Debora Harding - Dancing with the Octopus

For my husband, Thomas You are the most beautiful of humans

CONTENTS

Life would be tragic if it werent funny.

STEPHEN HAWKING

Lincoln, 2003 The truth began to emerge when I saw Charles Goodwin sitting at a white Formica table in a Nebraska prison canteen, waiting for his parole hearing. I wasnt expecting to recognize him in a crowd, but when I observed his dark brown eyes scanning the room, I felt the pulse of memory kick in, and when it did, a passage of history, a quarter of a century, all but disappeared.

It wasnt the first occasion Id struggled with a disproportionate sense of time. I certainly didnt expect that when I learned to read a clock, it would turn into an exercise of such great profundity or that this would be my first major concession to there being a science and order to our universe. One has to learn to add multiples of 5 all the way to 60, often at an age when you are barely able to count to 10. Then you have to learn that 60 minutes equal 1 hour, 24 hours equal 1 day, 7 days make up 1 week, and 365 days make up a year, which is the time it takes the earth to orbit the sun, with the exception being the fourth year, when we leap ahead by a day.

For the earth to orbit the sun twenty-five times seems an enormous distance to travel. But for me, time often operates with rules disconnected from the workings of the universerandomly bending with an emotional weight of metric tonnage proportion before disappearing into one black hole.

Lincoln, 2003 Charles Goodwin had spent twenty-five years in Nebraska state prisons. He appeared to be in his element, not overly anxious. His hands, folded, rested on a thick hardback book whose title was Revelation: A Book of Judgment . Perched on top were a spiral notebook and pen.

His looks were pleasant enough, his hair closely shaven. He was wearing a plain white T-shirt, baggy jeans, and neutral-colored sneakers. There was nothing in him of the aggressive body language that was common in this environment. He appeared fit, no doubt from hours spent in the prison gym, but he hadnt acquired that machismo bodybuilder look.

About fifty prisoners sat or stood around, waiting their turn to appear in front of the parole board. None lacked for companyparents, a wife, friends, a few even had kids to broaden the audience, so the energy of the room had the backstage buzz of a school Christmas pageant.

But my offender, and it would be correct to call him mythough every ounce of me recoiled at the idea that he might consider me hissat alone, displaying a casual but respectful patience, wearing a look of friendly approachability, as if he were waiting there just for me in the same way hed been that afternoon, twenty-five years ago, when our paths happened to cross.

But before I go further, let me explain how we first met.

Omaha, 1978 When youre struggling to make your way up a long hill, in sleet driven by twenty-mile-an-hour winds, and you cant close your jacket because the zipper wont work, and you have no hat or gloves, its easy to become thoroughly pissed off.

It was the day before Thanksgiving. Classes at my school, Lewis and Clark Junior High, had been dismissed an hour early due to the severity of an ice storm warning issued by the National Weather Service. The roads were filling quickly with cars, families eager to beat the storm to their destinations before the start of the nations four-day holiday.

I decided against taking the school bus home, after hearing the district wrestling tournament was going ahead. Not because I was a sports fan, but because I assumed if the tournament wasnt canceled, then my youth church choir practice wouldnt be either, particularly as it was the last rehearsal before Thanksgiving, the most popular service of the year. Our church sat across the parking lot from my school, a convenience that made the decision all the easier.

With two hours to spend before choir practice, I stopped by to see my favorite science teacher, Kent Friesen, hoping that our weekly math tutorial was still on. When I arrived in his classroom, I found a bag of popcorn waiting on his desk with an apology note saying he had been asked last minute to serve as a referee for the tournament. After munching down the treat, I headed back to my locker, where I bumped into a friend who said he was going to J. C. Penney to buy tickets to an upcoming Kiss concert. I decided Id tag along with him. The Crossroads Shopping Mall sat only five minutes away at the bottom of the hill and I could spend the next hour looking for ideas for Christmas presents. The sky was hideous, the color of a deep purple bruise, when we emerged from the doors of our school, but I had yet to realize the speed with which Mother Nature could move.

Only an hour later, as I was returning, the sleet was freezing nearly as fast as it hit the ground, and the landscape was turning glacial. It would be safe to say, because I had never been exposed to the difficulties imposed on navigation in such a storm, I grossly underestimated its challenge. In addition to my eagerness to make it to choir rehearsal, I was undeniably swayed to persevere by the mindset I had inherited from my fatherif you let a winter storm in Nebraska stop you, youd never walk out the door.

Unfortunately, I wasnt the only one thinking that way.

Omaha, 1978 Charles Goodwin, seventeen years old and ten days free from the Kearney Youth Development Center, turned sideways in front of the department stores full-length mirror, assessing a pair of new Levis. At first, he wasnt convinced about the brown stitching down the legs and back pockets, but now he thought the trim lent a nice tailored look.

He moved closer to the mirror, checking out what he thought was his best assethis smile; at least it had been before that guy broke his jaw. Now every time he looked at his reflection, he was trying to correct the once-perfect symmetry of his face.

Next on the shopping list was proper outdoor gear. He found himself some tan steel-toed work boots with good traction on the sole and a light-brown hooded parka with large pockets. And then to finish the look, he wanted a balaclava. He tried a black one, but it had no character; instead, he settled on one that was red with black embroidered around the eyes.

Last but not least, he needed a knife. The Montgomery Ward sports department would have a wide selection. After surveying a few in the glass display case, he went for a fishing fillet knife with a wooden handle. It would cost a bit more, but it balanced nicely in his grip.

With his purchase list complete, Charles walked back through the mall and pushed his way out the glass doors at the back of the Brandeis department store. Thats when he spotted a van sitting by the loading dock. The engine was idling, with no driver in sight. In fact, there wasnt a soul to be seen. His eyes went back to the van. He couldnt believe what an easy pickup it would be, like it had been planted there just for him.

So, being the seasoned carjacker he was, he looked around one last time, walked up to the van door, jumped in, and put the stick in reverse. As he backed out, he felt that sweet relief of an addict surrendering to his poison.

Omaha, 1978 At fourteen years old, I was entering the plateau of what might be called real adolescence, but there were days when I still felt like a kid, and for a kid in the Midwest, a winter storm was the herald of good things to come: school cancellations, playing in the streets, and the opportunity to earn vast amounts of cash. But most glorious was a world blanketed in white, brilliant snow.