Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Building a Past (MF, rom, slow, plot)

   By Jay Cantrell

   Prologue June 2001

   As I drove another 10-penny nail into the 2-by-4, the glint of sunlight
off a car windshield caught my eye.  It was unbearably hot, and still not
10 a.m.

   In awe, I watched as she walked to the site, my mind obviously playing
tricks on me.

   There she was, the woman I had loved for 20 years, the woman I had
searched for on thousands of streets in hundreds of towns.The woman whose
face had seen me thought countless nights of horror in a faraway land.  The
woman whose grandmother's engagement ring still rested on a chain around my
neck.  The woman I hadn't seen in almost 14 years.

   She stopped and talked to some of the workers.  Smiling as she gestured
to the framing that soon would be a small hospital on the outskirts of this
small Latin American town.

   As soon as she smiled, I knew it really was her.  I had to talk to her.

   "Maria?" I asked, as calmly as I could.

   She looked at me in confusion.

   "Maria Gonsalves?" I tried again.

   "Yes, I am," she replied, still unsure.

   "DOCTOR Maria Gonsalves?"

   "Um, yes," she said, her eyes looking hard at my face.

   "I knew you'd succeed.  I knew you would reach your dreams," I told her,
beaming with pride.

   Maria just looked away.

   "I'm sorry, do I know you?" she asked finally.

   "Um, no.  No, I guess not," I told her, my smile fading as my heart
broke with each word.  "I used to see you around when you were at San Diego
State."

   "Oh, did we have classes together?" she replied.  "What's your name?"

   "Josh," I told her, with a wry grin.  "No, we didn't have classes
together.  I used to see you around the library.  You were always so driven
to succeed.  I learned a lot from just watching you.  I guess I wanted to
say thanks and congratulations.  I should get back to work."

   "Josh, that is very nice of you to say that," she said, a little
uncomfortably.  "I am sorry I don't remember.  If I get time, I'll stop
back out and maybe we can catch up."

   I knew she was just trying to be nice, so I let her off the hook.

   "That's OK, Dr.  Gonsalves.  No need for that.  I just recognized you
and wanted to say hi.  I only can imagine how busy you are," I told her. 
"Take care of yourself."

   "You, too, Josh."

   As she turned to head back to her car, I realized that this was the
first person I ever loved as much as I love me.  The person who took me
from who I was and taught me to be who I am.  I just shook my head to keep
from crying.

   I looked over and found Sam by my side.

   "So, that's THE Maria, huh?" he asked.

   In five years, Sam has gone from someone I worked with, to my best
friend to the father I never had.  The only person in the world, outside of
me, who knew about Maria.

   "Yep.  I guess she meant a lot more to me than I did to her," I said,
sighing heavily.

   "You should go tell her who you are.  Jesus, you've looked for her for
years.  Now you found her.  Are you just going to let her go?" he asked.

   I knew I couldn't let her go.  She'd always be in my heart.  But, I also
knew I had to let her leave.

   "It was a long time ago, Sam."

   As Maria started to get into her car, she turned to wave back at me. 
Out of habit, I waved to her like I had since we were teen-agers.  Just my
index finger, waggling up and down.

   When she drove away, I thought, "she really is as beautiful now as she
was then."

   Chapter 1 Part 1 1977-1981

   I met Maria when we were both 8 years old.  I was the spoiled-rotten
rich kid who had it all and knew it all.

   Although most know me as Josh now, my given name is Robinson Joshua
Berisford III.  Maria was the daughter of my mother's maid, and often came
to the house with her mom.

   I took savage delight in proving to her that she was inferior to me.  I
would taunt her, ridicule her clothes or her hair, play with my new toys in
front of her and never let her touch them.

   My mother often watched these exchanges with glee.  After all, we were
rich.  And Maria was just a poor servant's daughter.

   More times that I care to count, I sent Maria home crying either in
frustration, anger or shame.

   Sometimes, when I was feeling benevolent, I would lower myself to play
games with Maria.  Cheating to win was one of my favorite pasttimes.  Maria
always caught me cheating, but if she said anything, I wouldn't play with
her for weeks at a time.  Just to teach her a lesson.

   I remember her as a brilliant student now.  But at the time, she was a
freak because she liked to read.  When I was at my worst, Maria would just
take a book, sit in the shade and close herself off from my behavior.

   As I grew older, my impression of Maria changed.  As I hit puberty, I
became much nicer to her, hoping she'd let me feel her up or give me a
blowjob.  After all, she was just a servant's daughter.  A low-class girl
whose only worth was her body.  That is what my mother taught me.

   I tried flattery, I tried threats, I tried bribes.  Nothing worked. 
Maria wasn't willing to give me what I wanted.

   Finally, I tried force.

   One summer day, shortly after I turned 12, I grabbed Maria and pulled
her aside.  She was too startled to protest when I grabbed her face and
kissed her.  At first she stiffened, then, slowly, she relaxed and returned
the kiss.

   I drifted off in a dream world only to return to reality when her knee
smashed directly into my balls.

   As I lay on the floor, nearly puking, Maria stood over me.

   "If you ever try that again, I'll cut 'em off," she said, glaring at me.
"I don't know who you think you are, R.J., but I know who I am.  I am not
something you can buy or take."

   Then, for good measure, she spat on me and walked out.

   I laid there, mostly because there was no way I could move at that
point, thinking about what she said.

   I had found out when I was about 10 years old that there was very little
I (or my mother) couldn't buy.  What we couldn't buy outright, we could
coerce until it was ours.

   Most of my friends at St.  Paul's Prep School were the same.

   Maria showed me for the first time that some things aren't for sale. 
That was when I fell in love with her.  I know that now.  Then, well, let's
just say that I was too stupid to think like that.

   Then, all I thought of was trying to find another way to get to her.

   Maria didn't come with her mother for almost 3 months.  I guess she told
her mother what I did, because her mom wouldn't even speak to me.  I am
sure her mother didn't tell mine.  But I am equally as sure that if she
had, my mother wouldn't have cared.

   The longer she stayed away, the more I realized that I missed her.  Not
tormenting her, not frightening her, not lusting after her.

   I just missed seeing her.  Talking to her.

   Finally, after about 2 months of Maria's absence and her mother's
silence, I walked up to Maria's mom and asked if I could talk to her for a
minute.

   "Mr.  Berisford, I can't imagine what we could talk about.  If you'd
like something to eat or drink, just tell me, and I will get it," she said.

   "Well, I, I," I stammered, "I just want you to tell Maria I'm sorry."

   Maria's mother just looked at me.  Sorry was not a word she was used to
hearing from either me or my mother.

   "I'm sorry not just for the last time she was here, but for the way I've
treated her forever," I continued.  "I wrote a letter to her, and I hope
you give it to her.  It just says what I told you, so if you want to read
it to make sure, it's OK."

   I handed Maria's mother the letter and walked back to my room to listen
to the stereo.

   About a month later, right after school started again, I was surprised
when Maria was at the house with her mother.

   I just smiled at her and left her alone, reading in the living room.  I
went to the den, and started on my schoolwork for the evening.

   Although my mother wasn't much at disciplining me, one sure way to get
her angry was to bring home a C on a grade card.

   Midway through my math, I glanced up and saw Maria standing in the
doorway.  I just smiled sheepishly and lifted my hand off the desk in
greeting.  I was nervous about what she might say.  But, I was more nervous
about what I felt seeing her standing there.

   "I got your letter," she said, simply.

   "I'm glad," I told her.  "I didn't know if your mom would give it to
you."

   "She didn't at first," Maria told me.  "I think she wanted to see if you
were sincere or just playing one of your games.  She told me yesterday that
she's watched you since you gave it to her.  You seem to be a lot nicer
than you used to be.  Or you're getting more conniving and better at
lying."

   That stung me.  When I think about it, it stings me still.  But I could
hardly refute it, in light of my past.

   "I know.  I really meant what I wrote.  I'm only sorry it took a kick in
the crotch to make me realize it," I told her, trying to lighten the
tension.

   "If I would have known that's what it took, you'd have gotten one
earlier," Maria told me, finally smiling.  "God knows you've deserved a few
over the years."

   I stood and walked over, holding my hand out.

   "Friends again?" I asked.

   Maria took my hand and said, "For now.  But remember, I am not something
you can buy.  I will be your friend as long as you deserve to have
friends."

   At the time, that sounded pretty good to me.

   --- Part 2 1981-1988

   From that day forward, I guess Maria and I were friends.  Not in the
spend-all-day-everyday-together sense, but in some ways, closer.

   Over the next two or three years, we spent time studying or talking
about books or movies, but we didn't socialize outside of my family home.

   My mother saw to that.

   I had some girlfriends and I am sure Maria had plenty of boyfriends. 
She was beautiful, funny, friendly and intelligent.  How could she not?

   But, we never broached on relationships.  Still, I watched how she would
treat people.  How she carried herself with dignity and pride.  I learned a
great deal during those years.

   Somehow, hours of sitting next to each other reading, our legs touching,
took on a different meaning now.  It only seemed natural that we began to
hold hands whenever we thought we were out of sight of my house.

   Then, I started going to wherever I knew Maria would be.  Then she
started doing the same thing with me.  I amazed at how easily she fit in
with my friends, how she was respectful but made sure she was respected.

   I made friends with Maria's circle, too.  Especially her best friend,
Miranda.

   It was Miranda who set up Maria's and my first real kiss.  Somehow, the
one I forced her to give me when I was 12 didn't seem like it should count.

   Miranda flirted with me outrageously.  I was insecure enough to know it
only was for Maria's benefit.

   At least I hoped it was.  Miranda was pretty, too.  But she wasn't
Maria.

   Miranda used to playfully pinch my butt when I walked past.  Or she
would take my arm when we walked somewhere.  She always made sure to sit
next to me at the park or on the bus.

   I liked it, because as soon as she would get up, Maria always took her
place, sitting closer or holding my arm a little tighter than Miranda had.

   Although I offered to treat them to a movie or to dinner, Maria never
would let me.  She resolutely refused to think I was buying her.  So, we
did free things.  And I can't think of anything more fun in my life.

   We would go to library or find a nice spot on the grass at the park. 
Sometimes we would throw a frisbee or chase butterflies.  But, always, we
ended up sitting on the benches, talking and just enjoying the other's
company.

   One day, while Maria had walked over to get a drink of water, Miranda
leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.

   "Uh, thanks," I said.  "What was that for."

   She just answered crypticly, "You'll see."

   When Maria got back, Miranda decided she needed a drink and headed
toward the fountain.

   As soon as she was gone, Maria started joking about me dumping her for
Miranda.  I turned to tell her that wasn't true, but she interrupted.

   "Do you remember when we were 12?" she asked.

   I knew immediately what she was talking about and blushed bright red.

   "I'm still very sorry about that," I told her, earnestly.

   "Do you think we could try it the right way," Maria said, now blushing
as much as I was.

   So we did.

   It was the most romantic moment of my life.  I had kissed other girls,
but, outside of the one time that left me gasping for air on the floor when
we were 12, never Maria.  When our lips touched, it was like a bolt of
lightning was sent straight to my heart.  It was a sweet kiss, a gentle
kiss.  In the years since, I have had kisses with more passion, but never
with as much sensuality.

   When we pulled apart, I was left gasping for breath once more.

   "Wow," I started.  "That was nice."

   "Much nicer than the last time, huh," Miranda mentioned from behind us.

   I blushed for one reason, Maria for another.

   As always, when she got on the bus to head to her home, I stood watching
as we wiggled our index fingers at each other.

   ----

   As your average 15-year-old, I thought my mother was the most clueless
person on the planet.

   In same ways, her ideas and her beliefs, I still think she was.  But she
was not so clueless as to not recognize my infatuation with her maid's
daughter.

   And you can bet that she took great lengths to stop it.

   At age 16, I was sent to different prep school, one about 100 miles
away. Maria and I would talk about once per month when I was home.  Our
lives were different.  Our worlds were different.  We just fell back into
the comfortable mode of friends.  OK, friends who would kiss occassionally,
but mostly just friends.

   The summer of my 17th birthday, Maria's mother fell and couldn't
continue her job with my family.

   Maria's family needed the income, so my mother hired Maria to work for
her.

   "Remember, R.J., my mother told me.  "Girls like Maria can only get out
if they latch on to some rich guy.  The best way to do that is to get
pregnant.  You stay away from her.  Do you hear me?"

   I heard her alright.  I just didn't listen.

   That summer, as I could see happening from when I was at school, my
relationship with Maria changed further.

   In a way, it hurt me when it did, but in another, I understood.

   I also recognized that, once we were grown and on a level playing field,
very little about me would interest someone as wonderful as Maria.

   During the summer, about once a week, I would meet Maria at the library
and we would study for our SATs together.  I knew her well enough to know
that she would do fine.  I also knew me well enough to know that I didn't
give a shit.  My mom would make sure I got to go to a good school.  Why
work?

   "Why work?" That was motto for as long as I could remember when I was
younger.

   I would watch Maria's mother, then Maria, bustling around.  Cleaning up
my messes.  Doing my laundry.  Cooking my meals.

   For all the changes I went through in my teens -- from being a petulant,
petty brat to someone I considered to be considerate and friendly -- it
never dawned on me that there was something wrong with the way I viewed
people.  Outside of Maria's mom and some other workers at the house, I had
very little knowlege of how the real world lived.

   The SATs were just another step in proving I am always right, and that
life isn't fair.

   Maria scored in the top 2 percentile, and was awarded a partial
scholarship to San Diego State.

   I scored well below and got accepted to Brown.

   Even at the prep schools I attended, I was richer than the rich and was
accorded special treatment because of it.

   At Brown, I was just another student.  A face in the crowd.  No one
special.  I wasn't used to that, and actually had to develop a personality
of my own.  Most of it, I stole from Maria's, I must admit.  I tried to
treat people like she did.  I tried to have the same dignity about me, even
when I knew I shouldn't.

   In my first year of college, I found I didn't know shit about anything.
I was just a snob from the West Coast.  But, I made friends.  Friends from
many social classes.  And I learned not to be a dick about things.  I also
was out from under my mother's thumb and away from her out-dated thinking.

   That helped as much as anything.

   Through it all, I thought of Maria.  I wished she could see me.  How I'd
grown.  Both emotionally and physically.

   I always played soccer in prep school.  I was good, but never willing to
work at it.  At Brown, it became a passion.  I also started playing rugby.
It was a little too physical for me at first, since at the time, I was
6-foot tall, but weighed only around 150 pounds.  But I learned.  And I
grew.  By the time I went home for summer, I was two inches taller and
weighed almost 200 pounds, and my frame had gone from bony to almost
brawny.

   The summer after my first year in college was when my life changed
forever.

   When I got home from Providence for the summer, the first person I
wanted to find was Maria.

   But she was nowhere to be found.

   I asked my mother, but she just said, "Oh, Maria is too busy for us now.
I wonder if she knows how she's been able to eat for the last few years. 
Because of us.  Now, she works only one or two days a week.  I guess she
still needs our money sometimes."

   For the first time in my life, I stood up to my mother.

   "You know, she's in college.  That is a lot of work, trust me.  Of
course, you wouldn't know, you didn't go.  You latched on to money the
first chance you got.  Like you always claimed Maria would do.  She didn't,
but you did.

   "Mother, I promise you, if you do something to make that girl have to
leave college or lose her dreams, you will regret it for the rest of your
life.  I will see to that."

   I guess my mother took that as a challenge.

   When Maria showed up for work at noon the next day, Mom fired her. 
Unfortunately, I was out of the house at that time, having been told by my
mom that Maria wouldn't be there until 4 p.m.

   For the next few days, I cruised the library at San Diego State, looking
for Maria.  I didn't find her.

   I argued with my mother on an hourly basis for the better part of three
days.  She refused to give me Maria's new number or to rehire her.

   I knew I couldn't live like this.  I knew I couldn't be responsible for
Maria missing her dream of becoming a doctor.

   The fourth day after Maria was fired, I got up, packed a few clothes,
and told my mother I was leaving.  I told her I would call once in a while,
but until Maria was back, she wouldn't see me.

   My mother said that was fine.  To leave my house keys and my car keys
and to get out.  I'd be back before long, she told me.

   The boy I was might have been.  The man I had become knew he wouldn't.

   As I was grabbing my clothes, I saw Maria's grandmother's engagement
ring on the basin of the guest bathroom.  I knew Maria always took it off
while using chemicals.  I stuck it in my pocket.

   On my way to the train station with the $214 I had to my name, I walked
past the library at San Diego State one last time.

   As if by fate, Maria was walking out as I walked by.

   "Hey stranger," I said, just happy to see her.  "Got a minute?"

   "R.J.?  My God, what are you doing here?"

   "I came to see you.  I'm sorry Maria.  Mom firing you was my fault.  I
didn't mean for it to happen, but it did.  I'm leaving.  But, can I call
you?  Can you give me your address?" I tried to get it all out quickly.

   "R.J., I'm going to give up my old apartment.  I can't afford it until I
find a new job.  What are you going to do?  You can't just leave," she told
me.

   "Yeah, I can.  Someone taught me it is better to have principles. 
Someone I am very fond of," I told her, with Maria blushing slightly.

   "Call the registrar's office next month," Maria said as a car pulled up.
"They will have an address for me.  I got to go.  My ride's here.  See ya."

   Fourteen years later, she would see me.  She just wouldn't remember me.

   Part 3 1988-2001

   Like clockwork, I called the registrar the following month and got
Maria's address.

   I wrote a long letter telling her how much I missed her and how much she
meant to me.  It was returned, marked "Addressee not longer at this
dwelling."

   As for me, I figured out I had no money and less skills.  My future
looked bright as day, right?  I managed a series of short-term jobs
(meaning I was fired pretty frequently), then, walking by a strip mall one
day, I saw a sign that would change my life: "U.S.  Marine Corps Recruiting
Center."

   I joined, got a signing bonus of a couple grand, and three weeks later I
was in boot camp.  A year after that, I tested for recon.  And a year after
that I was in the first situation that my mom or I couldn't control.

   By that time, Robinson Joshua Berisford III was gone, replaced by a
simpler, harder-working version known as Josh.

   I was part of a peace-keeping mission in Central Europe, when I was
grabbed by a group of extremists.  The very people were supposed to be
protecting.  How I got caught isn't of importance.  It was my fault, plain
and simple.

   I thought I could take care of myself.  For 152 days, I was tortured and
beaten regularly, to the point that if I had any information, I would have
given it to them readily.

   After the first few days, after it was obvious to them (and to me) that
I didn't know shit, I became the group's resident punching bag.

   My five captors took turns battering my body and my psyche, to where I
truly hoped one of them would kill me.

   Through it all, each night, Maria came to me in my dreams.  After I had
forgotten to give her grandmother's ring back when I saw her at the
library, I had a loop put around in, and wore it on a chain around my neck.

   It was all I had to remind me of her.

   On the 131st day, the most demented of my captors tore the necklace off
my body, and put it around his neck.  He told me that he would find my
girlfriend when he was done with me and treat her the same way.  I decided
I was going to get the necklace back or die trying.

   On the 152nd day, my resolve strengthend by thoughts of Maria, he and
his four friends paid for his mistake with their lives.

   As one of my smaller captors began to tie my arms about my head for my
daily flogging, I brought my knee up as hard as I could into his groin
(thanks again, Maria).  With only one arm free, I stood on his neck until I
crushed his windpipe.

   After I freed my other arm, I removed the dead man's firearm, and waited
by the door for the next ones to enter.  My escape wasn't dramatic, it was
systematic.  One by one, over the next hour or so, I killed them as the
entered the tiny shack where I was kept.

   I made sure the one who had taken the necklace died last, and most
painfully.

   As I retrieved my necklace off the not-yet-dead guerrilla, I saw the
fear in his eyes that I knew once resided in mine.

   Then, I waited, guns in hand, for him to slowly bleed to death.

   My escape didn't last very long.

   Weakened from hunger and torture, and not really knowing where I was, I
managed only about few hundred yards before the adreline rush I was on left
me, and I collapsed.

   Somehow, I awoke in the U.S.  Army Hospital in Germany.  To this day, I
don't know how.

   It was there I learned of my mother's death from a stroke about 2 months
into my captivity.

   My life was about to take another turn.

   Four weeks after I had awoken, and a month after I had escaped, I was
given a full discharge from the U.S.  Marine Corps because of the hardship
of my mother's death, and the fact they worried that my captivity had
warped my mind.

   As my plane touched down in San Diego, I realized that I was not quite
22 years old, and had an estimated net worth of almost half a billion
dollars.

   But, I saw what running my family's company had done to my father, who
died at age 38 when I was about 3, and my mother, who turned into a
money-grubbing shrew at about the same time.

   I was determined not to let that happen.  I set up a receivership to run
the company, hands-off, until I finished college, at which time I planned
to sell it to the highest bidder.

   At Brown, I had majored in business for the year I was there.  I was
there long enough to know business wasn't for me.  This time, I wasn't
going back east, instead deciding to attend San Jose State.  Once there, I
found my true calling, mechanical drawing and architecture.

   I also made sure I had time to search far and wide for Maria.

   All I found was that her mother died shortly before mine, leaving me
absolutely no ties to Maria.

   I spent part of the summer in San Diego, going to the places we went,
looking for people we used to know.  After a fruitless search of more than
a month, I gave up, realizing the necklace I wore around my neck would have
to be enough from then on.

   But, it didn't stop me from looking for her everywhere I went.  And it
didn't stop me from dreaming of her almost every night.  It also didn't
stop me from trying to find some way to honor her.

   After graduation, I sat down with my attorney, and told him my plan.

   I already had sold my family home, putting the money in investments.  I
also sold almost everything out of the house -- the paintings, the
furnishings.

   Although I am not a shrewd businessman, I like to think I am halfway
smart.  So I started a non-profit organzation, JB Enterprises.  With almost
all the profits from the business, my stock portfolio, my personal
inheritance, I decided to build hospitals in poorer countries.  I set up an
office in Denver, and looked around for the first recipient of The Maria
Grant, $5 million for building and $2 million for stocking and $3 million
for training staff.

   I decided the first one would be built in Guatemala.  My attorney
introduced me to Sam, and I let him handle most of the logisitics of hiring
workers, finding machinery and buying property.  I handled the designs.

   Now, don't get the impression that these were large inner-city
hospitals, like many are used to.

   These were simple facilities, enough for everyday treatments and minor
surgeries, but certainly not a trauma unit.  To build, stock and train a
hospital of that size would take more than I had if I sold everything.

   Still, the response of the residents was overwhelming.  I saw the first
hospital only after it was built.  I promised not to do that again.

   I was careful that no one knew who was behind JB Enterprises, or that I
was the sole member of the committee who decided where we should build.

   Word of mouth spread quickly, and before I knew it, I had applications
for Maria Grants pouring in weekly.

   I decided that to do what I wanted, I was going to need help.  So, I
hired an office manager named Gwen to keep things straight for me, to
organize the applicants, to set criteria on where we built.  And to make
sure the dumbass who owned the company didn't run it into the ground.  She
was a Godsend, let me tell you.

   After we decided where to build the second clinic, I felt comfortable
enough to leave the day-to-day operations to Gwen and went with Sam to help
build it.  Although I wasn't good at construction, Sam was a patient
teacher.  He also became my most valued friend.  Gradually, I got better at
building, and would stand speechless as my drawings became a reality.

   It was over a few beers back in Denver after the second hospital was
complete, I told Sam about Maria.  About who I used to be and why I was so
different know.  I even told him about my captivity in Europe.

   We began to build 2 clinics each year, and Gwen even found ways to get
used, but functional, equipment donated to us.  As our buildings continued
to rise, so did our profile.  Still, no one at the site knew that I was one
behind the operation.  No one but Sam.

   In our fifth year, we received more than 100 grant applications.  It was
getting tough to turn people down.  I always felt badly about saying no to
someone who needed it.  But, I didn't have enough money to build a hospital
in every little town in Latin America.  I wished I did, but I didn't.

   After much debate, we decided to build our second hospital of 2001 in a
small town in Belize.  It was the first application we had received from
the small country, but, Gwen fought hard for it.

   Finally, she won, sending me to the country from where Maria's
grandparents emigrated to the U.S.  in 1955.

   It was there I stood, watching the only woman I ever loved drive down a
dusty road, waving as she pulled away.

   Author's note: This is the first part of a new serial on which I am
working.  It has been rattling around in my head for some time, and I
decided to start on it now, while some of the ideas are fresh.  Believe it
or not, I actually know how this one will end.  For those of you who
started reading my other current project, Emily's Lessons, don't fret, I
still am working on it, too.  I just needed some time to get the characters
back to where I want them.  More is coming in the near future.  As always,
comments, suggestions and constructive criticisms are welcome.  I may be
reached at cantrell_jay@yahoo.com.