Served Cold, a sample

A new novel by Chuck Waldron

Chapter one

Sean Marshall Parker, at age 27, discovered he wasn't Sean, Marshall, or Parker, a life event comparable to a volcanic eruption, an earthquake, a shifting of the earth’s tectonic plates.  It was a life-changing experience happening as quickly and surely as refracted light deflects off facets of a prism, changing direction and the color.  He tried to make sense of it all, of what he had just heard at a dying man's bedside, a dying man laying waste to Sean's personal history with the words, "I have a terrible truth to tell you."   How was he to make sense of all he had just heard at a dying man’s bedside, a man he had always known as his father?

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Much earlier, before hearing those words, Sean had been basking in a typical weather day for Tucson, in other words near Arizona-perfect.  Feeling satisfied, more than that even, about his morning's effort; the wheel turning in his hands, forming a fusion of glass and clay into a unique piece.  It was a design taking form as a gift for Seffie.  Taking care not to disturb her sleep, he crept out of the bedroom early, before the sun’s rising.  The living area was an apartment attached to his studio, a garage or stable in a former life. 

Sitting back from his pottery wheel he rolled his shoulders and looked through the open door.  A gentle desert breeze brushed the leaves on the mesquite tree in the courtyard.  He glanced up at a sky, cloudless except one stray wispy cloud drifting lazily over the Santa Catalina Mountains to the north. 

The morning began with the desert weather predictably rain-free, like so many days before.  Wearing jeans, an artistically scruffy t-shirt and sandals, Sean had pedaled earlier to his favored coffee café, a short bike ride away.  Returning, he carefully balanced the coffee, the newspaper rolled in his hip pocket.  He leaned his bike and reentered the courtyard through the gate in the adobe wall.

The adobe wall formed one side of the court, the gate from the narrow laneway providing a private entrance.  Inside, the enclosure was bordered on three sides by artisan studios.  Sean had the studio on the south side, a view of the mountains while working at his wheel.  This was a place for sharing creative energy with two other artisans he respected. 

Tonya, in her studio to the north, was a painter at a stage of a career that was showing promise.  Jeremy described himself a sculptor.  His studio was located on the east side of the courtyard.  He had an imagination that turned junk metal into interesting forms, a genius wielding an acetylene torch, hardly ever seen without his welding mask.

The studios had been garages for automobiles and stables for horses before cars.  No one knew the precise age of buildings in this part of downtown Tucson.  There was no questioning, however, the Mexican-Spanish influence on the architecture.  The three studios were the rear of large adobe homes, each facing the street to their front.  The low roofs and adobe walls provided cooling in the desert heat. 

Sean smiled to himself, pleased at finding a place like this, a place that allowed him to make maximum use of his creativity.  He looked around the courtyard, dried wreaths of peppers hanging at random.  On a large table in the center of the courtyard a large glass container was lazily soaking up the sun’s rays, converting the contents into sun tea, a desert staple. 

As Sean sat on a chair next to a small table just inside his studio door he waved at Tonya.  She was splaying bright colors on a huge canvas, her studio door open to the desert air.  Tonya waved back and brushed her hair back as she finished.  She had raised her hand, holding the brush, and paint Sean grinned at the large dollop of blue paint in her hair and paint slowly oozing down the sleeve of her shirt.

Turning his head to the right, he saw Jeremy leaning forward, his face shielded by a welder's mask.  Sparks were flying as he worked on his latest creation.  Sean thought it bore resemblance to a dinosaur, or a train wreck, depending on your point of view.  Jeremy said someone had commissioned the work, paying a large sum of money.  Sean supposed the benefactor might have a name for it.

      Sean savored the moment, his potter's wheel waiting patiently for him to finish his coffee and newspaper.

      He heard the phone and rushed to answer it before it rang Seffie awake.  He muffled, “hello,” and listened.  His hands suddenly gripped the phone tight; his face took on a look of disbelief.  As he listened, the near perfect day began slipping, like grains of sand, through his fingers.

      "This is Irma, Mrs. McFadden, your father's neighbor.  I'm sorry," she paused and continued.  "I had to call an ambulance.  He's in Northfield Hospital.  I'm afraid it's bad news."

      "What are you saying?  He's never been sick a day,” and stopped, not knowing what else to say.  “What is it?”

      "You need to ask the doctor."