Brownstonelit's Blog

Silence is not only GOLDEN… it is necessary!

3/15/11
One of you still alive will crack!
One of you left can no longer take the pressure… can no longer sleep at night knowing that there is someone else left in this world that knows what you know… that saw what you did and will tell the world before you do! One of you can no longer keep the secret! One of you will no longer honor the sacred covenant you made with the others. One of the “4 in flannel” can no longer hide their guilt and they want to go to their maker clean. Was it you, who brandished the shovel and was left to bury the dead while the others kicked the corpse and laughed at their innocence? Was it you, the mastermind who stood back and watched as others do your dirty work for you? Or will it be the crazy one who likes to watch fish? How about the one with the gavel and hideous ego that cannot imagine a world where his word is not golden or protected? Hmmm… Which one will it be?
Page 7, page 7 they keep presenting. “Clean it up! Clean it up!” they all say. So I did. I read your name there. I know who you are!
You can come to me now or you can come to me later… but you will come regardless the timing and when you do… the world will see that everything I have written and everything I haven’t… YET… will tell the truth about what happened on the Clyattville-Nankin Road that late night in October of 1966.

3/14/11
Saturday would have been my father’s Birthday and I cannot tell you how poignant the day evolved for me on the heels of the loss just days before of one of my father’s pets- Rocket J. Squirrel. Yes, I said squirrel. A tiny little fellow that had fallen from his nest, bare bottomed and blind… my father had been doing yard work and noticed the tiny hairless ball squirming in the dirt next to a fire ant hill and was moved to scoop him up and brush him off. When the hairless ball survived the first night, my father was exhilarated. When he survived the next, my father was joyous. When he survived the next, my father was panicked that he was now both mother and father to a creature he could hold within his fist.
On Thursday, March 10th I received noticed that Rocket J. had passed quietly the night before, tucked lovingly inside one of my father’s handkerchiefs. It is yet one more passing to be observed. One more loss of things attached to my father that must be weathered.
I say all this as a reminder to those of you who read this blog religiously and those who stop by occasionally hoping for trysts and intrigue.

Charley Covington was somebody’s father and somebody’s husband. While the tale he has led me on so far is one of unconscionable debauchery and waste, it is still the story of this man’s death. Not his life, mind you… but his death and the perverse reasoning behind it. I am certain you have all but figured this thing out now- minus the names of the key players. But could you have seen this coming so long ago? I know I couldn’t. I remember in the beginning how focused I was on finding the shooter. Then on the first victim, who turned out to be the second victim in the “4 in flannel” boy’s club! Then, of course the MOT. Who could forget the appearance of the MOT? While I am still reeling, waiting for the MOT to make his second appearance… the clock continues to click away till Tuesday. What’s this you say, Grim? The MOT? Coming back from the dead???? Hmmmm… isn’t that always the way it happens? Just when you think it’s safe to go out into the community again…those corpses just won’t keep their yaps shut. They chatter up a storm and then the storm hits home! And… BAM!*?*!?*O!!
That old devil moon plucks something from the grave and you are back at square one again. Only this time… how do you kill someone who is already dead?
Good question, eh Grim? Good question! Want to know the answer?
You can’t! That’s why I am here!
Tomorrow is Tuesday. Deadlines… deadlines…
Who will be talking next???

3/10/11
Just like Dorothy from The wizard of Oz I have begun to take my first steps…
“Follow the yellow brick road,” they whisper as they intermittently spring forth from the chaos that surrounds me. Over and over again, each tiny soul who has suffered in this affair begs me to move forward in my quest. “Follow the yellow brick road…follow the yellow brick road! Follow, follow, follow, follow… follow the yellow brick road!” they sing until at last I stand at the crossroads and must choose my course of direction.

And do you know where that new road leads to Grim?
I do…

3/9/11
Yesterday and today have both been filled with many, many numbers. The outstanding ones of course are always 11:11 and 12:12 and we toss in the remaining appearences of 1:11, 2:22,3:33, and then it somehow skipped and jumped to 5:55- which of course we all know now symbolizes the number sequence eluding to “huge changes rumbling through my life”. And so, I wait to see what changes and where all this will take me. There is something afoot in the cosmos. You can feel it in the air. Even the weather was restless today.
Indeed, many things are happening and if I can just keep my wits about me and keep up with the pace the cosmos has now set before me to match… I will be doing all right. Patience and stamina are key for this month. Revisitng and reviewing my notes with fevered attention.
I finally know exactly who the “4 in flannel” were and that my dears, is one of the major tickets to reconstructing this case. Charley is waiting for me to ask another question. I have and so now I wait to see his answer.

What is the question?
Why if I tell you what it is, then we shall both have placed ourselves in un-necessary danger!
Until later then…

I saw something on a church marquee the other day that simply read:
God plans. The devil plots.

Aptly put, my dear readers… aptly put. I have a date with destiny next Tuesday. We shall see what it produces!

3/6/11

How did we get to be in another month and so quickly? Ah yes… time does not stand still, nor does my momentum to pursue justice for Charley- pursuant to this latest bit of information whilst I was relocating. I received an interesting message the other day about Grim. Still trying to purge oneself of past sins, eh Grim Reaper? We know what must be done and the remedy is soon upon you. I cannot tarry long as much work and ciphering is still before me before the papers must be laid out for review; but dear readers watch and listen carefully these next few months. The pendulum of justice begins to sway just slightly- telling me that the process is underway. I propose to you that by the anniversary of my dearest friend’s (Charley) death this year… you and I will be in a whole different space of understanding and Grim? Well… you might just be in a whole different space period.

There is a nervous tick about you these days, is there not dear Grim? A nagging sensation that you have forgot to take care of something in your master plan? That the lives you had snuffed have found a way to give themselves a new voice? A variable you could not have seen before? A process that you have never considered before? How could this be? How could they know??

How is it possible that small bits of information are somehow oozing from the graves of those you so carefully manipulated into death; crawling to the surface like tiny worms motivated to reach the surface by too much rain? Who is speaking out against you now and how can this be done? Did you not calculate their murders down to the minutest details and take care of all the peripherals- those little folks who whispered of the many disappearences?

Could it be the MOT? Could it be him speaking the words you silenced from him in life? Or, perhaps the battered Jessica and her unborn child, who are now ready to let her family know the truth? Or perhaps, our dear blonde headed vixen Roxanne who may want her parents to finally know where her bones can be found? Or maybe some of your accomplices? Guilt from beyond the grave, maybe? Could it be your minions have finally rolled in their graves and turned on you?

Karma is a bitch, Grim and redemption damn near impossible.

Finding it uncomfortable to sit in the church pews with the flames of Hell licking at your feet?

“Is anybody else getting hot in here?” you mutter under your breath- shifting nervously in your seat. Outside the walls of the church a low rumble begins. Can you hear the hooves of your mighty steed pounding the red clay in the distance, Grim?

This time he comes for you!

Pray… pray… pray as you might, there can be no forgiveness for what you have done. You must pay the price you prescribed for others.
Rumble… rumble… rumble… closer and closer they come. Can you not feel the earth shake beneath you?

I’m back, dear readers and boy howdy… what a difficult task it is to move 30 years of your life! Ouch… anyway, give me a few hours to regroup and I will share another secret with you!
By the way? The view is worth every bruise!
Until later then…

2/23/11
Clearly I am in a holding pattern, while dust settles on several fronts around me. Charley continues to keep silent vigil, while I take care of other sections of my life and for that I am grateful. This will be a difficult time for you dear readers, as I will not have opportunity to sit and write for several days. Cardboard calls and I will be very busy taking apart one house and re-piecing myself into another. I will be thinking about you all though and pondering my latest visitation.
The other morning, just before dawn, I dreamt about one of the last scenes from the movie, “Field of Dreams” where Terrence Mann is telling Ray the reason why he was chosen to go out into the ‘cornfield’ with Shoeless Joe Jackson and the other players.

I paraphrase:
‘… There was a reason why they chose me, Ray. I once wrote a story about Ebbets Field… the one that charged you up and sent you all the way to Boston to find me…’
‘I’m a writer, Ray. It’s what I do.
‘What’s out there?’ he asks.
Terrence replies, ‘I don’t know; but if I’m brave enough to go out there… ‘ he pantomimes a headline.
‘Shoeless Joe Jackson comes to Iowa! What a story that will make!’

I try to comfort myself with those words as I worry I have somehow missed out because I do not have visions. I’m a writer- that’s what I do. R is a psychic- that’s what she does. This dream sequence, I believe was in response to my asking the cosmos why I could not see Charley the same way R does. Why she gets to see him smile or wink. Why she can talk to him and I must ask questions through her?
I feel a bit like the character Ray Consella sometimes. You know the… ‘What’s in it for me?’ syndrome. ‘Hey-That’s my cornfield they’re living in out there! That’s my corn!’ I hear myself yell at the sky.
Well, kind of. My office is like my cornfield and every once in a while I wonder why I can’t see Charley and my parents the way R does. Why R sees Charley and can talk directly to him and all I get are just impressions or intuitions?
I know that what I do matters; that it is important because this story will be written by me. They will be my words and my descriptions. But some days, I just wish Charley would come talk to me. That he would walk right up to my desk, sit down next to me and say…”Hey, let’s chat.” I envy R and yet I cannot begrudge her anything. Charley does talk to me through her and so do my folks, so I really cannot complain and I’m not really. I just wish I could see him one time- to know this is all true. To know that the connection is real and that I have not pieced this all together from shoestrings and paper clips. I have a formal report to author and so very much rides on what it is I say and do from this point forward, and I guess I just would like further confirmation that I am on the right track and that I am doing right by all concerned.
So here you are Charley! My personal invite from me to you… come see me Charley and let me see the man I have been championing for over 18 months now. C’mon! Grant me an audience!
(I’m shaking just a bit inside my sneakers as I write this because he may just do so.) I think about taking back the request the instant I make it. The petty words make me feel small and whiney. It’s not that I am not happy with what has transpired- that I am ungrateful. I just wish I could see him… once. To know that it was real. That it mattered. I wait and the 8 x 10 is silent. I feel like a schmuck, but can’t help myself. He has been such a huge part of my life this last two years… Hell, he practically has been my life these past two years! I just wanted what any other person would want- a chance to see him smile. I calm myself and know that there was a reason I was chosen and it wasn’t to do R’s job. It was to do my job- to write. Why? Because that’s what I do. Just like the character of the writer, Terrence Mann. That’s why I am a part of this. Humbled, I remember the final scene from the movie as Shoeless Joe squares off with Ray, trying to help him understand that his father appeared to ease his pain and not the other way around.

And so it goes…
“So what are you saying, Ray?” Shoeless Joe asks.
“I’m saying… what’s in it for me?”
“I really think you should stay, Ray.” he replies.
“But you guys are guests in my corn! You’re living in my corn! Why can’t I go with you?”

The silence fills the air as one lone player begins to gather up his things.
“If you build it… he will come…”
“Go the distance…”
“Ease his pain…”
“It was you Ray… it was you…”

It was for me that Charley came, so that he cold ease my pain. My pain was the loss of my parents and the unbalance in my life they left in their wake. In my grief I lost my true North- my internal compass was so off mark I could not see the forrest for the trees anymore.

I built it… he came.

I cried… and he went the distance to ease my pain. Charley not only gave me his story, he gave me back a way to reach my parents and for this I will be eternally grateful. So with baited breath, I wait at the metaphorical fence and pray that my ‘John Consella’ appears, so that I may talk with him and share one more catch as the sun sets so that I might find peace with my new path!

The lone player takes off his catcher’s mask and reveals the face of Ray’s father as the young man he was before Ray was born.
“Is this heaven?” he asks?
“No… this is Iowa.” Ray replies, confused. “Is there a heaven?”
“Oh yes… there’s a heaven. It’s the place dreams come true.” he responds with absolute certainty. He looks around and sees the green of the fields, the streaks in the evening sky… the family upon the porch swing. “Funny, I could have sworn this was heaven…”

Ray searches his fieldd of vision and sees his wife, his child, his home and his life… “Maybe this is heaven” he sighs.
I shall try to stop a moment later tonight and survey my new world, just as Ray did and if I am lucky… I will begin to find my new world can be heaven too.

2/20/11

I think Charley is right. I think we have a reached a point where most of the questions that are truly important have been answered and what has been discovered since this all began is beyond astounding. How silly I must have sounded in the beginning, when all I could think about was finding the identity of the shooter. Now in light of all, his comment that his death was just the tip of the iceberg makes much more sense. Oh Charley…how could I have known? Who would have guessed everything that had led up to it and then after it? Well… there are a few we know. Those who are still very much alive- they could have guessed it all and more. I imagine that is why they found me such a source of amusement back then. I mean really- how could you have pulled a bloody rabbit like this out of a hat and been right?

The book begins with a reading from R and I know it will eventually end with one as well. Charley still sits atop my writing desk, but while he visits less often… I know he is still here when I need him. Unlike R, I do not receive those direct communications- at least not the way she does. But I know when he is here with me. I do. There is a gentleness that comes across the features of his 8 x 10 when he is in residence. His eyes soften and the Mona Lisa smile tugs its way into a slight grin. I confess I miss his company on days when I cannot feel him near. He has been constant these last 18 months and I have become accustomed to his companionship as one becomes accustomed to the background noise of trains in the night or cars passing over a nearby bridge. We are inseparable now… Charley and I. Forever we will be bound to one another by his death, his children and his grandchildren and this book.

When I look back… I see all the strings and pieces that pulled us all together through the years and I am amazed that all was orchestrated with such deliberate ease. A move here, a shift there… a meeting by chance and a chance to meet… and in the end, nothing left to chance at all! No…you and I, Charley? We were before the stars; always destined to help one another from either side of the fence. I owe you a debt of gratitude for answering a child’s multitude of questions. What lies on the other side? Can you see me? Will you remember me? Will I be forgotten?

Carly Simon wrote a song that I always loved about the death of her mother. She wanted to know things like…Does Benjamin Franklin dance on the face of the moon? Does the rain still make you sad? Clearly she had questions too she hoped her mother could answer from the other side.

On my phone I have two saved messages from my father. One is from Thanksgiving and the other from just before he died. I had called him for his birthday and he had missed the call. When he called back, I missed his and so to make a long story, short… telephone tag ensued and finally a voicemail gifted me this: he thanked me for the call and for the “remembrance” of his birthday. At the time I thought it an odd expression. He died shortly after his 82 Birthday; just 4 days after he had come to see a production of mine. It is the last time any of us have him on film. I loved and love my father and was gifted a great many years with him; although I will say most candidly that I got to know him best the years after my mother’s death. His great gift of empathy and his caring ways were amplified in her absence. Caretaker without his charge, he was lost among the living- just going through the motions of life until he could be with her again. He could have gone sooner, but I believe our mother encouraged him to stay so that we might mine the gifts he possessed before he left. All this to say, I am sorry that Julie was denied such. Parents often teach us how to grow old with grace and dignity and with both hers now being gone and compromised by tragedy- she will travel this road alone without guardrail of mentoring.

So Charley, dearest friend… I thank you for the time you have shared with me. Do not stray far, but do not hold yourself back for want of a better place for me. Just promise to visit every now and then. Guide me as I write your story. Help me be effectual in your cause and pray that you have chosen wisely the vessel of your justice.

I am spent…missing you already.