HE SUN ASCENDED IN A BLAZE of glory to the east as dark desert clouds gathered from the west and began to boil over the dusty junkyard. A few reporters lingered on the porch like hungry dogs waiting for one last table scrap. Each hoped to cull one final tidbit of information from the army of iron-jawed agents out combing the wreckage for any undiscovered clues.
Reverend Keller emerged from the seclusion of the trailer’s tiny utility room, where he’d spent the last three hours on his knees. The prayer had been mostly of thanks, mixed with fervent and persistent pleadings. Pleadings for Vinnie, a man burned beyond recognition, appeals for him to live if his soul was worth saving, or, if not, that his suffering would be minimal. Petitions on behalf of another man, Bino, brave beyond words, who heroically had peeled the borrowed jacket from his shoulders to smother the flames, despite the serious burns received to his hands and face. Prayers for a young girl so petrified during her three-days in captivity that he knew only God and her own father would be able to teach her how to feel safe again. Cries of mercy for the mute who had been rushed to the hospital for a CT scan of his cracked skull. Prayers of hope that Ritter’s life had been spared. A simple supplication in behalf of the devoted and tireless Cap’n, that he would be comforted as he steadfastly stayed by the side of his friend. And, last but not least, entreaties that the unforgettable, skinny vagabond Sound would peacefully and valiantly realize his dream of passing through the beautiful door leading to the other side.
But, again, the reverend’s prayers were mostly of thanksgiving, thanks for the lives spared, thanks that the medical team had arrived so quickly, thanks that so many wonderful individuals and families could go on loving and living.
The moment Keller walked out on the front porch and gazed up into the darkening sky, the storm’s first big raindrop splattered on the top of his shiny head and drizzled down past his cheek. It was as if a smiling tear had sought him out, to tell him, at that very moment, that everything would work out for the best. He climbed into his van and made his way back onto the frontage road. He thought of the day that lay ahead. Cook was probably scooping mush and listening to the complaints of hungry patrons wanting cold orange juice and milk again. A fridge that had once housed a body probably should be retired for good. It might be a good day to go shopping for a new one. Yup, it was back to the grindstone again. No rest for the wicked, he thought.
He smiled as he merged onto the freeway. Rolling his window down a tad, he smelled the desert air, washed clean by the cleansing storm. A persistent mist shot up in front of him, the result of spinning tires hammering on rain-drenched asphalt. It hovered in the damp, electric air, then came to rest on nearby plants, oncoming windshields, or back onto the pavement to be trounced once more. In essence, in filling the measure of its creation, the rain–each individual droplet–was evolving through its cycle of existence.
Already in town, Mitch and Stephanie milled about the hospital, waiting for Grandpa to get the last of the stitches pulled tight on his tough old skull. He was retelling the story for the fifth time that day. The doctor’s assistant, busily closing the wound, nodded politely as he listened to the chilling narrative of how the bullets slapped the bed in the dark room as he rolled across it, tumbled off, and struck his head on the nightstand.
The minute Nurse was released from custody, she climbed on a bus and headed for New York, New York. A fax from Congressman MacArthur and a brief chat via cell phone convinced the management to let her up to the 8th-floor room.
Unlocking the deadbolt and pressing her head inside, instantly she knew what had happened. The smell of death enshrouded the entire room. Cap’n stood at the window, still holding Sound’s limp body in his arms and speaking softly, telling him of the passing thunderstorm.
Reverently she stepped to his side and looked out across the valley, pensive, serene. “He loved th’ rain, didn’t he?” she said at last. “I watched him dance in th’ puddles in Eddie’s alley one day ‘bout a year ago.”
Squinting through the tears, Cap’n peered down at the stooped little woman; she gazed up at him. Her eyes too had flooded over. Notwithstanding her pained, glum spirit, she smiled, gently coaxing his cheeks also to lift. His words came in labored sobs. “You was . . . afraid he might get sick ‘gain.”
Nurse chuckled softly and again scanned the overcast horizon. “I wanted t’ tan his hide. . . . Spent all them days nursin’ him back t’ health, an’ how’d he repay me? Danced in th’ rain. . . .”
A droll grin appeared on Cap’n’s face. “And then he had t’start runnin’, you chasin’ him with a stick an’ all. Funniest thing I ever seen–an old woman, soakin’ wet, chasin’ some skinny fella down the alley with a stick in her hand.”
“He knew I was funnin’ with him, didn’t he?”
“He knew, all right. His dancin’ in the rain was his way of showin’ how much he cared ‘bout you. I think it was ‘bout the best compliment any man could pay. He was alive and kickin’; shakin’ an’ bakin’. Wanted you to know it; wanted you to know you had a part in it.”
“He knew he was dyin’. We knew, too, didn’t we Cap’n? But after his rain dance, I never heard a word a’ complaint come from his lips.”
Cap’n looked down into the calm visage of his compatriot and friend, and whispered, “Ya’ know, he sighed. . . . When he opened the door, he sighed.”
“Musta’ been rainin’ there too.”
“Probably was.”
Cuddled side by side, they stared across the newly-scrubbed landscape a few silent moments longer. Then Nurse stretched her warped hands to help pry Sound’s stiff body from Cap’n’s frozen grasp. “Here, now . . . let’s put him down.”
It was two days before word came in from the hospital: Vinnie had died. That same day, Ritter’s body was found by a passing motorist. A father and his young son had gotten out of their truck to explore along the highway. The smell had sent them searching.
For the local G-men, the taxing week had become even more taxing, what with the spate of reports and follow-up reports and non-stop phone calls. Wilding had resisted wiring the fifty-thousand dollars to Yorkshire, until Reverend Keller reminded him it wouldn’t cost the government a dime. You see, explained Keller, Vinnie’s attorney had previously put up a fifty-thousand-dollar bail bond on Ritter. It was the only–and best–way for the posted money to be spent.
Aside from the FBI, most everyone else had caught their collective breath and were ready to saturate their lives with some mind-numbing dullness. Each assessed the part he or she had played in the often dizzying, exhausting previous two weeks.
Cook–all by himself–had managed to get Errol on the plane to London. A day later, the reverend had worked out the details to get him in a local drug program in England. Phoning the program manager, Keller had explained, “I assure you, sir, I’ve known Mr. Ritter for many years. You know as well as I do that in the first few days they’ll say anything to get out. He’ll be himself again when you get him cleaned up. . . . Yes, doctor, you have a good day too. Cheery-o.” He hung up the phone. When Cook shot him a funny look, Keller justified his words. “That wasn’t even close to a lie. Ritter will be himself again in a few days– Errol Ritter, that is. . . . And what did you give him, anyway, to get him on that flight?”
“A couple of sleeping pills,” answered Cook. “I told him they’d get him at least 30-thousand feet off the ground.”
The reverend laughed, then peered around the big man to the doorway, where stood a woman, peeking into the office. “Excuse me?” she said. “Is one of you Reverend Keller?”
Cook, not wanting to ruin his reputation, replaced his grin with a glower and marched from the office, muttering under his breath about the new fridge–donated by one of the big hotels–that hadn’t yet arrived.
“I guess that would be me,” the reverend chuckled. “Please come in. How can I help you?”
The woman reached into her purse. “I’m Linda Hart,” she said. “You sent me this letter?”
Keller felt a jolt shoot up to his brain and back down his to his toes. “Come in . . . sit down. Sorry my office is such a mess. Sunny. . . . I mean Greg’s helping me put a new zip drive in my computer. I expected him back an hour ago.”
She settled herself on the edge of her seat and asked point-blank, “Did Greg really write this letter?”
“He did–straight from the heart.”
Linda stared down at the floor. Then her eyes penetrated Reverend Keller’s relaxed gaze. “Would you be willing to help us?”
“I’d be more than willing,” he said over the yells and hurried footsteps out in the gymnasium. He rose and stepped over to the door to see what all the commotion was about.
Nurse was shuffling across the wood-slat floor, with Greg a step behind. “We gots good news,” she crowed.
“We have good news,” corrected Greg.
“Whatever . . .” Nurse said, a bit put out by his constant nagging. She coasted up to the reverend and focused her new eyes on his, ready to deliver the knock-out bulletin.
But Greg interrupted her account with a teasing “If’n ya’ wants my hep, ya’ gots t’ say it right!”
“Ok-ay, ok-ay, smart al-eck,” she said, accentuating each syllable. “We have good news to tell you.” With every fourth word she spoke, her new teeth stuck to her gums for just a split second, leaving her frustrated. And so she yielded to Greg’s grammatical graces. “You just go ‘head an’ tell him so’s it don’t take so long.”
“So it doesn’t . . .”
“Jus’ say it!” she hooted.
Greg flinched in mock alarm, then started in. “The results came back from the neurologist. They think they can stimulate the speech centers in Smitty’s brain by removing some of the scar tissue from the frontal lobe of his left hemisphere.”
The reverend smiled. “Funny how things work isn’t it?” he said.
“An’that ain’t all. Tell him, Sunny,” Nurse added excitedly.
“Isn’t all.”
Nurse’s penetrating glare–a genuine ‘dirty look’–spoke more than a thousand words. She was fed up with his nitpicking and meddling and just wanted him to get on with the conversation. Greg swallowed and smiled sheepishly as she waved him to carry on. He wrapped his arm around Nurse’s spindly shoulder and resumed his account, deliberately peppering it with a decidedly poor southern twang. “This here ol’ woman tramped into Antonio Domenico’s hospital room–all by herself, mind ya’–and asked if he’d be interested in payin’ the cost a’ the surgery. And when she came out, he’d not only agreed t’ pay fer Smitty, but also t’ be a permanent sponsor of Keller’s Kitchen and . . .” Greg’s drawl was stopped cold as his gaze fell on the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, standing in the reverend’s doorway.
Keller’s brow furrowed. Giving Nurse a dirty look of his own, he began to scoot her away. “A crime boss? Rats! What’d you tell him?” he bickered. “We can’t accept . . .”
Nurse wasn’t paying any mind to Keller’s squawks. “No wonder he’s been pinin’over her,” she said, beaming. “She seem’s like a fine woman.”
“Nurse, what did you do?”
Nurse soaked the moment for all it was worth. “She’s a fine lookin’ woman. . . .”
“I can’t accept money that’s been cursed.”
“No need t’ bellyache, Reverend. Don’t give it no mind. Man asked how he could be a’ service t’ his new neighborhood, an’ I give him a thought ‘r two. Want’s t’ do it, though, I’m tellin’ ya’. If’n he’s gonna have a fancy new hotel in this city, he don’t need no problems from nobody. Want’s t’ fit in, is all. If’n you know what I mean.”
“If–the word is if!” grumped Keller.
Nurse pursed her lips. “Don’t need two a’ ya’ tellin’ me how t’ talk.”
The reverend glanced over at Greg, who sat in the corner, talking with his wife. They were holding hands. “I think there will be only one of us from here on out. Besides, who’s going to teach Smitty to talk if you don’t learn how yourself?”
“Point well taken,” she said.
Across the room, Greg’s fingertips lightly stroked Linda’s hand. “You didn’t take off your ring.”
“I didn’t finish filing the papers. . . . I see you didn’t take yours off, either.”
Greg tugged at his ring, trying to pull it free. “It wouldn’t come off,” he teased. Then, just like that, the ring slipped off his finger. “I guess I finally lost a little weight,” he laughed. Using a firm, twisting motion, he anchored it back on. “It wouldn’t feel right if it wasn’t there.”
Linda gave her husband the once-over. “You look good,” she said. “Yes, you’ve definitely lost some weight.”
Greg nodded, still twirling the ring loosely on his finger. He felt the load of guilt and selfishness he’d been carrying gradually lifting from his shoulders. He gazed over at the reverend, now heaven-bent on helping Nurse with her English. He’d helped him, too. “I know,” he said. “It feels good.”
In a weird and ironic twist of fate, both Bino and Vinnie had ended up in the same burn unit, only two beds away from each other. One man lay in utter pain, bitter and scared, blindly lashing out at anyone in his path– including a good reverend who came to offer comfort. In everlasting hatred, the man dismissed the preacher’s visit as the act of a “blankety-blank goody two-shoes.” He didn’t need a preacher because there was no God. . . . Even in the one moment when he’d caught a glimpse of Bino, he’d declared his disgust and told him he’d see him in hell.
The other man, meanwhile, was learning how to love and forgive. . . . He knew it all needed to start with himself. The young girl at his bedside was learning right along with him. In addition to trying to patch up the multiple emotional and spiritual wounds, Bino, at the insistence of his doctors, was already working with a physical therapist. Three times a day she would come by to help him stretch his muscles and maintain good range of motion in his joints. The painful sessions, in Bino’s mind, were all part of the soulrefining process. His oxygen had been boosted to near a hundred percent to keep his stats up to a normal level. It would be months before he would recover, if ever. He knew that, in truth–even with God’s help and the hope and prayers of others–it would take years for both him and Angelina to fully recover. “It must have been . . . terrible for you,” Bino whispered through the pasty layers of thin bandages stuck to his face.
“But you killed him, Daddy,” she said, a note of triumph in her innocent voice. “It said so in all the papers. You’re a hero.” His beloved Angelina looked down proudly at her father. Her dark eyes seemed to be searching for a reason to hate. “I’m no hero,” Bino struggled to say, his teeth clenched. “I waited too long . . . to put out the flames.”
“But he shot you, he deserved to die.”Bino thought back to that night long ago on the streets of LA. He’d hesitated a second too long. The consequences had been deadly. An innocent life had been taken, two families left fatherless. “I can never . . . revel in it, Angelina. A man . . . is dead. He had . . . to be stopped.”
“But he sent those men to kidnap me.”
“I know . . . it must have been . . . terrible.”
“It was.” The girl’s lip began to quiver–then she broke down, sobbing. “Now, now,” Bino whispered sympathetically. He lifted his bandaged
hand and put in on hers. Then he began to speak of forgiveness. Angelina needed to find it in her heart to forgive him for his horde of mistakes; they both needed to find a way to forgive the man who had brought them so much sorrow.
The congressman and his wife sat side by side on the sofa, the distance between them having narrowed considerably over the preceding two days. Somehow he’d managed to stay away from the throngs of reporters, with their prying cameras and microphones. And somehow he’d learned the power of those simple words: “I’m sorry.” Even without counseling, he’d begun to realize the myriad blunders he’d made in his marriage. Now he was intent on mastering the relationship skills he’d long neglected.
The meek yet confident little man facing them on the swivel chair was named Paul. The lilliputian wire-rimmed spectacles that perched on his fragile nose were in stark contrast to his enormous bald head. Equally out of place was his curious, whimsical personality. Dry puns and clever quips spewed almost at will from the mouth of this rather mousy-looking fellow. He spoke with a funny lisp, a flaw that strangely accentuated his playful temperament. There was no extravagant office, no fancy doctor’s degrees on the wall. But the man had come highly recommended, compliments of an ex-plumber who’d fixed his overflowing toilet years before.
Once the preliminary getting-to-know-you questions were out of the way, Paul turned his discerning gaze on Dalton MacArthur and asked, “What do you want to accomplish in these sessions?”
The congressman spoke candidly of his weaknesses. “I need to learn how to communicate and bring love back into my home. For many years I’ve been guilty of shoving it away.”
“Good, good,” nodded the counselor. “And you, Mrs. MacArthur?”“I want my family back. I want us to be close, to be able to say how we feel and to be understood.”
“I think, with some effort, we can find a way,” Paul said, connecting the tips of his fingers to form a little pyramid. “I want you to try a little experiment with me. Will you do that?” The couple nodded. “Mrs. MacArthur– do you mind if I call you Levina? . . . Fine. Levina, will you kneel on the carpet for a moment?” She knelt down. “Now, Congressman MacArthur– or should I say Dalton? . . . fine–would you please stand up on the couch?”
He hesitated. “With my shoes on?”
“Sure,” Paul nodded, “the shoes will be fine.” The congressman tentatively lifted one foot onto the couch, then brought the other up. “Now, Levina, look up at him.” Lifting her face, she gazed into her husband’s eyes. “Now how do you feel?”
For a full 30 seconds Levina knelt there, her eyes riveted on the imposing figure standing above her, her fixed stare boring into her husband’s soul. Then she began to tear up. She raised a hand in embarrassment as the congressman, towering above her, shifted nervously on his feet. Then Paul stood up and reached for the congressman’s hand. “Here, let me help you down.” He was brought into a kneeling position, facing his wife. Interlocking the couple’s hands, Paul next asked, “Now, how does this feel?”
Each looked over at the other. Levina smiled through her tears. “This feels better.”
Paul nodded, then continued. “Now hold each other close. . . . As you do, Dalton, tell me about the first time you met your beautiful wife, your sweetheart. What attracted you to her?”
Dalton opened his mouth, but nothing would come out, he was so overcome with emotion. Finally he was able to speak–and the words and tears flowed freely. “I loved her right from the start . . .” As he spoke, the feelings in the room magically changed from friendship and tolerance to deep and lasting love. When he’d finished, Paul turned to invite Levina to share her feelings.
More tears were shed, bridges were spanned, hearts were mended, and the hour was soon over. Paul checked his calendar. “I’ll see you next week then?”
The congressman instinctively reached for his planner, then paused. “Yes, of course. We’ll be flying home once a week to be with our family.”
“Good. Let me say how much I admire you both. Two beautiful people– thrill seekers, in a way–willing to come back for more fun and excitement. We have a lot of work to do, but I can see it will be worth it.”
The last of Mitch and Stephanie’s things had been loaded on the back of the wrecker and a rented trailer hitched behind when Joan pulled into the driveway next door. The battered El Dorado, its brakes grinding, rumbled to a halt at the side of the house and Joan got out. Mitch looked to Stephanie for her approval. Taking her by the hand they turned toward Joan.
“Good morning, Joan,” Mitch called out as they walked together up the drive. “How’s Al doing?”
Joan appeared more ragged than ever. Her arm was cast and strapped to her shoulder with a sling. Dressed in her waitress outfit, she’d already been off work at least three hours. “He’s responding,” Joan said warily, her raspy voice heavier than her arm.
Mitch cleared his throat and said, “We want to thank you for what you did.”
Joan shrugged. “The putz had it comin’.”
“Will they prosecute?”
“Who knows. He can’t even lift a spoon to his mouth, let alone defend himself on attempted rape charges.”
Hard-pressed to know what to say next, Mitch rotated his bum wrist, still sore from his run-in with the police. “So . . . what will you do?”
Joan, storm clouds gathering in her eyes and thunder in her breast, looked back and forth between Mitch and Stephanie. “I don’t know. I’ve been married to the man almost thirty years. He might just make a better husband being spoon fed than he was before.” She peered off down the lonely cul-de-sac, her eyes flooding with grief.
Stephanie nodded, her heart filled with compassion. The woman had lost her husband and son in the same day, one from a disabling blow to the head, the other to a five-year sentence in the Federal penitentiary. Mitch, sensing his wife’s heartbreak, reached over and pulled her close. Joan saw how in love the young couple were. An anxious quiet fell over the little gathering. How she wished she could feel even a fraction of that kind of love in her own life.
Stephanie’s heart finally burst. “I’m so sorry,” she wailed, wrapping the woman in her arms.
Joan guardedly returned the embrace. It had been so long since she hugged someone. Pulling Stephanie in a bit closer, she then released her grip, laughed–or rather, coughed–wiped her cheeks and said, “Ah, what the heck. I’ll make do. I’ve got one less mouth to feed and one more kid to raise. He’ll sit around watching TV, not that much different than before. At least he won’t talk back no more.” Another awkward hush fell over the trio, this time a bit less stifling.
Finally Stephanie said, “Thank you again. You’re about the bravest woman I’ve ever met.”
Joan let out a hearty laugh. “That wasn’t bravery, girl. That was thirty years of bottled-up frustration, all cocked behind that baseball bat.” She laughed again to hide the pain. Then before picking up a sack of groceries from the front seat and traipsing into her slightly more tidy house, she ended by saying, “The best of luck to both of you. You let me know when those babies are born.”
“We will,” Stephanie promised.
Hand in hand, Mitch and Stephanie made their way down the driveway, across the weeds, and back to the wrecker. He opened her door, then pulled her close, cradled under his arm, and asked, “How’d you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Make friends with her?”
The question was a healing balm to Stephanie’s ears. She could never understand how Mitch got along so well with the punks down the street. Maybe she’d finally discovered a clue. “It’s simple. She doesn’t have anybody.”
“I know.”
“She’s a lonely, broken-hearted woman with a broken man and little hope for happiness. Believe it or not, as rotten as Al is, he’s all she has.”
Mitch took her cheeks in his hands and drew her face up to his. “If you were all I had,” he sighed, “it would be enough for a lifetime. But it doesn’t stop there. You’re giving me children and joy–and love. You stood by me through a terrible ordeal, and trusted me when nobody else did, when everything looked bleak. Your heart is so warm and gentle and so full of love and kindness that I’ll never catch up. You’re as beautiful on the inside as you are on the outside, and I swear, as long as I live, I’ll never do anything again to make you doubt me.”
Tears of relief and joy streamed down Stephanie’s cheeks as she held Mitch’s big hands in hers. Levina, yellow rubber gloves covering her hands, plaid apron around her waist, stepped from the front door of the empty house and looked out on the couple, caught up in a tender kiss. Their mutual love was warm and full of understanding, a companionship based on kindness and respect, one that could withstand the bumps of life’s journey, its battery of frightening blizzards and inevitable changes. Surely there would be sadness and suffering along the way, but also great joy and growth.
Slightly flustered, Levina remained on the porch. At last she called out, “I don’t mean to break you two lovebirds up, but the house is nearly clean and Dalt just called. He’s waiting to talk to you.” She peeled the gloves from her hands, dropped them in the cleaning bucket she’d set on the step, and came towards the truck. “We can finish this up tomorrow.”
Mitch, thinking they’d been hidden behind the truck, stepped back, self consciously wiped his eyes, and helped Stephanie up into the cab. Then he opened the other door for his mother-in-law. “I’m sorry it’s such a piece of junk,” he apologized. “I don’t think we’ve ever had a woman ride in it before.”
“Don’t apologize,” Levina smiled. “Dalt and I had our share of junkers along the way. So you just don’t let him give you a hard time about your hotrods. Deep down, he’s been dying to drive your GTO. He’s always wanted one.”
A look of surprise flooded Stephanie’s face. “Really?”
Mitch grinned. “Maybe we could go for a ride tonight.”
“That’s why I had to break up that cute love scene. We don’t want to keep your grandpa waiting, and I’ve been dying to finally try that junkyard dog stew.”
Mitch backed from the drive and pulled away. When he neared the end of the street, he checked the rearview mirror. The house appeared dismal and hollow. He wouldn’t miss the place, nor the gunfire at night, nor the gang-bangers smoking their weed and flashing their signs. Even now it seemed like a whole other world, a hard past that held a multitude of memories.
The thought of Stephanie having her parents back didn’t seem real, either. And living in their home for a while was an even wilder thought. “You’ll let us pay rent, won’t you?” he pestered for a third time.
“Don’t be silly,” Levina smiled. “You’re doing us a favor. It’s been a nightmare trying to keep up with two places. Whenever we come home it seems like all we do is sort through junk mail, throw away the newspapers, and buy a few groceries before heading back to D.C. And we do have an ulterior motive,” she added, a gleam in her eye. “You’ll be hosting us for dinner once a week. That’ll be your rent.” She turned to Mitch and gave him a little poke on the shoulder. “It’ll take a brave man to have his in-laws staying in his home so often.”
Mitch laughed aloud. “After the couple of weeks we’ve had, it’ll be a treat.”