Confusion reigns!

It’s me, Mike Spaulding, high school grad, two years community college concurrent with five years U.S. army, O.C.S., 1st lieutenant, up and coming private subcontractor, I.T. expert with experience. I’m a happily married twenty-eight year old rugged individualist aboard a plane about to land at Baltimore Washington International airport. I’d just landed a superb contract with Lingtale-Vought, a rapidly growing defense contractor. With this agreement in hand I’ll be able to further invest and expand my young and growing business. I’m a confident self-made man. I can barely wait to share the good news with my beautiful young wife Carol. Now we can get out of that cheesy rental and buy that big house out in the valley, she can quit working, and we can start building that family we’d been dreaming about. Yep, I’m Mike Spaulding; one happy man, a true “pig in the mud”.

Off the plane and headed toward the baggage claim, the airport was crowded; it was always crowded. I saw two men ahead. Each was holding up a sign with my name on it. What could it be? Was everything all right? Was my wife all right? Had she had an accident? Was anyone in her family hurt? Would this explain why I’d been unable to reach her the past several days?

Considering the mob of people huddled around the baggage drop, I moved toward the sign holders. If what the men wanted was important or serious, I figured the baggage could easily wait. Besides, the men had that businesslike look, a look that presumed something serious. They were both wearing dark suits, white shirts, those thin dark ties one always associated with things like the F.B.I., and they were both big, muscular fellows. I finally reached them.

The smaller of the two, a little overweight perhaps, was wearing brown “wing tipped” shoes. He asked, “Are you Mike Spaulding?”

I replied, “Yes I am. Is everything all right?”

The man smiled and handed me a folder, “Mr. Spaulding, you have been served.”

The second man stepped forward. He also had a folder. He was bigger and looked positively ominous. He handed me a second folder, “Mr. Spaulding, this is a restraining order. You are not to approach Ms. Carol Spaulding. If you see her stay at least three hundred feet away. Don’t try to call or make any kind of contact. If you violate the terms of this order you will be arrested. Inside you will find an additional document and a key; this is the address to the storage unit where you’ll find all your personal belongings.”

The first man reclaimed my attention, “Again, I must warn you. You are forbidden any contact with Ms. Spaulding. Read the terms of the agreement, sign it, and forward its contents to the indicated address. You may get a lawyer if you wish, but I must advise you, there will be no negotiation.”

He smiled, nodded his head, and said, “Have a nice day.”

The two men did a one eighty and walked away.

I stood silently and watched them walk away. I was dumbfounded. How could this be? Carol couldn’t be doing this. There had to be something else. Was she sick? Had she been hurt? I knew her parents hated me. They didn’t hate me; they hated where I came from, what my family was like, where I grew up. That was it! Carol’s been hurt. She’s unconscious, lying in some hospital, or worse some hospice or some institution. Her parents have taken her back over. I’d find her. I’d fix things, and then everything would be all right. I looked down at the two folders; this was so crazy.

I reached around; I picked up my briefcase and nearby piece of luggage. I opened my briefcase and stuffed the two folders inside. I had my keys. My jeep was on the airport lot. I’d get out of this place, go home, find Carol, and find out what was really going on. I understood; this was more a rescue operation than anything else.

I got to my jeep and drove home. Home was a cheap rental property, an old rundown bungalow on the east side of the city. We’d been saving for the time when we could afford something on the north side.

Baltimore has always been a funny kind of place. It was an old southern city; segregated, racist and backward. In some ways it had changed and become more liberal, more open to new ideas and change, but in most ways it had stayed the same old place. Before the War Between the States the city had been referred to as “The Queen of the South”. That name had been appropriated and bestowed on New Orleans after 1861.

Most people didn’t know but the first fatalities of the Civil war occurred in Baltimore. Back in April 1861 Union soldiers had been brought south from Central Massachusetts. They were bound for Washington, but there was no direct rail line connecting the northeast to D.C. The soldiers had to detrain on the east side of Baltimore and march across town to a Westside station where they’d re-board and go on the capital. The citizens of Baltimore tried to stop them. Shots had been fired, soldiers were killed, citizens were killed.

Lincoln wasted no time. He declared martial law. Hundreds of people were arrested. They placed guns atop the Southside hill that overlook Baltimore. Today it’s still called Federal Hill. The guns were aimed at the city. It was so harsh, parents were arrested if their children wore any kind of grey attire. Lincoln had nearly all Maryland’s state delegates rounded up and arrested before the state got to vote on secession. Even then, the vote was held in Hagerstown a western and pro-union town. Needless to say Maryland stayed in the Union.

Would Maryland have gone out? No one will ever know, but the Confederate government passed an ordinance asserting there would be no peace until the citizens of Maryland got to vote on secession in an open and fair election. It doesn’t matter now, but in some ways still does. Baltimore had been a rigidly segregated city right up until the late 1960’s. It was an easy thing to do. They passed laws; no white person could buy a house on a street that was majority black, and no black person could buy a house on a street that was majority white. My father told me how in 1966 the Baltimore Orioles signed a contract with the Cincinnati outfielder Frank Robinson. When Frank went to buy a house in one of the city’s neighborhoods he was told no. Imagine that! The city did find him a house, and to compensate for hurt feelings they named a street corner after him.

My granddad told me in the early days right after World War Two there were four ghettoes. There was a Jewish ghetto on the inner east side, a small Black ghetto on the east, a very small Chinese ghetto on the inner east side, and a huge Black ghetto on the west side. After the Supreme Court’s Warren Decision of 1954 those ghettoes began to break down, but it took time, and my granddad said the old ghettos can still be found if one looked hard enough. All the oldest Jewish cemeteries are in east Baltimore, but granddad said the biggest proof of the old Black ghettoes could be found in the trees. Back in the 1920’s the leaders of Baltimore decided the city needed shade trees so they went out and bought a lot of Elms, but Elm trees were expensive so to cut costs they bought Sycamores for the Westside Black ghetto. Something bad happened. Some kind of insect or bacteria or something got into Baltimore’s Elm trees and killed nearly all of them, but the Sycamore trees were not affected. My granddad said it was a kind of poetic justice.

Old Baltimore had been pretty much segregated in other ways too. Southeast Baltimore still is mostly made up of white ethnic groups like Italians, Poles, Lithuanians, Estonians, Greeks, and Latvians. Northeast Baltimore has always been mostly Irish and German Catholic. Central Baltimore all the way out has been mostly home to the W.A.S.P.s. My dad said, if you want something nice buy in North Baltimore, places like Bolton Hill, Guilford, Roland Park, Towson, Delaney valley, Lutherville, and on out as far as Phoenix.

During the Second World War Baltimore’s heavy industries burgeoned, and thousands of Virginians and West Virginians flocked to the city for the jobs. Most of these Virginians settled in Baltimore County on the east side of the city. Many of their descendants still live there, and their presence still gives the area a kind of “Virginia style” southern flavor. The people who settled there and their children who live there now were and are pretty much quiet, decent, law abiding folks, but there is also still something of a rowdy “Old South”, flavor to the area. Lots of taverns, saloons, and honky tonks have grown up there. If someone wanted to start a career as an entertainer it’s a good place.

~~~V~~~

I got to our house and tried to open the front door. The key wouldn’t work. I saw the curtains Carol had put up were gone so I peered inside the front window. All the furniture was gone. This was troubling. I turned on my phone, activated the GPS and located the storage unit where my things were supposed to be. It wasn’t very far.

When I got there I opened it up and found everything I owned was there. All my clothes had been neatly packed in cardboard boxes. My desk was there. Two long tables I used were there, and my two desk top computers and my other laptop were sitting there. Atop the other table I found two smaller boxes with my mouse pads, cursers, all my stored materials, both paper and electronic were there. Carol, or someone, had been careful; things were all neat and tidy. I wondered if it could have been Carol, but I doubted it, she’d always been such a mess. The neatness only further confirmed my belief something outside Carol was wrong. Someone had overtaken her. It was time to find out.

I sat outside the storage unit and went to work. Using my phone I made several calls. First, I tried Carol, but all I got was her sweet melodious ‘answering machine’ voice. I did tap to see where she was. Luckily she hadn’t disconnected me from my ability to locate her via GPS. I saw her, or her phone, was living in a cheap apartment complex off Pulaski Highway. In a way that made sense; she’d been singing and playing guitar at a couple of the taverns along that thoroughfare. She must have settled there to be close to where she was performing. Next I tried her parent’s land line. There was no answer, but that wasn’t unusual. I called Carol’s mom on her I-phone, but she hung up as soon as she heard my voice. No real surprise there, I tried Carol’s dad and got the same result. I tried Carol’s sister.

Carol’s sister Blaze, answered the phone and she did not hang up. The first words out of her mouth weren’t good, “Hi Mike. Guess you know. Too bad. I feel sorry for you.”

I asked, “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

Blaze’s response was unequivocal, “No Mike I can’t. I promised. I know you’re been served. Just go with it. There’s nothing for it. Carol’s moving on.”

“Carol’s moving on?” I asked.

“Sorry Mike. Got to go,” and she hung up.

What to do now? Waste of time, but I tried my mother. My mother answered almost on the first ring, “Hello.”

I could tell she was either asleep, high, or drunk. Considering the time of day it was probably one of the last two. I asked anyway, “Mom have you heard anything about Carol?”

“Carol?” she asked.

“Yes, mom, you know, my wife,”

“No, what about her?”

“She left me mom, Have you heard anything?”

“No,” she said. “Ask your father when he gets home.”

I asked her, “When will that be?”

“I don’t know, she said, “Maybe today. Tomorrow. I don’t know.” There was a pause, “Mike can you come over? I need some help. I can’t find my car keys and I need to get to the store.”

I knew what that meant. Mom was probably on another bender and Dad had taken her keys to keep her off the road. “No mom. I can’t. Call me when Dad gets home”

She started sobbing, “Mike I need you. I’ve got to get out. I need things.”

I hung up. I figured she was probably drunk and out of Vodka.

What do I do next? Ok, I needed a place to stay. There was a Garden Apartment complex near our house, our old house. I’d go there. I’d rent something and move in all my stuff, but before moving I felt like I should get over to where I thought Carol was living. I had to see her.

As I drove I kept asking myself, how did this happen? How could it have happened so fast? I’d only been gone four days. Had I missed something? I must have missed something. I started to give it some more serious thought.

When I graduated high school I’d enlisted right away. I sort of wanted to go to college, but there wasn’t any money. My dad drove a truck. He drove mostly up and down the Interstates. Rtes. 81, 95, 68, 70; they were his habitué. I was aware of his routes and his stops. He was a well-known character. He had a reputation for practical jokes and a general geniality that went with his “not at home” personality. At home he tended to quiet, remote, and boring. I also knew he had a few regular “ladies” who looked forward to his appearances. He helped keep a couple of them fixed in apartments and such. I think my mother knew a little about it. She had to; some of the things he brought home certainly gave him away.

My mother was no bunch of roses either. She worked at a warehouse, loading and unloading trucks. She drove a forklift. She had a bad back, and she was narcoleptic. When she wasn’t half comatose from the prescriptions she took, she was half drunk from the Vodka she loved so dearly.

I had a brother. His name was Bob. When I was eight he got sent to prison for rape. He was just eighteen, so he made the cut, lucky him. When he got out I was in high school. He went into business for himself breaking into homes and robbing people at gunpoint. He got caught, but instead of going back to prison he shot it out and got killed. There was a big splash of it on the news and in the papers.

I had an older sister. Her name was, or is, Maureen. Maureen was a beautiful girl, too beautiful if anyone asked me. She was well developed by the time she in the eighth grade, and out with boys in cars by the ninth grade. She stopped going to school, got involved in the drug trade, and got herself put in the girl’s reform school. She stayed there about three months, got out, and disappeared. I really liked Maureen. I cared for her, but who was I? I hope she’s still alive. I think of her sometimes.

When I was in the eleventh grade I met a pretty girl named Celestina. She was the apple of my eye. She motivated me to want to do better, to get good grades, and even come to school every day. She had a party one weekend and I got invited. I had a good time. I remember, since a lot of people knew about my siblings I was careful to mind my manners. It didn’t matter. On the Monday after the party Celestina said she couldn’t see me anymore. When I asked her why, she said her dad said I came from the wrong side of the tracks. I didn’t know exactly what that meant, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t good. I was careful with girls after that.

Carol was a girl I surreptitiously dated while in high school. I liked her, and she said she loved me. I joined the army, and she went off to college, but dropped out after a semester or two. I never got the complete story on that. While I was away she said she wanted to get married so when I came home on furlough we did it.

Carol always had a beautiful voice. She sang at her church, and was a big hit in the high school choir. She learned how to play the guitar, and pretty soon she was flailing away singing all the old Reba McIntyre, Carrie Underwood, Linda Ronstadt, and Lady Antebellum tunes. Carol could belt out a great “Hey Bartender”. I bought an old used banjo and when I was home, though I was lousy, we made a modest splash with the younger crowd.

Looking at things critically, I guess it was the music that must have become part of the problem. There were a couple places over on Pulaski Highway that catered to “country rock”. (Actually there were quite a few) One was called the Wagon Wheel and there was another called the Corral. The first time I went into each of those places it was like I was in a scene from that old John Travolta movie “Urban Cowboy”. This was Maryland, horses are big in Maryland, but not the cowboy stuff. Maryland’s state sport is jousting; that ought to tell everyone where Maryland places itself historically.

I walked in and heard the twanging guitars and I knew I was right smack dab in the middle of Phonyville. I mean cowboy hats and cowboy boots! But spurs! And belt buckles bigger than half their waistlines. That wasn’t exactly true, some of those waistlines made those guys look like beach balls. The women! Oh wow, the women! Talk about mascara! Some of those babes must’ve bathed in the stuff.

After a while I figured it out, and it wasn’t so bad after all. Most of the people there were who I’d call modestly upwardly mobile types. There were teachers, no dentists, but a couple dental technicians, no doctors, but X-Ray techs, lab techs, even a “chem.-lab” something. They weren’t a bad lot; they were just a bunch of people who wanted to get out and pretend a little. No harm in that. One thing was obvious; they could dance. I was never a dancer, but the two stepping those folks did put the wildest and wooliest Texans I’d seen to shame. Yes, they knew their steps. I started to like them. I even started to like going there.

Carol liked it too, she especially liked the attention she got. She was a pretty girl in high school, and now she was just adorable. She stood about 5’4”, streaky blond hair, big blue eyes, and an almost perfect body, smallish ‘B’ cup breasts, flat stomach, and darn near perfect legs. I was proud of her, and a little tense too. Tense because I thought she got way too much lascivious attention. I kept my mouth shut though; I didn’t want to spoil her fun. I got the impression her prior boyfriend had been the jealous type, and he may have manhandled her a little bit. I could never stand a man who hit a woman or touched her when she didn’t want to be touched. I loved her and I trusted her. I sort of figured it was college boyfriends that led to her academic demise.

Trust, now there’s a word. I don’t know who invented it, but I’m sure it’s been at the root of a lot of problems down through the centuries. Go back in time. Go back to ancient Troy, if it existed. I think it did. So Helen ran away with Paris. The Greeks launched a thousand ships to bring her back. When Menelaus finally got her back they reconciled. Come on! Reconcile with somebody like that? He should have slit her throat, he should have grabbed Cassandra or maybe that girl they killed to satisfy Achilles’ ghost. That girl, Priam’s daughter, Polyxena. I read where she wasn’t half bad, pretty to look at, unspoiled, young, and innocent. They killed her because a ghost wanted her dead? Menelaus should have taken her; he would have been a lot happier. Besides I heard Helen had ‘it’ coming. I read in one of those stories she eventually got hanged in Egypt.

Now I’ve got a problem. My wife’s filed for divorce. She won’t talk to me. I know she’s popular where she plays music. I even know some of the guys who’ve been looking her over. Has she ... well ... has she? I’ve got a lot to find out. It’s suddenly killing me! My stomach’s tied in knots. I’m just glad I hadn’t eaten anything.

I finally reached the apartment complex where Carol might be. I looked it over. I’d seen it before, been in a couple of the places, what with acquaintances from the taverns. I wouldn’t call the place a dump, not exactly. No, I would. The place is cruddy, the apartments are old and dirty, roach infested. I wouldn’t live there. I didn’t see Carol agreeing to live there either. That’s when I saw her car.

Carol has a late model Toyota, a Rav 4. It’s not a bad car. She wrecked it once; talking on her phone, ran off the road, and hit a tree. I’d managed to keep it up, new tires, brakes, a new air conditioning unit, and a new catalytic converter. Someone got under her car one night and cut away her converter. Those things are expensive. I couldn’t afford a new one, but I have a friend who works on cars. He “acquired” the shell of an old converter and hooked that in. Nobody knows. Her car runs fine.

Why would she agree to live in a place like this? Who do I know who might live there?

Everyone knows there has to be a fly in the ointment. There’s always a fly somewhere. Carol’s little band was getting really good; they were in demand. Someone said they needed a manager; someone who could negotiate payments and schedule when and where they played. The guy they got for their manager was a fellow named Reds McKeithan. Old Reds is a big guy, maybe forty. He’s tall, a little overweight, real muscular, always drinking a beer, smokes Camels, has red hair and always a bright red face. I could tell right away he’d be a good manager; he’s a fast talker, and he always seemed to have a plan. Reds was married so I wasn’t worried on that account. His wife’s a buxom bleach blonde who seemed to always be around but never said very much. I remember, looking back; she was always more interested in the guys in Carol’s band than in her own husband.

Reds has his “pals”, his friends. They travel with him day and night. First there’s Stan. Stanley Cohen’s a short fat guy, good talker, always had his phone out, and always busy. Next was a guy named Norman, Norman Myers, dark hair, shifty eyes, wears a long narrow beard. He’s tall, a weight lifter, and a felon. Last was Frank, Frank Salamone, thin, dark complexion, wiry, a fighter, a suspected drug dealer. Wherever Reds went, his three pals were never far behind. One of those guys, or maybe Reds, had an apartment in that shithole apartment complex.

I had to think this over. Since I’d gotten out of the army I’d been away a lot; working and trying to get a start in life. Poor Carol, beyond music she didn’t have any skills. I married her for love, not for her money or intellect, but Carol could play that guitar, and she was a fair hand with a banjo, plus, like I thought before, she had a voice that could bring down the angels when she sang. Being hard at work, I didn’t get to see her play much, but when I did I saw how popular she was. Somebody got to her. I had to get her back, get her back before she went too far.

Too far. What was too far? I’d given that some thought over the years, and it always came back to Carl Perkins. What did he say? “You can knock me down, step in my face, slander my name all over the place, do anything that you want to do, but uh-uh honey, lay off ... yeah that! My name is Mike, not Menelaus. So I’ve got find Carol, and I’ve got to find ... out.

That reminded me of one of the barmaids at the Wagon Wheel. Her name’s Celestina, I knew her once, she’s something. Italian girl, long black hair, dark eyes, kind of a caramel complexion, small frame, not big bosomed like so many Italian girls, really very pretty when she smiles, and she smiles a lot, though never at me. She likes to flirt, but around me she’s always angry about something.

Celestina and I have a little history; it was her father who said I came from the wrong side of the tracks. Whenever I go to the Wagon Wheel Celestina goes out of her way to get under my skin.

I could always tell where she was, not just because she always worked the far end of the bar, but because she was always surrounded by a bunch of guys. They hovered around her like she was some kind of light and the moths just couldn’t stay away. I remembered I sort of took her out a couple, ok, maybe a few times, no, a lot of times. I think I bought her something once. It was so long ago I can’t remember. I had an accident in the army so I don’t always remember real well.

Whenever I go in she’s never openly rude or anything. No, she is. She just keeps badgering me. She’ll call me “Dip Shit”, and when I’m not “Dip Shit” I’m “Ass Hole”. Sometimes she’s worse; occasionally I think when she sees me she says stuff like, “Oh look, here comes the cuck.”, or “Hey there’s the old cuckle doodle doo!” She yelled that once.

I’ve gone down to her end to order a beer, usually a Pabst, but it never matters she always gives me a Bud Lite. I’d say, “Where’s my Pabst?” And she’d say, “Real men get Pabst; queers and cucks get Bud.” I’d laugh. She never did.

Sometimes she gets loud, but mostly she keeps her remarks low, under her breath. It annoys me though, Budweiser products give me a headache. Celestina’s a real piece of shit toward me. I don’t like her. I wonder sometimes why I ever dated her. I don’t know why I keep going down to her end.

I do remember her from high school. She’s younger than me. I remember wherever I went she seemed to be nearby; Celestina with those big green eyes, long black hair, creamy skin, glorious little body, and that delightful little swish when she walked. I recall I thought about asking her out, I did in fact but her father ... well, the tracks and all. Plus, she’s got a bunch of brothers. Who wants to get mixed up with a girl who’s got brothers who’ll tear your head off if you tried something?

~~~V~~~

After I called and left a message on Carol’s phone I went to a nearby gas station, rented a U-Haul, and headed back to the storage unit. I figured I had a long afternoon and evening ahead of me, and I did. By the time I got everything in my new apartment I was so tired I had to give it up. I didn’t bother to try to make the bed; I went to sleep on the mattress. Oh brother, what a day!

The next morning it was up and at em. I called my ‘techie.’ connections, cleared the way regarding my last trip, and laid out my next objectives. The people I worked with were good with everything I’d done. It hardly mattered, since I was a private contractor there was little they could do other than abrogating our relationship. So I was free to get to the bottom of my marital concern. I’d slept very poorly all night; off and on dreaming about totally unrelated issues.

One of the things that’d been absorbing most of my nonworking time had been with my researches into the Iliad. There’d been several articles about the incredible losses Western Civilization had incurred when Caesar had allowed the Great Library at Alexandria to burn. We ‘moderns’ overlook the fact that in ancient times thousands of books had been written about the lesser heroes who fought in that ten year war. Though it sounds ridiculous, I’ve always been something of an amateur writer, and there were two people from that war who’d captured my attention; they were the Trojan hero Eurymachus and the youngest daughter of Priam and Hecuba, a girl named Polyxena. They’d been in love and had been engaged. One may have survived the war, while the other one had most certainly died. To me it seemed a great story of love, betrayal, and judgment all there in a tidy package just waiting to be told. Maybe someday I’d write about it. At the moment, however I had to deal with my wife.

I tried calling Carol again, and the result was still her telephone message. I tried her parents and her sister again and got the same result. I knew it was a waste of time to call my parents, so I showered, got dressed, and decided to drive back in the direction of the address her GPS indicated, and if not finding anything then go on to the two night spots she frequented.

I reached the “Roach Motel” where she was staying. Her car was still there so I pulled my jeep up in the nearest spot and waited. I was there a little over an hour before she came out. Carol saw my jeep and immediately went back inside. I got out and followed her.

She was apparently located in one of four apartments on the third floor. Getting the exact location was easy; I simply dialed her phone. Upon hearing it I went to the door and knocked. The door opened and I was greeted by Frank Salamone. Norman Myers was standing behind him. I said, “I know my wife is in there. I want to talk to her. Would you please...?”

Before I got another word out Salamone pushed out the door. He was followed by Myers. Salamone said, “Look Mike, we know you’re upset, but Carol’s not interested. She’s moved on. We know you got the paperwork, so why don’t you just sign the stuff and let it go?”

“Sure,” I said, “Maybe I’ll sign, but I need to talk to her first. She’s still my wife you know.”

Myers pushed ahead, “Look dickhead. Carol’s through with you. So sign off and move on.” He paused, took a deep breath and added, “We like you Mike. You’re a good guy, but she’s gone, out of your life. Get it through your thick skull, Carol doesn’t love you anymore. So do the right thing, the smart thing, and drop it.”

I tried to keep my cool. I smiled, “I get it Norm, but I still need to talk to her.”

Myers turned on his greasy when he said, “Get lost Mike. Walk away. Do it now before somebody gets hurt.”

Salamone nodded, “He’s right Mike. The best thing you can do now is get lost.”

I was no fighter, and I knew both these guys were pieces of shit. Standing one’s ground when everything was sinking around you made no sense. “Look,” I said, “I need to see her. I mean, it’s only to talk. If she won’t see me now, she’ll have to see me later.” I got good eye contact with Salamone and added, “I know she’s here. Tell her if she won’t talk to me now, she’ll have to later because I’m not signing anything till I do.”

Salamone said, “Suit yourself.” Both he and Myers turned and walked back in the apartment, closing the door behind them.