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Chapter 1 Laying the Foundation for a Secure Retirement Every journey begins with a single step, and the path to a secure and fulfilling retirement is no different. Imagine sitting at your kitchen table, a cup of coffee steaming by your side, while you ponder the life you want to lead when work no longer fills your days. Perhaps you envision days filled with travel, exploring places you've long dreamed of visiting. Or maybe you see yourself dedicating time to hobbies that have waited patiently for your attention. These dreams are not just idle thoughts, they are the bedrock of your retirement vision. Understanding what you truly want from this next, significant phase of life is the first step to making it a reality. This chapter is designed to help you both articulate those desires and translate them into actionable, achievable goals. Let's embark on this exciting process by defining your retirement vision and setting personal goals.
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For the first time Kenny could recall, he felt the isolation of his ranch pressed down on him. He knew there was no one around for miles. Montana was the size of New England, with only the population of Rhode Island. Generally, the isolation of his ranch was the reason he loved it. But walking next to the professor, he couldn't help but feel uneasy. It wasn't just Blue's reaction, which, to be honest, scared the hell out of him. It was like the dog had seen the devil himself. It was also that this man looked nothing like a professor. He was too young, too good-looking, and too well-dressed. And there was something about him that just felt... off. The man had barely spared a glance at the snow-topped mountains that were a backdrop to Kenny's property. He'd never had anyone come to the ranch that hadn't commented on that incredible view. Walking next to him, Kenny was reminded of the time when, as a kid, he'd been stalked by a mountain lion. He'd had a vague sense of uneasiness that day. But until the cat screeched as it leapt at him, he hadn't realized the true danger he was in. That day, his dad had cut the lion in half with a shotgun. Kenny gave the professor another surreptitious glance and couldn't help wishing he'd brought his shotgun along today. Are we getting close? Gideon asked. Startled, Kenny stumbled. Shaking his head at his clumsiness, he pointed to an arrangement of three small boulders twenty yards away that stood out in the flat, almost treeless ground. Just beyond those boulders is where I started digging. I still haven't been able to get to the bottom of the rock. Gideon nodded and picked up his pace. As he passed the boulders, he came to an abrupt stop and stared at the small excavation. The monolith stood five feet tall, although it was obvious there was still more buried beneath the earth. At first glance, the obelisk appeared smooth. Kenny's first thought had been that it looked like one of those fancy granite countertops. On closer inspection, though, the niches carefully carved into the black stone depicting figures in what resembled Egyptian hieroglyphs became clear. Seconds stretched into minutes as the professor simply stared at the rock in silence. Kenny's nervousness increased. Uh, Professor Gideon? Are you all right? Gideon's eyes snapped to Kenny. Kenny took a step back from the man, but when Gideon spoke, his voice was calm. It's an amazing sight, isn't it? Would it be all right if I went closer? The professor's words reduced Kenny's fears, making him feel foolish. What the hell is wrong with me today? He's just a professor interested in my find. Sure, sure. After all, you're the expert. Kenny watched the professor gracefully leap into the hole. Gideon reverently touched the stone, tracing some of the carvings with his index finger. Finally, he murmured. After a few moments of internal debate, Kenny's curiosity won out over his uneasiness. He clamored down to stand next to the man. So, any idea where it came from? Kind of looks like something you'd expect to find in Egypt or down in Central America or some other ancient place. Gideon looked over at Kenny. Actually, this site predates those other sites by quite a significant margin. Really? Kenny asked, astonished. Even older than the pyramids? Pyramids? Yes, even older than that. He pointed to a spot on the artifact about three-quarters of the way up. Do you see this mark here? Kenny squinted at the etching. That little circle? Yes, that little circle is something I have been trying to find for an incredibly long time. Kenny's eyes shifted to the professor. The man couldn't be any older than twenty-nine. This younger generation seemed to have a different view of time than his generation. Hmm, he murmured. What is it? Why, it's the end of the world, Gideon said with a slow smile.
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End-stage renal disease doesn't just slip up on you, at least not if you're reporting to a doctor. You see it coming like a rotten place expanding in the siding of your house. There's too much protein in your urine. Even with diuretics, you begin to retain fluid, especially as the day goes on. If you press your ankles, your fingertips leave indentions. Your blood pressure gets out of hand. You begin to be sick to your stomach. Sitting in the hospital waiting room the night I was admitted, I saw people as if on a television screen with the sound turned off. The exit sign blinked like a bad eye. Andy was not with me. We were in a civil war, separated at the time. My choice, if you can call it that. How many times had I driven away? Perhaps I thought that if I left him in our life together, I could escape the disease that was stalking me. Or perhaps in leaving, I was only signing the breakdown of my body. The next morning, I was wheeled into surgery, the turns of the bed in the hall like a journey into a maze. A surgeon planted two shunts in my body, a temporary one in my neck for hemodialysis, and a more permanent one in my abdomen for peritoneal dialysis. I would go to the clinic for hemo while the abdominal shunt healed sufficiently for me to begin the dialysis that I would do at home, four times a day, every day, until and if I could get a transplant. My mother bravely drove me to the clinic. I was struck by how many of the patients were African Americans. First we were weighed so the technician knew how much fluid to pull off. Then we were hooked up in rows to dialysis machines. My mother says we look like people in a detention camp. All the decisions were made by someone else. In your station, one of many, you sprawled in an aquamarine plastic recliner. The room was bright but cold. Masked robe technicians were our ministers. Perhaps the room felt cold because our blood was being sucked out and sent at great speed circulating through the artificial kidney. You could see it through the tubing. Here I was again, the minority white person among black people, but our prospects did not seem as good this time as they were in Nigeria when I was young and the Federation was looking forward to independence and the country was taking off like a young cobra. Most of us in the dialysis clinic slept through the treatment because dialysis wears you out, exhausts you, leaves you limp, less like a cobra and more like a discarded skin. We were skins there. We were not intellects.
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In August, the rights-of-way are blue with cornflowers and white with Queen Anne's lacy parasols. I was on my way home one afternoon, taking in the beauty, when I noticed Rory doing radar, just after I passed him. I was 15 miles over the limit. Rory had to have noticed me, but hope springs eternal. I took my foot off the gas but didn't brake. Either he wasn't paying attention or he decided to cut me some slack. He didn't pull out after me. I wondered why, then put him out of my mind. I always speed. Ever since I was 14, and the three guys I grew up with taught me to drive. Cars they borrowed when we needed wheels. We always returned them, sometimes with more gas than when we left. We got really good at avoiding the police. In retrospect, we were insane. Smoke was the best driver. He was normally fearless. And he was more patient, at least with me, than Steve or Billy were. Billy was the most careful. Steve, the most persistent. By the summer Smoke was 16, he'd saved enough to buy a 61 Ford that had bald tires, a bad clutch, and missed on half its cylinders. Steve, Billy and I spent a lot of time on weekends and evenings helping him fix it up. We worked overtime at our jobs to put new tires and other parts on it. But then we had our own wheels, with our own chauffeur. Smoke owed us, but he would have driven us anyway because he loved driving. And he would never let anyone else drive his baby. He'd pick me up one day, on our way to join Steve and Billy. But he took the long way around, down a farm road with long stretches of straightaway between the driveways. He put the pedal to the floor, and the speedometer needle went all the way to the right. I sank back in the co-pilot's seat and squeezed the armrest until my knuckles turned white. Smoke eased off the gas. You can't be scared, he told me. You gotta accelerate into the curves and downshift when you brake. If you know what you're doing, you'll never lose control. Then he pulled over and let me take the wheel.
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You can live a lifetime, and at the end of it, know more about other people than you know about yourself. You learn to watch other people, but you never watch yourself, because you strive against loneliness. If you read a book, or shuffle a deck of cards, or care for a dog, you are avoiding yourself. The abhorrence of loneliness is as natural as wanting to live at all. If it were otherwise, men would have never bothered to make an alphabet, nor to have fashioned words out of what were only animal sounds, nor to have crossed continents, each man to see what the other looked like. Being alone in an airplane, for even so short a time as night and day, irrevocably alone, with nothing to observe but your instruments, and your own hands in semi-darkness, nothing to contemplate but the size of your small courage. Nothing to wonder about, but the beliefs, the faces, and the hopes rooted in your mind. Such an experience can be as startling as the first awareness of a stranger walking by your side at night. You are the stranger.
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Kathleen and Fayette were already down in the hole, unloading a tackle box full of small excavating equipment. Lynn was kneeling by the head, using his hand to measure the size of the skull. They all ignored de Tormo, still standing on the edge, watching the activity. While Marcus conversed with his wife and Dr. Fodlan, he noticed increasingly that Lynn was very preoccupied with the skull. He would carefully brush, pick with a dental explorer, and brush some more. Marcus left his wife and went over to him. You're awfully addicted to that thing, he said. Lynn didn't look up. He continued to brush. You didn't get a good look at this skull, did you? Marcus wasn't sure what he meant. The occipital portion is completely exposed, as is most of the right temporal surface. I could see a portion of the cheekbone and jaw. Why? What were you driving at? Lynn blew away some excess dirt. But you never got as far as the actual face. No, it's mostly buried in the silt, he said. What's your point? Lynn picked with the explorer. A chunk of dirt came up, exposing a good portion of the right side of the face. He stared down at it, blew again, and a cloud of dust went up. Take a look at that. Marcus peered down at the skull, increasingly exposed due to Dr. Davis's attention. He wasn't sure what he was looking at until his gaze fell on something completely unexpected. He couldn't help it. He reached down and ran his fingers over the brow ridge, just above the eye socket, as if touching would better convince him of what his eyes were conveying. Christ, he hissed. I don't goddamn believe it. Lynn looked up at him. Believe it. I see it, too. What do you think? I don't even wanna guess. You two are awfully serious over here. Kathleen had walked up behind them. In their conversation, they hadn't heard her. Found something? Marcus and Lynn passed glances. Lynn has uncovered some of the facial features, Marcus said. See anything unusual? She gave him a lopsided smile as she knelt between them. So there's more to this man than just wings? Her smile faded as she studied the skull. She too wasn't sure what they were driving at. Starting from the gaping jaw, she worked her way up to the cheeks, nose, and finally the eye sockets. When her gaze fell on the forehead, her smile vanished completely. A wave of cold shock washed over her. Running her fingers along the brow ridge as her husband had done, she stared at the skull in disbelief. Oh, my dear God, she breathed, is that what I think it is? Lynn and Marcus could only look at each other. Want to take a guess? Marcus said to her. You're the biblical archaeologist. If Kathleen had been the superstitious kind, she would have been terrified. As it was, it was difficult to keep everything in perspective. I'm looking at a two-inch protrusion just above the right eye socket, she said slowly. If I could take a guess, and only a guess, I'd say it looked very much to me like a horn. I wonder if there's another over the other eye socket, Lynn murmured. There's only one way to find out.
