Devoted Heart

by Bill Myers

  “Without an epidural, the body sometimes works very quickly.”

  “That’s why it was so easy,” I said.

  Mary cut me a withering look.

  The doctor chuckled. “When the body feels pain it may decide, ‘enough already’ and hurry things along.”

  That was pretty much it from the medical department.

  As far as finances, our three benefactors disappeared as quickly as they had appeared. Once the gifts had been distributed they made a hasty retreat into the early morning hours.

  “Can I at least buy you guys breakfast?” I had asked.

  Gray Beard shook his head. “The fewer hours we are here the less attention will be drawn to you.”

  “The government?” I said.

  “And the food.” The Asian shook his head. “We tried dinner last night. No thank you.”

  “When’s the next flight?” I asked.

  “Whenever we decide,” Gray Beard said.

  I nodded. “Of course. You came in on your own plane.”

  “Planes,” he corrected.

  After a round of handshakes and more heartfelt thanks from us, they were gone.

  Then came the photos. Lots and lots of photos. With her phone recharged Mary filled its memory in minutes and begged to use mine. I agreed but insisted there be no posting. “No Facebook or whatever you guys are using,” I said. “Not until we get things figured out.”

  She agreed but it didn’t stop her from sending them to our folks. Or calling them. My parents were excited, but there was that down-home practicality: when would we be getting back, what purchases should they make in the meantime, were we sure about that tiny apartment we’d been looking at?

  Her folks were much more enthusiastic, asking about weight, size, how she was feeling . . . and then, at the very end, they included one important fact.

  “Hold it, Mom,” Mary said, “I’m going to put you on speakerphone. Will you say that again?”

  “Sure. Hi, Joseph. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. McDermott.”

  “Don’t you think, Annie would be more appropriate now?”

  “Right, sorry.”

  “I was just telling Mary, there are a couple new faces in town. Two men, very fond of dark suits and sun glasses.”

  I threw Mary a look.

  “They even showed up at church yesterday.”

  “Did they say anything?” I asked. “Do anything?”

  “No, no, as polite as pie. But there are those sunglasses.”

  Mary smiled. “Mom, just because they wear sunglasses, doesn’t mean—”

  “I know, I know. It was a good sermon, though. One of your father’s best. I hope they got something out of it.”

  “So, other than the sunglasses,” I said, “there really wasn’t anything?”

  “No, no. Just the sunglasses. And, of course, the questions.”

  “Questions?”

  “About the two of you.”

  I felt my gut tighten.

  “Again, all very polite, very nice—”

  “What type of questions?” Mary asked.

  “When was the baby due? Where did you go? When would you’d be coming back?”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “Not much. I mean, there were those sunglasses.”

  I motioned to Mary, whispering for her to end the call.

  “What?” she mouthed.

  “Now,” I whispered. “End the call now.”

  She frowned but nodded. “I think that was the right thing, Mom. Nobody needs to know our business.”

  “Exactly. Now, when will you be back?”

  “In the next day or so. We’re just leaving to visit Joey’s friend.”

  I motioned for her to hurry.

  She gave another nod. “We’ll call back a little later, okay?”

  “Okay, dear. Your father says, hello. Oh, and send more pictures.”

  “Will do. I love you. I love you both.”

  “We love you, too. Can’t wait to see that baby.”

  “Bye.”

  “Bye-bye. Bye, Joseph.”

  “Bye,” I said, a bit too abruptly as I motioned for Mary to hang up. I was probably a little paranoid. And naive. I mean if three foreigners could find us, anyone in the intelligence community could. But still . . .

  Once we had finished packing we headed to the lobby where, to our surprise, our Spanish-speaking friends had spent the night.

  “Just in case the tow truck cannot find your car,” the old man had said.

  I nodded but suspected it had more to do with spending extra time with Mary and the baby.

  Anyway, we found our car and, with the help of a tow truck, pulled it to safety. After a hefty fee to the barrel-chested driver, and his insightful advice to, “Be more careful, dude, you got a kid now,” we began the last leg of our journey.

  Thirty minutes later we pulled into the dirt lane leading to Charlie’s mom’s house. Once we arrived, we were greeted by two very loud, and very oversized dogs.

  “Dumb! Dumber!” Charlie’s mom called as she stepped out onto the porch. She was a plump woman in a printed housedress. “Get back here. Now!” The dogs settled as she headed out to join us. “Joey, is that you?”

  I rolled down the window. “Mrs. Riordan.”

  “Don’t worry none about the dogs, they won’t hurt nobody.”

  I nodded, but waited until she arrived before getting out of the car.

  We’d never met, but she threw her arms around me like family. “Thank you so much for coming. It means so much to him.”

  “Of course,” I said, “of course. Sorry we’re late. We had some car trouble.”

  “Among other things,” Mary said as she climbed out her own side and reached back for the baby.

  As to be expected, Mrs. Riordan made plenty of fuss over him—so, cute, so adorable, so this, so that. All true, of course. “And what’s his name?” she asked.

  “Jesus,” Mary said. It was the first time we’d said his name publically. It felt good, and strange and strong. “His name is Jesus.”

  “Hello, Jesus.” Despite sharing our joy, there was a sadness in her eyes that crept into her voice. “May I . . . would it be alright if I held him?”

  “Of course.”

  I’d have expected Mary to be more reluctant, but she must have sensed something because she handed him to her without question. Mrs. Riordan took him into her arms. You could tell she was deeply moved—adjusting his hair, his clothes. I watched as her eyes brimmed with moisture. Mary looked on, equally as affected.

  After a long, respectful moment, I cleared my throat and asked, “How’s Charlie?”

  She looked up, eyes glistening. “Still hanging on. I don’t know how he’s doing it, but he’s still hanging on.” Taking a breath for resolve, she passed the baby back to Mary and motioned us to follow. “Come. We’ll get your things later.”

  We entered the house through the kitchen. It was warm and filled with the smell of pot roast and simmering green beans with bacon. We stepped into the darkened hallway, lined with family photos. Charlie’s room was at the far end. As we walked, my mind again replayed the events of so few weeks ago . . .

  “Joey! Look out!”

  I’d been kneeling beside a seven-year-old girl on the floor. She’d been caught in our crossfire and was bleeding out. I’d broken protocol. Instead of checking the rest of the house first, I let my emotions get in the way. An unknown child was dying. Just another casualty of war. But I let the sight throw me, distract me. I was the one distracted and Charlie was the one who paid the price.

  He spotted the shooter a moment before me and leaped between us. He managed to bring him down, but not before taking the rounds that should have been mine.

  And, now, for my mistake, he was dying.

  “Sweetheart?” Mrs. Riordan called. “Charlie? They’re here.”

  We stepped into the small room. He lay on a twin bed, motionless, skinnier than I
remembered. Bandages still covered part of his face and his eyes were closed. I’ve smelled death before and the room was full of it.

  “Sweetheart?” Mrs. Riordan said.

  He gave no response.

  I approached the bed. Mary stayed at my side. The baby squirmed but didn’t fuss.

  “Hey partner,” I said. “You look like crap.”

  If he heard, he didn’t show it.

  I felt my throat tighten, a knot of emotions—grief, anger, guilt. Mary sensed what I was going through and rested her hand on my shoulder. I kept my face turned so she wouldn’t see the tears.

  I swallowed, forced out the words. “I’m sorry . . . so sorry . . .”

  At first there was no response. And then he spoke. A halting, breathy whisper. “He’s . . . here . . .”

  I leaned closer. “Yes, buddy, I’m here.” My voice clogged with emotion. “We took the scenic route, but I’m right here.”

  I could see it took effort, but ever so slightly he shook his head.

  It broke my heart and I answered in a ragged whisper. “I know . . . if there was any way to change places with you, I—”

  “Not . . . you.”

  I stopped. Frowned. “No, it’s me,” I said. “It’s Joey. I’m right here.”

  His lips parted. I dropped my head closer to his mouth.

  “No . . .” he whispered.

  I looked to Mary, to Mrs. Riordan, at a loss for words. The baby began to fuss. Mary rocked him in her arms, but he wouldn’t stop. She was about to turn, preparing to leave, when Charlie spoke again.

  “He’s the one . . .”

  The baby grew louder.

  Charlie began to smile—faint, but unmistakable. “Him . . .”

  None of us understood.

  The baby began to cry.

  “Yes. . .” Charlie’s voice was more air than sound. He struggled for another breath.

  Mary’s hand tightened on my shoulder as he spoke again.

  “Him . . .”

  It made no sense but he seemed determined to make his point. He fought for another breath—gasping, uneven. “Yes . . .”

  And then he relaxed, letting the rest of it go in a quiet, rattling wheeze.

  We waited. But it was over. We all knew it. He was gone. Only his smile remained . . . as Jesus’ cry grew louder.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Everything ready?”

  “All set.”

  “Backpacks?”

  “Check.”

  “Diapers?”

  “Check.”

  “Baby?”

  Mary looked up from strapping him into the baby seat. “Oh wait, I knew I forgot something.”

  I was standing next to Mrs. Riordan at the driver’s side of our newly acquired Range Rover. “You know,” I said to her, “I’m still not feeling good about this.”

  “What, the car?”

  “It’s worth fifty times the Impala,” I said.

  “You saw the letter. Charlie wanted you to have it.”

  “You also said those last few days he was pretty out of it.”

  “On this he was very clear. Very clear. Besides,” she chuckled as she threw a look to our old car tucked away inside her barn. “I’m getting a collector’s item, right?”

  I sighed and nodded. It’s true, I wasn’t thrilled about the car trade, but if the letter was to be trusted, or honored as a last request, it had to be made. Actually it wasn’t a letter, just a single sentence he’d dictated to his mom for us:

  “Take the Range Rover so you’re not tracked.”

  * * *

  THAT WAS IT. Nothing else. Except for the map. Something he’d drawn his last few weeks. Despite the shaky lines, it clearly detailed what minor road and off-road routes we should take . . . on our trip to Mexico.

  That’s right, Mexico.

  Normally, I’d have chalked it up to a failing mind that was shutting down. Except for the dream. The one I had our second night there. The one I had just a few hours before Mrs. Riordan handed me the envelope with the note and map. This time there were no clown cars, no pies in the face, and no angels. Yet, it was just as real and just as vivid.

  Me, Mary and the baby were walking around a bunch of pyramids. Only they weren’t like the ones in Egypt. They were more the type in Mexico. And as we’re walking, we’re listening to a radio broadcast. Something about a virus hitting Fresno and wiping out hundreds of babies born around the same time as our son. It was supposedly some new and unheard of thing and, of course, the conspiracy nuts claimed it was all manmade. Whatever. The whole dream was pretty strange. And stranger still, was the man suddenly walking beside me saying, “Pay attention to this, Joseph. Pay attention.”

  Coincidence? The note, the map, the dream? Maybe. But I had my doubts. Especially with all that had been happening. Either way, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to do a quick, sight-seeing trip down south.

  Now, as we climbed into the Range Rover, preparing for the journey, I could see Mrs. Riordan tearing up. I got back out and gave her a hug. She thanked me for the hundredth time. Not only for coming down, but for agreeing to speak at Charlie’s graveside service a few hours earlier. “It really was beautiful,” she said. “Just what he’d want.”

  “I don’t know,” I said as I climbed back behind the wheel.

  “You spoke from your heart, that’s all that counts.” She leaned inside and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “You’re a saint.”

  We shared another round of goodbyes and were finally on our way.

  “Saint Joseph,” Mary said as she reached across the console and took my hand. “I like that.”

  “Hmm,” was all I could think of as we continued down the dirt lane toward the highway.

  To our right, a hundred yards on top of a small knoll, was where a handful of locals, a couple relatives, and I had buried Charlie just a few hours ago. Once again my mind drifted back to how stupid I had sounded . . .

  ‘When I look around at all your faces,” I’d said, “I’m probably the least qualified to talk. I mean I only knew Charlie for, well, nothing compared to you.”

  I looked to Mrs. Riordan, who nodded for me to continue. I glanced at my notes as they flapped in the wind.

  “I don’t understand why Charlie was taken from us. I don’t know many guys, actually I don’t know any, that were as good as him. And his belief in God . . . I tell you, the guy could be a real pain.”

  The group chuckled.

  “But it didn’t stop him. I mean even when he got hit, all he could talk about was God. ‘Joey, don’t forget how much He loves you. He loves you, dude. He loves you.’ Maybe it was just the drugs. I doubt it though. Truth is I can still hear him saying it. And a bigger truth is I need to believe it.”

  I looked to Mary. She rocked the baby in her arms, encouraging me to go on.

  “So why would God let something like this happen if He’s got all this love for us?” I shook my head. “Me and Charlie, we used to get into long debates about that. And he would always come back at me with something like, ‘God gave us free will. He could have made us robots so we’d always love everyone. But that wouldn’t be love. Love has to be a choice.’

  “Then I’d ask, ‘So why do good people suffer?’ And Charlie, he’d just say, ‘Don’t bother asking God why. That’s way beyond your paygrade—like a little kid demanding to know how a hundred ton airplane can stay in the air . . . or how an entire human being can be formed in just nine short months. Sometimes you just gotta believe in things you’ll never understand.’”

  I took a deep breath. I was just about done. “Charlie’s questions, no matter what happened, were never about ‘Why.’ They were always about ‘How.’ How can I use what’s happening to make me a better person? How can I use it to make a better world?”

  I looked back to Mary. Was this what was happening to us? What the baby was all about—making us better people, making the world a better place?

  “Of the increase of his government and of peac
e there is no end”?

  I glanced back at my notes a final time. “There’s not a one of us here who won’t miss Charlie. I think about him every day. Charlie Riordan was a great man. And what made him great was that he had the heart of a child. A child who trusted in the love of his Father. And one who was never afraid to share that love with his friends . . . no matter the cost.”

  That was it. I’d made it through without choking up. Now, back in the car, knowing what I was thinking, Mary said, “You did good. I was really proud of what you said.”

  I nodded, then quietly added, “I just wish I believed it.”

  “You do. Mostly.”

  “I guess. But I’ve got a lot to learn.”

  “We all do, Joey.” The baby began to fuss and she turned back to him. “It won’t be easy, but I think we’ve got just the person here to teach us.”

  I nodded and took another breath. “It’s sure looking that way. And if this is only the beginning, I can’t even imagine. . .” I dropped off, unsure how to finish.

  “Hold it!” she cried, “stop the car!”

  “What?”

  “Now, stop the car.”

  I hit the brakes and we slid to a stop a dozen feet from the main road. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Where’s the camera?”

  “It’s in the back. What’s going on?”

  She reached to the back seat for the small digital camera, another one of Mrs. Riordan’s exchanges—her cheap camera for our two cell phones which she promised to destroy. Grabbing it, Mary threw open the door and hopped outside. “Don’t go away.”

  I watched as she ran up to the mail box where Mrs. Riordan had planted some shrubs. I eased the car forward and rolled down the window as she stooped down and began taking pictures.

  “What are you doing? Mary, what—” And then I saw them. The shrubs were rose bushes. Four of them. All barren because of the winter. Nothing but dead, prickly thorns . . . except for one. And there, in full bloom, on a single stem, was a giant, red rose.

  I watched silently as she continued taking photos. When she was finally done she headed back to the car. As she climbed in, neither of us said a word. There was no need—although she couldn’t help but flash me a quick, mischievous grin.

  I simply shook my head and pulled out onto the main road—not heading north, but turning south onto the course Charlie had mapped.