In the Shadow

In The Shadow

By Ed Wingham

Copyright © 2011 by Edwin W. Wingham. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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First Printing, 2011

http://www.edwingham.com

Introduction

We as humans all too often seek fulfillment from the fresh waters on the other side of the river. Marty Madison, In the Shadow, extricates himself from his humdrum existence opting for the fresher waters that inexorably pull him into life threatening torrents.

This story, though historical fiction, paints a reflection of the tenuous U.S. - Pakistani relationship and the long masking shadow that emanates not only from the Pentagon but from Islamabad and its culture of militarism and classism. The futures of both culturally divergent nations are tied to the eventual cessation of hostilities in Afgahnistan and the shrinking worldwide influence the U.S. will exercise on the world stage. Though In the Shadow paints a discomforting picture of greed and privilege gained from the grit of the common and the ordinary, an American policy of peace that mends the broken will secure rays of sunlight through the shadows of despair.

Ed Wingham

Chapter 1

Life on Lombard Lane was excruciatingly normal if anything. Having lived here for a year, I gained the flavor of both the community and my immediate environs, and they were, in nearly every case, typical in every way; it was that very common predictability that I found so mind numbing and void of value. The usual jokes, cookouts, trivial conversations, and gossip, rarely true and mostly unfounded, left me hollow and exasperated and seeking a balm to massage my troubled soul.

Marty, Marty, come on out for a sec. What’s goin’ on?

Yeah, I’ll be out in a bit.

Todd Kramer was the damndest most worthless human I had ever known. He worked sales for a company his father had founded and must have been fortunate enough to hire some excellent employees because he sure as hell was totally clueless. Somehow, by the grace of God, he had, apparently, fathered two kids and had latched onto someone who must have been desperately lonely for male companionship. Naturally, Bette and he had to live right next door.

Morning Bette. How are you, Todd? Nice day, huh?

Nice? Hell, man, this is June, and a Saturday at that. Shuffled the kids over to grandma’s and we’re going boating. Call up one of those girl type friends of yours, and tag along. What da ya say?

Gee, that’s super of you, really. Maybe some other time Todd. Got a million things on the list for this afternoon, and rain tomorrow. Speaking of which, I’ll take a rain check. Maybe some other time; be careful and no, I don’t need another buoy.

They turned whispering to themselves no doubt about my unsocial tendencies; couldn’t they somehow get the hint that I would go to most any lengths to avoid their company? Frankly, I found both disgusting. Bette had changed hair colors six times in two months; she could easily qualify for the witness protection program. No, please, she’s not wearing that bikini thing. Bette had adopted twenty pounds in all the wrong places, and made no effort to hide it; her bulges had bulges.

The Kramers, though perhaps the least likely couple to invade my social circle, if I had one, appeared to be happily married. Tom and Cary Yaltz lived the other side of Todd and Bette and they both gave the unmistakable impression of each cheating on the other, and neither seemed to care. On the other side of me, two families had moved in and out within the last six months and the property remained available and would likely do so in these economic times. I admit I hadn’t exactly been the most outgoing neighbor so perhaps my view of life on Lombard was a bit jaundiced. But run-of-the-mill people, shallow in scope and purpose, and my routine and tedious job left me unfulfilled and yearning for something to fill the space.

The message light was blinking as I escaped via the back door avoiding the windows that gave view to the Kramer’s. A Washington area code, 202; geez, I thought, maybe the president needs my council, as I half chuckled to myself. Oh, my job was, well, okay. Pedestrian would be a word I used over and over as I thought about the decisions I had made to prepare myself for accounting. The job was steady; I had passed the CPA and pondered opening my own firm if I could establish a sounder financial footing. But God, did I want to spend the rest of my life balancing ledgers and seeking tax loopholes into my eighties? The satisfaction index would never be pegged on that course of action.

Ronald Robinson, calling me from D.C. Ronald Robinson? Yeah, yes, I do remember him. Oh, we weren’t bosom close but we’d shared a drink or two at Benny’s, the local hangout years past during our collegiate years. Stranger things have happened I mused as I returned the call.

Yes, is Ron Robinson there please?

Some very young female type had answered and yelled dad as she unceremoniously dropped the phone and scattered to whereabouts unknown.

Yes, this is Ron. Can I help you?

Ron, this is Marty Madison, returning your call.

Marty, thanks for calling back. How are you?

He strung a few interrogatories together hardly waiting for my replies.

No doubt you are bewildered why I would call you after such an extended period. First of all, I feel fortunate to have found you.

Well, that is very kind of you, thanks. Working for an accounting firm here in Centre City and bought a place of my own just over a year ago. No, not married. Yes, we dated for a long while, but we had some pretty evident compatibility issues and just took us a long time to admit it. I do miss her though, I must say. How about you?

Oh, we have a daughter, whom you virtually met. Kayla is six and Missy and I couldn’t be happier. As you can tell, we live in the infamous 202 area code and in the shadow of the Potomac, and that is, in a way, the reason I called. But I would prefer not to dig too deeply into the actual reason unless we could arrange some face-to-face time. Centre City is less than two hours from here if I time my departure correctly, so I wondered if I, or we, could find a convenient time. Would you, perhaps, have any opening tomorrow?

Gee, I guess I could rearrange my pressing social calendar. Would you like to meet here at my place? Okay, ten o’clock it is. You’ve stirred my imagination. Anyway, thanks Ron. Oh, do you have my address? Oh, good. See you at ten.

Wasn’t Robinson a political science major? Washington would be a good fit.

As I peeked from the kitchen window, Todd was icing his case of beer and lugging it into the back of his truck. Now, that’s enough for Bette, I thought, but what will he do? Shameful Marty, shameful. You are better than that, or at least I hoped. Todd changes boats about as often as most of us change underwear. He had recently purchased the latest beauty claiming that this year’s motor produced twenty-five more horsepower and would be perfect for their skiing expeditions. It will take more horses than that to pull him if he continues to expand exponentially.

As I walked back to the den and study, the preponderance of accounting books, manuals, tax codes, and dog-eared