The Drayton Chronicles

by Bertauski, Tony

  “Anything else?” the doctor asked.

  “Like what?”

  “Psychotropics or antidepressents?”

  “No.”

  An unusual pause.

  “What’s the matter?” Father Walker shifted the phone to the other ear.

  “He’s exhibiting some unusual symptoms.”

  “I know that a heart-induced coma is very unusual, but that doesn’t seem alarming.”

  “That’s not it,” the doctor said. “The nurses have had to bind his wrists to keep him from pulling out his IV and knocking things over.”

  “That’s a good sign, right? I mean, he’s moving around, doesn’t that mean he’ll be coming out of the coma soon.”

  “Not necessarily. The fits pass and he falls right back into the coma. A neurologist will be looking at him tomorrow. We’ll need you to come down and fill out some paperwork.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Father Walker would have to go to the hospital.

  “Can you finish this for me?” a kid said.

  “Huh?” Father Walker realized he was standing in front of a table, not in Father Gordon’s room. The folks sitting there were smiling. Little Grady Philmore was holding up his plate with a half-eaten pancake.

  “Can you finish this for me, Father?”

  He paused. “Yes. I can.”

  He sat down and ate the pancake. Then got up and left.

  XI

  Father Walker walked across the Medical University of South Carolina’s campus. He’d been there many times to administer communion to the sick or comfort someone undergoing surgery. However, he rarely went without Father Gordon.

  In fact, he’d never gone without him.

  He crossed the green courtyard beneath the live oaks and past the colorful flowerbeds towards Ashley River Tower. He took the steps to the third floor. He always took the steps, gave him a chance to reflect on his mission. And exercise.

  He took the steps one at a time, slow and thoughtful. He was slightly winded when he reached the door with a number 3. He fought the urge to turn around. He pushed the door open, his senses assaulted with antiseptic. He passed nurses working at mobile computer stations in the brightly lit hallway until he found the correct door.

  GOR was on the tag.

  He pushed the heavy door open. The single bed was surrounded by doctors and medical students. He stood inside the room listening to the discussion.

  “Father Walker.” Dr. Foreman stepped out of the crowd. “Please, come in.”

  She put her arm around his waist and stiffly guided him to the foot of the bed.

  Father Gordon’s hair tuffed out from the sides. A clear tube ran under his nose, just above his gaping mouth. White pads were attached to his scalp and chest with wires running to various beeping machines.

  The Adam’s apple bobbed in Father Walker’s throat.

  Dr. Forman made introductions. The doctors shook hands curtly and without expression.

  “And this is Drs. Marc and Eva Espada,” Dr. Foreman said. “They are neurologists from the Department of Psychiatry.”

  “Hello.” Father Walker reached out and grasped his hand first, then the woman’s. Both were warm. “You have the same name?”

  “Husband and wife,” he said, flashing a brief smile.

  “Neurologists. That should make marriage easy,” Father Walker said, dryly.

  He was surprised to get a laugh from the room. First time he had done so and he wasn’t even trying.

  “Yes, yes,” Dr. Marc said. “Always analyzing each other. You know, we met you once, very briefly.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, we’ve been working with Catholic Charities and met with Father Gordon on a few occasions. We had even planned to attend mass when we heard of his condition.”

  “We’re very sorry,” Dr. Eva said. “It must be difficult for you and your members.”

  “It hasn’t been easy,” Father Walker said, distantly.

  Father Gordon’s wrists were bound to the bed rails by flexible bands. He looked like a mental case.

  “Are those really necessary?”

  “That’s why Drs. Espada are here,” Dr. Foreman said. “Physically, Father Gordon is very stable. He’ll likely need a stent, but if he changes his diet and follows our recommendations, he should make a full recovery.”

  “Then why the binders?”

  The doctors exchanged glances. The students remained still. A few scribbled on notepads or tapped on iPads as Dr. Marc explained.

  “Father Gordon appears to be experiencing night terrors.”

  There was discussion between the doctors as they analyzed some of the readings. The students took notes. There was mention of the unusual nature of this coma, how the patient seemed conscious at times but unresponsive to external stimuli. They spoke like Father Walker wasn’t in the room.

  Father Walker sat next to the window and looked outside. He couldn’t look at Father Gordon. It had been some time since he’d seen him without the clerical collar. He looked so ordinary.

  So human.

  He watched the clouds drift by.

  He thought about how long he should stay.

  Father Gordon wouldn’t know if he left. Once the paperwork was in order, he could return to the parish, where he belonged. He could begin working on—

  The beeps moved closer together.

  Father Gordon moaned.

  His head pivoted back and forth. Another moan.

  And then the screams.

  His hands thrashed against the plastic bed rails. The mattress bounced as he slammed his head against the pillow.

  The door flew open and nurses rushed in.

  They all spoke in doctor-language. Father Walker pressed against the wall and watched them do everything they could but nothing helped.

  He thrashed and cried like he was burning in the fires of Hell.

  Perhaps he should.

  Father Walker extinguished that thought.

  He excused himself without anyone noticing.

  XII

  The Medical University of South Carolina had many seating areas, depending on which building and what procedure a loved one was undergoing. Drayton sat in a chair near revolving doors on the first floor. It wasn’t exactly a waiting room, just a few seats amongst tropical planters.

  He sat quietly, calmly. He sat listening and watching the sorrow and grief.

  He remained that way until a priest emerged from the stairwell. Father Walker bumped into a large orderly and moved around him with an apology. He was pale and the knob in his throat pumped up and down.

  Father Walker pulled up short of the revolving doors in order to time his exit.

  He made his way across the lawn with long strides.

  Drayton stayed seated.

  XIII

  Sunday morning.

  The children were screaming. Samuel Barrett pulled himself up the wooden ladder into the playground fort and beat his chest. Three adults sat on plastic benches watching the toddlers get it out of their system before Sunday School.

  Yellow was around the corner, deep into the butterfly garden. She couldn’t see the rambunctious little ones, but their laughter carried for miles. She typically worked in the gardens on Saturdays but it had rained the day before. Theresa said it was their duty to keep their commitment to the butterfly section.

  Yellow didn’t mind so much. She enjoyed getting lost in lantana and coreopsis and butterfly weed. Sometimes she’d crouch so low that people would wander the gravel path that meandered through the vegetable sections and hummingbird plots and annual flowers without seeing her. She rather liked that.

  Theresa was at the end of the path, next to a sign that indicated the direction of the orchard. She was working on her third cigarette, gossiping with Ms. Granderson about how strange Father Walker had become.

  “Well, it took him a week just to go visit Father Gordon,” Ms. Grandson said. “You’d think he would be up there every day since he’s
a man of God. You know, bless his heart, but Father Walker just doesn’t have a backbone, if you ask me.”

  “Perhaps he’s just grieving,” Theresa said.

  Yellow plucked a wily clump of crabgrass and shook the soil from the white roots. She placed it in a neat pile while Ms. Granderson looked in three directions before half-whispering about a sexual affair she’d heard. She didn’t spare the details.

  Theresa fired up her fourth cigarette.

  Drayton stood in the gravel path ten feet from Yellow. He was conspicuous, hands at his sides, staring at the girl making piles of weeds, but Theresa and Ms. Granderson didn’t seem to notice.

  Yellow rooted up the betony tubers and piled them like white rattles. She picked the dead flowers off the coreopsis.

  “Usted puede ayudar,” she said. You can help.

  She didn’t look up when she said it. She just finished making a pile of dead flowers. She crawled to the back of the garden beneath the butterfly bush growing against the building and attacked a mat of doveweed. Drayton’s boots pressed into the soft mulch on the other side of the butterfly bush. He knelt down and reached for a clump of nutsedge.

  Yellow handed him a pair of brown gloves.

  He took them. “Gracias.”

  “¿Habla español?”

  “Si.”

  Yellow pushed her weeds between them and watched Drayton yank out the nutsedge. He laid it on top of her pile.

  “Que necesita para obtener los tubérculos o la maleza volverá.” You need to get the tubers or the weeds will come back.

  The corner of Drayton’s mouth turned up. “Si.”

  Yellow giggled.

  If he wanted to weed, he needed to do it right.

  They worked in silence, cleaning up the ground around the butterfly bush before moving over to the coneflowers and a runaway patch of bermudagrass. Theresa and Ms. Granderson had moved down the path to sit on a bench. She was on her fifth cigarette. That meant the gossip was good.

  “¿Quién es usted?” Who are you?

  Drayton knocked the dirt from his hands. “A friend.”

  She looked into his eyes – deep, dark, and endless – and felt her stomach begin to melt. She thought she would cry and didn’t know why.

  “¿Es usted un ángel?” Are you an angel?

  Drayton chuckled.

  “Algunas personas creen que soy un demonio.” Some believe I’m a demon.

  Yellow didn’t think a demon would make her feel this way. He wouldn’t make her feel clean. Feel right.

  “What people think does not define you,” she said. “My mother used to say that.”

  “Your mother was a wise woman.”

  Yellow found more nutsedge. “She died of an overdose.”

  Drayton knew Yellow’s past. He absorbed her thoughts like they were vapor. Her father returned to Mexico. Her mother was troubled. She was found in an abandoned trailer. Yellow was born in the United States and became a ward of the state of South Carolina.

  Perhaps she was better off.

  Perhaps not.

  “What did you do to Father Gordon?” she asked.

  “He had a heart attack.”

  “I know.” She moved closer to him. It was like orbiting the sun. “But what did you do to him?”

  Drayton paused with his fingers in the mulch.

  “I offered him redemption.”

  “Are you Jesus?”

  “I am not. I showed him what he’d become.”

  “So you’re a mirror.”

  “Perhaps.”

  They worked quietly, again. They crawled around the bee balm and unearthed another invasion of betony. The gravel path was lined with neat piles of unwanted weeds and the mulch smoothed around the plants. A swallowtail landed on a black-eyed Susan, slowly fanning its wings. Drayton and Yellow stopped working and watched. The church bells rang.

  And the swallowtail took flight.

  “You will leave,” she said.

  “Not yet.”

  Yellow removed her gloves, eyes downcast. “Gracias.”

  She bathed in the wonderful feeling, knowing it would be gone when he left. She felt sadness for not wanting that feeling to go away.

  “Yellow.” Theresa crushed a butt in a weed pile. “Come on, child. Mass is about to start. You need to change or Father Walker will have a fit. You can finish when mass is over, come along.”

  Yellow got up and brushed off. Theresa put her arm over her shoulder and hustled her along the way. The gravel crunched under foot. Yellow did not look back.

  Drayton finished the weeding.

  XIV

  Father Walker fumbled with the plastic container, almost dropping it.

  He read the lid again, trying to figure out if there were arrows to line up or some other method to get past the child-proofing. He palmed the lid, pushed and turned and felt it unbuckle.

  He tapped a baby blue pill out.

  Zoloft.

  He wasn’t sure about this. Ms. Sidling – she worked in the front office on a part-time basis – offered him the medicine. She said medicine, not pills. Father Walker always preached against using emotional aids exactly like this. He advocated praying for God’s grace to lead one through difficult times. But after his last homily, he decided maybe he would take Ms. Sidling up on a previous offer.

  He had prepared a nice talk regarding selflessness in the eyes of the Lord. What did it really mean to be compassionate? What did it really mean to be a true friend? What did it mean to truly help our brothers and sisters?

  Father Walker never used cards for his homily. He did that the first couple of years, but he considered himself an old pro. He preferred to walk freely and expound the truth. But then the words were getting slippery and he found himself pacing in silence before he could recall his next passage. He hid his hands in his sleeves.

  They were shaking.

  He was going to tie the homily into giving money for the annex. Their fundraising efforts were moving along nicely. Father Gordon’s continued coma actually boosted the giving. But then a child cried in the back of the church.

  A child cried.

  And then he forgot the rest.

  His hands never stopped shaking.

  Father Walker finished mass and even stood out front to greet the congregation as they left. Some looked at him with concern. Others waited until they were out of earshot before talking. He decided his next homily should be on gossip.

  “Hello, Father.” Dr. Marc Espada gripped Father Walker’s hand. “I’m Marc Espada and this is my wife, Eva.”

  Father Walker shook both their hands with the hollow smile he reserved for faking recognition.

  “We met you at MUSC,” Eva said. “In Father Gordon’s room.”

  “Oh, yes. Of course.”

  “We’re very sorry for his condition.”

  “Thank you.” Father Walker flicked a glance back into the church, hoping they would realize how many people he still had to greet. “Has there been any changes?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Marc said. “He’s still physically stable but suffering from periodic terrors.”

  “Hmm.” Father Walker narrowed his eyes. Perfect. Nailed it. Concern with a touch of strength.

  There was a long pause. Drs. Espada smiled and thanked him for the mass. They would be back, they said.

  God’s grace got him through that day. By the end of it, his hands had stopped shaking. He even had conversations concerning Father Gordon – something that seemed to get the hands going – with minimal agitation.

  Now he stared at the blue pill, thinking maybe he was weak for doing this. Did he really need to drug himself to get through this suffering? Lord Jesus Christ carried his cross without the aid of psychotropics, perhaps he should follow in his Savior’s footsteps and do the same.

  But that was a different era.

  Father Walker popped the pill onto his tongue. He chased it with water.

  It was such a fine line between God and man. If God gave
man the intelligence to create medicine to help with difficult times, perhaps he should use them. He would be of better service to his flock, he would be an effective shepherd if he had his wits in order.

  He just needed a little help. Just to get through this ordeal.

  At least until there was closure with Father Gordon.

  One way or the other.

  XV

  A walk through the park and a stellar homily the following week and Father Walker was back. He could feel it, too. The congregation was rapt with attention as he delivered a scathing sermon on the vicious nature of gossip. Many of them nodded their heads, others wouldn’t look him in the eye when he shook hands after mass.

  Confidence pills.

  That’s what Ms. Sidling called them.

  It was illegal what he was doing, taking prescription pills without a prescription. But it was temporary. And if he needed more of them, well, he wasn’t beyond going to a doctor to get his own prescription. Anyone could understand the stress he was under and the confidence that was in his stride proved that the little pills were a benefit in spreading God’s word.

  Father Walker had the church in order. The donations were coming in strong and steady. He had even planned a trip to see Father Gordon very soon. He felt that he could face his withering body now that he had his stride back.

  Yes. God’s grace is good.

  It was Saturday.

  Father Walker stepped into the confessional. He particularly liked confessions. It wasn’t so much hearing the mundane sins that his flock had committed (sometime quite egregious), it was the moments in-between confessions he cherished. He sat in his cubicle and meditated on God’s word. He felt it was his duty to be open to the Lord so that he may hear the confessions and offer absolution to his children.