Like so many writers, I have a predilection toward self-destruction.

No, that doesn’t mean I’m suicidal. It means I drink too much, smoke, don’t exercise, overeat, and often forget to take those little yellow pills that are supposed to keep my heart pumping regularly and those little white pills that pharmacologically and miraculously keep my blood pressure low enough to stave off whatever impending stroke or heart attack might otherwise have my name on it. At seventy-eight my sudden death would not surprise me nor anyone else in the least. I figure if I’m going to go, I’d rather have a shorter good time than a longer dull time. Pass the bourbon, please.

I live by myself in a house with a name. I bought it after my fourth novel was made into a movie. It seemed like something a famous author might do.

The Harlington House is one of many fine old homes in the Maple Ridge section of Tulsa, having been duly christened with a name upon its early twentieth century construction. Pretention was of paramount concern in those heady pre-Depression years, and naming buildings was as pretentious as it gets. When Maple Ridge, Tulsa’s first subdivision, emerged from the wealth being extracted from beneath Oklahoma’s oil rich soil, homeowners strained themselves to outdo each other, making the section of the city block after block of splendid, art deco-inspired homes standing side by side with lavish Victorian manors. Having the honor of being the first subdivision in Tulsa is now one of the lesser features of Maple Ridge, falling well behind its prime location, its stunning architecture, its meticulously manicured yards and gardens, and the rather snobbish appeal of being able to say you’re from Maple Ridge.

Tulsa, Oklahoma is famous for at least two things: oil and Native-Americans. Harlington House embodies both. The Harlington House was built in 1924 with oil money, its original owner being one of the managers of the Skelly Oil Company.

The house possesses none of the art deco elements that seemed to dominate everything about Tulsa from its churches to its downtown skyscrapers, to dozens and dozens of beautiful homes just east and south of downtown.

Harlington House’s architecture, on the other hand, is a fine example of the Spanish Colonial style with its stucco exterior, red terra cotta roof, and gracefully arched windows. Somehow this house, with its unlikely and uncharacteristic style, managed to be built in a period when art deco was turning the whole city into an angular mecca with enough zigzags and chevrons to make one pine for an arch or a curve or anything not abrupt and geometric.

I was drawn to Harlington House, not so much because of its architecture, fine though it was, but for the sheer fact that it was different. Its asymmetrical exterior sits in contrast to a dozen perfectly symmetrical art deco-inspired mansions within easy walking distance of my oddly different home. It is as out of place in the neighborhood as a saloon in the nave of Holy Family Cathedral. But come to think of it, the house has sort of blended into the fabric of the neighborhood during its century of sitting side-by-side with all that art deco and Victorian stuff. And I suspect the same would happen had a saloon appeared at Holy Family Cathedral.

Harlington House’s connection with the Native-American heritage is its current owner. I am one-half Osage, my mother being full-blooded. My father, much to the disappointment of my mother’s father, was a White man. My Osage grandfather insisted my name be Wah-Tse, brave one. My parents settled on Michael. I’m grateful. Somehow the name Michael Maddox looks better on the cover of a detective mystery novel than Wah-Tse Maddox.

It’s likely to my disadvantage that after decades of downing several strong bourbons every evening my system evolved to the point where it could easily metabolize a large quantity of the stuff without delivering the negative effects the following day. Hangovers used to regulate my alcohol intake. I guess my system decided it was a losing battle and stopped delivering morning headaches and stomachaches.

Smoking is limited to the occasional cigar on the patio. Rex and Daisy, my two faithful Doberman Pinchers, don’t like the smoke and rudely sulk away whenever I light up. So, I have limited my cigar indulgence significantly. Honestly, I’d rather have the company of Rex and Daisy than puff on an overpriced cigar that may or may not have originated from that small island south of the United States we can’t decide if we like or not. It seems that after three centuries of waffling between liking them, loathing them, alienating them, currying favor with them, ignoring them, and in general expressing the most chaotic and undisciplined foreign policy imaginable we could formulate a semblance of a consistent relationship with a country less than one-hundred miles from our coast. Never underestimate our government’s incompetence.

After twenty-two Marion Murray mystery novels, you’d think the public would have grown tired of this mythical detective who, with amazing insights and keen observations, solves vexing crimes that stump the most adroit police departments. After the twelfth novel in the series, I decided it didn’t matter what I wrote, the public would faithfully buy it, so I wrote the next ten using a pat formula. I became a mill, churning out novel after novel with wild and often hole-ridden, unbelievably convoluted plots, novels that flew off the shelves for four to six months before drifting into literary obscurity. It’s a gift, I suppose, being able to fabricate those complex plots. It didn’t matter. I had made tens of thousands off each one of those old Marion Murray boilerplates.

Those novels’ success and my resulting financial security notwithstanding, I have, in my older age, tried to maintain something of a regular schedule, a predictable routine, hoping to avoid aimlessness and the depression that often accompanies idleness. I wake up quite early, often before six. I write from whenever I get up until sometime midmorning. Then by midday there’s a quiet and short stroll to Martha’s Pantry, a quaint little bodega three blocks from my house. The Pantry’s small dining area accommodates only a dozen or so patrons and is frequently so full that patrons spill out onto the patio. Beyond that point there is inevitably a queue. But that doesn’t matter to me. I have my own single table in the back corner reserved for the famous author of all those Marion Murray novels. I’ve been going there since the day Martha’s Pantry opened nine years ago. I’ve earned my spot. And, yes, I still sign books there frequently. My niece, well, technically great-niece, Evelyn, tells me I should socialize more. I count book signing as sufficient socializing for any given day.

Sometime between my afternoon nap and my first appointment with my old friend, Jack Daniels, I manage to spend an hour or two writing something that has nothing whatsoever to do with a well-known detective and convoluted plots. For the last three years I have struggled to write an honest, straightforward, and factual record of the horrible way the Osage people had been mistreated during the Reign of Terror in the 1920’s. To say I’m struggling isn’t quite the truth. The whole project has stalled, its author having fallen victim to a vicious bout of writer’s block.

The Osage people, having been driven from their original land in the Ohio River Valley, were forced resettle in the then Indian Territory of Oklahoma. Unlike all other indigenous nations, the Osage leaders negotiated with the US government to buy their land, and when oil spurted out of that land, the Osage were the sole beneficiary of that largess making them quite wealthy almost immediately. A group of White men, figuring they could outsmart the primitive, simple Native Americans, attempted to wrest land away from the Osage or at least swindle from them the mineral rights of that land. Discovering the Natives were far more sophisticated and intelligent than they thought, the White men resorted to theft, extortion, violence, and ultimately murder to gain rights to the oil-rich land owned by the Osage Nation.

It’s easier to give the synopsis than write the book, I soon discovered.

My afternoons are frequently frustrating, being filled with sessions furiously writing, then spending only seconds deleting everything I had written. But at least I make myself stick to my schedule.

Sleeping is the least compliant with my valiant efforts to maintain something that resembles a schedule. After all, I can schedule my bedtime rigorously, but at my age, I most certainly cannot dictate when sleep decides to make its mercurial appearance. So, it was not especially odd that I was sitting in my recliner in my study well past midnight. I had gone to bed quite early and had taken what amounted to a teasing little nap, falling asleep easily but waking an hour and a half later. I decided to get out of bed rather than try to coax my recalcitrant body back to sleep. It hardly seemed worth the effort. As I sat in complete darkness in my study with Rex and Daisy at my feet dozing occasionally, I heard movement coming from the sunroom in the back of the house. I thought it odd that neither Daisy nor Rex made even a slight whimper. Maybe I was just imagining things. If anything were amiss, the dogs would have sensed it long before me and would have alerted me. I waited in the darkness, straining to detect any more unusual sounds. Even though I heard none, I knew I would not be satisfied and sleep impossible until I’d checked the sunroom. As soon as I stood both Daisy and Rex looked at me for only a second and sprang up awaiting my command. They are incredibly disciplined dogs.

There was silence, stillness, darkness. I was reasonably confident there was nothing wrong. After all, I heard no further noises. Nonetheless, I walked toward the sunroom with Daisy and Rex at my heel. Through the pale, anemic light that crept into the sunroom from the outside streetlamp, I could see the shadow of a man standing just inside the doorway, perfectly still, oddly so. The intruder may have succeeded in making his way inside my house somehow, but once inside he was at a distinct disadvantage as he stood in the darkened room. He’d not yet had the privilege of meeting Rex and Daisy.

“Wait,” he demanded. “If you sic those dogs on me, I’ll kill you and them,” he said while waving some kind of weapon around dramatically. You’d think that after writing all those novels I’d be able to identify the type of pistol it was, but I’m not much of a gun enthusiast, it was quite dark, and I was a bit rattled, so I assumed it was real and reasonably lethal.

“Well, it looks like we might have found ourselves at a bit of an impasse,” I said remarkably calmly. “First of all, I frankly don’t give a damn if you shoot me or not. I’m an old man, lived a good life, and tonight’s as good a night as any. On the other hand, Rex and Daisy will kill you before you can get off a second round. They’re highly trained to kill. If you shot me, they’ll both attack. You kill one of them, the other will attack. If you hesitate, I’ll give them the command and you’ll be dead in seconds. Or perhaps I give them the command to pin you. Either way it’ll happen before you can muster a thought. Your call. Interesting situation. Don’t you agree?”

The intruder simply stood there silently, motionless.

“First tell me, how did you get in without Daisy or Rex hearing you? And how did you get in without breaking a window or door or anything? Why are you here? What do you want?”

“You.”

Quite uncharacteristically, sunlight awakened me the following morning. I glanced at the clock. It was seven-thirty. Rex and Daisy raced in before my feet found the rug on the floor.

“You guys must be starving,” I said to the pair. “I’ve somehow managed to sleep well past your breakfast time. I’m sorry, guys. Let’s go eat.”

Despite their eagerness, the dogs remained at my heel as I walked down the stairs. Midway down, the staircase, my groggy brain finally began recalling the events of last night. The intruder, the dogs’ strange inaction, talking about an impasse. I couldn’t remember anything beyond that confrontation. I assumed the intruder had left. Not that I blame him. If Rex and Daisy threatened me, I’d want to leave, too. Only I didn’t remember giving the command to stand down, or any command for that matter. And how did I get myself to bed?

I padded through the den, passed through the dining room, and into the kitchen with Rex and Daisy at my heel. As I pulled the oversized bag of dog food from the pantry, the pair sat completely motionless at their bowls. Neither dog twitched or whined or even turned their heads toward their bowls as I filled both. When I commanded, “break!”, the two put their heads down and devoured the food.

Feeding time is one of the only rituals of my day that is truly routine. After eating, the dogs are allowed in the back yard for release time—their own little private time to frolic, chase squirrels and rabbits, run freely, and, of course, poop.

After letting the dogs out, I pulled the bag of coffee beans from the cabinet, ground them to a texture resembling that of sugar, filled the basket of the coffeemaker, and waited for that magnificent first cup of the day. As the machine whirred and whistled, I realized that I had no idea what the intruder might have done or taken if, instead of leaving, he stayed. If I passed out, he could have taken anything, done anything. I decided a thorough inspection of the house was in order.

Carrying the steaming cup of coffee through the house, I found nothing missing, nothing damaged. I walked into the sunroom attempting to discover how the man got in. Maybe I’d forgotten to lock the door. Maybe a window was left unlatched. Instead, I found the door locked; the windows secured.

Did I dream it all? Did I hallucinate? Did I sustain one of those TIA’s they keep warning me about? Well, that one’s a distinct possibility given my lack of attention to matters of my health. In fact, my great-niece warned me of such cerebral accidents, encouraging me to drink less alcohol, lay off the cigars, and walk more. I didn’t follow her advice.

After a visit with my doctor, I took the preemptive move of calling my great-niece. Her Sunday afternoon visits are as likely as the wind in Oklahoma. You know it’s coming, even if you don’t know exactly when.

“Hey, Evelyn, you planning on coming by Sunday?”

“Of course. You know I do every Sunday.”

“I’d like to buy you brunch this week. We need to talk.”

“Hmm. Sure.”

“Great. Meet me at Soma at 10:30.”

Soma sits atop a renovated hotel on the edge of downtown Tulsa. From the trendy restaurant’s rooftop perch, diners can look down on the big bend in the winding Arkansas River. To the north, downtown Tulsa’s small, but impressive skyline juts upward punctuated by a handful of towering skyscrapers. Tulsa’s sprawling suburbs are clearly visible from Soma’s large and spacious south-facing patio. If that’s not enough, the food at Soma is nothing short of excellent.

“The results of the scans came back,” I said to Evelyn as we savored delightfully spicy Bloody Marys. “The doctor said the results were negative. I didn’t have a TIA or stroke.”

“Did he have any insights as to what happened that night?”

“Yeah. He said that maybe something happened during the confrontation that triggered an extreme stress response. He said memory suppression can be more pronounced with older people. Then he reminded me I was getting older, as if that was somehow news to me.”

“Maybe. But, like you told me, you’re not afraid of dying. If being threatened with a gun didn’t trigger this suppression thing, I can’t think of what might have.”

“Well, let me be quite honest with you. I lied about that. It’s like I told my doctor. I was actually scared shitless. It was a gamble on my part—that he was bluffing. I’m no more ready to die than you are. So maybe there’s something to the stress suppression thing. What bothers me is not remembering to give the command for Rex and Daisy to stand down, but I had to have.”

“And why didn’t they alert you when the intruder got in?” Evelyn added. “You know how sensitive they are. How did those two not sense something?”

“And another thing”, I added. “How the hell did he get in. There was no evidence of a forced entry.

“I know this sounds rather patronizing, but could it have been a really vivid dream?”

“No. I’m sure whatever happened that night, it was real.”

“Well, whatever happened I think you should start using that security system.”

“Yeah, I know, I know. I hate it. I’m forever opening the door after I’ve armed the house, the alarm goes off, I get a call from the company, and I have to try to remember the code word. But you’re right. I gotta start setting the alarm.”

“Good for you. Maybe chose a code word you can remember.”

After two Bloody Marys, avocado toast, and a stroll around Soma’s patio, I felt maybe a Sunday afternoon nap might be an appropriate way to spend an hour or so. Evelyn volunteered to take me home just as I was pulling out my phone to arrange for a ride.

I seldom use the front door, preferring instead, the rear entrance where a modest porte-cochère had been added after the house’s original construction. A second driveway had been laid giving drivers a drive-through option. Evelyn always uses it.

Beginning to feel the results of my rich brunch, I opened one of the kitchen cabinets where I keep those little pills that prevent severe heartburn and worse, acid-reflux—maladies old-age has inflicted on my system. The possibility of either or both were nearly guaranteed.

I retrieved the large container of those magic pills that somehow keep my digestive system from rebelling. As I was filling a glass to take the medicine, I noticed it. The butcher knife was missing from its slot in the knife block. I checked the drawers, the cabinets, and even the dishwasher. It was nowhere.

Feeling a bit uneasy, I set the security alarm before settling into my recliner. Though I had every intention of considering the matter, I fell asleep almost immediately.

Rex and Daisy’s two loud barks pulled me out of that blissful afternoon siesta.

“What’s up, guys?” I asked as if they could answer.

Seconds later the doorbell sounded. I walked to the front door, Rex and Daisy at my heel.

Two gentlemen stood in the doorway, one near my age, one considerably younger. I recognized the older man almost immediately. The younger one spoke.

“You came up to the hills several months ago looking for my grandfather. You were working on a book about the Osage and wanted to interview him,” he said.

“And your grandfather refused in no uncertain terms,” I quickly added.

“I didn’t realize then that you are Osage,” the old man picked up. “I feared you would be just another writer who would dishonor our culture, misrepresent our heritage, and distort the truth. You left me your card, and I tossed it on my kitchen counter and forgot about it.”

“I came in a couple days later,” the young man eagerly jumped in. “When I saw your name, Michael Maddox, on the card, I asked my grandfather how he got the card—where it came from.”

“So, I told him that you came by to see me,” the older man explained.

“I couldn’t believe you were at my grandfather’s house. You see, I’m a big fan of your books, Mr. Maddox,” the young man said nearly breathlessly.

“I remembered something I read at the end of Painted Pottery. Something about a connection you had with the Osage. So, after a quick internet search, I found your website. I glanced through the titles of your books hoping I could find whatever tie you had with the Osage people. When I got to Painted Pottery, I saw that little asterisk. My eye jumped down to see what the star referred to.”

“And you found out I’m Osage, and that I have an Osage name, sort of,” I said.

“Before that, neither my grandfather nor I knew you were Osage,” the young man explained.

“Yeah. Thought it might help sales.”

“Like you need any help,” said the young man.

“I did in those days,” I quietly admitted.

“Anyway, that’s how I found out you were Osage, and that’s the way I found out your Osage name is Wah-Tse.”

“That’s the name my grandfather wanted me to have, but my parents chose Michael instead,” I explained.

“When I told my grandfather about this, he insisted we find you and talk with you.”

“Now we can talk. You can ask me anything. I’ll tell you what I know,” the old man said.

“Terrific, wonderful. Do come in. Can I get you something to drink—water, tea, soft drink, bourbon?”

“No. I’m here to tell you the stories of the Osage people, not to be entertained.”

“Is it okay if I record this?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, let’s start by giving me your name,” I said after starting the recorder.

“My Osage name is Ta-wah-hi, but I go by Tanga. Tanga Whitehorn. My grandson, here, is Clark. He is also a Whitehorn. He is the son of my son.”

For almost an hour the man wove personal stories from his youth and stories his father had handed down to him—detailed and personal accounts of this dark time in his family’s history. These stories, beyond casual memories, were family heirlooms carefully passed from generation to generation. Often, we Westerners minimize that oral tradition thinking it unreliable and prone to faulty memories. But in a tradition where oral history is diligently practiced, the recollections are surprisingly accurate and their details vivid and true. I had little doubt that Tanga’s narrative was as accurate as it was poignant.

Finally, the old man breathed heavily and for the first time allowed himself to sink back into his chair.

“Now let me tell you about good times,” Tanga said after he’d rested and reflected.

For the next thirty minutes, I sat memorized as Tanga told story after story of the people from his childhood, the elders, his peers, his friends, siblings. There was a difference in his tone, a shift from dramatic elder statesman to playful youth. When he talked about those early memories, there was warmth, humanity, gentleness, and humor. His was an oral tradition rich in vivid detail and replete with a passion that shone through his dark brown eyes as he recounted hours in the forest learning to hunt and fish with his friends and his brothers.

“I hope I’ve helped you. I’d like to visit again. You and I don’t have a lot of time left.”

“It would be an honor.”

Clark, Tanga’s grandson, assisted his grandfather as he struggled to rise from the chair and as he walked slowly and tentatively toward the door. He never rushed Tanga, never grew frustrated. He allowed Tanga to move independently as much as possible, but always right behind him if he faltered. There was a nearly reverential aura of respect that Clark afforded Tanga, a humility to acknowledge his grandfather’s wisdom and the place of honor Tanga held.

As the pair stood at the doorway, Tanga looked at me for a silent second, tilted his head back allowing his thick grey hair to fall from his broad shoulders down his back, and spoke. “Doná dan. Ha-kon.”

I smiled at him as I recognized the words he spoke. Those are the only words in the Osage Siouan language my mother ever spoke, and she spoke them often. I suspect I shocked Tanga when I looked squarely at him and said, “Until we meet again. Be strong.”

Tanga’s face broke into a gentle smile as he nodded.

Walking back to my study, I was hoping something about that compelling interview would spark some kind of literary inspiration in my otherwise uninspired drivel I’d written so far. I was grateful for Tanga’s interview but worried I would be unable to adequately convey his deep-felt stories into a historical account. His was not simply a collection of stories, recollections; the ramblings of an old man, but an intensely personal window into the lives of those whose lives were forever changed by this period. It was an intimate look into the agony inflicted on his people. His father and grandfather had been directly and personally affected by the White man’s egregious violation of human decency, and those raw emotions were palpable in Tanga’s narration. Yet transferring those emotions to the page proved vexing.

I sat at my desk staring blankly at my computer. Reluctantly, I opened the file named “Osage History” and started reading what I had already written. It was terrible, dull and lifeless.

A thought popped into my aging cranial area. How would younger Michael Maddox have approached this, back when he was fresh and vibrant? I know it seemed far-fetched, a long shot, Hail, Mary kind of thing. I opened the bottom drawer of my desk and stared at a blank legal pad. Legal pads. Early, before technology dominated our lives, I wrote everything in long-hand on legal pads—research, sketches, outlines, plots, everything. Maybe using a legal pad, writing out thoughts and ideas in long-hand like I used to do the old days, might rekindle something lost to age and success.

As soon as my hand found the pad and my fingers wrapped around my pen a kind of muscle-memory kicked in, But it wasn’t muscle, it was mental. Feeling the pad on my lap, the pen in my hand, I was oddly comforted, and the words began spilling out.

Becoming completely immersed and engrossed in putting all those thoughts on paper, I had forgotten to tend to Rex and Daisy. They needed to go out and were well past their food time. Daisy reminded me of this by gently nudging my arm. As I fed the pair and watched them eating eagerly, I continued jotting things down on my legal pad. Even though I had the words recorded; it was the pathos I was trying to capture in that moment when my memory was sharpest.

Once the dogs finished eating, I opened the door, and the pair bound out romping and frolicking in the back yard. I grabbed a quick sandwich, downed a hastily made bourbon and coke, called the dogs back in, and returned to my study carrying my second, more carefully made drink.

Well past midnight I finally stopped working, called for the dogs, and headed upstairs for bed. They are not allowed to sleep inside my room. They have their places in the hall. It seems to some cruel and heartless. To Daisy and Rex, it is comforting knowing their limits, to be able to trust me as their surrogate alpha. Dogs aren’t humans, and they don’t think or act like humans. Dogs need to know their boundaries, and they long to know what’s expected of them. Their instinct is to do what is expected of them. First, of course, they have to be taught what that is.

For the first time in years, I awoke the following morning excited to continue working on a project. I hadn’t felt this enthusiastic about writing since Painted Pottery over thirty years ago. It was a shot of adrenaline, a drive that belongs to much younger people, a fire in the soul. In my old age the fires of my life have slowly become smoldering embers, fragile, faint, yet still glowing even if only slightly. This rekindled fire was euphoric.

Following the morning routine of feeding, sending the dogs outside, and brewing coffee, my eyes fell again on the empty slot where the missing butcher knife should have been. Maybe Evelyn had borrowed it; maybe I mindlessly laid it somewhere. I’ve done that with keys multiple times. Another signpost on my journey towards senility, I suppose.

Lost in thought, I was startled when Rex and Daisy barked loudly, insistently. They’d been outside only minutes. Having been trained to sit at the back door until I opened it for them, I knew something had triggered this unusual response. They don’t bark to get in; they wait. As I made my way to the back door their barking grew more insistent, and when I opened the door, the pair rushed to the stairs leading down to the basement.

Basements in Tulsa serve more for storm shelter than for storage or as a living space or anything else, really. When these houses were built a century ago, those devastatingly destructive forces of nature, those huge house-destroying tornadoes, were notoriously impossible to predict. There were no neighborhood sirens, no weather reporters excitedly chattering about what category the twister was and how much damage was predicted. There was no doppler technology, no computerized assistance, just your keen eye and your gut. And when you sensed that atmospheric eeriness, that sudden change in air pressure, and saw that wall cloud approaching, you took yourself and your family to the basement.

But the truth be told, I’ve lived here now for two decades, and I’ve never gone down to the basement when I’m supposed to. When the tornado sirens blare, I go outside to witness nature’s fury. If I were hunkered down in a dark basement, how could I watch the storm’s dramatic show, after all? And as of today, I’ve yet to be sucked up into any sort of version of Munchkin Land.

Currently my basement is a kind of storehouse for my books. With almost every novel, I would wind up with a box or two of books the publishers had provided for promotions and such. I have never given away a single book except one copy of each novel to Evelyn and one copy to my mother before she died in 2000.

I led the dogs, reluctant though they were, down the dark stairs to the basement. In the early twentieth century the original owners had taken advantage of Tulsa’s recent electrification by seeking out the most elegant lighting fixtures of the day. Three are Tiffanys brought from New York to Tulsa by the then lady of the house. Chandeliers still shimmer and spark brilliantly throughout the house, that is, if I bothered turning them on, which I seldom do. But the lighting in the basement, being basic and utilitarian, is dim and inadequate making the basement stairs poorly illuminated and dangerous. Since I’m an old man and the dogs don’t like the basement, all three of us descended slowly, most certainly parodying a scene from a goofy mystery-comedy movie as the characters creep down a mysterious stairway. Despite my otherwise cavalier attitude in other areas, I am almost obsessed with a fear of falling. I held tightly to the spartan handrail. As soon as we reached the last step, the dogs dropped their heads down, their noses at the floor, trying to pick up a scent. They simply darted around sniffing every inch of the basement but found no scent. As they searched and sniffed, I moved over to the only decorative bookcase in the basement, the bookshelf that holds single copies of each of my books. More industrial style, larger shelves hold the boxes of extra books.

Daisy and Rex raced over to my side and sat still in front of the bookshelf next to me. I saw it, a gap in the line of novels. A gap where my copy of Painted Pottery should have been. The book was missing. The missing butcher knife had been thrust into the wood of the bookshelf.

Considering my thoughts on storms and basements earlier in the day, it was bizarrely ironic that a vicious, tornado-spawning late afternoon storm erupted with brilliant flashes of blinding bolts of lightning followed nearly immediately with deafening booms of thunder powerful enough to rattle the windows. Daisy and Rex, like most dogs, are ill-at-ease with loud sounds. I called for them to come into my study.

While such dramatic frightening weather events can scare the beejeebers out of everyone else, Oklahomans shrug slightly and go about their business. The piercing cry of the city’s tornado alarm system didn’t faze me, but the blinding blast of lightning that seemed to hit directly in my front yard did. After the deafening ensuing thunder, I became aware I was in nearly total darkness.

“Shit,” I said quite aloud. “We’ve lost electricity.”

I sat at my desk for several minutes hoping the power would be restored quickly but knowing from experience such would be unlikely.

“Thank goodness for auto-save,” I thought as I felt my way in the darkness to my recliner. “Even if it were only so-so, I didn’t want to lose my work,” I continued my inner dialogue. With Daisy on one side and Rex the other I nodded off.

At one-thirty in the morning I was awakened by sudden brightness as the lights burst on after the power had been restored. My computer whirred as it rebooted. With great effort, I lifted my body, heavy and sluggish from sleep, from my recliner. I mindlessly turned the computer off and walked out of the study flipping the light switches as I left. I had barely lain across my bed when I fell into an uncharacteristically deep sleep.

Daisy and Rex roused me the following morning quite perturbed that I’d not fed them, let them out, nor lavished at least some affection on them. I jerked around to see my bedside clock. I knew by the sunshine’s insistent and slightly annoying brilliance that it was much later than I typically get up. The numbers on the clock were blinking rhythmically. Of course, the clock was thrown off by the power outage last night. I found my phone still nestled in my pants pocket, pulled it out, tapped the screen. It was already 8:30.

Hastily I took the dogs downstairs, put out their food, watched as they ate, then let them out. I made a carafe of strong coffee and poured the dark liquid into my mug. There’s something about that swooshing sound as the dark liquid fills the cup. It can be so satisfying—that sound of coffee being poured in an awaiting mug. Caffeine is still, after all, a drug, and when the addict knows the fix is coming, the body’s endorphins release as we anticipate the drug’s effects.

I carried the mug into my study, settled into my chair, and switched the computer on. Seconds later the computer gently requested my password. Once the computer screen opened, I scanned the desktop screen for the two significant documents: the transcription of Tanga’s interview and the rough draft of what I’d written so far.

Tanga’s whole interview’s audio file had been uploaded to my computer. Months ago, when I realized I’d be interviewing potential sources for my book, Evelyn wisely suggested an Artificial Intelligence program designed to transcribe voice recordings to printed form.

As I watched the little indicator hypnotically sweeping by indicating the progress of the audio file being magically transcribed, I marveled that the whole business would take only minutes instead of hours. Agonizing hours of listening to a little, typing that in, listening a little, typing it in, and so on until you either go stark raving mad or resign yourself to the laborious and tedious task phrase by phrase. Buck Rogers, I considered. My father talked about the radio show from the forties about the detective solving mysteries in the year 2518. Rogers would use all manner of futuristic gadgets. My dad would most certainly call this marvel before me a Buck Rogers kind of thing.

Once the transfer was complete and the document saved, I double-clicked the file I’d called “Osage History”, the sections of the book I’d already started. I stared at the message:

This file is empty.

I briefly panicked. I’d lost everything I’d already written. Did the power outage or the ensuing surge destroy the file? How? I sat fuming and frustrated wanting to take a hammer to the computer. But somewhere between my panic and the total destruction of my computer I remembered that Evelyn insisted I get into the habit of backing up everything onto a flash drive. Only a couple of pages written recently would be lost to the vast universe of cyberspace. Finding the drive in its secure place in a drawer of my desk, I inserted the safety net into the port. After a few long seconds I saw the message: There is a problem with this file. Scan the drive now and fix it. I clicked on the message box and the computer started doing some esoteric, digital voodoo on the wayward drive. It warned me it might take a while.

I had the irresistible urge to be away from all things technical, so I grabbed my coffee cup and headed to the two things that can always restore my soul, Rex and Daisy. Expecting to see the pair frolicking around I was surprised to see them sitting perfectly still, their backs to the house. But the truly shocking sight was the little girl sitting between the dogs.

Hearing the back door open, the dogs both turned around and came to my side. The little girl sat still without turning around, without moving. I’m not especially good with children, having never had any of my own, but I knew this child was too young to be out unsupervised. That she was on my property only added to my concern. I slowly walked to her, not wanting to frighten the child. When I was about halfway to her, I called, “yoo-hoo”.

The girl turned and without standing replied, “Hello. How are you today?”

“I’m fine. Where are your parents? You’re not alone, are you?”

“Oh, no, sir. My mommy and daddy are right over there looking at that house. They want to buy it. I sure hope they do.”

By this time, I had closed the gap between us and was standing over the girl. I decided to sit next to her, feeling that hovering over her would be a bit intimidating.

“Are you Michael Maddox, the famous writer?” the little girl asked.

I laughed gently.

“I am. Not sure about the famous part, though.”

“Well, my mommy’s excited that we might be living in the same neighborhood as Michael Maddox. She loves your books.”

“Well, I’m flattered.” After a moment of silence I said, “I doubt you’ve read any of them, have you?.”

“Oh, but I have. Mommy let me read Painted Pottery because it’s all about Native Americans. I didn’t understand some of it, but I liked it anyway.”

“You’re probably not alone in not understanding some of it.”

“My mommy says that she hates it when she finishes one of your novels. She said your stories are so good she doesn’t want them to end. She says she feels like she knows the people in your books personally. You know, like they’re real and they’re her friends.”

“That’s probably the best compliment I’ve ever received.”

“Well, I need to get back to my folks. They’ll be worried.”

“I’m sure they will be. Run along, now. It was a pleasure talking to you. I hope we do become backdoor neighbors.”

“Me, too. Doná dan. Ha-kon.”

“Are you Osage?”

“I’ve got to go. I hope to see you soon. Good luck on your book.”

“What? How did you know . . .”

“I hope it’s a good story and lots of interesting people so my mommy will like it.”

I sat there watching the little girl skipping away playfully. She turned slightly and waved goodbye. I returned the gesture and watched as she was nearing the house her parents were viewing.

Feeling I’d done due diligence with the child, I turned and began walking back to my house. With each step, I mulled over my curious little conversation with that delightful little girl. She looked vaguely familiar. Because I know few children, it seemed unlikely I’d have seen her before, but there was something about her.

Seeing Daisy and Rex romping about like puppies, I decided to let them stay out a while longer.

As soon as I walked into my study, I saw the book lying in my chair. Somehow someone had lain the errant copy of Painted Pottery there knowing I’d see it. Having a tendency toward tidiness and order, well, depending on whom you ask I may or may not be more than a tendency—at any rate, nothing seemed as important to me as returning the book to its rightful place, filling that annoying gap in the set of my books that seemed to be screaming to be made complete again.

As I tentatively and carefully descended the shadowy basement stairs, I once again cursed the inferior lighting. Perhaps, I thought, it would be better to install better lighting than to curse the darkness. Maybe. Reaching the bottom tread, I sighed slightly, grateful to have made it down without so much as a small falter. Maybe I don’t need to redo the lighting after all. Standing there in front of the special bookcase, I noticed something quite odd. The shelf where the book rests showed no sign whatsoever of having been cleaved by the butcher knife. The wood was smooth and even. I replaced the book slowly and silently wondered if I was indeed slipping mentally.

I walked upstairs slowly, revisiting the whole lighting issue. I’ll call someone next week. Maybe. It was clearly time for my second—or was it third—cup of coffee. Mindlessly, my eyes were fixed on the floor, my mind flitting from lighting, to writing, to the vexing shelf. When I finally looked up, I instinctively jerked backward, startled to see him sitting at the breakfast table, all cool and dispassionate.

“What the hell are you doing here again,” I asked the man I easily recognized as the intruder from days ago.

“The butcher knife is back where it belongs,” he said calmly, coolly.

I jerked my head around to see the knife safely secure in its place.

“And,” he continued in that same calm tone, “I hope you like the way I repaired the wood. Easy fix, really. When I put the knife in, I had that in mind. I’d hate to mess up your place.”

“And how did you get in?” I shot at him. “The dogs would have. . .”

“Michael, you let me in.”

“What? I did no such thing!”

“You let me in. But that was years ago. Years. I figured your invitation still held. But now it seems you’ve forgotten me. I guess it’s the curse of old age. It happens, and, honestly, I do understand. Back in those days we were pretty tight, you and me. But then without so much as a goodbye you shut me out. I guess after a while you forgot me. I needed to get your attention somehow.”

“So, you broke into my house?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“But I’ve never met you in my life,” I quickly countered.

“That’s not entirely true. It is true we’ve never been formally introduced,” he cryptically said.

“I have to admit it,” I said studying the man. “There’s something about you. I can’t put my finger on it,” I said racking my aging memory trying to recall the man. His vague familiarity gnawed at me as I tried desperately to remember where I’d seen him and how I knew him.

“I’m an old man,” I continued. “You’re young. You’ll have to help me out here. How do I know you?”

“Do you remember using all those legal pads?”

“What? Is that supposed to help?”

“When you get a chance, look at those old legal pads. Might jog your memory.”

“Or, here’s a novel concept, you could just tell me.”

“Just humor me, okay?” he said in an oddly familiar way. “Maybe start in your study. Maybe something there will help.”

“I guess it’s worth a try,” I acquiesced. “Stranger things have happened.”

But there was no epiphany. I leaned heavily on my desk hoping to find a shred of a memory of this man. I wheeled around to challenge him, but the man was not there. I walked back to the kitchen. He was not there. I checked every room on the first floor but found no evidence of the man. Damn, how could I have been so stupid? The whole business of going to my study was a distraction, a diversion giving him opportunity to do God knows what. I raced to the back door and called for the dogs. Rex and Daisy rushed in.

“Search!” I ordered.

The dogs dropped their heads down and began sniffing for the scent. In only a couple of minutes they’d returned to my side, signaling that they’d found nothing. We went upstairs. The results were the same. Apparently, he had just vanished, or more precisely, it was as though he was never there.

I plopped down on the recliner and entertained the very definite possibility that something was going on in my head—stroke, hallucinations, senility, dementia. I tried to push the word away but there was no effort sufficient to stem that word’s insistent power. Do I have Alzheimer’s? I was confused, exhausted, defeated, and quite concerned that instead of that massive heart attack or stroke where I’d die suddenly, I might be facing the long, slow, and pitiful decline. An agonizing death of self and mind before the body gives up. A loss of self before the actual loss of life.

No, I shouted internally. Whatever was going on, my mind was still keen enough to keep working. I would not stop writing despite whatever was going on in my aged head. It had not yet robbed my mind of its facility. I certainly knew then that my time was limited. Whatever life-clock there is, mine was ticking quickly to the final alarm. I was determined to finish that damn book, one way or the other.

I sat at my desk in my study looking at my patiently waiting computer, luring me with its technological siren’s call, tempting me with its endless ability to think, even its AI generated skill in writing, almost as if it were human, almost as good as me. AI is a brave new world, indeed. Huxley would not be surprised, I thought.

“Look at me,” the device seemed to tease. “I transcribed a two-hour interview in minutes. I can do things for you that you, a mere human, cannot. Before you can formulate the question, I have the answer. Give me the context, and I’ll write a story.”

“Bullshit,” I said quite aloud hoping the computer might be offended. It wasn’t.

Fueled by years of a kind of building resentment I continued my verbal assault on the computer. “I was writing novels when the most exciting thing you could devise was a mindless, pointless game called “Pong”. I remember when you ran on floppy discs and had only a miniscule memory. I was a writer of compelling stories when you considered “The Oregon Trail” sophisticated. Where were you in those days? I had my dependable legal pads back then. They weren’t smart-asses.”

I chuckled at myself. Arguing with a computer. I’ll keep that one to myself.

Until that talk with the strange intruder, I’d forgotten that old pre-technology tool, legal pads. Somehow those pads keep rearing their heads to fight for my attention.

In the room that had been intended to be a bedroom I had stored several banker’s boxes of my old legal pads. One oddly stuck out by several inches. Being ever so slightly driven toward tidiness and order, I walked to the box so I could push the box back in alignment with the other boxes. On the side was printed Painted Pottery. Curiously, I pulled the box completely out and gently placed it on the floor. I slowly made my way down to the floor. One knee, then the other. With one hand on the floor, I dropped back on my bottom. I’d worry about getting up later. I pulled the cover off and looked at the contents of the box. On top were dozens of pictures I’d taken while in Arizona researching for the book. I pulled out the first pad and read what I had written over forty years ago. There on the very first page, before the descriptions of places that might appear in my novel, before the record of the scores of interviews, before my little bibliography, before the novel’s outline, and before the character sketches was this single sheet that bore the title, “For Future Project”.

In those days I was far more impetuous and driven than now. I was much less introspective and certainly not willing to forgo writing revenue-generating novels to write something that might not have broad commercial appeal. I had to eat and pay rent back then. So, this project, noble though it was, became obscured by the parade of successful novels that enriched me beyond my wildest expectations. It was not remotely surprising that the project was dropped. That I found the page today, miraculous.

On that first page, I had listed a series of names, each name followed by a brief description of that person’s story—what made them special, why they stood out. At the bottom I’d written this:

How cool would it be to make a book of stories, all true and genuine. Each chapter would be one individual’s story or one single event. Taken as a whole the book would be a compelling type of history. Not historical fiction. Not a history book, but a connected set of stories arranged so that it becomes historically accurate, but a work that reads like a novel.

The flip of the mental light switch was instant. I suddenly knew what was wrong with Osage History—it was just that: history.

“Don’t write history, tell stories.”

The little sentence seemed to be whispered by the walls themselves. It could have been spoken by someone in the room, the message was so clearly articulated. Of course, no one was there in the room but me.

As I placed the old legal pad into the box, I noticed that a photo had fallen from the top and was wedged between the stacks of pads and the side of the box. Mindlessly, I pulled the photo out to place it on top with the others. As I laid on top of the other photographs, I looked at the image. I was kneeling beside a young Navajo girl. We both were grinning largely. I brushed away the fleeting thought that the girl I’d talked with earlier that day and this girl bore a striking resemblance. Then I remembered it as if it had happened only weeks ago. The Navajo girl was reluctant to have her picture made. As I cajoled her, I could tell she was beginning to warm up to the idea. Finally, I said to her, “Just humor me, okay?”

************

Almost a year later Black Betrayal: Stories from the Reign of Terror was released. Sales were brisk and reviews, while somewhat muted, did little to dampen the public’s desires to read Michael Maddox’s latest literary work.

I’m not much for cocktail parties and such. Dinner parties are tortuous and I refuse to attend any. But Evelyn convinced me I should have something to celebrate this latest literary triumph, and she agreed to coordinate the event. She insisted we have this thing at my house. Since she was going to do all the work, I reluctantly agreed.

Fortunately, a number of people declined the invitation for a variety of reasons; unfortunately, most accepted the invitation. The evening of the event, my house seemed more like Times Square than my sanctuary.

I spied Mesha McDonald, surrounded by a half dozen folks, as she held court in the den. Mesha is one of the most successful realtors in town, and her real estate company, one of the wealthiest. Her empire is Maple Ridge. The group around her seemed to hang on her every word. I waited, taking small sips from my drink and making small talk with people. Finally, she pulled herself away from the gaggle and appeared to be heading to the bar.

“Mesha, so good to see you. Thank you for coming to this little event.”

“Oh, Michael, I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she gushed.

I’m sure she wouldn’t, I thought. She’d not pass up the opportunity to promote herself and her company. Maybe I’m being too harsh. But, then again, maybe not.

“I can’t wait to read your latest book,” she continued gushing. “I understand it’s non-fiction. New world for you, huh? And they say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Not that I’m calling you old, mind you. . . .”

“There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you,” I interrupted hoping to pull her out of the conversational ditch she’d slid into.

“There was a house on the market last year. I think it was the one diagonally across from my back yard. You know the one. Right?”

“No, Michael, I don’t. I can assure you no house in the section has been on the market in years.”

“Oh, I see,” I said.

Mercifully the gathering began disintegrating by seven-thirty. I likely aided the party’s demise with several large and dramatic yawns. I also turned the air conditioning off. Within minutes the Tulsa heat and humidity was seeping into the house like the unwanted guest it was. For those few who hadn’t picked up the signals, I approached them each saying something like, “Thank you so much for coming by. It means the world to have your support.” As I said this little speech, I began moving to the front door. Most got the message. By eight-fifteen the last guest had left.

Evelyn was supervising the highly paid caterers as they began the massive clean-up. Yet one more reason not to entertain. I wandered back to the sunroom, pulled a cigar from the drawer of the room’s only cabinet, sighed a breath of relief that the thing was over, and struck a match, breathing in the first delicious, rewarding puff.

“Good work, Michael, congratulations,” came a male voice.

I turned around to see the intruder standing in the same doorway I found him over a year ago.

“Well done. Congratulations.”

“I need to know. The night you broke in, was it you who took the knife and the book? Did you stab the knife in the shelving downstairs?”

“It appears that way.”

“And what did you mean when you said you wanted me?”

“I had things to tell you.”

“Okay. Tell me now.”

He stood silent and still.

I stood up and watched him. Studying this odd fellow, I made the only conclusion I felt reasonable. And with confidence I finally asked the question.

“Tell me the truth. You’re not real are you?”

“Are any of us?”

He turned, opened the door, and began walking away. Almost in an after though, he turned back to me and said, “Doná dan. Ha-kon. Take care of yourself, Michael. I’ll be seeing you again soon enough. Until then, be strong.”