and pulled his foot away.

The door slammed shut.

“Mom!” Jeremy cried. “Mom, I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

The deadbolt slid gently home.

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January 27, 2007 at 1:24 pm — Jeremy Comes Home — Tags: commentary

Just for fun I ordered a few printed and bound copies of Jeremy Comes Home. I used a self-publishing company called Lulu.com. You send Lulu a PDF or other file of your book, and they’ll print and bind as many copies as you want. If you want, they’ll even make it available for sale. This year Lulu made an offer to NaNoWriMo winners: Send us your book by January 16 and we’ll print one copy for you for free.I missed the deadline, but ordered two paperback copies anyway, one for me and one for my sweetie. The price was just over $8 per copy, plus shipping.

You can either design your own cover art or choose from Lulu’s gallery of about 150 stock backgrounds. I found a stock cover I liked well enough. It’s hard to gauge the age and gender of the person in the picture, so let’s say it’s a 12-year-old boy.

The books arrived on Thursday. They’re nicely bound, and the cover looks great. I hadn’t read any of Jeremy since I finished it on November 30. Thumbing through the book has been a nice surprise. There’s a lot in it that I like, and reading it makes me want to start the rewrite.

I’m not making Jeremy available for sale on Lulu. I’m hoping to find a publisher for it, and publishers tend not to like previously published material.

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December 1, 2006 at 2:09 pm — Jeremy Comes Home — Tags: commentary

Now that I’m done with the first draft, I’d be happy to hear any feedback you want to offer.

I’m especially interested to to hear what important bits of information I missed. Is there anything you wanted explained that didn’t get explained?

The big one for me is: What happened to the police?

All other comments are welcome, too.

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November 30, 2006 at 10:33 pm — Jeremy Comes Home — Tags: manuscript

At that moment, the door to the meeting room burst open. Officer Dortmunder raced to the third step and shouted, “Nobody expects the Span–”

THE END

“Oh, bugger.”

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November 30, 2006 at 10:28 pm — Jeremy Comes Home — Tags: manuscript

“So then the horse does this weird thing. It goes completely docile. It looks around and sees this guy who seems to be in charge. And offers itself up to the guy, basically asking the guy to spare it and maybe even protect it.”

Watermelon stopped and looked at each of the four others in turn. He settled on Jeremy. “Do you see now?”

Jeremy turned to look at Aaron. Calmly he said, “Did you do this to us?”

“Et tu, Brute?”

“Answer the question.”

“Nils still hasn’t answered my question. Even if I could do something like that, why would I?”

Nils said, “Aaron, don’t do this.”

Watermelon threw his hands into the air in frustration. “Good grief, do I have to spell it out for you? He made us all this way so we would have nobody else to turn to for help. Nobody else but him.”

Jeremy said, “There, Aaron. You have your answer. Now what about my question? Did you do this to us? Did you make everybody forget us?”

“Come on, Jeremy, you know me better than that. How could you think that about me?”

“Well, for one thing you’re not denying it.”

Suddenly Page said, “Hold on a minute. Nils I have a question for you. Did Aaron ever talk about his family with you?”

Aaron said, “I told you, Foley, I never talk about my family with anyone.”

Page ignored Aaron’s interruption. “Nils?”

“Maybe once or twice. No more than that. Why?”

“What is his sister’s name?”

Aaron shouted, “Hold on a minute. What does that have to do with anything? We’re trying to figure out why you two remember people that nobody else remembers, and you want to know my sister’s name? Let’s stop this foolishness right now and–”

Jeremy said, “Aaron, shut up.”

“Don’t tell me to shut up, you little–”

“Deena,” Nils said.

Aaron shouted, “You lie. Her name is Nadine.”

Nils looked at Aaron with a puzzled, hurt look on his face. “What– Aaron, what–”

Foley said, “Earlier to day Aaron told me a story about how his sister got her nickname Deena.”

“I did no such thing,” Aaron said. “You can’t prove that.” He turned suddenly to look at Jeremy, as if remembering Jeremy’s earlier jab at him. “Well, he can’t.”

Jeremy said, “Page, what’s this all about?”

Aaron said, “That’s a great fucking question.”

Jeremy said, “Aaron, shut up. Page, why are you making a big deal about Deena’s name?”

“Because I think Aaron remembers you.”

Aaron shouted, “That’s crazy! Nobody remembers a Forgotten!”

“I do,” Page said, “and Jeremy does.”

“Well, I don’t.”

Page said, “Jeremy, how did Deena get her nickname?”

“I was two and a half years old when she was born. I couldn’t pronounce her name. I called her Deena. Gil and Aaron and Dad thought it sounded cute, so they started calling her Deena, too.”

Page said, “Two hours ago Aaron told me that it was Gil who couldn’t pronounce her name.”

“I said no such thing.”

“Then what’s your version? Why do you call her Deena?”

“I don’t. Her name is Nadine.”

“Then why did you call her Deena when you were talking to Gil?”

“When I was– How do you know what I said to Gil?”

“Because he told the police, and the police told me.”

“The police! What are you doing talking to the pol–”

Jeremy said, “Will one of you two please tell me what you’re talking about?”

Page looked at Aaron. “Do you want to tell him?”

“Tell him what? What do you think you know?”

“Jeremy, do you remember what happened with the poster I told you about? And my picture in the newspaper? And the newspaper story about you?”

“How could I forget? They changed.”

“They changed. The details about you disappeared. The details about me disappeared.” Page turned to Nils. “How about you, Nils? Do you remember what happened to the markings on your bedroom door?”

Nils nodded.

“Jeremy, as far as your family knows you never existed. If you never existed, then you were never there to mispronounce your sister’s name.”

Aaron said, “Maybe Deena got her nickname some other way.”

Jeremy said, “Shut up, Aaron.” To Page he said, “But Aaron has a point. Maybe Deena got her nickname some other way.”

Page said, “But that’s not what happened, Jeremy. Without a two-and-a-half year old Jeremy in the family to mispronounce her name, Nadine stayed Nadine until yesterday.”

Jeremy said, “Yesterday? What happened yesterday?”

“Yesterday Nadine announced that she wanted Gil to call her Deena.”

Aaron said, “Yesterday? Mister Foley, that’s a little bit too much of a coincidence, don’t you think? You’re going to have to come up with a better story than that.”

“No, I don’t think it’s a coincidence. You see, she got the idea from a strange boy who showed up at her house and called her Deena.”

“Jesus,” Jeremy said.

“So,” Page said, “Until yesterday, nobody in the world but you remembered Nadine as Deena. So why did Aaron call her Deena?”

Aaron said, “That’s not true.”

Nils said, “It is true, Aaron. You told me her name was Deena.”

“Maybe in all this confusion you’re remembering it wrong.”

Page said, “So, Aaron, when did you start calling your sister Deena?”

“I don’t have to answer to you.”

Jeremy said, “Jesus Jumping Crimeny, Aaron, have we sunk to ‘You’re not the boss of me’? Answer the question.”

“I must have heard the name from you.”

Page said, “But you used the name with Gil last night. And you didn’t talk to Jeremy until this morning.”

“Maybe Gil told me last night and he doesn’t remember.”

“No, he remembers quite distinctly. He was most upset when I knew her name, and then when you said it unprovoked a half hour later he was stunned. He was convinced that you, Jeremy, and I were all in some kind of conspiracy together.”

Nils turned and walked away from the others.

Jeremy said, “Aaron, I need to hear it from you. I want a straight answer. Did you do this to us?”

“God, no! What’s happened to all of you is terrible? Why would I do that?”

Watermelon said, “Because we worship you.”

Aaron turned to Watermelon with a shocked look on his face. “What?”

“All of these kids– all of us worship you. You’re all we’ve got. You’re the only family we’ve got now.”

Jeremy said, “A savior.”

Page said, “What?”

“Something Nils said. ‘Your brother has been something of a savior to me. To all of us.’”

Nils said, “Aaron was there for me when nobody else was. Now I understand why.”

Aaron said, “Nils, what are you saying? You think I did this to you on purpose? My God, Nils, you’re like a brother to me.”

A chill ran down Jeremy’s spine. Like a brother to me. Something about that phrase– “Oh, my God. Oh my God!” Jeremy turned and grabbed Aaron by the shirt, sending him stumbling back. “Oh my God! Aaron, what have you done? Dear God, what have you done!”

“Jeremy, I haven’t done anything. Calm down.”

“You haven’t done anything!” Jeremy said. He turned to Nils. “How old are you?”

“I’m fiftee–”

“Johnny, how old are you?”

“Twelve–”

“Nils, how many ten-year-olds do you have?”

“Ten-year– Just two. Just the two… girls.”

“Nobody older than fifteen. Two ten-year-old-girls. Johnny is twelve. How many do you have in between those ages?”

Nils thought for a minute. “There are clusters. Fifteen years old and twelve years old. And then the two girls…”

“Jesus,” Aaron said. He had a faraway stricken look. “What– What have I–”

Jeremy grabbed Aaron again. “What did you do? What did you do?”

Aaron suddenly went rigid and his face drained of color. “Guh,” he said.

Behind Aaron, Watermelon made a quick upward motion with his arm. Blood sprayed in slow motion in an arc off his hand.

“Abbit…,” Aaron said. “Eff…” And he fell. Jeremy still holding onto Aaron’s shirt, fell with him.

Nils shouted, “Johnny, no!”

Jeremy looked up at Watermelon, who was staring at the insanely tiny bloody pocketknife that he held his bloody hand. Watermelon opened his fingers and the knife fell. He turned his open-fingered hand and looked at it in fascination.

Jeremy looked down at his brother, whose eyes went in and out of focus.

Weakly Aaron said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t–”

Jeremy said, “Stop, Aaron. Don’t say anything.”

“Jeremy, I– I remember you. I–”

Jeremy threw his arms around his brother’s neck. “Shh. It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything.”

Aaron jerked in Jeremy’s arms. “Jer… family…”

Aaron deflated and went limp. Jeremy relaxed his hold on his brother. Aaron’s shoulders and head slid gently to the floor. His glistening eyes did not see his brother’s face. His pallid skin did not feel his brother’s tears.

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November 29, 2006 at 11:05 pm — Jeremy Comes Home — Tags: commentary

With that latest bit, I’m over 50,000 words. That means I’m a NaNoWriMo winner! Yay, me!

And congratulations to underpope and jenfullmoon (two thirds of my readership) who also won this year!

Yay, us!

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November 29, 2006 at 10:54 pm — Jeremy Comes Home — Tags: manuscript

[NOTE: Here is part one of what I think will be the last scene of the book--the last scene for this draft, at least. I may write an epilogue at the final write-in on Thursday night. And even with that, I know I'm leaving a zillion questions unanswered.]

When Page finished his story, Jeremy looked over to where Aaron sat with his arms folded across his chest. Everyone sat in silence.

Finally, Nils stood up and looked at Aaron. “Aaron, that thing he said about the Vietnamese guy, about how he seemed to be straining or concentrating or something. I’ve seen you do that.”

“It’s called praying,” Aaron said.

“I know, you told me you were praying. That’s what you said before, but–”

Jeremy jumped up, “Nils, what are you saying? You think Aaron did this?”

“No, no, that’s…” Nils shook his head. “I don’t know…”

Aaron stood up. He held his hands out to the side and said, “Nils, for Christ’s sake, you can’t seriously–”

“I’ve never seen anybody pray like that, veins popping out, face turning red… It looks like your head is going to burst.”

Nils turned to Page.

“That sounds about right,” Page said.

Jeremy shouted, “Jesus, you two, how could you even think that? You think that Aaron would do this to you, Nils? To me? To his own brother? To all of us?”

Aaron stepped beside Jeremy and laid a hand on his shoulder.

Nils looked at Aaron with the confusion of someone who is trying his best to deny what his gut is screaming at him. “Aaron, I–”

Aaron said, “For goodness sake, Nils, what possible reason could I–”

Jeremy wheeled and grabbed Aaron by the front of his shirt. “Don’t you say it. Don’t you finish that fucking sentence. Nobody ever says that if they’re innocent.”

Aaron looked at Jeremy serenely. “There’s a first time for everything.” He looked back at Nils. “Nils, why on earth would I do such a thing?”

“Jesus,” Jeremy said. “What’s next? ‘You’ll never be able to prove it.’?”

Aaron ignored him. “Nils?”

Watermelon spoke. “The horse whisperer.”

All four of the others turned toward Watermelon as if they weren’t sure they had heard him say what they had heard him say.

Jeremy said, “What?”

“It’s like that guy who tames horses. The horse whisperer. I saw him on TV once showing how he tames the horses. He gets it in a round corral and flicks a rope at it. The flicking rope scares the horse. It thinks the rope is some predator and it runs around and around the corral. He keeps flicking the rope and the horse runs and runs until it can’t run any more.

“Did you know that a horse can run about two and a half miles? And do you know why? Because a lion can run about two and a quarter miles. Horses evolved so that they can run just a little bit longer than lions.

“But the horse whisperer guy doesn’t let the horse stop. When it gets tired he keeps flicking. The horse starts to panic. It should be able to outrun the predator, but it’s getting tired and the predator keeps coming.”

Jeremy said, “Johnny, what are you talking about? What does that have to do with us?”

“I’m getting to that. At some point the horse can’t keep running and it stops. It figures that the predator has outrun it and it’s done for.

“So then the horse does this weird thing. It goes completely docile. It looks around and sees this guy who seems to be in charge. And offers itself up to the guy, basically asking the guy to spare it and maybe even protect it.”

Watermelon stopped and looked at each of the four others in turn. He settled on Jeremy. “Do you see now?”

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November 29, 2006 at 6:51 pm — Jeremy Comes Home — Tags: manuscript

In 1961 I was sent to Vietnam as what they called a “military advisor.” Most of my advice was to my commanding officer, in the form of reports about what the Viet Cong were doing. My job was to sit in the woods on a hill in the middle of nowhere and listen to the radio for days on end. Every night I would radio back to my CO with a summary. Sometimes he would have specific things to listen for, and I’d make notes to listen for those the next day.

One night at sunset I thought I saw something move in the trees. I moved into off at an angle and saw a VC with a rifle creeping up the hill toward my station. He poked around in my gear for a minute, then put his rifle to his shoulder and started scanning the woods.

I didn’t wait for him to find me. I shot him. As he fell I heard a gasp behind me. I whirled and there was another VC staring at me in horror. I pointed my gun at him and he put his hands in the air.

Then he dropped to his knees and… I don’t know how to describe what he did. He squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his mouth open. He moved his hands a little bit in front of him like a bad mime in a box. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to take a dump or meditating or praying or what. Whatever it was he was concentrating intensely, and it took all of his attention.

As far as I could tell he didn’t have a gun or a radio. I went over to where his buddy lay dead on my gear and took his gun and my radio. Then I ran.

I radioed back to base that I was coming in, but the guy there kept asking for my code name. I gave it to him three times, and each time he asked for it again as if I had given him the wrong code. Finally in frustration I yelled my real name and tag number over the radio to the guy. Yelling was probably a stupid idea, but I didn’t see another VC on my six hour run back to the base.

Yelling my real name in the clear wasn’t smart either, because if the VC were listening that could give away information we’d rather they not have. I was supposed to be just an “advisor” after all, but here I was spying in VC territory.

But the radio guy at the base never responded. I didn’t know at the time whether he had cut me off to shut me up, or what. Whatever reasons he had, I decided to stay quiet for the rest of the run.

When I got back to the base, I was greeted at rifle-point by six MPs who wanted to know who I was, what I was doing there, and why I was wearing a U. S. Army uniform.

I spent the next three weeks in a cell, except for the few hours every day they were interrogating me in a room significantly less pleasant, Jeremy, than the one in which Officer Andollo grilled you.

The Army, my interrogators said, could find no record of my mission or of me. I gave them the particulars of my enlistment, including the name of my recruiter and the the diner where he took me for franks and beans as he made his sales pitch. As far as the Army was concerned, I did not exist.

Eventually there was nothing else they could do with me. They had no interest in sending me home. They couldn’t find any evidence of me back home, either.

I think if they had remembered my mission I would have been in big trouble. It’s not healthy for strangers to know the details of secret missions. But they had no idea what I was talking about, and that, I supposed, convinced them that I was nothing more than a loonie American wandering around where he shouldn’t be.

So they sent me on my way, after my repeated and sincere assurances that I would not ever “try a stunt like that” again.

I made my way to Saigon where I did odd jobs until I could so enough money to go home. I tried to call home a few times, but the telephone system was abysmal. So I wrote letters, and the letters were not answered.

I arrived in Los Angeles in April, 1962. My passport still had my picture on it. Looking back on it, I wonder that it was not wiped out along with the memories of my loved ones and my boot camp graduation photograph in the newspaper.

At the time I entered the country, of course, I would have no reason to think my passport photograph remarkable. But after what happened in the next few days, after thinking about those events for the last forty years, after what happened to that poster of Jeremy, I’m surprised that my passport still had my picture on it. But it did. Maybe it’s because the passport was on my person the whole time. Or maybe it’s because the government would have no records of my passport, so anyone analyzing my passport would conclude that it was a very good forgery. Whatever the reason, I still have that passport. It’s the only bit of hard evidence I have that I existed before that day on the hill in Vietnam.

Six days later I arrived in Chicago and took a taxi to my home. I won’t bore you with the details, which I have no doubt are essentially the same as the ones you’ve heard from a dozen suddenly and involuntarily homeless children.

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November 29, 2006 at 12:19 am — Jeremy Comes Home — Tags: manuscript

Aaron came down the stairs. Behind him came Page.

“Page!” Jeremy shouted. “What are you doing here?”

“Long story,” Page said as he walked to Jeremy. He extended his hand and Jeremy shook it. Page said, “It’s good to see you again. How are you? What’s going on?”

Jeremy didn’t know where to begin. “It’s crazy. There are lots of kids like me. You won’t believe how big this thing is.”

“Aaron has given me an idea of the scope. I understand you have some new–”

“Nils,” Aaron said, “tell me what happened.”

“Jeremy knows Johnny.”

Aaron looked at Page, then at Jeremy. “You two have something in common.”

Jeremy said, “We both remember somebody that everybody else forgot.”

Aaron said, “You know that that has never happened before, right? Nobody has ever remembered a Forgotten.”

“Yeah, that’s what Nils said.”

“So what’s special about you and Mister Foley? What do you two have in common that nobody else has?”

Jeremy said, “Maybe it’s something about Waterme– Johnny and me.”

Aaron looked from Jeremy to Watermelon and back. “What do you mean?”

“Maybe what’s special isn’t about who is remembering, but who is being remembered.”

“I don’t–” Aaron paused. “You’re both from Sacramento.”

“And we’re both Forgotten.”

Nils said, “You mean that the Forgotten don’t forget each other?”

Aaron spun and looked at Page, who seemed to be lost in thought. “But then–”

Jeremy said, “No, that doesn’t make sense. I remember Johnny, but he doesn’t remember me.”

Nils said, “But that’s something. You knew each other before. That’s something. All of the other kids are from all over the place. They couldn’t have known each other. But you two–”

Aaron shook his head. “I think we’re on the wrong track here.”

Jeremy looked at Aaron, as did the others, waiting for him to say what the right track was.

Watermelon said, “Jeremy, when did it happen to you?”

Jeremy remembered the awful moment that started the whole chain of events for him. He remembered the curious look on his mother’s face and the awful words What did you call me? “It was four days ago. Thursday afternoon.”

“So you were Forgotten after me?”

Page said, “No, that’s not right.”

Jeremy turned, surprised. “What do you mean, that’s not right? I was there. You weren’t.”

“No, Jeremy,” Page said. “You have that backwards. You were there when you found out. But you weren’t there when it happened. I was there when it happened.”

Nils said, “My God, Mister Foley, you’re right. Aaron told me that you called his mother–”

“I called his mother year ago. I saw that poster of him a year ago.” Page turned to Watermelon. “When were you Forgotten?”

“April.”

“Are you sure?” Page asked. “Could it have happened before or after that?”

“No, I was only gone for a few days. Dad made a lot of noise. It was all over the news for like a day, then nothing. I thought the police would find me and drag me home. A day after that I– I got hungry. I didn’t want to eat garbage but there was nothing else to eat. I didn’t dare to steal anything because I figured the people in the stores would recognize me from the news. I mean, I was really hungry. So I gave up. I went home.”

Page said, “And nobody remembered who you were.”

Watermelon started to answer, then pressed his lips together and said nothing. His eyes looked puffy.

Nils said, “So Johnny, your question was a good one. Maybe… Maybe…”

Watermelon nodded his head and said nothing.

Aaron said, “Maybe what, Nils?”

“Nothing. I had an idea, but it doesn’t fit.”

Foley said, “Let’s hear the idea. If something doesn’t fit we can set it aside.”

“I was thinking,” Nils said, “what if the Forgotten don’t forget?”

Aaron said, “No that doesn’t fit. We’ve found twenty seven kids who have been Forgotten, and until now none of them have remembered any of the others.”

Nils said, “Maybe that’s just because they never knew each other, so there was nothing to remember.”

Jeremy said, “So why doesn’t that fit?”

Nils turned to Page. “Well, maybe it fits, but it doesn’t explain how Mister Foley remembers you.”

Page said, “Maybe it does. I believe that, like you and Jeremy and Johnny, I was forgotten.”

Aaron jumped out of his chair and glared at Page. “You– you–”

Jeremy said, “It’s true. He told me about it, a little bit anyway. When he was in Vietnam in the Army.”

“Jeremy, he’s lying,” Aaron spat. “I don’t know–”

Page said, “No, Aaron. It’s true.”

“You lie, Mister Foley! You’re lying!” Aaron rushed toward Page. Page tried to step out of the way, but was not fast enough. Aaron crashed into him and they both fell to the floor.

Jesus, Jeremy thought. What the hell was Aaron doing? He rushed to where Aaron was pushing Page’s shoulders to the floor and trying to sit up.

“You’re a liar!” Aaron shouted.

Jeremy grabbed Aaron’s shoulder and tried to pull him off Page.

Nils gripped Aaron’s arm on the other side and tugged. “Aaron, get off him!”

Aaron fell backward off of Page. Page awkwardly scrambled back a few feet.

Aaron rolled and stood up. “Jeremy, he’s lying. He’s been lying to you ever since he walked into that police station. He said he was your grandfather, for Christ’s sake.”

Nils moved in front of Aaron and said, “Aaron, calm down. We’ll sort through this. We’ll figure it out.”

Foley struggled to his feet. He began to brush himself off with his hands.

Jeremy said, “Jesus, Aaron, what was that all about?”

“He’s lying, that’s what it’s about. He’s been following you around because he’s selfish. He doesn’t care about you, he just wants to believe he’s not crazy.”

Jeremy said, “What are you talking about?”

“He saw that poster of you change last year and it freaked him out. He thought he was going crazy. ‘Utter and unqualified mind fuck,’ those were his words. The only reason he came here is to ease his own panicked mind. Don’t you think it’s quite a coincidence that he never mentioned until now that he was Forgotten? He never mentioned it until Johnny and Nils–”

“No, he told me yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” Aaron turned to Page. “You never told me, old man. What else are you trying to hide.” “I never told you,” said Page. “You’re right. But as Jeremy said, I did tell him about it yesterday. Do you want to hear my story, or do you want to insist on calling me a liar?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I don’t trust you.”

“You don’t trust me? You walk into my little brother’s life and lie to the police that you’re his grandf–”

“Your little brother?” Page said.

“Yes, of course, my little brother. I know how this works. He is my brother whether I remember him or not.” Aaron looked at Jeremy. “Jeremy, look how he’s twisting my words. He says he doesn’t trust me. What reason do I have– do we have to trust him?”

Page said, “How about if I tell my story, then let these boys decide whether to trust me or not?”

“Oh, you want to tell your story so that you can spout more lies!”

Nils shouted, “Aaron! Shut the fuck up.”

Aaron stepped back, stunned. “Nils…”

Nils put his hands up in a conciliatory gesture. “Aaron, it’s okay. We’ve been through a lot of confusion over the last three years. We always get through it. There’s always something new to learn, and it never fits at first. But we talk it through and talk it through and slowly we see how it fits.”

“But–”

“Let’s let Mister Foley say his piece. If it helps us to understand what’s going on, if it shows us a way that maybe we can help these kids…”

Aaron glared at Page. He walked to the third row of folding chairs and sat down. “All right, let’s hear it. But you mark my words, he’s going to play on your vulnerability. You mark my words.”

Page looked at Jeremy and the other two boys. “Why don’t we have a seat as well.”

Nils sat on the table. Jeremy and Watermelon each dragged a chair so that the four could sit in something like a circle. Page sat in a chair across from Nils, his back to Aaron a few rows behind him.

Page leaned foward and placed his forearms on his knees. “In 1961 I was sent to Vietnam as what they called a ‘military advisor’ …”

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November 28, 2006 at 12:31 am — Jeremy Comes Home — Tags: manuscript

Watermelon ran to Jeremy, nearly tripping over his own feet. “You remember me? You really know who I am?”

Johnny Waterman had tried out for little league in 2005. The tryouts were run by the coaches of the teams, whose job was to run the kids through their paces to gauge their skills. One of the coaches hit ground balls to the infielders and fly balls to the outfielders.

They put Waterman in right field. When the coach lobbed a soft fly ball toward right field, Waterman braced himself, stuck his left hand, his gloved hand, as far away from his body as possible, and raised his right arm in front of his face in case he had misjudged the path of the ball. The ball plopped ten feet in front of him and rolled. Waterman politely stepped out of its way and and watched it roll to a stop fifteen feet behind him. Then he ran to the ball, picked it up, reared back dramatically, and threw the ball lovingly into the first base dugout.

Jeremy was sitting with Aidan Corliss and Manny Tucker on the four-tiered metal stands behind third base.

Manny burst into laughter. “All right, Watermelon! You go, girl!”

“Lousy aim,” Aidan Corliss said. “But a good arm, at least.”

The coach hit a few more fly balls, even softer if that was possible, toward Waterman. Each time, Waterman braced, and the ball landed at some safe distance.

Manny Tucker said, “Watermelon’s Dad owns half the Starbucks in the central valley. He’s got muchos dineros, so you know his donut hole kid will get picked.”

Aidan turned to Manny. “Do all of your insults involve food? Have a sandwich, for crying out loud.”

Actually, Jeremy thought, Watermelon would get picked no matter what. That was one of the rules. Anyone who tries out gets picked. The only question was which team would get stuck with which dorks. Jeremy didn’t know how that was decided. Maybe a lottery. More likely by unsanctioned trading and haggling among the coaches.

Watermelon ended up on Jason’s Computers. But within a week he apparently decided that baseball was not his sport and he quit before the first game.

Now, two years later, looking at Watermelon in the basement meeting room of the First Congregational Church of Portland Jeremy said, “Yes, I remember you. A few years ago you were on my little league team for about a week. You, uh, weren’t very good.”

Watermelon blushed. “I didn’t really–”

Nils said, finally, “You remember him? How do you remember him?”

“I don’t know,” Jeremy said. He turned to Watermelon. “More importantly, Johnny, do you know me?”

Watermelon stepped back and looked Jeremy up and down. “I don’t think so. It’s weird that you remember me.”

Nils said, “It’s more than weird. We’ve never heard of this before, somebody remembering a Forgotten. Not until yesterday, I mean.”

Jeremy said, “Yesterday? What happened yesterday?”

“I thought you knew. That guy Foley remembers you.”

Jeremy had wondered about that. “Well, yeah, I was wondering why Page remembers me when nobody else does. But I didn’t– You mean this doesn’t happen all the time?”

“No,” Nils said. “It’s never happened before yesterday. And now it’s happened twice. And you’re in the middle of both.”

The three boys stood in silence for a minute, each looking back and forth from one of his companions to the other.

“This is big time,” Nils said. “I’d better call Aaron right away. This is big time.”

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