Lost Life

Lost Life
by Vivian Gilbert Zabel

          In an office near the center of the city, a man slammed his fist on the desk top in front of him as he yelled into the phone, “What do you mean you lost him! When?” His face grew red as he listened. “Two days ago! He’s been gone for two days or more?” His voice dropped to an intense whisper. “Do you realize what will happen?” He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. “Find him.” He slammed the receiver on its stand before pushing himself to his feet.

          The man paced the plush carpet between his desk and the windows overlooking the city below. Not now, don’t need this now. Where could the old man be? I just needed a few more days. He pounded his fist against a wall. “Where is he?" the man yelled.

*****

          A thin, elderly man, his gray hair cut in a do-it-yourself ragged style, shuffled along an Oklahoma City street. His well-worn clothes fit loosely on his thin frame. “Bum, worthless bum,” the storekeeper mumbled as he watched the elderly man stumble over a lump in the concrete. “Wish we could get rid of all those homeless bums.” As soon as the man passed by the small grocery, the owner turned away from the window to smile at a customer.

          “The Gentleman,” as the community of homeless people titled him when he first appeared in their midst, always took advantage of the laundry and showers in the shelter that allowed each homeless person to stay two days and nights a week. For some reason, he felt compelled to stay as clean as he could. He, also, had felt an urgency not to eat dinner at the shelter the night before and had experienced a need to start walking, but he tried to sleep first. He tried, but his head kept telling him to leave. He stared at the cracks in the ceiling till dawn.

         Now his eyes stared straight ahead as he stumbled forward. His thoughts didn’t seem as chaotic today. Have to get home. Have to, circled around and around in his mind unmolested by anything else.

         His feet kept moving, soon leaving behind the suburb business district with its shops and stores and the shelter with its showers and laundry. Apartment buildings and shabby houses passed without a glance from his watery gray eyes. Night found him in a residential area, with homes set back from the street, driveways filled with recent models of cars, and toys pulled up to porches. He paused, his head turning from side to side as he searched the area around him.

          Have to get home. Have to . . . Too tired. Spying a large spruce with branches dipping to the ground around it, the man crawled back under the lowest limbs, curled into a ball, and fell asleep.

          Little-girl-giggles and a woman’s musical laugh awoke The Gentleman. At first he lay perfectly still. Then he slowly pulled himself to a sitting, semi-yoga position. Peering though the overhang of his evergreen cave, he observed a small group across the street gathered around a large cardboard box with a pile of paper cups and a large jug sitting on top. A sign connected on the side toward the street had “Lemonade” printed in crayon. A wooden wagon at the end of the box held items he couldn’t see, but a sign read “Rocks and seeds for sale.”

          A honey-blond tyke of about three rode astride a beginner’s bike to stop in front of the box. “Can I have a drink, too, Mommy?” she asked the woman who held a paper cup in her hands.

          “Sure, baby,” the mother answered, brushing her long hair away from her face. Smiling at the two five-year-old girls manning the stand, she asked, “Margie, may we have a cup of lemonade for Cindy?” She dug into the pocket of her shorts to pull out a coin.

          The girl, with a matching cascade of wavy hair, the tip of her tongue showing in one corner of her mouth, tilted the insulated jug, trying to hit the small paper cup with the stream of liquid. Her friend covered her mouth to muffle giggles.

         Happy, they seem so happy. The elderly man scooted closer to the opening beneath the heavy branches. He rubbed the side of his head with thin fingers. Lovely woman, dark hair. Girls, pretty little girls. His eyes explored the space around him as panic built in his chest. Where am I? Dear God, where am I?

          Across the street, dark-haired Margie's eyes widened in surprise as she noticed movement under the tree. “Mommy,” she whispered to the woman handing her a quarter. “Mom, there’s a man over there.”

          When the woman and the children stared toward the tree where he hid, The Gentleman swallowed the fear welling up inside his throat. He crawled from under the branches, brushed the dirt and debris from his clothes as well as possible, then stood with his hands held in front of his chest, palms toward the ground. “Please, I need help. I won’t hurt you.” To his ears his voice sounded rusty, unused.

          The woman pulled a cell phone from a pocket before she moved to the middle of the street and paused. “Who are you? Why were you under the tree?”

          “I, uh, I don’t know.” The Gentleman’s voice quivered. “I ... Where am I?”

          Smoothing her hair back with one hand, she glanced at the phone in the other hand, then at the feeble man on the sidewalk in front of her. “You don’t know?”

          “No, no, I don’t. I heard giggles and woke up under a tree.” He rubbed his forehead. “I can’t remember anything. I just wanted to go home.”

          “Do you know your name?” She took a couple of steps closer. “Mine is Amanda Hostler, and yours is?”

          “My name is ... ” A frown wrinkled his forehead. “The Gentleman? No, that doesn’t sound correct. Yet it does.” He shook his head sharply. “My name is ... It’s Douglas ... Douglas Forester.” A smile split his face. “I know my name.” A chuckle as rusty as his voice erupted. “You must think I’m crazy being excited about remembering my name, but I ... hmmm ... I don’t think I am, crazy that is.”

          “Forester? Why does that name sound ... " She shook her head. "Uh, Mr. Forester, why don’t you have a seat in the swing on the porch behind you. Maybe I can find you some help.” Amanda motioned to the house across the yard.

          With another smile, the elderly man turned to follow her suggestion, weaving and nearly falling. Immediately, Amanda reached his side, her arm steadying him. “Mr. Forester, I think you need more help than I realized.” She supported him until they reached the porch swing, where she helped him sit. “How long has it been since you ate or had anything to drink?”

          The white-haired man closed his eyes. “I ... I don’t remember.”

          “Well, you sit right here ... ”

          “Mommy, would the man like some lemonade?” At the foot of the steps, Margie held a paper cup sloshing liquid with each of her movements.

          “Yes, Margie, please give the cup to Mr. Forester while I fix him a sandwich.” Amanda patted Douglas on the shoulder. “I’ll be right back. The sugar in the lemonade should help.”

          Douglas Forester opened his eyes to take the offered cup from the miniature version of the mother. He used both hands to bring the drink to his lips, spilling more as his hands trembled. After the first sip, he gulped the rest, the moisture sliding down his parched throat. By the time Amanda returned with a tray holding a sandwich, a cup of tomato soup, and a large glass of water, his color was no longer pale as parchment.

          Amanda set the tray on a small table that she pulled close to the swing. “I wasn’t sure how much you could eat. If you need more, I’ll get you something else.” She handed him a wet washcloth. “I thought you might like to wash first.”

          “Thank you.” After using the cloth on his hands and face, Douglas picked up half of the sandwich. “Ah, tuna. I like tuna ... I think I do.” He took a small bite, then a larger one. After swallowing, he admitted, “Yes, I do.” He glanced at the three sets of blue eyes watching him. “Oh, hello,” he greeted the little girl he had seen riding the bike earlier.

          She dodged behind her mother’s leg. “Hi,” she mumbled.

          Amanda stroked her younger daughter’s head. “Why don’t you girls go help Tammy with the lemonade stand. She looks lonely over there by herself.”

          “Okay,” Margie quickly agreed before running back toward her friend, pausing only to look for traffic before hurrying across the street.

          When the younger girl clung to her mother’s leg tighter, Amanda knelt beside her. “Cindy, don’t you want to go help with the lemonade stand?”

          With her head ducked, Cindy answered, “Uh-uh.”

          Douglas set the cup of soup on the tray. “Cindy? Is that your name?”

          The little girl kept her head lowered and stared past her eyebrows at the worn-looking man. “Uh-huh.”

          “That’s a pretty name for a pretty girl.” He picked up part of the sandwich before replacing it on the plate.

          “Please, go ahead and eat. Cindy is just shy sometimes.”

          The smile brightened the gaunt face again. “I must not be used to eating much. I’m not able to eat another bite.” He took a drink of the water and set the glass down. “Thank you so much. I guess I should be going ... If you would be so kind as to tell me where I am?”

          Before Amanda could answer, a dark green pickup pulled into the drive, and a young man climbed out, the suit he wore failing to hide his muscular build completely. “Amanda, are you and the kids okay?” he asked as he strode toward the porch.

          “Daddy!” Cindy rushed from the porch to fling herself at her father, who swung her up to his shoulders.

          “We’re fine, Jim. Mr. Forester has just eaten a bit.” Amanda stepped toward her husband when he reached the top of the steps. “He remembers his name but not much else.”

          Jim slipped an arm around his wife’s waist as he studied the older man’s face. “Forester, Douglas Forester?”

          Douglas struggled to his feet. “Yes, sir, I am.”

          “No, please sit. Man, you are Forester.” Jim swung Cindy from his shoulders, placing her on one of the wicker chairs while he pulled another one close to the swing. “In a few days you will be declared legally dead. You've been gone nearly seven years.” He turned to his wife. “Remember the news reports?”

          “Well, yes, but are you sure this Mr. Forester is the same man?” Amanda hesitated. “Can you be sure? The man in the photos doesn’t look much like this Mr. Forester. And in the pictures, his hair is dark.”

          “Amanda, I worked for the man for five years. I’m sure.”

          "No wonder the name sounded familiar, though," she muttered.

          Douglas covered his eyes with a bony hand. “I don’t understand. You worked for me? Jim Hostler? I’m so confused. Seven years gone?” He removed his hand to stare at the man beside him. “Jim?” His eyes opened wide. “You. . . you’re the head of sales. Of course. I remember now.” He looked around the porch. "I ... I visited here. Uh, our first house was just a block away." His smile flashed. "I know where I am." Then his face darkened. “But seven years, how could I lose seven years? Didn’t anyone look for me?”

          “Yes, sir, until Russell stopped the search. In fact he’s the one pressing for the courts to declare you dead.” Jim cleared his throat. “I, uh, I left the company when Russell took over.”

          “Please, don’t ‘sir’ me. If the bits and pieces that keep flashing in my head are true, I’m far from being anyone important now.” Douglas sighed. “Russell, huh? I should have known. And I suppose Gayle just stood back and let him take over.”

          “Gayle?” Amanda asked quietly.

          Looking toward her, Douglas answered, “My daughter. Russell is her husband. He controlled her since before they married.” He turned his attention back to Jim. “What about Martha, my dear Martha?”

          “I’m sorry, but she’s in an assisted-living home. She rather went to pieces when you disappeared like that. Russell convinced Gayle that putting her mother in a home would be best.” Jim stood. “I’m sure we need to notify someone.”

          A thin but surprisingly strong hand grabbed Jim’s arm. “Wait! I don’t think I want Russell knowing anything yet. I need to find someone I can trust.”

          “First, why don’t you come inside, and we’ll discuss this. You’re probably right - we don’t want Russell to know anything.” Jim reached a hand toward Douglas and helped him to his feet. “Personally, I think your brother-in-law would be the one to contact. He has fought Russell over every action the man took, before Russell fired him as company counsel. He’s also the one who insisted on choosing the home for his sister.”

          As Douglas shuffled toward the door, he replied, “Evan, yes, Evan would know what to do. Russell fired him? I’m not surprised. But Evan knows all the right people, the ones who can help.”

*****

          The silence of the courtroom could almost be heard as Russell Courtney and his attorneys entered. In the benches a few reporters sat waiting to record the official end to one of the city’s legends, but the four men continued to a table inside the railings without acknowledging anyone, not even Russsell's wife, who sat in the front row of chairs quietly and motionless. No one noticed the doors open noiselessly and a portly man in a three-piece suit slip inside. With him stood a slight white-haired woman in a soft, blue dress that reflected the color of her eyes. The couple waited quietly beside the uniformed officer who motioned for them to have a seat. The man shook his head and held up one finger, signaling “just a moment.”

          When Judge Wayne Wright entered, the man started down the aisle from the doors toward the railing that separated the gallery from the tables for the attorneys. As soon as his honor lowered himself into his chair, he stated, “Please come forward, Mr. Dennis. I think you should present your paper work to Mr. Courtney and his attorneys.”

          The reporters in the gallery stirred, and a few whispers buzzed when the people watching realized that a story might be revealed after all. One reporter pulled out a cell phone and quietly left the room.

          Russell whirled in his chair to stare at his wife’s uncle and the woman who followed him and slipped into place behind the other table. “What?” he sputtered. “What are they doing here?”

          Evan Dennis handed the lead attorney a packet of papers. “Mr. Higgins, these have already gone through Judge Wright. I’m representing my sister, Martha Forester, and her husband, Douglas Forester.”

          Russell jumped to his feet. “What? Martha doesn’t have any say in this, and Douglas isn’t here to be represented. That’s why we are here.”

          With a nod toward Mr. Higgins and the junior counsel, Evan strode to the other table before facing the judge. “I’m ready, your honor.”

          Judge Wright viewed those at the first table. “Mr. Higgins?”

          The attorney rose slowly to his feet. “I’m not sure, your honor. I have no idea what material is in this folder.”

          “This is an outrage!” Russell hissed at his attorney as he half rose from his chair.

         ”Mr. Higgins, you will control your client, or he will be removed.”

          “Yes, your honor, we’re just surprised.” The flustered attorney pushed Russell back down.

          “Your honor,” Evan stated from where he sat, “we would be glad to present our case for not declaring Douglas Forester dead while the opposing counsel gathers itself. They will have ample time to question our witnesses and research the material we’ve presented as we continue and before they present their case.”

          “That would be a good ... ” the judge began.

          “Your honor, this is highly irregular.” Mr. Higgins was back on his feet, as his associate tried to hold Russell in his seat.

          “Mr. Higgins, we are not here to find a person innocent or guilty of a crime. At least, I don’t believe we are. We are here to decide if a man should be declared legally dead or not. Who speaks or presents evidence first should not matter. Nor should whether one party has brought forth new ‘evidence’ or not matter.” The judge studied the attorney and the men at the table with him. “We are here to discuss and discover. Now, please be seated.” He turned his attention to Evan. “Please continue, Mr. Dennis.”

          “We believe that we can prove that no evidence exists to assume Douglas Forester is not alive. I wish to call a witness, a Mr. Coogie Williams.”

          “Your honor, we object,” Russell’s attorney jumped to his feet again. “What purpose ...”

          “Please be seated, Mr. Higgins. I will listen to what Mr. Dennis has to say and present. Objections won’t do anything but upset me. Do I make myself clear?” The judge stared at the man until he sank back into his chair.

          “Yes, sir,” the attorney mumbled, ignoring Russell’s frantic whispering beside him.

          “Bailiff, will you ask Mr., uh, Williams to join us, please?” Judge Wright asked the uniformed officer at the back of the room..

          Seconds later, a seedy-looking man with a scraggly, gray beard and matted hair ambled to the witness chair from the doors at the back of the courtroom. Once he reached the raised chair and agreed to tell the truth, Evan approached and handed him a photograph.

          “Mr. Williams, do you recognize this man?”

          A toothless grin flashed. “I ain’t no mister, mister. I just Coogie.” The man held the picture in one grimy hand as he squinted at it. “Hey, this looks like The Gentleman.”

          “The Gentleman? Who’s that, uh, Coogie?” Evan asked.

          “He’s this here dude that talked all pretty - like you do - when he talked. He always had to take showers and wash his clothes.” The old man shook his head. “He never put none of us down cause we was dirty or didn’t talk fancy, no how.”

          “And where did you know this Gentleman?”

          “Me and him live in the alley next ta the bus station ... when we ain’t allowed in the shelter.” Coogie studied the photo. “He sure looks fancy, don’t he?”

          “Mister, uh, Coogie, do you know what today is?” Evan reached for the photograph.

          Coogie took another glance at the picture before handing it to the attorney. “Not sure what’cha mean. Is it suppose ta be a holler day or sumthun?”

          “No, Coogie, but do you know what day of the week or the date is?”

          “Okay, now I git cha. Yep, it’s Monday, uh ...” The wizened face twisted as the man frowned. “June da fourteen.” The toothless grin flashed again. “Gotta keep track so I knows when I kin go to the shelter agin.”

          “Good. Now do you have any idea how long The Gentleman has been on the streets with you?” Evan turned his back to the witness as he sauntered over to the table, laying the picture on its top near where Martha sat, her hands folded tightly in her lap.

          “I don’t rightly know fur sure, but know it was more en five yearn.”

          “More than five years?”

          “Yep. Cause he were there when that bus done flipped over and kilt all those folks.” Coogie grinned. “Yep, him and me helped git them folks that was still breathin’ out 'fore the bus caught fire.”

          “And can you tell us when you last saw The Gentleman?”

          “Sure, we was together at the shelter, uh, Wednesde’ night.”

          After glancing at Russell’s face with its glaring eyes, Evan smiled at Coogie. “Thank you, Coogie. Now Mr. Higgins may want to ask you some questions.” He nodded at the other attorney before returning to sit beside his sister.

          After reading notes on the pad in front of him, Mr. Higgins stood and looked at the dirt-crusted man in the witness chair. “Are you sure the man in the picture is the same one you know as The Gentleman?” The attorney continued to stand behind the table.

          Coogie squinted. “Wall, he looks a mite older now, and real skinny like, but that pitcher sure does look like he did when I first seen him. His clothes jest was a mite fancier in the pitcher.”

          “Maybe he just looks something like the man in the photo.”

          “Nope, The Gentleman bees that wun in the pitcher.”

          With a shake of his head, Mr. Higgins asked, “How can you be sure that The Gentleman was with you at the shelter Wednesday night?”

          “Cause him and me gets to go the shelter and stay, not jest eat, on Mondes and Wednesdes. He were there for eatin,’ but he didn’t eat, jest set there and stared. Then we suppose ta take a shower - he done that. When we suppose to sleep, ever time I look, he jist lyin’ there starin’ at the ceilin,’ eyes wide open.” The old man frowned, wrinkling his forehead over his eyes. “Funny thin’ ‘bout that night. He never washed his clothes. He alway washed ‘em on Mondes and Wednsdes.”

          “I see. Did The Gentleman ever say he was Douglas Forester?” The questioner quirked an eyebrow.

          “Nope.” As the lawyer started to smile, Coogie added, “He never talked much ‘bout anythin’ but sure talked fancy when he talked.”

          “That will be all.” The attorney dropped into his chair as Russell grabbed his arm. The two men whispered urgently.

          “I’d like to call Mrs. Emma Morris to the stand, please,” Evan announced.

          Russell abruptly pushed his chair back from the table. “ No!” He leaped to his feet.

         His attorneys both stared at him. Mr. Higgins clutched Russell’s arm to jerk him down. “Mr. Courtney, please, you’ll be removed if you don’t sit here and be quiet.”

          “I don’t care. I want out of here. This is becoming a fiasco.” Crossing his arms across his chest, Russell leaned back in the chair.

          The judge pounded on the desk top with his gavel. "This is your client's last warning, Mr. Higgins. I should have him removed and locked up for contempt, but due to the emotional issues involved, I won't this time."

          A thin, wiry woman, dressed in a flowered, cotton dress, sat on the edge of the witness chair, twisting her fingers together and sending darting glances toward the table where Russell and his attorneys watched.

          Evan remained in his seat. “Mrs. Morris, where do you work?”

          “I, uh, I work at the Reno Street Shelter.”

          “That’s the shelter where Coogie Williams and The Gentlemen ate at least one meal a day and spent two days and nights a week?” The lawyer kept his eyes on the folder in his hands.

          “Uh, yes, sir.”

          “Did you help serve the meals?”

          The woman mumbled something.

          “I’m sorry. What did you say?” Evan stood in front of his chair.

          “Uh, yes, sir, I do.” The woman’s eyes darted between Russell and Evan.

          Evan slammed the folder on the table top. Mrs. Morris’ eyes widened in shock as they focused on him. “And did you place pills in the food of The Gentleman each time he ate at the shelter?”

          She swallowed noisily. “Um, I ...” She closed her eyes tightly.

          “Mrs. Morris, please answer the question.” Evan marched forward, blocking her view of the men sitting at the other table.

          “Uh, yes, sir. I’m sorry. I thought I was helping the man.” She covered her face with trembling hands.

          “You thought you were helping him?” The lawyer moved closer to the witness box. “How did you think feeding the man pills would help him?”

          “Your honor,” Mr. Higgins rose to his feet. “I don’t see how this has any bearing on the matter we are supposed to discuss today.”

          “Oh, don’t you, Mr. Higgins? Then perhaps you should regain your seat and listen.” Judge Wright banged his gavel again.

          The woman uncovered her face. “He,” she pointed to Russell, “told me his poor old uncle needed his meds but wouldn’t take them. He paid me to put the pills in The Gentleman’s food every day.”

          Bounding to his feet, Russell screamed, “That’s a lie. I never did any such thing!”

          The gavel banged twice. “Bailiff, take that man into custody. I want him available when we are finished here.”

          “Your honor, if I may call my last witness, I think we’ll all see that this hearing was not necessary but that Russell Courtney should be arrested. Charges have already been filed.” As her brother spoke, a wide smile spread across Martha Forester’s face.

          “Very well, Mr. Dennis. Bailiff, please stay beside Mr. Courtney and be sure he does not leave.”

          “I call Douglas Forester.” Evan’s announcement triggered a mini-stampede as reporters and camera people tried to follow Douglas and two policemen into the courtroom. Those inside had cell phones to their ears or pointed toward the main characters in the unfolding real-life drama. Russell's wife, Gayle, gasped before covering her face with thin fingers.

          The judge pounded on the desk. “Order! Order!” When the noise died, he asked, “Are you Douglas Forester?”

          Douglas nodded. “Yes, your honor, I am, as my wife can testify.”

          “Come forward, please.” As soon as Douglas swore to tell the truth and settled in the witness chair, the judge asked, “Why did you not come forward before now? Why wait seven years?”

          “Well, sir,” Douglas answered, “I didn’t know who I was. I don’t know how I ended up on the streets. Everything was so muddled and confused in my head, I didn’t know where I was or who I was. My brother-in-law has the medical reports. I spent the past two days in the hospital being tested for everything imaginable.”

          “Can you summarize what was found?”

          “Yes, your honor. Apparently I’ve been drugged for years. The toxic reports show that I’ve been taking a drug that causes mental confusion, even amnesia. However, once the drug is stopped, its effects soon fade.” Douglas took a deep breath and exhaled. “Wednesday night I wasn’t hungry, so I didn’t eat. By morning, the urge to go home was all that mattered. I started walking trying to find my home.”

          The judge nodded. “And somewhere along the line you remembered who you were?” He paused. “You are fortunate to be here to prove you are not dead.”

          “Yes, sir.” His voice sharpened. “But my son-in-law caused me to lose seven years of my life. He stole them.” He glared at the man now sitting shrunken with a policeman on each side of him. "I lost seven years!" He rose to his feet, fists clenched at his sides. "I can't get those back, but, thank God, you will lose more. You stupid little man, if you had just been patient a little longer, everything would have been Gayle’s, and in effect yours." He shook his head as he stepped down. "Now you’ll have nothing except the rest of your meaningless life in front of you." Douglas blew a stream of air through pursed lips. "Sad - another lost life.” Douglas paused as he stared at the tear-streaked face of his daughter. "Another lost life."