The Killing Vote

by Bette Golden Lamb

  His mother added screaming at him to her daily ritual of praying. The more she warned about the loss of his immortal soul, the more his exhausted father tried to smooth things over, the more Ted hated both his mother and father.

  Then the nightmares started.

  At first, they happened only occasionally, but as the tension grew, waking in the night became routine. He would cry out, then, drenched in sweat, he would yell until the neighbors banged on the walls.

  His father bartered an appointment with a doctor who said Ted was physically fit, but run down, overworked, and needed rest. Over his mother’s objections, Ted was sent away to his grandmother’s farm.

  Ted picked up an outdated magazine from a low table in the reception room and flipped through the pages, stopped at a Gucci ad and wondered what his father would have said if someone ordered a shoe like that.

  He closed the magazine and glanced up at the generic art work that decorated the reception room walls. The paintings were all pretty much alike in their nothingness, but in one corner was a child’s sketch of a red barn. It was beautifully framed and stood out—a kid’s statement about something simple, yet grand. It was almost a duplicate of his grandma’s barn on the small farm off a back road in Ohio.

  Ted stood to stretch his stiffening legs, then walked a couple of circles around the reception area, thinking about that long summer when he was eleven years old.

  * * *

  Ted stepped off the stuffy bus in the tiny, under-populated town of Oler, a few miles from where his grandmother lived. His extra clothes were packed in an old sheet, which he’d knotted closed and hoisted over one shoulder.

  There was no one there to greet him when he arrived and he had to ask several people for directions to get to the farm. He hitched rides and walked and when he got there, he found his grandmother on her knees in the front yard, attacking a green and yellow carpet-like spread of dandelions.

  “Grandma!” he called out as he ran up the path.

  She smiled, stabbed the weeding tool into the ground, and used the handle to push herself to her feet. She flicked her hands with disgust at the yard full of weeds before opening her arms to him and pulling him into a big hug.

  Ted didn’t know his grandmother very well, had only seen her a few times at large family gatherings. But at that moment, it was as if they’d always been together.

  “Little Teddy Yost.,” she said. “Humph, and not so little anymore.” She took a step back and studied him; he was almost as tall as she was.

  What ever worries he’d had about coming to the farm for the summer were suddenly gone.

  “You get on into the house this instant and change out of those city clothes,” she said. “Then we’ll get some good honest farm dirt on you.”

  They spent the rest of the day strolling, looking at the buildings, animals, and crops. Wherever he turned, there was lots of space, room for him to fit into. And the amazing taste of the air—it remained on the tip of his tongue to this day.

  That first night, his nightmare returned. The same one he always had—blood-thirsty demons chasing him, catching him, and ripping out his tongue.

  He awoke, gagging, battling with the sheets, his face burning with tears. His grandmother came rushing into the room.

  “What is it, Teddy?” She hugged him in her arms, rocked him back and forth.

  He groaned, but couldn’t speak.

  “It’s all right; boy. It’s all right.”

  After a while, she asked again, “What is it?”

  “Demons!” he gasped. “Demons from hell, Grandma. They were everywhere. I couldn’t get away from them.” He clasped his hand to his mouth, felt his lips, then his tongue. “They cut it out!” he cried. “My tongue, Grandma, it was gone.”

  She planted a big kiss on his cheek, squeezed him tighter. “Too much excitement for one day. It’s only a dream, Teddy. A bad dream. I can assure you, there are no demons in this house. I mean, not that there aren’t such things, it’s just that they’ve never been able to put up with me.”

  And then he was smiling.

  “That’s better! Now, what’s this all about?”

  He wanted to tell her how he felt, but he couldn’t find the right words.

  By the time summer was almost gone, Ted had fewer and fewer nightmares. He also began to understand more about himself.

  He explored the farm, fed the animals, and watched how his grandmother improvised, made things work without any real effort. Everything was so much easier, simpler. He felt better; and finally understood that he was safe.

  On one of their last afternoons, the two of them sat on the rickety porch swing and snapped beans and sipped fresh lemonade.

  “Do you believe in God, Grandma?”

  Without losing the rhythm of swinging, stringing, and snapping, she said: “Oh, yes, Teddy, I certainly do believe in God.”

  “Why?” he asked and wiped at his brow. The slim glass tube of red mercury on a large “Coca Cola” thermometer on a nearby shed showed 96°.

  Estelle Yost leaned back in the swing, smiled, and took a sip of lemonade. “An intelligent question, Teddy,” she said after awhile. “Kind of thing we all get to wondering about now and then—who are we; why do we exist. That sort of thing, right?”

  He nodded.

  “I’m not a learned woman, Teddy. Barely got through high school, having to always take care of my younger brothers and sisters. But I can tell you, even in my darkest hours, I’ve always believed in God. The thing is, though, my idea of just who or what God is has changed more than a mite over the years. I’m not sure why, but I seem to have a little better handle on things. Either I just got older, or I’ve become a little tetched from having lived alone for so many years.”

  “Aw, there’s nothing wrong with you, Grandma.” He gave her a big smile.

  “Huh!” she’d grunted. “We may be the only ones who subscribe to that notion, Teddy.” She took another sip of lemonade. “Anyway, as I’ve grown older, I’ve come to feel a kinship with every living thing, animal, and plant alike.”

  She paused and bent forward so her head was very close to his. “Tell you something else, Teddy, if you promise not to ever tell anyone else.”

  There was no way he was going to jeopardize the most intimate adult conversation of his life. He shook his head.

  “Well,” she said, “I believe that everything in this world is a part of God, and He’s a part of everything.”

  “Everything?”

  “Yes, everything,” she said, leaning back again. “For instance, you see that rock over there?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, I bet you don’t think that old rock has life in it. But it does, you know. And the trees, and the animals, they’re all part of God. But they don’t worry about any of that; they just live and accept things as they are, as they’re supposed to be.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Just because you can’t see something, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. For instance, do you believe in the truth?”

  “Yes,” he said, not really certain what she meant.

  “So, how many times have you told the truth and someone, maybe everyone, didn’t believe you? Maybe even called you a liar?”

  “Lots of times.”

  “Are you a liar, Teddy?”

  “No, Grandma.”

  “Then why’d people call you one?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She started the swing moving again and gave him a wide smile. “And you never will. I mean, that sort of thing used to bother me a lot, particularly when I was about your age. But I’ll tell you, I did find the answer.”

  “You did?”

  She picked up a bean, pulled the string, and snapped it into three pieces. “I believe that the truth, like God, really does exist. It lives and it is written down in a big book that floats in the universe; a book that contains every action, every thought that’s ever been. And it’s written and preserved for eternity. No
matter what anyone says, the truth is always alive. ‘And ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free’,” she said with a smile.

  “I remember that from church,” he said gruffly.

  “It doesn’t matter where you heard it. The truth is the truth and nothing can ever change that.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe.”

  She sighed, reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Listen, Teddy: If you’re a good person and believe in the truth, you’ll be an important part of things, a part of God. It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. As long as you know, it doesn’t matter whether people accept it or not, it’s still the truth; it exists.”

  He thought for several seconds. “But what if I’m wrong about something?”

  “Well, that can be a problem sometimes. You can’t let it discourage you, though. You just have to keep digging until you find what you’re looking for; sort of like that yard out there—we’ve been digging all summer and still haven’t gotten rid of all those darn dandelions. But it can be done.”

  The summer of his eleventh year, Ted Yost put his demons to rest and took on the shackles of the truth-seeker.

  * * *

  Ted Yost could feel his skin crawling. He tapped his foot while glancing at his watch until his antics annoyed the receptionist. She buzzed Rudge and spoke softly. When she hung up, she clicked the computer keys with her long red nails for several seconds without pausing. Then, without looking up, she said, “Mr. Rudge will see you now.” She nodded toward the door behind her.

  Ted laughed to himself and said: “Thank you.” He’d learned long ago not to make enemies of the guardians and the sentinels.

  * * *

  “Sorry to barge in like this,” Ted Yost said as he entered the CEO’s office.

  “A later appointment would have been much more convenient.” Rudge took in the man with a wild mop of hair and disheveled clothes “For both of us.” He returned Yost’s handshake, then indicated a chair.

  ‘What can I do for you, Mr. Yost?”

  “I’m here to represent not only myself as an interested party, but the Coalition of Retired Persons. Specifically, we want to know about the proceedings in your Bioethical Review Committee.”

  Rudge smiled at him, wondering why he’d been so afraid of this ordinary-looking person. “I’m sure you’re aware that I’m under no obligation to provide you, CORPS, or anyone else with that information.”

  “In other words, it’s nobody’s business?”

  “I didn’t say that. I only said I’m under no obligation to open up the proceedings of that committee to anyone on the outside.”

  “You must report to someone.”

  “Of course, but that’s beside the point.”

  “Under the Brown Act—”

  “Bluffing won’t get you anywhere, Mr. Yost. The Brown act doesn’t apply and you know it.” He sat back in his high-backed leather chair and said, “When the hospital board voted to reorganize and become a private corporation, that took us out from under the state’s open meeting law.”

  Yost nodded. “So now you’re not responsible to anyone other than Hygea Incorporated, is that it?”

  “Don’t try to bait me, Mr. Yost. Galen is first and foremost responsible to the people of the community, whether it’s here or anywhere else in the country.”

  Rudge could feel his stomach grinding, bile rising.

  “Then what can you tell me about your bioethical committee?” Yost asked. “I think the community is entitled to know about any new policies being contemplated at Galen Hospital.”

  Rudge scooted back into the protection of his tall, over-padded swivel chair and made a steeple of fingertips beneath his chin. “New? Our committee has been in existence since the early 1980s.”

  He watched Yost take a small spiral notebook out of his inside jacket pocket, flip over several pages. The fact that Yost was tall was one strike against him, and his messy clothes didn’t sit well, either—it made him want to look in a mirror to recheck his own appearance.

  “But there have been some recent changes.”

  “Yes?”

  “My understanding is that Galen’s original ethics committee was started by a group of physicians concerned about turning off life-support machines for terminally ill patients.”

  “And that concept,” Rudge said, “hasn’t changed.”

  “But why a second committee? One with all new members, and just within the past several months.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Rudge found himself holding his breath, waiting for an answer.

  Yost shrugged.

  “The committee is composed of members of this community. How on earth could you fault that?”

  “I know their names and affiliations. On the surface, they seem to be a somewhat small, but well-balanced group.” He paused, then added: “With one exception.”

  “Oh?”

  “Patient representation.”

  “Is that why you’re here?”

  Yost’s eyes bored into him. “I’m here because there are rumors, Mr. Rudge,” the man scribbled a few notes,” that you are in the process of changing end of life protocols, something to do with selective euthanasia.”

  Before he could stop himself, Rudge slapped both hands on the top of the desk. “I’m not going to discuss that with you.”

  “Is that a yes or a no?” Yost said with his pencil poised over his spiral notebook.

  “Euthanasia remains an explosive subject, whether Oregon or any other state has legalized assisted suicide or not. Why on earth would I want to discuss anything that controversial with you?” The man was poking at him, like Wade Wilson. It made his nerves stand on edge.

  “You still haven’t answered my question.”

  “Nor do I intend to. If there’s something else, then let’s get on with it. Otherwise, it’d time for you to leave. Unlike you, Mr. Yost, I’m not retired. I still have to work for a living; and there are a number of important matters—”

  “I don’t see that my being retired has anything to do with this discussion.”

  “As I said before, I don’t have to provide you with an explanation, or anything else.’

  “Maybe not, but I will get to the bottom of this, with or without your cooperation.”

  “Is that a threat?” Rudge moved to the edge of his chair. He was furious; furious that Wade Wilson had wedged him into this tight corner; furious this man was still sitting there.

  “Take it any way you like.” Yost returned his notebook to his pocket. “Retirement isn’t a dirty word—one you seem to throw out like garbage. But prior to my retirement I spent more than forty years digging for information, from this country’s involvement in Vietnam to questionable campaign practices. Make no mistake, Mr. Rudge, I always got what I went after.”

  Rudge glared. “You’re no longer a newsman, Mr. Yost, nor is this a war. Take your accusations and threats elsewhere.”

  “Sir, that wasn’t a threat. It was a simple statement of fact. I can and will find out what you’re up to.”

  Rudge tapped his fingers on the desk, thought about his earlier discussion with W.W. He had to do this right.

  Damn it! Look at the man: As useful as yesterday’s newspaper. Wilson knew what he was talking about. What do I have to worry about from this has-been? The Desisto Project’s not only on firm ground, it’s backed all the way to the White House

  He leaned forward. “I have nothing else to say to you, Mr. Yost. You’ve already taken up way too much of my day.”

  Rudge stood and stepped around the side of his desk, walked to the office door, and opened it. He didn’t offer his hand, only jerked his head toward the reception area.

  The interview was over.

  Chapter 11

  Rev. John F. Bradberry left the hospital committee meeting, hurried home, and stormed into his study. When he slammed the door behind him he was trembling. He felt like he had a raging fever that would soon bring him down.

 
; He stared out the window into the garden, eyed the soft, soothing greenery he had planted many years ago. Out there was a peaceful place where all the rules were simple. His world was complicated and unyielding.

  His wife opened the door without knocking and came into the room. “John, is there something wrong?” Her voice was quiet, concerned.

  Bradberry turned and without a word crossed the room, grabbed her by an elbow, and ushered her out. He slammed the door behind her and locked it.

  She slapped at the wood. “John, open the door! Please! Tell me, what’s the matter?”

  Her voice pierced his brain like hot pokers. He shouted, “Audrey, if you say one more word I swear to God I’ll come out there and wring your neck!”

  It wasn’t the first time he’d raised his voice to her, but he’d never talked to her with such hatred, such violence. The words shocked him into silence.

  Bradberry collapsed into his reading chair, slumped over, held his head in his hands. “My God, what’s happening to me?”

  But he knew. It was that committee. Over the last six months, each session had become more and more stressful until a fiery rage he thought he’d buried years ago returned to torment him.

  “John!” his wife said, knocking on the door. “There’s someone here to see you.”

  A rush of relief made him sit up.

  I can apologize now.

  “Who is it?” He opened the door and his heart sank as he watched her walking away from his office.

  Ted Yost was waiting in the living room. He hesitated, then stepped forward, offered his hand.

  “I hope it’s not presumptuous of me to stop by without calling first,” Ted said, “but there’s a lot of information—”

  “It’s all right,” Bradberry said. “Don’t worry about it.” He started to offer him a seat, then invited him to his study.

  When they were settled side-by-side on the leather couch, Ted said, “I thought this might be the right time to discuss Galen’s Bioethical—”

  “Ted—” Bradberry interrupted, his head down. The words refused to budge, trapped in his throat.

  What could he say to this man who had carried him out of the raging fires of hell; the man who had saved him from death in the jungles of Vietnam?