Clifford's Spiral: Chapter 1

Here begins the serialization of this intensely thoughtful story...

Chapters will be serialized here for paid subscribers.

About This Novel

In Clifford's Spiral, the stroke survivor’s past is blurry, and his memories are in pieces. He fusses over his lifelong curiosities about astrophysics and metaphysics, Christian faith and New Age philosophy, and why the spiral shape appears in bathtub drains and at the centers of galaxies. He has imaginary conversations and arguments with wives and lovers, as well as with Hypatia of Alexandria, René Descartes, his old mentor Reverend Thurston, and Stephen Hawking. Clifford's best teacher turns out to be his paraplegic son Jeremy, who has found his father's old letters and journals. Jeremy also wonders:

Who was Clifford Olmstead Klovis?

Stroke sufferer Clifford Klovis tries to piece together the colorful fragments of his memories. The narrative’s sardonic tone recalls the wry wisdom of Kurt Vonnegut, and its preoccupation with male centeredness is reminiscent of Philip Roth.

Chapter 1

Clifford was sufficiently aware to know he was lying on his back. He felt woozy. Although there was light all around him, he couldn’t see anything. He didn’t know whether his eyes were open or closed. His visual field was pinkish-orange, with bright yellow at the center. No shapes or images. Just a happy glow.

He could feel a cold compress on the back of his neck. He was grateful for the sensation, but it was making him feel chilly all over.

He felt them lift him onto a stretcher. They must have covered him with a blanket because he felt warmer.

He guessed they were carrying him into an ambulance. It would be effortless to die now, to just slip away. But he was pretty sure he wasn’t going to die. Not now. He was in good hands, capable hands. They would take care of him, whatever needed to be done. Perhaps this feeling of confidence was from something they’d injected into him? If so, it was good stuff.

“I’ve got Brady,” he heard a man with a commanding voice say.

“Bee pee ninety-two over fifty-four,” a woman said, as if in response.

Moments later, the guy repeated, “I’ve got Brady.”

If Brady is on the phone, why don’t they take the call?

Clifford couldn’t remember anyone named Brady in their group at the restaurant. Last he knew, he was getting up from the table at his friend Gabe’s eightieth birthday party. He’d had too much to drink and a lot to eat. He was a sucker for Italian food, and, the icing on the cake, Bea had insisted on paying for everyone, and not just the cake. Eleanor wasn’t there. She was already off on one of her juggernauts.

“I’ve got Brady,” the paramedic said again.

Had he taken this fellow Brady down in his fall? Clutched at the waiter and upended his tray? Maybe poor Brady was injured, with a broken arm or something, and required more urgent attention.

Okay, okay. By all means, take care of Brady! But who’s got me?

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