A Day At A Time
by
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The man from the halfway house, Ivan, was waiting for him outside the door. He had visited Jack before. He was a big man with a lean face, sunken cheeks and a sharp narrow nose. Suntanned, he looked terribly neat and clean in his faded checkered lumberjack shirt and casual jacket. Jack hated the whole idea of a halfway house. He had disliked the man. One of those professional dogooders. Jack didn't need a baby sitter.
Now somehow he was relieved that the man was there. The world must have changed. Now that he had to face it, there was only a huge blank. He had nobody but himself. He wouldn't have known where to go. What to do. But he didn't let on. He had learned to keep his face a perfect blank. "Let's go," he said. The car was a little Japanese model, the man told Jack without being asked. The sun was shining and Jack took his jacket off and threw it in the back. Fall is a season of contrast: warm after a cool morning. Ivan's car hesitated as he picked up the tollway's card. Memories from the past flashed through his mind. Fall had been a time of excitement. The crackling of leaves. The bonfires with the pungent rich smoky smell. The excitement of the impending frost, the snow yet to come. Snow with its sensation of total silence, total isolation, the frenetic running with little boots sinking in the white cover. He had missed autumn. He had missed the seasons replaced by either heat or cold with no weather or distinguishing features. The ride must have taken a good three hours. On the highway, cars passed them. Some racing in the opposite direction were distant, separated by trees, grassy knolls. When closer, they were separated by heavy metal ribbons forming a low lying fence which would suddenly disappear from view as fast as it had appeared. Other cars overtaking them would stay on their left for a few seconds. Jack was surprised at the variety of colors. Red, blue and green. Many were square and had the looks of trucks, others were pickup trucks. The highway cut through rocks. Some smooth and sheer bore fresh perpendicular lines, Jack imagined were from drill holes to dynamite the side of the mountain, one slice at a time. Other rocks were weather beaten and crumbly like the sides of an untouched mountain. Perhaps the hand of man had cut through them years before and nature had worn them with the passage of time. Jack was surprised to see some of the rocky walls enclosed in fine metal chain link wire. Fine lacy filigree containing the ruggedness of nature. The foliage in the trees along the highway or the heavily forested hills and mountains was beginning to turn from green to deep red and pale yellow, the darker evergreens providing a sharp contrast. Sometimes the burst of color resembled flowers.
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About the Book
After seven years in the penitentiary for a rape conviction, Jack is released on the basis of a DNA test. In jail, Jojo, a seasoned con, had taken the rap for a fracas in which Jack, who had some half forgotten training in martial arts, had seriously hurt an ex-wrestler that was taunting him. In exchange, Jack has committed himself to taking care of Jojo’s half sister, Judy, and Jojo’s two boys after his release. Judy had to quit college to take care of the two children and is financially strapped.
Jack feels that he is being stalked by a man, somebody sinister, who reminds him of his experiences in the penitentiary. In his mind he calls him Iceman. He is also haunted by the accusation of rape, and would like to find the true culprit. The suspense story is about the interaction of Jack, Judy, and the two boys while other events unfold.
About the Author
Henry Tedeschi has a background in science. A graduate of the University of Chicago, he has taught at the University of Chicago, the University of Illinois Medical Center (Chicago), and the State University of New York at Albany. He has written numerous technical articles, several book chapters, a monograph, and a textbook in Cell Biology. Born in Italy, he was sent to boarding school in Switzerland when Mussolini’s racial laws prevented him from attending school in Italy. He spent several formative years in Argentina. At age 17, he immigrated to the U.S. to attend college at the University of Pittsburgh. He has written fiction and poetry all his life, for a limited audience of two or three bewildered readers. He abandoned his first project, a novel, at age six or seven, because he decided he lacked experience, a sensation that still haunts him. He enjoys writing, particularly short stories. He finds writing fiction revealing. It opens a window into observed details of human behavior, times and places that are otherwise ignored. His simple, no-nonsense style was probably influenced by his scientific writing.