The Incredible Journey of Thomas Johnson

 

Copyright© 2017 – Nicholas Hall

 

Chapter Two

"Life is its own journey,

presupposes its own change and movement, and

one tries to arrest them at one's eternal peril."

(Laurens Van der Post)

 

An Unexpected Guest

 

He stood there, whether expecting an answer, shocked response of some sort, or an invitation to come in, I fear I knew not, but recovering from my initial shock, I narrowed my eyes and scanned him from head to toe. It was in this careful examination process I noticed the small attaché case he carried with his left hand. At that same time, I felt, rather I should say "sensed," something strangely familiar about him. He seemed possessed of an almost ethereal aura, mystical yet similar to an aura or strange, mystical-type power I'd experienced before in my life and could again, I imagined.

I said nothing at first, watching as he became uncomfortable in the stoic silence of my front stoop, beginning to fidget as his unease increased and taking deeper and deeper breaths. When he shuffled his feet, I quickly spoke before he could! I held my hand in a cautionary manner toward him and asked,

"Are you an officer of the law?" because if he was, the conversation was over before it would even begin and the same would apply to the next few questions I intended asking.

"No!"

"Are you an officer of any court of competent jurisdiction?"

"No!"

"Are you an officer, agent, or case worker for any department of social services or juvenile child protection agency?"

"NO!" he responded louder and in a most agitated manner.

Again, I held up my hand and asked softly, "Are you in fact, Tony Beliveau a student at the University?"

"Yes and no."

"Explain, please!"

"I am a student at the University and had you for class, but my name is actually Antoine Doucet Beliveau."

With that pronouncement, my heart did skip- not so much from fear, but from anxiety, anticipating the rest of the response he'd make, revealing a part of my life and self I'd lost but was seeking to return to.

"I was named after a great-great-uncle, brother to my great-great-Grand'Mere, Menou Doucet."

Without further questioning, I said softly "Entre s'il vous plait," in my now infrequently used and rusty French.

"Oui," Tony responded in relatively good French.

Continuing in French, I bade him be seated on my living room couch and offered either coffee or a brandy; he chose coffee, strong and heavy on the cream – as I learned to like it as well many years before. I left him in the living room while I went to the kitchen, quickly downed the rest of my brandy (I needed that) and made a pot of coffee. While it brewed, I returned to the living room and ensconced myself in an easy chair directly across from him.

"What brings you to my house?" I inquired, this time in English.

He never missed a step or faltered on a word as he slipped into English just as easily as he'd used French just minutes before.

"This," he answered, reaching into his attaché case.

"Carefully," I cautioned. "One wouldn't want to mistake your actions or intentions would one?"

"No," he said hastily, "I bring you no harm! Please!" He pleaded with me, his eyes now full of distress and fear, as he realized my implied threat.

"May I?" he questioned looking in my eyes for any sort of warning or malevolent move forthcoming from me physically.

I nodded my approval and he slowly removed a very old bound journal, actually, several very old journals from the attaché case.

"And these are?" I queried.

"The journals or diaries of my great-great-grandmother, Menou Doucet; she passed away in 1958."

My little sweet Menou died the same year I was born!

"My grandfather, Benjamin Doucet, said she was religious about keeping her diaries and, according to what I've read and my grandfather, she mentions you several times- at least she mentions a `Thomas Jeansonne' an accountant who worked for a `Mr. Chapman' and also is some sort of doctor. According to her diary, Thomas Jeansonne disappeared sometime around April 1, 1890. She doesn't say why or what caused him to disappear only she spoke fondly of him and missed him terribly. She does mention her mother, Celeste Doucet, my three times great-grandmother, claimed, after he was gone, he was a `traveler;' whatever that means."

I shook my head, frowned in my best professorial manner and said, "What you've said is all well and good, but you still haven't brought forth any proof I'm this `Thomas Jeasonne' you seem to think I am. Besides, the year he disappeared is sixty-eight years before I was born, so it's an impossibility."

Tony nodded his head acknowledging the validity of my argument, but moved ahead nonplussed.

"In her diary she mentions Thomas Jeasonne was especially interested in a home for orphans, originally in Farmington, Iowa and was later moved to Davenport, and spoke highly of a Ms. Wittenmyer and her work. Further, Grand'Mere Doucet, claimed M'sieu Jeasonne was a `conjure' man gifted with `second sight.' He seemed to know of many things before they happened."

"Still nothing," I interjected.

Undeterred, Tony continued, "The more I read, the more curious I became and began searching for a person who might fit the description I was piecing together from the journal. I failed to find a `Thomas Jeasonne' until, one day it hit me; I realized it was French for `Thomas Johnson.' I poured through biographical data of various individuals on the internet and, after a number of attempts, located a professor who spent his early years in the Annie Wittenmeyr Home, received his PhD in Economics at the University of Iowa and ended up here, on this campus teaching Economics and Finance. Once I read that, I was almost certain you had to be the one I was searching for so I enrolled hoping to learn more about you."

As I looked him over, even more closely, there was no doubt he was a descendent of Minou, carrying her light brown color, flashing eyes, dark hair, and slight build. Hell, he even sounded like her when he spoke in French, only deeper and masculine. I could see no reason to deny what he knew- besides, if he chattered about it outside of my home, he'd probably be the one undergoing a psychiatric exam and I'd be long gone by the time he got out of the hospital!

"Who are you really, Dr. Johnson?" he asked.

I knew who I was, but he had no idea who he was and that'd remain a mystery for a while if I had my way about it!

"So, now you've located who you think is Thomas Jeansonne," I responded acknowledging what he thought he knew, "and the question is, what do you intend to do about it and why do you want to know?"

"I'm really not certain yet, but part of the reason I want know is, if it is you, then why and how you could've existed in three different centuries `cause I'm not certain how that's possible, and what was the role you seemed to play in my family's history. The other part of the reason I can't explain; I just know I have to find him."

I rose, saying, "I think the coffee is done. Let's go to the kitchen and have a cup."

I poured our coffee, strong and heavy on the cream, thought a moment, finally making my mind up, before saying, "Tony let's retire back to the living room where we can be more comfortable. I'm going to tell you a story that's going to be difficult to believe. When I'm done you may think I need to be committed or you can chose to believe it and forgo calling the guys with the strait jackets! This is a story I've told no one before now because it is so preposterous and improbable; totally unbelievable and should be published and sold as fiction, I should think! It's a secret I've held, well since 1865, but it really starts in 1958."

**

"I was born sometime in April of 1958 of unknown parents and left at the Annie Wittenmyer Home in Davenport, Iowa. According to the young janitor who answered a frantic rapping at the door of the main office building he was cleaning, when he answered its urgent summons, he found me wrapped snuggly in blankets, sleeping peacefully and apparently well fed. A note was pinned to my blanket with a name `Thomas Johnson' and little else."

The head of staff was alerted, the police were summoned, who in turn called in a social services case worker, and I was taken to one of the local hospitals for an examination and observation. Kept in the hospital for about two weeks while the doctors examined me and noted my healthy, yet small and slight body, one of the doctors decided to reduce my weight by just a little more and circumcised me. Why I don't know, but they did! The doctors determined I was probably four or five days old when brought in, so listed my birthday as April 1, 1958. A birth certificate was eventually issued listing my birth as a healthy Caucasian (white) male child of unknown parents. A note attached to my file, as I later learned growing up, listed me as undetermined heritage, possibly French, Creole, or Mediterranean since I was dark haired, dark eyed, and very light tan in complexion.

The county and state, through whatever process they use, determined I was an abandoned child and orphaned as a result and placed me back where I was found, the Annie Wittenmyer Home. The facility in Davenport was named by the Iowa State Legislature in 1949 after Ms. Wittenmyer who advocated the care of orphans and widows of soldiers killed in the Civil War. The first home, administered by a board of directors or governors, was built in Farmington, Iowa in 1864. It eventually outgrew its facilities and when the government donated the deserted buildings and grounds of Camp Kinsman to the Iowa Soldiers' Orphans' Association and became known as the `Iowa Soldiers' Orphan home. Ms. Wittenmyer served as matron until 1867. The State of Iowa took over the home in 1866 and made the children wards of the State.

The Home evolved over the years from just orphans of soldiers to all children and orphans. In 1960, two years after I made my appearance, the Home made a transition from an orphanage to a residential facility specializing in special education and behavioral counseling for troubled kids. For some reason the staff was able to keep me there until I was eight, claiming I was an "exceptional child in need of special education." By the time I reached the age of eight, I was reading at the high school level and doing exceptionally well in school.

I left the Home at age eight, amid much sadness and reluctance on my part since it was the only home I'd had, to enter foster care. During the entire time I was in the Home, no one offered to adopt me, and once I entered foster care, I was met with the same reluctance. In most cases, I was treated well in the foster care program, but there were those times, depending on why the foster parents had me and who else they had in the same home, when my real education in life went beyond the school classroom!

My second foster home, when I reached age ten, housed three of us; an older lad about fifteen, me, and a younger boy about age eight. The couple running the home was in it purely for the money. Although they fed us well, made certain we went to school and received good grades (no problem for me), and didn't beat us, they definitely didn't supervise us closely once we went to our bedroom. The three of us were in one bedroom and by the fourth week there, I found out, what I pushed something out of, the older boy enjoyed pushing his "something" in and on a regular basis!

Oh, he taught me more than that; how much pleasure can be given or received through oral intercourse, kissing someone not only on the lips but everywhere, tantalizing another person's rectum with your tongue and being pleasured the same way, and the pleasures of being fucked by and royally fucking a younger lad! The eight year-old not only submitted to the older boy but to me as well and I found I really enjoyed penetrating his smooth young ass and savoring his small cock and hairless, tight balls! I also found out I enjoyed the attention of older men and boys my same age; actually I liked anything with a cock, but really preferred the younger ones.

By the time I was in high school, having lived in a total of six foster homes to that point, I was an expert at seducing young lads and could have my cock up an ass within a week, but his lips around my dick and mine around his in less time. In two of those homes, the man of the house also liked to take his pleasures and found my love chute and mizzen mast the source and objects of his delights – regularly, I might add! I'd developed substantially in the organ loft and was slightly above average in length, girth, and high in production, which delighted them immensely, viewing me as a young man of pleasure! I suppose I could've worked the trade, but why should I? In one home, with all five of the boys the same age, I discovered I could "pull a train" or "ride caboose" as well as the best of them on the street!

After my junior year in high school, the summer before my senior year, I was fostered to a university professor and his wife in Iowa City. I figured same-old-same-old; he'd fuck me while she was gone and I'd do the trade on the streets of campus to raise some cash. Wrong! Everything changed in my life, in a most drastic and pleasant way!

Instead of cultivating my ass, they chose to cultivate my mind and a whole new world opened up for me. I still looked longingly as the younger lads on the way to the school bus and the college boys wandering about campus and downtown, noting older men still ogled me, the fears of HIV-AIDS and the love the professor and his wife gave me, kept me pretty chaste and studious. I lived with them while completing high school, my bachelor's degree, master's degree, and just before I entered my PhD program, the couple was killed in a car-train crash near the little town of Cedar Bluff while on the way to Tipton to a wedding. My world crashed around me!

Most of their estate went to charity, since they were childless, but, much to my surprise, they did leave enough for me to finish my doctorate program. I graduated mid-year and I desired to teach at the college level and not high school. Society was changing rapidly and I had no desire to spend my life in jail for doing what I wanted to do to those I wanted to do it to. Better to not have that temptation in front of me day after day, I reasoned at the time. As a result, the job prospects were scant to say the least so ended up working odd jobs until the end of March when I decided I'd flipped enough burgers for a while. I gave notice to my landlady, stuffed everything I owned into a duffle, climbed on the small used 100cc motorcycle I'd purchased a couple of years before and left on a road trip.

The small popup tent and my duffle containing my toilet kit and clean clothes were secured to the back rack behind the seat, the tank of the cycle full of gas, and after a quick glance at the map, started a round-a-bout trip toward the southeast tip of the State of Iowa. I spent my nights in small out of the way parks, ate my meals in small restaurants along the way, and enjoyed the freedom of the open road and beautiful countryside. As I traveled closer to my destination, I began to feel almost at home, as though this was a place I was meant to be and now returning to.

The fourth day, April 1, 1983 specifically, I found myself in Lee County, Jackson Township stopped in a small roadside park, watching some very threatening weather beginning to gather in the west. Spring storms can be sudden and often violent and this one was no exception. I was convinced I couldn't outrun the impending storm, since the lightning strikes and thunder claps seemed to be just miles away. The park had two small wooden picnic tables and an outdoor toilet. I could always seek shelter there if I needed to, presuming the storm would hit here and not miss. There were several large boulders resting in front of a large rock outcropping at one edge of the park, behind the outhouse, and what looked like, from where I stood, a small cave tucked into the rocks behind the boulders. A fairly wide and deep stream or creek ran alongside the part and, under other circumstances, would have been an excellent place to swim and wash off the grime of the road.

The thunder grew louder and the lightning sharper so I decided to beat a hasty retreat to shelter. I left the cycle under a large tree, grabbed my helmet and duffle, and headed for the outhouse. On my way, my eyes glimpsed a fair sized geode (the official state rock of Iowa) exposed on the path toward the rocks and outhouse. It was split open and I could only see the one half. The gem was beautiful and the crystals inside seemed to glow in colors as I picked it up and continued my walk. The closer I came to the large boulders, the more the crystals glowed, and started to warm my hands and the more threatening the storm clouds, lightning, and wind accompanying the storm became. I placed the rock in my pocket and raced toward the outhouse. I grabbed at the door, frantic to get inside away from the storm, but for some reason it wouldn't open. I dodged quickly behind it, darted between the large boulders, heading toward the cave. Just as I entered it, bending low to gain entrance, I heard a humming sound; the hair on the back of my neck began to stand up as the air around me whirled with electrical charges, the wind seemed to gather me in a twisting, tumbling vortex, whooshing into the cave, and my body felt as though it was being ripped asunder! Suddenly there was a loud "SNAP" followed by an extremely loud "CLAP" of thunder, and I knew I existed no longer and slipped into a black, cavernous, abyss!

To be continued.

***

Thank you for reading "The Incredible Journey of Thomas Johnson" – Chapter Two

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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