The Second Coming

by John Heubusch

  A nurse finally came into the waiting area and waved for De Santis to enter. On previous visits, she’d normally taken the time to chat while De Santis waited for the doctor to arrive in the examination room. But on this occasion, she left him alone.

  When the doctor finally entered the examination room ten minutes later, De Santis wanted to make it clear from the outset that he was in a hurry. “I have very little time, Doctor,” he said.

  The doctor arched his eyebrows at De Santis’s declaration. He sat on a low stool next to the examination table and silently flipped through a set of medical charts on a clipboard.

  He cleared his throat. “Father, I’m afraid that after all the tests we’ve bothered you with, your own prognosis is prescient,” he said. “You do have very little time. And I’m very sorry I have to be the one to say it.”

  “What on earth do you mean by that?” De Santis asked. He assumed he was about to be forced through another examination and began to unbutton his shirt to speed the process along.

  “I’m afraid that won’t be necessary,” the doctor said as he stared intently at the charts.

  “Good, then,” De Santis said as he buttoned up his shirt. “I’ll take my medicine and be on my way.”

  “Father,” the doctor said, “in your line of work, I’m sure you must be involved in counseling of one sort or another from time to time.”

  “That’s often so,” De Santis said. He was in a hurry, but the doctor’s stoic tone bothered him.

  “You are a man of the cloth,” the doctor said. “Perhaps you might take the news I have for you better than most.” The doctor removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and then stared down at the checkered green-and-white tile floor.

  De Santis figured the doctor might have a strange sense of humor and decided to play along. “Give it to me straight, Doctor. How long have I got?”

  “I want to say from the start that few of us are heroes in the face of the kind of news I have to give you. So before you leave today, I’m going to give you the names of several counselors I’d like you to consider if you’re not familiar with one already.”

  De Santis gave the doctor a strange look, now certain the man was confused. He was obviously talking to the wrong patient. “This is too much, Doctor,” he said. He’d grown testy. “I have a simple pain in my lower back.”

  “I know you do, Father,” the doctor said. “Unfortunately, what I must tell you is that while the chronic pain you’re feeling in your lower back is real, it’s actually emanating from another area. It’s radiating there from your abdominal region, and for good reason.”

  “What do you mean?” De Santis asked.

  “Hold out your hands for me, please,” the doctor said.

  De Santis held forth both hands, palms down. When the priest looked down at them, he noticed he’d started to tremble.

  “The yellow discoloration has intensified since I last saw you,” the doctor said. “Stare straight ahead for me, if you would.” He pulled an ophthalmoscope from his pocket to examine De Santis’s eyes with a light. “This light jaundice in the whites of your eyes. How long has it been there?”

  “I don’t know. I never really noticed it much before,” De Santis said. “I assumed it was from lack of sleep.”

  “No, it’s characteristic for a patient in your condition,” the doctor said. He examined the skin of De Santis’s forearms and sat back down on his stool. “The jaundice you’re experiencing stems from the obstruction of the bile duct that runs through your pancreas.”

  “My pancreas? Who needs one of those?” De Santis said. He was determined to try to lighten again what had too fast become a serious conversation.

  “Everyone, I’m afraid,” the doctor said. “You’ve lost more weight?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “Please step up on the scale for me, and let’s take a look.”

  De Santis kicked off his shoes and stepped onto the rickety scale. The doctor pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose to read the number. He stroked his beard. Then he looked down at De Santis’s charts once more.

  “Loss of another five pounds,” the doctor said. “I see here from your most recent lab tests that your blood glucose level is elevated further as well.”

  “Yes, so?”

  “Add to these signs the combination of CT scan and the ultrasound recordings we have, and I’m afraid the conclusion is definitive, Father.”

  “Definitive?”

  “Father De Santis, I’m sorry to tell you this, but you have pancreatic cancer. It’s one of the tougher ones to beat.”

  De Santis had never fainted before in his life, but the dizzy feeling that instantly overwhelmed him buckled him to his knees. He saw what he thought were tiny white sparks and stars careening away from his eyes in a haze of purple for a few moments. Before he knew it, he was lying on his back on the examination table. He looked up helplessly at the doctor and the attending nurse.

  “It’s not an uncommon reaction,” the doctor said. “You’ve fainted. Now I want you to breathe deeply for a few moments and try to relax.”

  De Santis stared up at the fuzzy U-shaped neon light above him. His arms felt lifeless at his side. He had only the strength to listen.

  “I’m going to have you remain here for an hour, and when you’ve regained your strength, I’m going to perform a simple endoscopic needle biopsy on the affected region of your pancreatic tissue,” the doctor said. “I’ll need those results. But unfortunately, I have no doubt from the CT scan that the head of your pancreas is in great distress. You have an adenocarcinoma there. A large tumor. The chances of it being benign are, unfortunately, very small.”

  De Santis struggled for words. He fumbled for his rosary, a constant companion that always rested in his left pants pocket. “Oh, my God,” he said. A wave of nausea overcame him, and he felt the urge to vomit. He tried to rise off the table under his own strength but couldn’t.

  “I want you to relax, Father,” the doctor said. “The good news is that I believe we have discovered your cancer relatively early, which is unusual with pancreatic conditions. You are only at stage two.”

  De Santis reached for the nurse’s hand, heartened by the news. Her smile brought some reassurance.

  “But,” the doctor continued, “while this means we can likely prolong your life for a few years through various treatments—radiation therapy, chemotherapy, and the like—I’m afraid recovery from pancreatic cancer is extremely rare.”

  “How rare?” De Santis asked as he ran the beads of his rosary through his fingers inside his pocket. Every dream he had ever had about rising through the priestly ranks to that of bishop and possibly beyond had come to a terrible halt.

  “I’ve been practicing for forty-five years, Father, and in my entire career, I have never seen a patient survive into stage four beyond five years. As I’ve said, at least we caught it early. That’s a gift. You have some time—something many of my patients do not.”

  The doctor and the nurse turned and left the room. De Santis rolled over onto his side on the examination table and stared blankly at the white cinder-block wall. He had never felt more alone. He gathered his strength, got down on his knees, and began to weep as he had never done before.

  After nearly an hour, exhausted and late for his important appointment, he dried his tears and got ready to leave. As he reached for the door handle, an extraordinary thought suddenly came to his mind, powerful enough to send him to his knees again. Only this time, De Santis was not praying. Far from it. He’d determined that he might one day still have the chance to answer the bishop’s call after all.

  Chapter 33

  Dickerson, Maryland

  Father Parenti adored the child.

  Christopher and the priest had a bond. He took the time during his morning walks with the boy to reveal to him his innermost thoughts, particularly his dreams. Strangely, Parenti often felt Christopher somehow understood his every word.

  Time s
tood still around them as they wandered about. The town of Dickerson seemed perfectly preserved from an era gone by, with large turn-of-the-century Victorian-style houses complete with long front porches and white picket fences framing lush green lawns. Aldo, faithful as ever and rarely jealous of the attention showered on the boy, had developed a habit of herding Christopher, circling excitedly around him as they poked along, or playing fetch with a tiny stick the boy might pick up along the way. It was a time all three relished as they meandered each day down the narrow lane from Domenika’s home toward the ferry landing a mile away.

  While the beautiful child was a few weeks away from turning six years old, Parenti could already tell the boy would grow to become a handsome man. He possessed a quiet temperament that involved little fuss, and Parenti could not have imagined a more perfect child for Bondurant and Domenika to raise as their own. But as adorable as the child was and as idyllic as the town might be, neither masked the sad truth that Bondurant had left.

  They hadn’t heard a word from him. Money—much more than enough—arrived each week in an envelope. It bore no return address. It allowed Domenika to temporarily manage the home alone. Bondurant had also found a way to take care of all their bills from afar. There was never a note to accompany the money, nor were there any calls. And there were no sightings of Bondurant by Parenti or Domenika during their many forays searching for him in hotels or restaurants nearby. He had to be near. The word “abandoned” had not yet crossed either of their lips. But day by day, particularly with only Domenika and the little priest at home to look after Christopher, they had begun to feel forsaken.

  For their part, there was some guilt. Parenti found that Domenika was often inconsolable for the loneliness she felt. Parenti and Domenika had discussed the horrifying evening—Bondurant’s birthday of all days—a thousand times since De Santis’s thoughtless words had sent Bondurant out the front door, perhaps never to return.

  Parenti knew too that Domenika had tortured herself endlessly since Bondurant had bolted because she’d spoken so openly with De Santis, her mentor, about Bondurant’s ugly past. He was certain she’d never expected her trusted professor to reveal what she knew, most particularly not to Bondurant himself.

  What distressed Parenti at the moment was that he had lost a true friend in Bondurant, maybe forever. The little priest had made few friends before. As they approached the bend in the road that overlooked the boat landing he’d journeyed to each day since Bondurant had left, he gazed across the silent river with a heavy heart and wondered if he might ever return. He watched the ferry slowly draw away from his side of the river on a cable strung to the bank on the other side. He often prayed he would one day see Bondurant bound off the ferry and greet him warmly with his familiar smile.

  As Parenti turned and called for Christopher to join him, he caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye. It was a tall man in the distance who had disembarked from the ferry. He carried a small satchel across his back. He was headed up the hill on the opposite lane that eventually wound its way to Domenika’s home. For a moment, Parenti’s heart raced. Then, when he realized it wasn’t Bondurant, it just as quickly sank.

  “Porco diavolo,” the priest whispered to himself as he cursed the devil.

  He looked down at Christopher, took his hand, and then looked up toward the stranger again. He didn’t recognize the man who plodded his way up the hill. He could see only his back in the distance. But strangers were few in Dickerson. If only Bondurant were there. He squeezed Christopher’s hand tightly and prayed that if trouble were to pay a visit, this time it would pass them by.

  Chapter 34

  Washington, D.C.

  Bondurant lost his footing and nearly fell as he came out of the Four Seasons Hotel. He knew he was drunk. He caught the dismissive glance of the elegantly dressed couple who sidestepped him on their way into the hotel. But he still wasn’t as wasted as he wanted to be. As usual, he’d been cut off at the hotel’s upscale, ultramodern bar inside. They’d left him no choice but to follow what had become a nightly routine.

  He would saunter up M Street in the hazy glow of antique street lamps all the way up to Wisconsin Avenue, three blocks up the hill. There Blues Alley awaited him. It was the secluded back-street jazz club he’d come to think of as his second home. The bartenders at the Alley, a dark but hip and lively musical hot spot in the city, knew Bondurant came and went by foot from the hotel. They would pour him a half bottle of Scotch if he wanted it. On several occasions over the past week, they’d done just that.

  Bondurant had tried hard to pretend the time he’d spent in the city, only an hour away from Domenika, had been good for him. He’d set out to take measure of his life, and his time away had given him the chance he needed to think clearly and search his soul. But in truth, he knew he’d really just been on a binge. A big one. He’d made a big mistake when he left. That was clear. He’d learned little about himself during his self-exile and had never felt more miserable or alone. He had no defensible reason to wander the city and drink himself into a stupor day after day, but he also stubbornly resisted going home. He sorely missed his family—his remarkable little son and the only woman he’d ever loved—and knew they would take him back with open arms. But he also knew there was a terrible shame that waited for him there, one so great he just couldn’t go home.

  They know. It echoed in his mind. His abuse, like that of his little brother, was a nightmare he had always planned to take to his grave alone. But now the relentless questions haunted him. Exactly what had Domenika written? How could he possibly look her in the eyes again? How many others knew of his past, and what exactly did they know? What exactly had the priest revealed? Were the deathbed confessions explicit in their every detail?

  Bondurant had thought about the concept of shame endlessly as he spent his days roaming aimlessly. When he would wake up hungover in his hotel bed in a cold sweat each afternoon, he would sometimes reach for one of the self-help books on his nightstand that assured him he was a victim without fault. But that was little consolation. The books were useless. The words on the pages stirred up memories and emotions that grabbed at his insides as if to disembowel him. Dishonored. Unworthy. Embarrassed. Disgraced. Shamed.

  At times, he would drift into some church along the city’s tree-lined side streets as he wandered. He found no comfort there. He’d even been tossed out of a few. He’d disrupted services when he shouted obscenities toward the altar in drunken anger at his plight. He didn’t care which denomination was treated to his intoxicated wrath. His sole concern was to upset those who gathered in the foolish notion that it made sense to honor a distant, uncaring God. Somewhere in his haze, he’d lost his patented “timekeeper,” the special watch he’d kept to measure his estimated time left on earth. He thought it might have fallen into a canal late one evening, but he wasn’t sure. If he could only have it back, he knew it would reveal that his time was mercifully running short.

  Now, as Bondurant stepped off the curb to make his way up the street, he heard the low rumble of a powerful engine approach. The sound was so loud that it reverberated off the hotel’s walls and caused the ground beneath him to shake. As he looked up, he saw a large black motorcycle pull up beside him with two riders. The motorcyclists wore shiny full-face helmets with darkly tinted visors. Bondurant stared curiously at them as the driver gunned the throttle of the massive bike. It sent out a thunderous snarl that seemed to vibrate the entire city block around them. It was only when the figure casually flipped the visor up that Bondurant could see the woman’s face inside.

  “You’re certainly not easy to find!” Khan shouted out with a laugh as she pulled the helmet off her head. Her silky black hair tumbled onto her shoulders and gave Bondurant his first chance to recognize her. Before he could realize what Khan was up to, Bondurant felt her hands slide mischievously deep into both front pockets of his jeans. When her right hand emerged, it held exactly what she’d set out to find. She casually t
ossed Bondurant’s room key to her companion.

  “See you inside, Juliet,” she said to her passenger, who, with her long legs and auburn hair, looked like Domenika in more ways than one. Khan’s rider smiled at Bondurant and threw her helmet toward him before she turned to go into the hotel.

  “Get on,” Khan said as she gunned the throttle once more.

  “I’m uh—I’m uh—” Bondurant stammered.

  “You’re uh—you’re uh what?” Khan asked.

  “I’m a—”

  “Drunk? Yes, I can see that,” Khan said. “Finally tracked you down. I hear you’ve been living large, crashing church services. Making a nuisance of yourself and all that. I’ve got a friend. Works at the Alley. Said you were holed up here.”

  “What are you here for?” Bondurant asked.

  “Hop on,” Khan said. “Let’s go for a ride.”

  By the time Bondurant had adjusted his helmet’s chin strap, Khan had already rocketed down the steep entrance ramp to the Rock Creek Parkway into the black of night. Bondurant’s head was abuzz, but the adrenaline that shot through his veins as they sped forward was enough to alert him to find the bike’s rear foot pegs fast. He planted himself squarely on the seat behind Khan to stay on. He reached out his arms for something to grasp to keep his balance and felt his hands being pulled by Khan around her tiny waist.

  “Hold on tight!” Khan shouted so Bondurant could hear her above the engine’s roar. “You ever ridden a bike?”

  “Of course,” he said, trying to exude some drunken confidence.

  “Maybe not one like this,” she said.

  When the motorcycle shot onto the parkway, Bondurant was gripped with a sense of acceleration he’d rarely felt before. It was late in the evening as they flew headlong through the winding curves of Rock Creek Park. Mercifully, few cars were around late at night. But whenever Bondurant spotted the red taillights of a car up ahead, they were past them in a second. Khan dipped the bike hard back and forth through the dangerously narrow turns. He looked over her shoulder to get a fuzzy glimpse of their speed. The glowing speedometer read 105 mph, something he never thought possible on that stretch of road. He squeezed Khan tightly around the waist and followed her steep leans into every turn. He knew one wrong move or an accidental shift of his weight could throw the massive bike off balance and send them careening into the trees that passed by in a blur. At the speed they traveled, it would spell the end.