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Jack Bruchard ... an Introduction

By George M. Grogan

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 George M. Grogan
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-3852-4

Chapter One

There was a tremendous stream of light coming through the cupola in my library. The light was flooding my favorite room. I watched in silent admiration as a bright beam of late afternoon sunlight made a path across the room I had so purposefully designed. I still called it the library, but I thought of it as a study. The deep-seated leather chairs, the floor-to-ceiling bookcases covering two walls, and the absolute quiet ensured by soundproof material covered with cloth wallpaper, beautiful yet unobtrusive, invited you to stay and get to know yourself better. Like a great friend in the midst of this atmosphere of learning, Sara, my parrot, watched me watch the dwindling light. Swaying gently on the center perch of her generous home, suspended in the middle of the cupola, she was content to be with me. I smiled up at her. Sara was like a frosted, feathery rainbow, but this was by no means her most extraordinary trait.

The gilt-edged bindings of the reference books held the mellowing sunlight. Many of them seemed unique in a reference collection, simply because they were written by lesser-known geniuses of the past—less familiar names because they did not, and often still do not, adhere to the accepted patterns of science and society. Although most of these books rested behind protective glass, they were readily available when asked for by anyone who knew about them. They were accessible only by ladder, and the ladder waited in anticipation of a question or a request.

A large globe of the earth sat in a darkened corner of the room, quietly reminding me of the perfect rotation of our galaxy. Overhead, the major planets of our galaxy moved silently. They all moved in a twenty-four-hour cycle, revealing in a hundred ways their intricate relationships, existing only for those who wished to discover their secrets of movement, timing, and harmony.

Bronze busts of some of the great thinkers of all time—Socrates, Plato, da Vinci, Einstein, Tesla, Steinmetz, and some lesser-known but equally great thinkers—basked in the lingering rays. The old schoolhouse clock sounded three times, reminding me of another such golden afternoon.

Chapter Two

It was just past three o'clock in the afternoon when a sudden burst of light flashed from the cupola, catching my eye as I stood in the yard below. It was Sara's mirror, of course. Though she was just a nervous silhouette, moving eyes from left to right and back, and pacing back and forth on her perch, I could feel her anxious and penetrating stare. She began talking to herself, knowing I could hear every word.

"Jack Bruchard," she admonished, "if I were doing it, I wouldn't be doing it this way." She thought for a moment. "Something is going on that I don't know about, and I don't like it." Somehow she knew she should be worried. She paused and sighed, "I'm going to have to talk to Jack." As if to reassure herself, she added, "I guess soon enough he'll lower me down and we'll talk." Abruptly she turned her head and directed all her attention to the sound of someone approaching the house.

"Frank's here," she said in a startled voice. "That's strange. This is getting serious." Her pacing increased, indeed became quite agitated, as she leaned over to follow the path of his car up the long driveway to its destination. "He's alone," she commented. Then she added, as if asking a profound question, "Frank is alone?" She watched Frank Hanson intently, continuing to talk to herself almost in a whisper and with the definite realization that she had absolutely no idea of what was going on.

"He's going into the garage; he drove himself here in his own car, and he's parking it in the garage." She reiterated these seemingly logical activities in a wavering voice that clearly indicated that this was not the norm. Collecting herself, she muttered, "Announce him and be quiet. Be calm." Sara moved a lever with her beak and said musically, "Jack, Frank's here."

Her voice was heard throughout the estate three times, in different areas, simply because I loved to hear it.

"Thank you, Sara," I replied without getting up from the shaded part of my backyard, watching a male peacock strut his outrageous beauty before a much less comely female. My eyes roamed in satisfaction over the well-planned animal refuge I called my backyard, and then I got up, walked toward the house, and met Frank, just as he reached the front door. He opened it with his key, and we both walked into the room smiling broadly. We stood and looked at each other a moment, and then we embraced and laughed. We parted and Frank asked, "My God, Jack, how long has it been?"

Two rare people were standing in that room—two very close friends. I tried to answer as if an answer was needed. "Two or maybe three lifetimes, without even knowing it."

I guided Frank over to one of the comfortable chairs, brought out two silver goblets, and filled them with a rare old brandy made by my grandfather. I handed one to Frank and sat down facing him.

I didn't see it at the time, but a strange indicator was present in the library, an indicator being a lesson or a sign that actually helps to create personal growth. Above the mantel of the fireplace hung an oil painting of two men who looked remarkably like Frank and me, sitting in the same chairs on a similar waning afternoon. The clothing worn by the men in the picture was indicative of a bygone era; this was the only discernible difference between the reality in the room and the reality depicted in oils.

Frank smiled and said, "Even though it's been a long time, and we have much to catch up on, I think you'd better tell me what is going on before I break into a multitude of little pieces."

Sara stopped her pacing, leaning forward with her head cocked. She, too, was anxious to know.

I smiled at both of them and said, "All I ask is for a little of your time and undivided attention. I want you to think."

Frank carefully put his goblet down, took a deep breath, leaned forward, and said intensely, "Jack, I'm a quivering mess inside. You can't expect me to judge anything intelligently when you invite me into a situation I know nothing about. The subject matter is wide open; I'm not. Look, you are my best friend, and whatever it is you want to talk to me about, I want to be as realistic as I can be in judging it. I get the feeling you're going to hit me with something that's going to require an awful lot of thought." He paused and added, "Jack, when was the last time you invited me up to your place to help you with something? Alone?"

Then, as if to give him time to prepare for what I had to say, Frank smiled up at Sara and said, "I'll bet Sara is pretty excited about all of this." He looked up at Sara again, seeking some kind of confirmation. "Right, Sara?" She stared straight ahead and didn't utter a word. There was a long moment of silence. Frank reached for his goblet, gulping, rather than sipping, at the brandy, and sank back into his chair. "Now I know I'm right," he said finally. "I should be nervous."

I searched my mind for the right calming words, but before I had a chance to say anything, Frank fidgeted in his chair. "This should have been a rocker," he complained. "I like to rock, and right now I need to rock."

I couldn't help but laugh. "You know something, Frank? You are really a classic! The more I find out about people, the more I am able to see we are from the same classic mold."

I leaned forward, the...