I’d write, but only Ambrose knows the story.
April 13, 2017
His mind has been erased during behavioral experiments. His mind is a barren landscape burned dry by the electrodes of shock therapy.
Ambrose Lincoln wanders down from wherever he hangs out about two o’clock every day. He knows I’ll be writing about him soon. He doesn’t’ want to be late. He knows I get really upset when he’s late.
Ambrose Lincoln is not like any of the characters I’ve written about in the past. He is different indeed.
Others were friendly and outgoing.
Ambrose keeps his feelings locked away inside.
They joked around.
Ambrose seldom smiles. But then, he has little reason, too.
They made snide, sarcastic comments and wanted to fool around.
Ambrose is all business.
They came along for the ride.
His philosophy is a simple one. Let’s get the chapter started. Let’s hit the ground running. Make something happen.
Then move on.
On paper, Ambrose Lincoln slips in and out of scenes that unfolded during World War II. He’s not a soldier. He’s not there to fight. He has a mission handed him by the U. S. government. He doesn’t know who’s in charge. He doesn’t know where the assignments come from.
His mind has been erased during behavioral experiments. His mind is a barren landscape burned dry by the electrodes of shock therapy. He’s not afraid. Ambrose has no fear of dying. He believes he may have already died, and the war and purgatory have a lot in common.
“You’ve just written chapter sixty,” Ambrose tells me.
He knows I try to keep my novels somewhere between seventy and eighty thousand words, and each chapter runs about a thousand words.
“I read it,” he says.
I nod again.
“In fact, I’ve read them all,” he says.
“You should,” I tell him. “They’re about you.”
Ambrose shakes his head. He thinks about grinning, then decides against it.
“You don’t have an ending in mind,” he says.
“I haven’t figured one out yet,” I tell him.
“But you’re looking.”
“You changed the story in the past chapter or two,” he says.
“I came to a fork in the road, and I couldn’t resist not taking it.”
“Know where it’s going?” Ambrose asks.
“You’re gonna be surprised,” he says.
“I usually am,” I say.
Ambrose stares out the window. The sun has dropped behind an oak tree. The hillside has turned green, spotted by the reds of roses, the pinks of azaleas. It’s the magic hour of spring.
“Where did you get the girl this time?” he asks.
“She didn’t come from central casting,” I say.
“Didn’t think so,” Ambrose says. “She’s a helluva woman.”
“She’s really pretty.”
“I knew she would be pretty.” He shrugs. “All your girls are pretty,” he says.
“Hell,” he says, “she’s tougher than I am.”
“Devra has a hard shell,” I say.
“I can’t crack it,” he points out.
“Her heart’s tender,” I say. “She’s like a little girl. Lost. Afraid. Abandoned.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“I tried,” I said.
“How many has she killed?” Ambrose asks.
“More than me?”
“That’s what I thought.” He pauses, and his face becomes grim. His eyes darken. “You’re not gonna kill her off, are you?” he asks.
“I don’t know.”
“You better not?”
“I know where you live.”
Ambrose stands up and heads on back to wherever he hangs out when I’m not writing.
“Don’t worry about the ending,” he says.
“Just follow me, and stay close,” he says. “I’ll get you there.”
“You got it figured out?”
“If I haven’t, then you’re out of luck,” Ambrose says.
I don’t argue. I’d write another chapter, but I can’t. Only Ambrose Lincoln knows the story, and he’s already gone.
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