ONE DAY IN MAY

ONE DAY IN MAY
by Gene Zimmerman

One day in May the world ended. Or to be more precise, the world as I knew it ended. It all started when I was helping serve the noon meal at the downtown homeless shelter, along with some other volunteers from Saint Vincent de Paul. As a tall thin man with a salt and pepper beard took the plate I was offering, I looked into his eyes and saw what looked like a flash of recognition. As he turned and walked outside, he looked vaguely familiar to me.

An hour later when I left the shelter, the tall man was sitting on a bench and as I walked by him, he silently handed me a folded piece of paper. When I got back in my Land Cruiser, I unfolded it and read "I need to talk to you, Dennis. Meet me at the Main Plaza fountain in one hour."

Intrigued that he knew my name and seemed somehow familiar, I took the bait and found him at the fountain about 2 p.m.

He seemed very articulate for someone showing up at a homeless shelter. "Thanks for agreeing to meet with me Dennis. You won't regret it. Why don't we sit on that park bench over there so I can explain?"

We sat and he introduced himself as Tom Smith, which sounded like a made up name to me. "Okay, Tom. What's this all about?"

"Dennis, what's your earliest memory?"

"Well, I only remember the last ten years. I know that sounds strange for someone who's 40 years old. But ten years ago I woke up in a hospital with my head wrapped in bandages. The nurse told me that I had fallen off the second story of a construction site. She gave me the wallet I'd had in my pants and that was how I knew my name was Dennis Jackson. She didn't seem to know who had taken me to the hospital and we couldn't find any next of kin."

"So you don't remember being shot in Bogota?"

"Bogota, Columbia? Never been there!"

"On the contrary, my friend. Maybe this will refresh your memory." Tom said as he pulled a photo out of his back pocket. "Take a look at this. Who do you see?"

"Why that looks like me standing next to someone who looks like you, only without a beard. We are both in jungle fatigues and the sign behind us says Aeropuerto de Bogota. When was that taken?"

"Ten years ago; about a month before you were shot."
My hands trembled as I held the photo. It all seemed so hard to believe, yet something deep in the recesses of my mind told me this might be true. "Okay, I'll bite. What were we doing in Columbia and what is my real name?"

"Your birth name was Donald Sullivan. You and I were recruited into the CIA right out of college. We became two of the best field agents the Company had. That's why they trusted us for this mission in Bogota."

"CIA? You've got to be kidding! What was our assignment there in Columbia?"

"We were sent to assassinate the head of the Columbian drug cartel and two of his lieutenants. One of those black ops jobs that only those with a need to know were briefed on. Only it was a setup. There was a mole in the CIA who alerted our targets and we were ambushed. You were shot in the head and I was shot in the chest and they left us for dead when they heard police sirens."

"Damn. No wonder I lost my memory. And that accounts for the scar in my scalp."

"The police got us to a local hospital where some real heroes saved our lives. You woke up a week later and didn't know who you were or what happened. That's when our handler flew in from Langley and arranged for our transport back to the states."

I'm sure Tom heard my voice quivering when I asked, "Then what happened?"

"That's when the Company disavowed any knowledge of our mission and made it clear that I was a persona non grata. You on the other hand, were given a new identity, shot up with some kind of drug to make sure your memory didn't come back and put you out cold. They dumped you off at a hospital in Alexandria where you woke up the next day."

"And what about you?"

"After ducking just in time to avoid a sniper's bullet when I walked to my apartment, I went underground. Since then I've been moving from city to city, working as a laborer and living from hand to mouth. I'd heard that you were here in Texas and eventually decided to look you up. I found out you volunteer often at the homeless shelter and hung out until you showed up."

This revelation shook me to the core. Somehow I knew it was all true, even though I didn't want it to be. "Okay. Is there anything you can tell me that might help me uncover the rest of my past?"

"There is a lady, Mrs. Graves, who was an administrative assistant at the Company when we both hired on. She's since retired but still lives in Virginia. I would trust her with my life, and I have in fact. She's the only one who knows how to reach me."

Five days later, I flew back east and went to see Mrs. Graves. A gray haired matron opened the door when I rang the bell at her apartment.

"Mrs. Graves, I'm Dennis Jackson, but I hear my real name is Donald Sullivan."

I was surprised to see tears in her eyes."Yes, it is Donald. It's so good to see you after all these years! I lost track of you after the agency left you in that hospital. Please come in and I'll make us some tea. You still drink tea don't you?"

"Why yes I do. I've been told that you worked at the CIA when I was hired on and can tell me more about my past."

Soon we were chatting like old friends. "How much of my first thirty years can you help me with, Mrs. Graves?"

"I can tell you an awful lot." she said with a twinkle in her eyes.

"Good. But why do you know so much about me?"

"I helped you get hired on by the agency where I worked. But there is something else you need to know."

"What's that?" I asked, now intrigued.

"I am your mother."