Prologue

 

Ghost writers usually pen the words for some celebrity who thinks he or she has a good story but can not get the right words onto paper. Ghost writers know how to apply adjectives, adverbs and subjunctive clauses to make the often dull story attractive to the reader. In this instance, the Aghost@ is the writer and I merely tapped the computer keyboard for him.  This is Fletcher=s story.

Fletcher Blair introduced himself to me on a dreary autumn day when I was struggling with my first novel, the infamous writer’s block having grown in the past weeks to a point where I was losing ground. I was editing out more of my old words than I was producing new words. When I look back now it is amazing how, in the matter of a few weeks, I was able to write a complete book on a subject that I had never considered.  I had often heard writers say that sometimes the Acharacter@ just appropriates the writing of the book and now I understood what they meant. Maggie, my wife, thought I was insane for those hectic weeks, but she showed a singular degree of tolerance, hoping that my relationship with the ghostly Fletcher Blair would end as suddenly as it began. You see, I only met Fletcher about a year after he died.

In a very short time, he gave me most of the details of his life preceding his death - and what happened after he died.  Fletcher explained how the experiences after his wife died had prepared him for what was to come. Ivy had returned to tell him about the afterlife.  Thomas had added confirmation.  Now Fletcher wanted me to tell his story so everyone could be ready for the after-life, the after-death experience.

The question of what happens to us after death has been around for as long as we have been able to put two thoughts together. Every philosopher, every prophet, every teacher has had one answer or another, none of them entirely satisfactory to me.  I had concluded that nothing happened to us after death, that we only lived for the moment and were gone. I admit I had some difficulties with the physics of this premise because I thought there was some energy to my being that needed an accounting for, but I had explained that away by acknowledging that humankind’s understanding of physics is not as complete as we might like to believe.  My thoughts on this subject were not that different from Fletcher=s.  Perhaps that is how he found me.  

Fletcher Blair and Thomas Three Toes have resolved those questions for me with their thinking on quantum mechanics, formative causation and parallel universes.  Their Extremely Small Particles Theory makes some sense to me. 

Oh, by the way, Thomas is a cat.

I know, I know - cats can=t talk.  I used to believe that.

 

I have dreamed a dream, and there is none that can interpret it.  Genesis

   

Chapter One

 

If my story has an exact beginning, and I am not certain that it does, it might well be that moment when Ivy suddenly sneezed three times in a row. My uncertainty stems from my experiences with the events surrounding her death and what followed.  I had a small problem with time. Three quick, little sneezes that sounded more like a cat’s sneeze. We used to laugh about her little sneezes, sneezes that are typical of many women.  Compared to my usual one hearty blast that would shake the furniture, Ivy was a quiet sneezer.  When I sneeze, I say ARussia!@, as my grandfather used to do.  It adds a little character to a great sneeze.

That was about a year ago now. I say Aabout@, because lately, time has taken on a different meaning for me. It was July, hot and humid, as it so often is in this southern Ontario city during the long, sultry, dog-days of summer. We were making love, accompanied by the rhythmic noisy‑cool humming from the air conditioner. The refreshing breeze tingled our damp bodies as we lay naked on the bed. At our age, lovemaking in the heat of summer had lost some of its appeal unless we had that cooling air.  I used to say that I was exuding pheromones but Ivy said it was simply sweat.

Ivy and I had been married for twelve years, twelve very agreeable years. We did not have any children, partly because we were never convinced that we wanted to bring a child into this topsy‑turvy world that seemed to contain more doubt than hope for the future of humankind, partly because we were both totally involved in our careers. As the years quickly and silently slipped by, our work had become the focal point of our lives. That seems somewhat trite now, and if we had it all to do over again, we would have had children, at least a boy and a girl, possibly more. But how many of us get that second chance to do it all over again?

Ivy was a kindergarten teacher, so she had considerable fulfilling contact with young children during the week. Ivy loved children, especially the ones who were full of the amazement of life, the ones she could inspire, even at that tender age. She frequently remarked that she was certain that she had more of a positive influence on some of the children than their parents - parents, who, like us, were too busy wasting our lives earning a living at the expense of living.

I was a mechanical engineer with Tech‑Can, a small consulting and research firm. My only involvement with the little people was umpiring the Tyke League ball games in the local house league that the City’s Recreation Department sponsored every summer at the Lion’s Park just down the street from our house. I suppose we were surrogate parents for a few hours every week and that fulfilled our social obligations to the species.  Others were more than adequately looking after the propagation of homo sapiens.

We lived in the suburbs, not too distant from the downtown shopping yet near enough to the ever‑receding countryside to still have  a hint of open space and greenery. There was the inevitable shopping mall, approximately a dozen blocks from our house, that same boring, ordinary mall with its identical, franchised shops that is in every city.  Down the street, to the east, at the corner of Willow and Banks, there is a 24‑Hour conveniently high‑priced store where I get the milk and bread when I forget to stop at Foodland in the mall.

The mortgage on the house was manageable on both our salaries with enough left over for a respectable investment portfolio designed to let us both retire when we were fifty‑five. We had a small number of shares in Seagram=s, Bell, and we had fortunately managed to purchase some Chrysler stock when it was low ‑ just before Lee Iacocca took over and tripled our investment for us. We spent one week during the winter basking in the warm sunshine on one or another of the Caribbean islands and a ritual two weeks in the Muskokas feeding the local mosquitoes every July. I suppose you could classify us as well‑to‑do, upper middle class. White-Anglo-Saxon-Protestants would be a title some might apply except that I would take exception to the AProtestant@.

I said, AGesundheit.  Are you catching a cold?@

ANo, I just feel a little stuffed up.  Maybe I'll take a sinus pill,@ Ivy said as she headed for the bathroom.

I remember that Ivy had complained of having a slight fever earlier that evening at dinner. We both thought it was merely from too much sun because she had spent the whole day working in the vegetable garden.  Ivy did have a band aid on her small finger where she had scratched herself on a rose bush.

Our social life revolved around the Golf and Country Club in the summer and the Racquet Club in the winter months. Ivy was a more accomplished golfer than I, she with a twelve‑stroke handicap while I struggled in the upper eighties. She had the patience to take golf lessons every year and to practice her chipping and putting at least once a week. I did not have that kind of dedication to the sport. I did have a good tennis backhand that earned me some respect from my opponents on the indoor courts during the long winter months. Our friends at the Club formed a circle of parties and entertainment that kept us just occupied enough with our social life so as not to be tiring or frequent enough to be boring, as often happens in the suburban routine of work and play. During the winter we also cross‑country skied. Not that I considered Nordic skiing a better form of exercise than Alpine, but because Ivy was not keen on rushing headlong down a hill, dodging trees, rocks and people while trying to keep some semblance of form and out of the way of rocketing youngsters on snow boards. Besides, there is not a suitable hill for downhill skiing within an hour’s drive of our place.

I am a bit of a car buff. A few years ago I finally saved enough money to buy the car of my dreams, a two‑year‑old 755i that a local lawyer had traded in for a current model. I spent many hours keeping the BMW in spotless splendour. Compared to North American cars, there is not as much chromium on the 755i as say, a Caddie or Lincoln, just enough to really show off the lines and colour. There is no comparison between the paint jobs ‑ the BMW’s Forest Green has to be inches thick!  Well, when I get an exceptional polish on it, it appears that thick. Ivy drove a two‑tone brown Buick Century station wagon that, unless I took the time to clean it, usually looked liked a third place finisher from a mud derby. Ivy was not one for mechanical things of any stripe. I liked all things mechanical, a part of my psyche, I suspect.

I had a riding mower, the brand that runs like a deer, one that had all the attachments. It cut the grass, mulched it and anything else that got in the way, carried the green muck in its tiny trailer to the back of our lot where I had what I called a compost heap but in truth it looked more like a landfill operation. I never could understand the fine line that Ivy drew between my Atoys@ and a practical piece of equipment. I mean, if you have to cut the lawn . . .

My other Atoy@ was a ten‑year‑old Triumph motorcycle. Ivy referred to it as Athat thing@. I did not ride it often because the damn thing was the most perverse assembly of mechanical parts that I had ever had the pleasure of meeting. But, on the occasion that the old Triumph would start, the pleasing resonance of the big twin cylinders thumping away like a heartbeat justified the time I spent working on it. It smoked a little when it first started, until the engine warmed up enough to close up the rings, but not as badly as all the neighbours used to pretend. Charlie White came running across the street one time with his fire extinguisher, much to the amusement of the gang of kids who had gathered around to watch me try to kick‑start the engine. I think the kids congregate to see how long I can persevere before my frustration resulted in colourful oaths. Ivy was very strict about me swearing in front of the kids but I know damn well that those kids can out-cuss me anytime.

Charlie White, his wife Judith, and their daughter Jane live across the street and were our best friends. Charlie is the manager of a fuel business, Judith a part‑time nurse at the General Hospital, up in the north end if the city. They also have a cat, Thomas Three Toes.

Thomas is a likable cat. He is of the striped tan‑coloured variety, weighs about 7 kilos, has all of his claws and is a good cat. I have always liked cats.  I had them for pets when I was a child and we would have had a cat for a house pet except that Ivy was allergic to cat dander.  Thomas and I got along fine until the day I playfully sprayed him with the garden hose. It was a hot day, about 35 degrees, and I thought he might appreciate a cool shower. He did not.  Ever since that day, Thomas has been out to get me.  For instance, he has torn holes in two pairs of my good slacks, by accident, of course. Whenever we visited the Whites, Thomas would sit on my lap, he would Afight@ with me and never draw a drop of blood, although his claws were always nipping my skin. He would purr for me when all Charlie could get from him was a look of disdain. But sometime during the visit, he would snag my trousers with his claws. I began wearing older slacks when we went across the street for a social visit, still Thomas invariably knew when to attack. His latest trick was to get his feet wet and jump up on the BMW. There was adequate wax on the car so that he would not scratch the paint, but he would walk from the hood to the trunk, leaving dirty little paw marks, just so I would have to clean the whole car again.

The other neighbours that we considered close friends were the Schultzes, an older couple whose property backed onto ours. Dr. Handel Schultz was a retired Professor of Physics who fancied himself a philosopher. He is well known to wax eloquent on his favourite theories of both physics and philosophy, often combining the two in ways that left me confused and Ivy amused. Mrs. Schultz, Marta, was a gardener and we shared many moments discussing plants, both the indoor variety and our summer flowers. There was a friendly competition between Marta and me to see who could grow the most colourful display of flowers. My irises usually took the spring prize, the summer prize went to Marta, and the fall flowers usually ended in a draw.

Life was good. Everything was so absolutely normal and mundane that it might have been boring if we were not simply enjoying life so completely.

One of the little rituals of our lovemaking was my nibbling on Ivy’s neck. It always excited her, giving her goose bumps, and when she was aroused, that stimulated me. But that night she said her neck was very sensitive, and perhaps swollen.  When  Ivy got up to take a couple of aspirin,  I switched on the television to watch a National Geographic production on Bengal tigers.  The plight of the large cats has always concerned me.  I was minded of the Calvin and Hobbs cartoon strip where Hobbs   speculates on  a world inhabited by 3 bill ion tigers and 30,000 people.

We enjoyed each other, even after all these years, so much so that I had never strayed from the fold. There were the usual temptations that come along in everyone’s life, but when you are happy at home there is no reason to go searching for trouble with the opposite sex.  ( I admit now that I often fantasized about having sex with Mary Jane, our office beauty, but I would never have actually done anything towards realizing that dream.) The hot passion of our youth had slowed to a comfortable two or three times a week lovemaking that seemed to meet both our needs. Ivy had maintained her figure by diet and exercise and was every bit as attractive now as when we had wed. I had gained a few pounds around the middle but was reasonably healthy for my age.  The mid‑thirties are a great time to be alive, comfortable in the financial sense and enjoying good health.

It was until that night when Ivy’s neck began to swell.

By the time the documentary on the Bengal tigers was over, Ivy was having difficulty breathing, saying that she felt her throat tightening, cutting off her air supply. I called Judith, even though the White’s had their lights off and it was one thirty in the morning.

AJudith, it=s Fletcher.  Sorry to wake you.  Ivy has a swollen throat and is running a little fever.  She says she is having trouble breathing.  Can you come over an take a look at her?@

AShe isn't having an allergy attack is she?@ Judith asked.

AShe doesn't think so.  She took an antihistamine, but . . .@

AI'll be right over.@

Judith appeared at the door two minutes later.  She immediately took Ivy=s pulse and temperature. 

AIvy, did you get a bee sting or spider bite yesterday?@

ANo,@ Ivy whispered, Abut I did get a scratch on my finger when I was gardening.@

ADisinfected it?@ Ivy nodded.

Judith removed the thermometer from Ivy=s mouth.  AFletcher, call an ambulance.  I think Ivy is having some kind of a severe reaction.  Ivy, take another antihistamine.@

Ivy took another pill, chewing the tablet in order to swallow it with little sips of water.

I had never been in an ambulance before and the ride to the hospital in the quiet hours of the morning was very, very  fast.  By now they had an airway inserted in Ivy’s throat to allow her to breathe. The whole night was taking on the eerie aspect of a nightmare, the impossible unreality of what was happening was not really registering on my mind. The staff at the General Hospital sedated Ivy and administered more antihistamine, thinking, as Judith did, that Ivy was having an allergic reaction. It was possible that it was a reaction to an insect bite she might have received when she was gardening. They sent me to the waiting room, saying the swelling would go down in another twenty or thirty minutes.  Half an hour passed with little or no improvement. I dozed off and on, checking with the desk but there was no change.  I finally drifted off to sleep about 4 a.m.

A nurse shook me awake at six a.m. Ivy now had fluid in her lungs and they were attempting to treat that. They had a request in for a specialist from one of the major hospitals downtown. They said I should see her now.  Dressed in a gown and surgical mask they took me to the isolation ward. Ivy’s body was swollen to the point where I could hardly recognize her. She was not conscious. The doctors were trying everything they knew but nothing was working. Ivy died shortly before noon that day. Toxic shock syndrome.

Until that day I did not realize how much I had assumed that Ivy would always be a part of my life.  There had been plans of travelling together after our early retirement, to New Zealand, Australia, weeks in Fiji, back to Italy. Ivy had wanted to return to Florence, to visit the Uffizi gallery again, to see the ochre roof tops along the muddy Arno, to stroll through the many old churches once more. Now there was nothing but a void in my future.  We had discussed death, of course. Ivy was a practising Baptist and she had easily accepted that when she died she was going to go to heaven to be with the Holy Trinity and there to dwell forever. She was at peace with her soul, I knew that.

If there was one facet of our lives that was not in accord, it was religion. I had been raised a Protestant, United Church variety, but long ago I had evolved into an atheist. Or if I felt mellow when describing my thinking to the Jehovah Witness or Mormons who rapped insistently at the door, I would say I was a Humanist. I did not buy the life everlasting spiel nor all the dogma that accompanied the dispensation of religion. I had little or no respect for people who peddled religion as the great panacea for the present and hope for the future. I was more for the immediate, living life to the fullest, an Epicurean. The way I had it calculated, once you were dead, it was all over. No heaven, no hell, nothing. Oh, I believed in some organizing force in the Universe, but not a he ‑ or she ‑ that was interested in our mundane, insignificant lives. As religions seemed to spout more and more placebos for the reason of life, science was becoming more and more complicated with each new discovery by very different branches of the discipline. It was easier for me to accept those scientific facts I could understand than to believe in something as indefinable as a God. The more we learned about the universe, the more confusing and complicated it all seemed, but I still had a problem putting a human face on a creator.

Ivy and I did not quibble over our different views ‑ we just lived with them. Ivy attended Sunday church services regularly ‑ I did not attend. Well, perhaps at Christmas, just to hear the carols and savour the peace in the church that seemed to exude from the believers at that time of year. But Ivy had said one thing that came back to me now.  “I’m going to come back and tell you, Fletcher Blair . . .  just so you will know that there is life after death!”