by Randy Alcorn
As he scratched Champ in all the best places, bringing groans of ecstasy, Jake remembered old Saturday mornings. Watching Sky King as he ate his Shredded Wheat biscuits. Sleeping in at college. Vietnam, where there were no Saturdays, and the coffee came in one flavor—black and full of grounds, and where the only filter was his own pursed lips. Then there were the Janet years, where the companion in bed wasn’t a spaniel.
It was only thirteen days since that Sunday that had forever changed his life. It was no longer late fall but early winter, having made the transition in a day, like the seasons do in Oregon. The wind howled and cold blasts ruffled the base of the curtains at the sliding glass door to Jake’s patio that came right off his bedroom. It was a houselike apartment, with accouterments that included fireplace and patio, without all the hassles of home ownership that no longer appealed to Jake. He leaned out of bed and pulled back the curtains, surprised and pleased to see a sheet of ice already covered the neighborhood and a dusty snow was falling.
How many times as a boy, on mornings that looked like this, had he hoped against hope the announcement would be made “East Benton Grade School is closed today.” Then he and his buddies would launch into a day of sledding, snow ball fights, and frosty mischief, breaking only for Campbell’s Cream of Chicken soup and Ritz Crackers compliments of Mom, who never had a day off.
Champ was now in the kitchen, loudly gulping water from his metal dish. Jake lay in his waterbed, leaning against a padded headrest, covers pulled up under his arms. On his chest lay yesterday’s New York Times and a novel Sandy had given him. He knew the Trib was sitting out there in that long row of yellow paper boxes. Though five days a week he could get it free at work, he still subscribed. That way he could be more like the average reader, going through his paper-fetching routine, anticipating what awaited him within. He wanted the Tribune now, but he wasn’t about to go get it. Not on a frigid Saturday, not yet. He opened the novel instead.
Jake had never been an avid fiction reader until the last few years. He’d tired of the “real world” of nonfiction, with all its senseless tragedies and unresolved issues. When he was younger and idealistic he’d had such hopes for the world, hopes those issues could be dealt with, the tragedies averted. Now the world seemed so dark, with all its kidnappers, rapists, muggers, child abusers, street gangs, drug dealers, and murderers, its endless parade of sadistic abductors and psychopaths, whose exploits were often rewarded with a made-for-TV movie. At least the killings in novels weren’t real, and at least the story usually involved love and courage and ended with purpose and hope and something that could satisfy. Even if, in coming back to real life, one had to face the fact that love and hope were merely an illusion. The world no longer gave him reason for hope. Fiction provided a momentary escape from the nagging futility of life’s purposelessness.
While Jake pretended to be glued to the pages of the novel, the brown spaniel slunk back up onto the foot of the bed, an inch at a time, as if afraid that any sudden move would tip off his master. Jake chuckled to himself.
“Come here, fella. You’re not nearly as subtle as you think.”
Champ’s rich fur was getting thicker as the weather grew colder. He turned circles, getting ready to land, his tail wagging so hard, like a chopper blade, Jake felt the breeze. Just before plopping down he buried his nose into his master’s neck. Neither the drinking water still dripping from his jowls nor the wet cold of his snout repulsed Jake. His presence was the welcome and familiar comfort of an old friend. Even more welcome these last few weeks than before, as friends were in short supply.
What was it about this dog that made Jake feel more comfortable than with most people? He makes so few demands. Maybe that was it. He sees me at my worst and still loves me. No person could do that. Finney had called it “unconditional love.” He remembered his first Champ.
I could yell at that dog, threaten him, send him into ice water to fetch a stick, and he’d look at me like I’d done him the biggest favor in the world just because I recognized his existence.
Thoughts of Saturdays, snow, and dogs took Jake back to the old neighborhood, that few dozen square miles of Benton County, vintage fifties and sixties. He lay flat on the big hand-painted blue sled, “the clunker,” with Finney stretched out on top of him, his red gloves clenching Jake’s shoulders, visible in his peripheral vision. After a day of sledding, Jake’s shoulders were bruised and sore from the vise grip of his buddies when they took a sudden turn or hit a bump and went flying. Jake loved the feeling, because he usually engineered it with a quick turn of the rudder. It was fun to be in control, dishing out the surprises to his friends. And the real thrill was when the unpredictable contours of the icy slope reminded him he wasn’t in control after all.
Champ’s rhythmic breathing and occasional contented sigh fueling his recollections, one wild ride in particular filled Jake’s mind. With Finney on his back, Jake was frantically trying to avoid trees as they rocketed down Dead Man’s Hill on the Swenson farm. Everything was a blur, and Jake could feel the frigid sting of icy needles flying into his face. He could see Doc down at the bottom of the hill, his oversized black coat prominent against the winter whitewash. His Polaroid camera in hand, like a war correspondent Doc waited to document what he hoped would be a major crash.
The snow had begun to melt, and there was a light rain, making for furious sledding on the slightest decline. Jake feared Dead Man’s Hill would soon be renamed Dead Jake’s Hill. As he flew down the hill too fast to scream, the icy crust suddenly cracked and his face was buried in the snow. But he still moved forward, plowing through snow as a diver through water. When he came to a stop, he suddenly panicked. He couldn’t breathe. As if underwater, he instinctively pushed up to the surface, only to hit his head on something. In desperation he hit it harder, butting his head into it, and heard it crack. All of a sudden his head surfaced above the ice and he sucked in air. He shook his whole body and it too broke through the ice. He looked back and could see the hole he made when the sled went under the ice. It was at least twelve feet behind him! His momentum had carried him through the powdered snow under the ice.
Finney! Where was Finney? He heard Doc’s shouts at the bottom of the hill. Was Finney hurt? Then he realized Doc was laughing. There he was, on his hands and knees, beside himself. The body with the blue coat—Finney—was sprawled out, hands and legs outstretched, still in motion, moving up the opposite hill, sliding back down to the low point and back up the base of Dead Man’s Hill, losing just a little momentum with each pass. Finney’s efforts to stop himself were futile. The ice had put him into perpetual motion. Finally the laws of physics prevailed, and gravity brought him to an ever-so-slow stop.
Jake wanted to get down the hill to his friends but wasn’t about to get back on the clunker, still buried under the snow. Wanting to be in on the laughter, he stood and started toward them, realizing instantly he’d made a foolish mistake. He fell flat on his backside and headed feet first down the hill. Now he could hear Doc whooping it up again. Then he heard Finney’s voice join Doc’s, equally hysterical. Champ barked wildly, joining in on the fun.
Quicker than he thought possible, Jake was at their feet, streaming past them in a reenactment of Finney’s wild ride. He could see Doc’s red face, contorted with spasms of laughter. As Jake passed him on his next sweep, he kicked out his leg and caught Doc, who was now standing, on his left heel. This slowed down his own ride and sent Doc into a frantic tap dance to keep his balance. Finally, like a circus clown, he fell in a heap.
Now Finney broke into hysterics, so much so that he fell again. Within seconds, all three had settled together at the low point between Dead Man’s Hill and Swenson’s pasture, Champ zealously licking the frost off their faces. They were all three clutching each other, exhausted from the scare, breathless with gut-wrenching laughter. Jake had never felt so close to any friend. That day was one among many that had sealed their forever friendship.
Forever? Suddenly a
gentle tug on his T-shirt brought Jake back to his bedroom. A dog’s soulful eyes gazed at him curiously. Another Champ had taken the place of the first. But Finney and Doc were gone, and there was no one to take their place. There never would be. Jake’s eyes blurred. He felt embarrassed, even though his only audience was a dog. He longed for Doc and Finney days, the innocent adventurous days of childhood. When life was simple, and you knew whose side you were on, and who was on your side. When friendship really did seem it would last forever.
Champ’s eyes seemed a mirror reflection of Jake’s, as close to shedding tears as Jake had ever seen them. Jake saw his own contorted face reflected in those eyes.
“It’s okay, fella,” he said, arms wrapped around the spaniel. “Everything’s been crazy, hasn’t it?”
Jake flipped on the alarm clock radio to his favorite oldies station. “Peggy Sue.” “Rock Around the Clock.” “I Get Around.” From Chuck Berry to the Association, six of the “ten hits in a row” promised by the deejay aroused memories of places and people back in that little Oregon place and time. Nostalgia ran through his blood and warmed his extremities. His friends’ deaths made the memories more painful, yet more rich.
After trying the novel for another ten minutes, he set it down in surrender to the thoughts that first tugged, then yanked at him. The investigation was like looking at all the fragments of a thousand piece puzzle with no master picture as a guide. He felt like he was a character in a novel, along with Ollie and Mary Ann and Sue and everybody on the suspect list. But Jake had no idea where the author, if there was an author, was taking this thing. There was no promise of a happy ending or even a successful one. He might go the rest of his life and not know who killed his friends.
Mary Ann’s information on the doctors was interesting, but had led him nowhere. The patient advocate had been no help. While Doc had his share of complaining patients, the complaints weren’t serious. Certainly nothing sufficient to generate the kind of grudge people killed for. He’d nosed around for leads on a few of Doc’s girlfriends and their husbands or fathers, but nothing seemed very likely there either. The meeting with the abortion protesters at Sue’s was coming up. Maybe he’d get the break he needed from them. He hoped the slowness of this Saturday would allow insight and direction to emerge. He’d try to let all the ingredients of the investigation mix around in the soup and simmer for a while.
Jake got up, walked across his Spartan living room, notably devoid of much-needed feminine touches. Once in the kitchen he poured twelve ounces of coffee in his oversized Star Trek: The Next Generation mug, and sank into the recliner. Saturday coffee couldn’t be savored without reading something. He’d left his novel and Times in the bedroom. Lazily, he looked around for other options on the lamp table. There was Finney’s Bible, with his envelope addressed to the Tribune on top, right next to the television remote control.
He pushed the remote’s power button, then channel surfed, pausing at ESPN, a couple of journalists he knew on a C-Span symposium, more bad news for the day on CNN, and an old Dick Van Dyke on Nickelodeon. He flipped a few more channels and saw a religious huckster ranting and raving and proving true the old carny adage that a fool and his money are soon parted. Disgusted, he flipped a few more channels, then pushed off the power. Twenty-nine channels and nothing to hold his interest.
His eyes fell on Finney’s letter again. Something had kept him from reading it after Sue gave it to him, and something pushed him away from it now. Yet something drew him too. What were his old friend’s last written words?
Opening the envelope, Jake rehearsed what led to the letter—Holly Hannah’s article on anti-abortion activists. As he recalled, Holly had interviewed a housewife or two and a couple of inarticulate full-time crusaders. Finney found his way in as a well-known businessman who’d thrown himself into the controversy. Jake didn’t remember the details, only that he felt distinctly embarrassed for his friend as he read the article. While the two often disagreed, Jake knew Finney meant well. This was nowhere evident in the article. It was a different Finney—a mean-spirited chauvinist who wanted to control women and take away their rights. Jake shook his head and wondered why Finney had said what he did. It sounded so irrational and out of character.
Strangely, though, years of misunderstanding and bad press never changed Finney’s convictions. Nothing seemed to change Finney’s convictions. Jake shook his head in irked wonder. You’d think a guy would eventually learn. He’d never known a man who could be so open-minded and accepting on so many things, and so intractably dogmatic and unbending on others. If Finney had been misunderstood, Jake reasoned, he’d only brought it on himself.
The letter was a page and a half long, neatly printed in a font Jake didn’t recognize. Finney had shown Jake a set of two hundred fonts he’d stored on his computer’s hard disk. This must be one of them. Jake noted the letter was properly addressed and directed to the Trib’s “Editorial Staff.” Well, what did his old buddy have to say?
Dear Friends,
My reason for writing is your October 20 article, “The anti-abortion activists: who are they?”
First, I believe the semantics of your coverage would bias any neutral reader against the prolife position. The term “anti-abortion” is repeatedly used throughout the article—no less than twelve times. In contrast, the other position is always called “prochoice.”
“Anti-abortion” sounds negative; “prochoice” sounds positive. It appears to me the Tribune refers to every other movement by what it calls itself, whether gays, feminists, environmentalists, or the “prochoice” movement. I don’t know any prolife group that refers to itself as “anti-abortionist.” It’s always “prolife.” So why is the prolife movement the conspicuous exception to your practice of calling groups by their actual names?
If you choose to use the term “anti-abortion,” fairness suggests you should use “anti-life” to describe the other position. At the very least you should call it “pro-abortion.” If you refrain from this out of courtesy to those holding the position, then please show the same courtesy to prolifers. I’m not asking for favoritism, just fairness.
My other concern is that in twenty years of reading the Trib almost every day, I have never once seen a picture of an aborted baby. The article seemed to silently agree with the prochoice advocate who first said the preborn baby was a mere “blob of tissue,” then condemned the “anti-abortionists” for displaying those “bloody and intimidating pictures.” But I don’t understand. The Tribune showed photos of children dying in Vietnam and in the Middle East, Somalia and Rwanda. Why would you refuse to show the equally real and equally convincing pictures of children killed by abortion? And why, when some prolifer holds up such a picture, is she angrily condemned as if she were the one responsible for the very killing to which she is objecting?
Of course these are terrible pictures. Any picture of a dead baby is terrible—not because of the picture itself, but the reality it depicts. Prochoicers are against the pictures of killed babies. Prolifers are against the killing of the babies in the pictures.
Censoring these pictures from the debate is like censoring pictures of slaughtered baby seals from discussions about animal rights. How can citizens make an intelligent decision on any issue when vital information is withheld? Let both sides and let the media show whatever pictures they can verify as authentic and unretouched. Why should anyone be afraid of a level playing field for the truth? (Unless their own position isn’t true.) If this is just a ‘blob of tissue’ and not a baby, why are we so opposed to looking at it?
Whoever controls the semantics, and censors the information shared with the audience, inevitably wins the debate. I’m not asking you to take my side. I’m just asking you to tell the truth. I’m asking you to give your readers the chance to make up their own minds based on an honest and unbiased presentation of scientific facts. I’m asking you to be fair.
Sincerely,
Finney Keels
Jake sighed. R
eading this was like swallowing a big pill. It caught in his throat and left a terrible aftertaste. It was vintage Finney, all right. How could someone so sharp when it came to business be so naive and simplistic about complex social issues? Finney just didn’t get it.
Jake examined Finney’s familiar signature, which he’d seen evolve since they learned cursive in Mrs. Petersen’s third-grade class. He put down the letter, gazing up at the ceiling with his head propped back on the recliner. He sat there a long time before he pushed down the foot rest, clutched his empty mug, and wandered toward the kitchen for a refill.
Jake took the miniature carton of French Vanilla creamer from his refrigerator, dumped a large helping in his cup, then picked up the coffee pot and poured it, watching the white liquid turn into a swirling sea of creamy brown. He breathed deeply, as if doing so would make him think more clearly about the investigation, and perhaps, more clearly about life.
The firm knock on the door startled Jake, yanking him from the semi-stupor his mind drifted in and out of on lazy Saturdays. He rushed to the bathroom mirror to be sure his face wasn’t too scary. He noted the bloodshot eyes, the ragged stubble, the matted hair. It could be worse. As he walked to the door he added, But not much.
Jake opened his door, half expecting the landlord or somebody’s lost relative. He was surprised to see two men in dark suits, both serious and important looking, their dignity and composure accentuating his own lack of both. The one, solidly built and fiftyish, was about Jake’s height, with sandy red hair, wet and neatly combed. He held out a badge in a little leather case, just like in the movies. The other, jet black hair and deep tan, had a distinctively rugged look, like a man who’d worked his way into a respectable profession from a career that started as a nightclub bouncer. Jake recognized them immediately but couldn’t place where he’d seen them.
