From the date below, it may look to you that it has not “happened” yet.  

Let me assure you that it has . . .

Knowing that, and knowing your part in it, you might understand some, or most of the Elements of Fear.  

    On Thursday,  May 4, 2017, a  handsome lawyer delivered a letter to me.   

    On my desktop scheduler appeared the intriguing agenda item: A letter to be delivered this day into your hands only.  (Brief meeting with Attorney William Johnson Baxter, of  Baxter, Baxter and Burns, Attorneys at Law. Three p.m.)  

    Subpoenas still get hand-delivered; “served”, as they say, but letters, almost never, and what’s wrong with e-mail?   Neither my company’s attorneys nor my legal team was contacted, so this seemed to be a personal matter.  For me.  According to my secretary’s notes for this item, Attorney Baxter scheduled today’s meeting some seven weeks ago!   Why so much lead time?  Was my schedule that full?  Seven weeks?  A letter?  

    At three p.m., exactly, my secretary called on the interoffice and announced, “Dr. Garris,  Attorney Baxter is here to see you.”   Using my latest prototype headclasp I thought-commanded my door to open, then removed the headclasp and slid it onto its stand, glanced in my desk mirror and smoothed into place a few stray natural blonde strands of hair. I tapped my interoffice.  “Thank you, Sharlene. Please send him in.”

    A few seconds later, as I stood, Attorney William Johnson Baxter walked into my office.  He introduced himself, “Dr. Garris, I’m William Baxter.” He reached across my desk and briefly and politely grasped my extended hand, a gentle warm firm grip.

    It took me a second, but I recognized Attorney Baxter.  A very good-looking middle-aged man with a touch of gray to his dark brown hair and intense, sparkling blue eyes.  I’d met him before, somewhere, sometime; I remembered those eyes. He quickly checked his wristwatch, then opened his gold-ornamented dark-leather legal brief folder, withdrew a sealed envelope. 

 
    “I’ve been holding this letter to give to you today.”  he said and handed me the envelope.  

    As I took the sealed envelope, I looked directly into his sharp blue eyes, and things clicked.  I remembered where and when I’d met him.  Along with my recognition of him, something else was nudging my memory, something additional; something eluding me at this moment. 

 
    “Ah, Mr. Baxter, we’ve met once before, ”  I said, I could not help but smile. “I recall meeting you on the evening of my high school graduation; what, almost twenty years ago?   You asked me then if I were interested in a law career, and I said I wasn’t.  Sometimes I wonder if I should have taken a law degree!  But I do, indeed, remember meeting you.”

    Attorney Baxter smiled, shook his head, and said, “Incredible, absolutely incredible!  Twenty years!  You’ve a lawyer’s memory!  I wondered if you would recall meeting me.  I wanted to meet you then, back in 1997,  since I had been given the job of holding this letter to give to you.  I took advantage of one of my cousin’s boy’s  graduating in your class to be invited to attend the graduation.  I wanted to know who you were.  I wanted to know what the person I was supposed to keep track of for twenty years, looked like.”

    “You’ve had this letter for twenty years?”  I asked, skeptically. “You’ve been waiting until now to deliver it to me?”

    “Yes.” Baxter said. “Those were my client’s instructions: On this day after three p.m., and not one minute sooner.”

     Twenty years!  I’m 37 years old now, almost 38.  Who could this letter be from?  What I held in my hand had been awaiting me for more than half my lifetime -- waiting since I was a teenager.  Who did I know as a teenager that  would send me a letter through a lawyer to be held for twenty years?

    “Please,  take a seat.” I said.  I motioned Attorney Baxter to a chair in front of my desk.

    I studied the envelope in my hands.  The printing of my name, “Misty Jo Garris,” on the pale blue envelope was precise, yet appeared to have been done freehand with a ballpoint pen. The envelope was a small personal letter envelope, used among family, friends, or lovers; not a business or legal sized envelope.  This had to be a personal letter, from a personal friend.  Who? I’m too busy to have friends. I was too busy to have friends twenty years ago. 

    Using the letter knife on my desk, I carefully slit open the envelope.  I withdrew the letter.  There were two pale blue pages.  I seated myself to read them.

    The letter was dated January 27, 1997.  The longhand script was beautiful, flowing.  Each written character’s form was perfect, each character’s shape, exquisite; not mechanical, but truly elegant, distinctive penmanship. This writing was so aesthetically perfect, I was not focusing on the words; I was not grasping the letter’s content, I was thinking of the coordination needed to write so beautifully.

    I had seen this unique handwriting before!  The name of the writer was on the edge of my consciousness, almost on the tip of my tongue.  I shuffled the pages enough to scan the bottom of the second page to see  the signature.  There it was!  No!

    No!  This letter was from Schyler Marshall!  It couldn’t be!  No!

    The hair on the back of my neck stiffened and little goose bumps formed on my almost sleeveless arms.   It was like a cold breeze brushed my shoulders and back. I shivered as a chill engulfed me.  The hand writing and the signature were Schyler’s.   I glanced up at Attorney William Baxter waiting in the chair across my desk.  I was hoping he would not notice the prickly, bumpy look of the skin on my arms, nor the shiver.   He did not seem to notice.  Baxter sat quietly, looking at sprawling Minneapolis through the magnificent corner windows of my building’s top-floor office, it was a rare, clear, beautiful day. 

    Schyler Marshall disappeared from my life twenty years ago!  I shivered.

    It was as though we were on the on the 26th floor of my office building in February with the windows suddenly shattered and a slight breeze blowing a 7 below Fahrenheit wind through my building’s top floor.  I resisted the shiver, but could not stop it. 

    I tried to concentrate on reading the letter as the shivering chill that swept me subsided for a moment.  I tried to appear to be absorbed in reading the letter.  I felt like I was freezing; any second my teeth would start to chatter.  I was trying to settle down my own sudden feelings at realizing this letter was from Schyler Marshall of twenty years ago!  I got control of my shivering.  I had only scanned, not grasped or digested the letter, though I’d normally certainly have had time to.  I had no focus.  I made certain my voice was steady and neutral and I asked calmly, “Mr. Baxter, how did you receive this letter?”  

  Attorney Baxter said, “That letter arrived in the regular morning mail on Friday,  January 31, 1997, at my Main Street office in West Duluth.  You probably remember the old Wilson Building?  I had a small office there in 1997.   That letter was sealed inside the envelope you just opened.  Your envelope with letter was within a larger envelope addressed to me.  There was a signed cover letter written to me with instructions that I hold unopened the sealed envelope.  Also that I quietly and unobtrusively keep track of you until 3:00 p.m. May 4, 2017, today, then personally place the sealed envelope in your hands.   The client instructed me to wait with you while you read the letter and then answer any questions about the letter you might have.”

    Attorney Baxter paused.  He wasn’t finished.  He continued, “I was also instructed to tell you the payment for my services consisted of a certified check for $250,000 made out to my firm for the purpose of keeping track of you, Dr. Garris, until I could hand you the letter today.”

    I shook my head, amazed, “$250,000 is a hefty sum to deliver a letter, isn’t it?”   

    “It could be a hefty letter, couldn’t it?”  Baxter asked, pointedly, then smiled disarmingly.  He paused, took a deep breath, “Please realize, Dr. Garris, I was 32 years old twenty years ago.  I had been struggling for three years to get my law practice going.  As you can imagine, that $250,000 turned everything in my business around.  I suddenly had a sufficient amount of capital to more than just survive.  With that money I truly launched my law practice.  I was thankful to think someone trusted that I might be alive in twenty years to deliver the letter, and that someone thought I had the integrity to do so.  There were no strings attached or reservations on the $250,000 to assure I would deliver the letter to you.  How could there be from twenty years ago?  I was grateful to be trusted.  That money was the key, the  means by which I turned my firm into a law firm of substantial stature – now one of the leading law firms in Minnesota.  In fact, the very success that money enabled, prompted me to meet you briefly at your high school graduation to see who you were.   Later, part of the success gained by holding and eventually delivering this letter to you enabled me, ten years ago, to start the Minnesota National Foundation . . . ” 

    “Oh! So you’re that Baxter, W. J. Baxter?” That was the something else tugging my memory  about Mr. Baxter.   Nothing like a little embarrassment to help in recovering my composure.  I could feel my face flushing more than a bit.

“I feel like an idiot!" I said. "I’m embarrassed.  I remember meeting you and yet I didn’t make the connection or recognize you as the director of the Minnesota National Foundation.    My secretary’s notes for this meeting did not say who you were, since everyone knows!  I’ve been slow on the uptake today.  I plead I have been too sheltered; cloistered so tightly in my own little world I’m not keeping  track of things outside my work!  I apologize! I am impressed by your Foundation’s K-12 programs and the college and university scholarships.  Several on my staff and I are discussing  making a contribution to the Minnesota National Foundation to aid economically needy family’s children, especially bright young women and girls interested in the sciences, as a way to help create an enlarging pool of well qualified potential employees in our business and technical fields.  We initially would concentrate support in communications biology and technology, mathematics, communication biophysics, nanobiophysics, nanomaterials physics, neurological medicine . . .  Areas my company is exploring . . . But not limited to those fields alone.  Our contribution is still in the idea stage, however. ”

         “Of course, and I’ll be glad to accept any contributions on behalf of the foundation, Dr. Garris.”  Attorney Baxter said.  “But I meant to point out to you the reason the Minnesota National Foundation exists at all is because Mr. Marshall’s cover letter to me also suggested that if I were successful in growing my law firm I should be able to create a foundation to fund educational scholarships.   Ten years ago the firm became successful beyond my wildest imaginings.  I reached the point where Mr. Marshall’s suggestion was able to be realized, and hence, the Minnesota National Foundation.”

    The goose bumps were trying to creep back onto my arms.  Again, a chill shiver was almost upon me. “I’d certainly like to see that suggestion.   If you still have the cover letter, could I get a copy sent to me?”  I asked.

    “Of course . . .  But, I’ll send you the original – and I’ll keep a copy!” Baxter said.  “Mr. Marshall’s obvious interest in getting this letter to you suggests it would be appropriate for you to have the original cover letter."

    “Thank you.  It would mean a great deal to me.” I said. Again I calmed my self.  I did not shiver.   Thoughtfully, I asked, “On the envelope you received in 1997, the one addressed to you, was there a return address?”

    “Yes, there was.” Baxter answered,  “It was mailed from Ignacio, Colorado, and the return address was 28971 South Florida Mesa Road, Ignacio, CO 81137.   That address was quite clearly typed on the return address area of  the envelope,  but that address does not exist!  It appears to be an address not meant to be traced or found. Or a  mis-type on the envelope.   I don’t know if that was intentional, but the street numbering value would put it over the Colorado State Line well into New Mexico.  On the other hand, the certified check was drawn upon a Durango, Colorado bank, a Community Bank, and the certified check was as good as gold!”

    Did not exist? Curious?  I committed the address to memory.  I never checked out Schyler Marshall’s physical address, nor tried to.  I still remembered Schyler’s e-mail address. I did not even know I remembered it, but I did.  It was sky.marshall@ outpostearth.net. Outpost earth, indeed!  Twenty years ago it sounded pretentious, a weird name for what was a single point, not a broad “network”.  

    Attorney Baxter, held up his left hand and extended his index finger.   “Mr. Marshall asked me to ask you one purely rhetorical question.  He wrote that this question he occasionally asked his favorite friends: Dr. Garris, do you feel you’ve been lucky?” 

    That question made me more uncomfortable than it should have.  With it came the chill on the edge of my shoulders again. Truly, I wanted to just scream out.  For no clear reason.  But I had to appear composed, focused.  I fought for a normal appearance.  I wondered if this was the hysterical edge of  madness – the edge of sanity.  By will alone, I focused. I calmed.    Why was I being affected this way?

    I said,  “I know.  I don’t have to answer that question.  Feelings?  Feelings about luck?  I suppose others would think or feel I’ve been lucky.  I’d like to think luck has nothing to do with life, but then again, I did win that big Power Number Lottery prize.  I did not pick the numbers, they picked me.  That was lucky, I think. With that windfall and some rather large effort on my part, it was possible to begin building this very successful business, something that is changing the world.  I’d like to think I had some innate talent in this endeavor, so I’m not sure luck, per se, has a lot to do with it.  But of course, I’ll think about it.”

    I noticed Baxter seemed to be enjoying my answer, since he smiled fully.  I felt I could ask him a question.  It might make me appear normally at ease.  I asked, “And that would make me wonder if you, Mr. Baxter, feel lucky that Schyler Marshall chose you to deliver this letter to me?”

    Baxter smiled broadly.  His blue eyes sparkled, almost mischievously, “Absolutely, Dr. Garris. I feel I must be the luckiest man in the world!”

    I could not suppress a chuckle.  I nodded to him, flashed a smile.   “Thank you.” I said.  I gently refolded Schyler’s  letter and laid it on my desk.  As I released the letter, the edge of the chill on my shoulders vanished.   I stood.  “Mr. Baxter, you look very much like you did in 1997.  You are still very trim, still very attractive.  At high school graduation, even though you were almost twice my age I thought you were terribly good-looking, and you still are!  That might be why I remembered you so easily.”     

    I was ending our meeting.  Baxter stood, and said,  “And you, Dr. Garris, were absolutely stunning, even as a teenager.  But I must say this.  In my honest opinion, you are much prettier than I remember you, and younger looking than you have any right to be.  If I did not know, you could pass for a teenager.”

    “Oh  . . . That it were so!  Thank you!”  I said, accepting his compliment, smiling.  While my face was still warmly flushed, I walked around my desk to take his arm and walk with him toward my office’s open door.  “I’m not sure I want to be 17 again – but I’ll accept that compliment anytime.” 

    Truthfully, vainly, I think I am much better looking now than when I was 17, but I work hard to maintain these looks.   I’m fit; proper exercise, careful diet. And I can afford to look good.  I workout for a hobby, whether I have time or not.  I’m probably boring, boring, boring –  to most people.

    He slowed me as we walked. He said, “Dr. Garris, I’ve always wondered what was in your envelope, especially after you won the Power Number Lottery and while you were building your worldwide business into the communication’s supergiant it has become.  No one’s ever done anything like that with a lottery prize!  Mr. Marshall spent  $250,000 to deliver your letter.  That letter, in truth, established my law firm;  it also created the Minnesota National Foundation. Outright, the letter was worth a billion dollars when invested with me to hold the letter for you, as it were.  I could not help but wonder what the letter I was to deliver held for you.  Can you tell me about it?”

    “Not yet, Mr. Baxter.  I’m sorry.  At this point. I’m not sure what the letter means.”  We reached my office doorway.  I stopped and faced him, “After your firm’s holding it for twenty years, you can probably imagine I’m going to spend a little time studying it?   However, I have in mind some work I’ll discuss with you soon.  I want to hire your absolute integrity!  I’ll introduce you to my executive assistant.   She’ll want contacts to make arrangements for a contribution to the Minnesota National Foundation and another number where I can contact you in the near future, as opposed to a twenty-year wait.”

    Baxter grinned and nodded at that. He was not here to obtain work, nor to garner foundation funds.  He was just completing his assigned task, a twenty year accomplishment.
   

    I introduced Mr. Baxter to Sheila Jensen, and mentioned I would be contacting him. With that, I knew Sheila would get a number where Baxter could best be reached.  I asked her to get a contact at Attorney Baxter’s recommendation to begin arranging a contribution to the Minnesota National Foundation. 

    Suddenly, a compulsion arose in me.   I had to return to my office.  I had to get back to the letter on my desk and read it carefully; I had to understand what Schyler had written me.

    As graciously as I could manage, I thanked Attorney Baxter, excused myself, returned to my office, and closed the door, at first trying to think it closed as I walked through it, forgetting I wasn’t wearing my headclasp.

    Why was I getting the letter now?  Why get it through a law firm?   Why would Schyler Marshall spend $250,000 to send me this letter, to be given to me twenty some years after it was written in1997?    Where did that $250,000 come from?   What did this letter hold for me?

    I sat in my desk chair and unfolded the letter and read it again, this time, carefully.

    I  then started to understand why it came through Baxter’s law firm, and why $250,000 was paid to deliver it.   Schyler wanted objective credibility; he wanted absolute credibility, he wanted what he wrote twenty years ago to have credibility today!  

    There was nothing complex about the letter’s words, or wording.   The words were ordinary words, seemingly friendly words, seemingly collegial words.  I could easily imagine these words being written to me by Schyler, near the end of January in1997, when I was 17.   Even its content seemed congenial.

    As I again read the letter, the content of its words became increasingly unsettling to me.  As I began to firmly understand these words, the letter’s content became absolutely terrifying.   The letter contained no threats, no warnings.   Far worse; the letter described certainty itself, a terrifying certainty, a promise.  What the letter laid out was impossible!  Yet the letter made the impossible seem logical, inevitable, believable.
    

   Even if I did not fully grasp the letter’s intent, one thing was clear to me:  This letter was a time bomb.  I was its target.  Twenty years ago its timer was set for now.  Reading and understanding the letter detonated it.  The meaning and implication of the words virtually exploded in my mind.  I was the reason the letter existed.  Will the real Misty Jo Garris awaken!  Now, I was a part of it!  As I read and struggled to understand a little of the letter’s intent, one line near the end of the letter stood out in my mind:

    Misty, your granddaughter is still a good many years away.  She will argue humanity’s case. You remember we briefly discussed her?

    Women know when they have sons or daughters; and I had none.  Granddaughter?  How could Schyler dare pretend to outline any of my future?  Granddaughter?    What possible granddaughter?

    That line in Schyler’s twenty-year-old letter obliquely referred to one thing only I would know – an item in e-mail I received from Schyler more than twenty years ago . . .I could check this if I could recover the e-mail.  When I realized I might be able to do this, I knew where I was going to be for the next few days.
 

I was going home to see Mom.

[Story continued in     www.xomba.com/elements_fear_two   Elements of Fear, Two]