by Thomas Locke
“But I am thinking, Debs,” he said quietly. “You’re talking about altering life itself.”
“Face facts, Junior. We do it every day. Every time you take some pill to ease an illness, you’re altering the course of life.”
“I don’t like it,” he said.
“Like it or not, you’d better get used to it,” she said. His silence brought her to the boiling point. “Maybe you’ve got to see life from my perspective to understand.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“It has everything to do with this. It’s a lot easier for somebody healthy to philosophize about disease than somebody who is sick.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Life isn’t fair, Cliff.” She took a breath. “Okay, let’s make it personal. Let’s say you get married and have a child. If your baby got a fever that could leave it blind for life, would you give it a pill if you knew that pill would cure it?”
“Of course.”
“Sure you would. So what’s the difference here, Cliff, except one of timing? The pill works on sicknesses that attack after the baby has been born. Genetic engineering fights ailments that could attack the fetus.” Deborah took on a coaxing tone. “What if we discovered that MS had a genetic basis, some flaw that made the immune system unable to fight this disease? Would you condemn me to a lifetime of wheelchairs and growing debilitation because of some poorly defined principle?”
“Just because I can’t put my concerns into the right scientific words doesn’t make them any less real,” he replied.
“Real? You want real?” She pounded a fist on the arm of her chair. “Take a seat in this, Junior. Try looking at the world from this perspective for a while. That’s reality for me, and there are a lot of people out there suffering fates worse than this.”
There was genuine pain in his eyes. “I’d give anything I could to see you well, Debs. Anything.”
“So what about all those yet to be born? What about those who we can cure, if only this DNA technology is taken the next couple of steps? Are you going to condemn them?”
* * *
Cliff stepped onto Blair’s front porch, the argument still raging in his mind. He would have passed right by Miss Sadie, had she not shifted in her rocker and said, “Now what on earth has your forehead all scrunched up like that, young man?”
Cliff started guiltily. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you.”
“That’s clear enough. What’s got you all in a tangle?”
“A problem,” Cliff said glumly. “And I just argued with a friend about it.”
“Well, there’s certainly no way on God’s green earth to make a problem grow bigger than to argue over it. Are you involved in matters of science, young man?”
The question surprised him, coming from her. “In a way, yes ma’am.”
“That’s good. I don’t hold to those hidebound folk who say we’d all be better off living in the past. The child of science is technology. Properly formed, the child grows up to be a useful part of our world. But twisted by haste and greed and blind ambition, the child grows up demented. Dangerous. A criminal that must either be confined or destroyed before it destroys us.”
Cliff looked down on the old woman, mildly surprised at their discussion. “There’s a lot of wisdom in what you say.”
“The South is a good teacher, if you’ve a mind to learn. A small Southern town is a whole university in and of itself. You can major in the social graces, in country culture, in heritage, in personal giving. Or, if you’ve a mind to, your studies can take a darker turn—gossip, spiteful slander, racism, unending bitterness.”
Cliff’s reply was stopped by Blair appearing at the screen door and saying coldly, “You said you would be coming by last night.”
“I know,” he said, and suddenly felt the burden of the past twenty-four hours settle on his shoulders like a weary blanket. “A lot has happened.”
She stepped back and motioned for him to enter. When he was inside, she shut the second door to keep sound from passing onto the porch. “I waited for hours. You could at least have called.”
“No,” he replied. “I could not.”
“I don’t like it when men let me down, Cliff,” she said. Her eyes were distant. Cold. Glacial. “It seems to be a serious ailment of the times, one I have suffered from too much and for far too long.”
“Blair, let me explain.”
“Why should I?” Her tone was not angry. Simply dismissive. “What would then keep you from doing it to me a second time? And a third? And a fourth?”
The smoldering coals of his anger ignited. “What are you looking for, Blair? You think maybe you could tell me that?”
“Somebody who knows how to spell commitment,” she said, her face hot, “and who doesn’t dive for cover at an incoming M word.”
Cliff shook his head. “No you’re not.”
“And just what is that supposed to mean, mister?”
“Sure, you want it. But saying the words doesn’t mean you’re ready for them yourself.”
Blair cocked two arms on her hips. “And just what makes you an expert?”
“Nothing but a pair of good eyes and an honest heart,” he replied. “One that would like to talk about all those things but can’t, because you won’t let me.”
“I think you’ve gone far enough.”
“You want it almost as much as you’re afraid of it,” Cliff persisted. “Almost, but not quite. So now that somebody’s come at you with something real, you run as fast as you can.”
Her face a crimson flame, she pointed at the door. “Leave. Now.”
“Why?” Cliff said, standing his ground. “So you can head back for the slick-talking guys? The ones you know you can handle?” He took a step closer. “The ones who don’t care about the walls around your heart since they’re not going to be there long enough to bother? Is what you want?”
Blair stepped forward and raised her hand to slap his face. Cliff stood and waited and tried not to flinch.
Blair checked herself at the last moment, lowered her hand, and said in a low shaky voice, “Just go. Please, just go.”
“It’s right there in front of you, staring you straight in the face,” he said. “But you’re so caught up in your fears you can’t open your eyes and look.”
Cliff turned and walked to the door. As he opened it he said, “Being the right person is just as important as finding the right person, Blair.”
He walked across the porch and down the stairs and across the front lawn. The last thing he heard before slamming his car door was the soft steady creaking of Miss Sadie’s rocker.
* * *
Cliff was halfway back to Deborah’s house before his heart’s aching emptiness doused the flames of his anger. He swung the car around and headed back to town. When he arrived at Blair’s he walked up the stairs, nodded to Miss Sadie, and knocked on the door.
“She’s gone,” Miss Sadie announced, not pausing in her rocking.
“Where?”
“Just gone. Came out of that door about thirty seconds after you. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t have to. I imagine she’s out somewhere walking off a full head of steam.”
When Cliff started down the stairs, the old woman said, “Best let her be just now, young man. Let her listen to her heart before her head gets a chance to talk with you again.”
Cliff hesitated, then nodded his acceptance. “Tell her,” he stopped again, grateful that the night hid his sorrow. “You’ll have to come up with something yourself. I’m all out of ideas.”
“That is precisely the time to let your heart speak for you,” Miss Sadie replied. “You just try and quieten down enough to hear what’s going on down deep.”
“All I can hear my heart say right now,” Cliff confessed, “is that I just blew it big time.”
The old lady humphed a single chuckle. “Young man, it is far easier to get a fishhook in than it is to get it out.”
“What’s that
supposed to mean?”
Her voice carried humor through the dark. “Oh, it’s wisdom you’re after, is it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“I just repeat the expressions, young man. I don’t interpret them.” The rocker creaked with the contentment of having arrived at the years beyond passion. “My advice is for you to go out there and do the right thing. That’s all the advice I’m good for.”
Cliff mulled that one over, then asked, “Do you think I have a chance?”
The rocker silenced as the old lady leaned forward. “Young man, do I look like God to you?”
“Closer to Him than me.”
“Well, now, just whose fault do you think that might be? If you want His help, go and ask. His ears are a good sight better than mine anyhow, I can tell you that for sure.”
Cliff walked across the porch, bent over, and kissed her cheek.
“What on earth was that for?”
“Because you deserve it,” he said, and stepped into the night.
11
The awakening dawn found Cliff moving as silently as he knew how. There was no sound from Deborah’s bedroom, and he did not want to disturb her. He had thoughts he wished to work on alone, and the morning was too precious to share.
Cliff fixed himself a cup of coffee and took it out onto the porch. Pastel glimmers painted streaks of growing brightness across the sky. He sat in the swing and looked to the distant horizon of gold-flecked clouds. The bay was bathed in a blanket of peace, reflecting nothing but the mystery of all that lay ahead. Its calm enveloped him, distilling his thoughts into crystal clarity.
Gentle sounds carried an overwhelming force in the thin morning light. Young falcon cried like lost and lonely children. Jays shouted their approval of the day. Songbirds chorused from unseen perches. Waves chuckled as they lapped against the bulkhead. The sun peeked orange and sleepy between pines across the bay, and a whiff of morning breeze brought a perfumed greeting from flowering trees. A pair of hummingbirds arrived like feathered lightning bolts to drink from the feeder, their wings making fragile thunder.
He remained wrapped in dawn’s cocoon until he heard Deborah clattering in the kitchen. She stepped onto the porch, wearing a quilted robe and carrying a steaming mug, and offered him a sleepy hello. “How long have you been up?”
“I don’t know,” he replied softly, the morning’s peace too fragile to permit much speech. “Sorry about last night, Debs.”
“Same here.” She stepped behind the swing and gave his head a one-armed hug with the hand that did not hold her coffee. “You and your conscience are good for me, I suppose. But they can be a bitter pill at times.”
“I don’t mean to be,” he said, and confessed, “I left here and had a fight with Blair.”
“Sounds like you need help almost as much as I do.” Deborah turned back toward the kitchen, saying, “Breakfast is do-it-yourself. When you’re ready, we’ll head in to church.”
* * *
“A living church operates like a successful scientist,” Deborah said, driving them toward town, “always working on the edge of possibility.”
“I don’t believe I’m hearing this.”
“It’s true. A church should always remain busy pushing out the edge of the balloon. Taking risks. Planting other churches. Organizing missions. Seeking new and unproven fields. The difference is, a church works for the sake of eternity.”
Cliff inspected his friend. “You’re really into this, aren’t you?”
“I’m not perfect,” Deborah replied. “And I don’t wear angel’s wings.”
“Not yet,” Cliff said quietly.
“But I’m learning that the distinction between right and wrong are immobile pillars in a good person’s life. Greed or self-interest or ambition or scientific curiosity are not valid reasons for shifting the pillar of right a few feet to one side.”
“So what are you telling me?”
“Some scientists turn away from God because He is not finite and can’t be measured in a lab. But not most.”
“No?”
“Not to my way of thinking. I believe most scientists turn from God because the idea of an omnipotent Being utterly beyond their control, beyond their mental prowess, is too threatening.”
“I’ve always enjoyed these little impromptu lectures of yours,” Cliff said.
“Pay attention, Junior. You might learn something. A lot of scientists consider themselves to be gods in all but name. They feel like the universe is theirs to manipulate, dissect, freeze, and rebuild when time and funding allow.” She stopped at a light and turned to him. “And you know what makes them most uncomfortable of all?”
He shook his head, content to listen, absorb, play the role of student and friend.
“Faith. Values. Unchanging principles. Anything that sets limits on the power of their reason is seen as an enemy. Anything that they cannot prove by empirical method is a myth.”
“So you’re saying that no scientist believes in God?”
“Of course not, don’t be silly. But a lot of my colleagues don’t even have time for the concept. God simply does not fit into their mentality. They neither believe nor disbelieve. They give no time to genuine reflection on the possibility of God. They want the right to manipulate everything, no holds barred.” She looked out toward the bright, shining day and smiled. “It’s simple, when you think of it. They don’t want to share the throne of knowledge.”
* * *
The church was almost lost in a grove of elms that had been planted back when the church was young. Only the wooden steeple and red-brick front steps stood clear of the thicket. When Cliff left the car and walked around the elms, he found the church was built of whitewashed wooden shingles. The windows were lead-paned and hand-set and spoke of distant times and timeless beauty.
“This is really nice,” Cliff declared.
“It’s just another clapboard country church,” she replied. “Oh, it’s pretty in an old-timey sort of way. But the area around here is filled with so many old churches, I suppose most folks take about as much notice as they would of a beautiful tree.”
“So why do you come here?”
She gave him her patented lopsided smile. “To reach out and touch the invisible.” She started up the front steps. “Coming?”
Inside the church Cliff felt a sense of homecoming. A rightness. A harmony of proper place. Cliff sat and listened but heard nothing with his ears, not because he did not want to, rather because he could not hear over his heart’s silence.
After the service, he walked from the church beside Deborah. He carried a peace as strong as pain. The power was too great to hold. It poured forth, emanating from him and from all the people around him. Cliff stood and smiled and nodded to those Deborah introduced and wondered if they felt as he did. If so, did they ever grow used to the power?
The peace remained with him throughout the drive home, a lance that pierced the veil of his life. He looked about him and saw the power everywhere—in the trees, the air, the houses, the people. It rose from the world like waves of fragrant incense, wafting heavenward in a spiral of grace and fulfillment.
Deborah remained silent throughout the drive, perceptive enough to understand his need for inward isolation. She pulled into her driveway and stopped beside his own car. Together they sat and listened to the motor ping as it cooled. Cliff rolled down his window. The wind drifted in, carrying with it the last notes of a song meant for his spirit alone.
Finally he sighed and asked, “Is it always like this?”
“No,” she replied quietly. “Sometimes, but not always.”
“How long does it last?”
“A lifetime,” she said. “But it isn’t always possible to feel it as close as you do now.”
“I’m almost afraid to breathe,” he confessed. “If I do, it might get out and never come back.”
“If you let it,” Deborah replied, “if you ask, it will dwell within. And once there, it is th
ere forever.”
* * *
Cliff’s report on Monday did not elicit the response he had expected. Ralph Summers heard him out in gloomy silence. Sandra responded with her typical frigid anger.
“I’m afraid an indirect enquiry would be premature at this point,” Summers replied when Cliff had finished.
“Premature!” He could scarcely believe his ears. “Ralph, maybe I didn’t describe it very well, but that altered rapeweed is a menace.”
“You described it perfectly,” Summers said, avoiding Cliff’s gaze by doodling on his pad.
“What if there are secondary alterations?” he pleaded, pushing for them to see. “What if there really is some genetic mutation that’s spreading—”
“More likely he’s had a wild weekend down there with his little friend,” Sandra snapped. “And got in some kind of trouble, and now wants to cover his tracks. I’ll get on the phone and see what the police have to say.”
“Please, Sandra,” Ralph sighed.
“I resent the accusation,” Cliff said.
“Resent it all you like, buster,” she snapped. “I’ve got your number.”
“All right, that’s enough,” Summers said, raising his voice. “We’ve all got more important things to do than trade unfounded allegations.”
“I agree,” Cliff said.
“Then if you’ll excuse me,” Sandra said, slamming her notebook closed and rising to her feet. “I’ll go see if I can get to the bottom of this.” She marched to the door, paused, and flung back at them, “I can already tell you what I’ll learn. That I was right. That Cliff made a serious error in going down to Edenton, and all this is just a crazy attempt to cover his tracks.”
When the door had slammed shut, Summers said quietly, “There’s a grain of truth in what she says.”
“Ralph, I didn’t go down and tie one on. This really happened.”
“Not about that,” he replied. “I spent this weekend trying to see if I could get a feel for what Larson was after.”
