Yellow considered lying, perhaps telling Theresa that he broke one of Yellow’s favorite toys in the back room but that didn’t seem right.
So she just said, again and again, she didn’t know.
That was a lie, too.
Theresa was going to ask Father Walker when she saw him.
That’s why Yellow should’ve lied.
“Yellow!” Theresa called from the front. “Come out here!”
Yellow knew why Father Walker apologized.
He knew what was happening.
He knew what Father Gordon made her do. He knew how Father Gordon made her feel so little, so insignificant.
So empty.
And now he was sorry.
Now he was sorry.
“Yellow.” Theresa opened the door. “Young lady, I told you to come up front. Let’s go, honey. Front and center.”
Yellow pulled the ribbon around her ponytail and tied it off.
She followed Theresa through the narrow hallway to the front room where her foster dad filled the recliner. There were three people behind him. One of them was Ms. Amanda from earlier that day. The others were the olive-skinned couple she’d seen earlier that day, too. They were waiting at the end of the path for Father Walker after he apologized.
They were smiling.
They were all smiling, except for foster dad and Theresa.
“Mi nombre es Eva Espada.”
The man stood next to her, smiling. “¿Cómo le gustaría venir con nosotros?” he said.
How would you like to come home with us?
The woman put her hands on her knees, leveled her face with Yellow’s. Her smile was bright and warm. Her smile was yellow.
The woman said, “Amarillo.”
Yellow burst into tears.
She covered her face and cried.
And Eva and Marc wrapped their arms around her. They let her cry.
They let Amarillo cry.
XXII
The garden was weeded.
It was mulched.
It was clean.
Drayton walked along the path that ground beneath his boots while car doors slammed and left in a hurry. Voices could be heard from the church. Some angry.
Some weeping.
Drayton followed the path out of the garden and through the orchard where gardenias filled the air with fragrance.
St. Michaels forever behind him.
XXIII
Father Gordon woke up. It seemed like he’d been trying to wake up for quite some time. Even now, he lay there trying to open his eyes while he listened to birds chirp at the rising sun. He could smell cut grass, too.
He opened his eyes, blinking back the light until his eyes adjusted. He couldn’t remember where he’d been, but he woke up sitting on a bench in a small room. An organ was vibrating items on a small shelf next to him. He was holding a long, golden rod with a cross on top.
It all seemed so strange.
His eyes wanted to shut, again. His head was so stuffy and sort of numb. He rubbed him eyes, yawning. He was supposed to be someone else, he was sure of it. He was supposed to be somewhere else, too. But he couldn’t quite remember who or where.
He couldn’t even remember his name.
He rubbed his eyes.
He rubbed both eyes. With both hands.
There was a pile of clothes on the floor. Across the room, looking back from a full-length mirror, was a shirtless young man sitting on the edge of a bench. He was holding a bunched-up robe on his lap as if he’d just began to get undressed after church service. He had a full head of sandy locks and a slight hunch in the shoulders. Father Gordon waved and the reflection waved back.
Vertigo whirled through him.
“Knock-knock.” Someone tapped on the door and peered through the crack. “You in here, Jon?”
Father Gordon stared at a man opening the door. He looked for a shirt.
“That’s all right, I won’t stay long.”
The man quietly closed the door behind him. Father Gordon heard the faint snick of a door lock fall in place.
The man looked around the room and frowned. “You’ll need to do a better job of cleaning up after yourself, Jon. Cleanliness is close to godliness and you, my son, are darn near the gates of Hell.”
He smiled with all his teeth.
“Listen, you did a great job in mass, today. It was your first time as a server and you did everything perfectly.”
The man held up his fingers in a circle. Okie-dokie.
“I spoke with your parents to let you stay around and clean up. I’ll take you home when we’re done. How’s that sound?”
Father Gordon nodded, absently. His voice was not there. He opened his mouth and words did not come out.
He couldn’t say no.
Even if he wanted to.
“I want to talk with you about today’s homily, Jon. Hablar de culpabilidad.” About guilt.
Why did he just speak Spanish?
The man sat on the bench and put his hand on Father Gordon’s bare shoulder. He was the size of a grizzly. Curly hair tufted from his collar. He smelled like a long day’s work.
The man’s leg pressed against Father Gordon’s.
Something ugly and rotten broke open in Father’s Gordon’s stomach, spilling foul emotions into his chest and throat.
The man’s hand was soft and lotioned.
Fear blossomed in Father Gordon’s stomach like an acid stain. He wanted to move, to jump off the bed, to scream… but he was just so… scared.
“You’re far from perfect, Jon.”
The man gestured to the mess on the floor.
“I can help you find God’s grace. But first, you must promise me something.”
The man traced a small circle on Father Gordon’s shoulder. His finger went round and round.
Round and round.
“Este es nuestro secreto.”
Tickling his skin.
Our secret.
XXIV
“NURSE!”
The nurse’s aid tried to hold Father Gordon’s feet on the bed. The old man thrashed with surprising strength, knocking the pitcher of water on the floor.
The nurse hustled into the room and helped her subdue the other leg. Father Gordon’s hands slammed against the sidebars. The bands dug into his skin. He went stiff as a plank, grinding his teeth. And then let loose a shriek that could be heard at the other end of the hall.
There were four nurses in the room when he fell limp. They held him tightly for another couple minutes, until they were sure it was over.
“That was the worse seizure yet.” The nurse took a breath.
The nurse’s aid picked up the pitcher and mopped up the spill. The others helped straighten up and check that all the monitors were still attached. The on-duty nurse made a note that leg restraints were required.
“When was the last seizure?” the nurse asked.
The aid checked the computer station she had rolled into the room just before all hell broke loose. “Yesterday, about this time.”
“Okay, well record this one.”
The on-duty nurse and aid remained for another ten minutes until Father Gordon’s breathing returned to normal. He began to softly whimper, like a child. A tear pooled against the bridge of his nose.
“Have you ever seen anything like this?” the aid asked.
“No.” The nurse shook her head. “Never.”
Neither one of them noticed the boy sitting in the corner of the room.
XXV
Drayton sat quietly in Father Gordon’s room. Even after the nurses left and there was just the soft glow of the instruments and the old man’s rattling breath, he stayed seated. He would remain at Father Gordon’s side for many months to come. Absolution would not be easy.
And if the hunger were to fall upon Drayton, well, it was a hospital.
Numbers
If you knew, would you tell?
LAST DAY
The world is bleeding wa
tercolor.
My eyes are open. I think. I feel the dry sting, the impact of each droplet, but there’s nothing to see. Just a watery grave. A spinning carnival ride.
The ground slurps up the rain, drops spatter my ears. A continuous patter of harmless bullets drill the earth. Smack. Smack.
Smack.
I’m sinking. I think. The ground swallows me, its embrace warm and fluid. Rain taps between my eyes – my burning, stinging eyes – flowing through my head like a cracked egg, spilling a steady ooze, washing away the aches and pains.
Killing me from inside out.
I don’t feel it, though.
I don’t feel much of anything. Just the sky falling. Just the earth melting.
I turn my head, I don’t know how. Mud squishes in my right ear, rain gurgles into my left as it funnels into the canal and pools over the drum, drawing a liquid veil over the world.
Forms emerge from the gray wash. A pineapple. A pier.
There’s a scent of pluff mud.
I know where I am. I grew up here. I live here.
Die here.
He was right.
It’s so hard to draw a breath. My chest is so heavy. I rest between each inhale/exhale, conserve my energy to draw one more – just one more – while the warmth bleeds out of my head and into my groin, into my legs. Fills my toes.
Someone shouts. Its sounds more like damaged audio, syllables smeared across a warped record. Filled with urgency. Fear. I don’t have the strength to turn my head. Not anymore.
And I don’t want to. I just want Mother Earth. Dust to dust. Mud to mud.
Sounds become large and smudgy. The rain dances louder but stops falling. I blink away the rain, taste salt.
The world darkens. An umbrella hovers over me. Someone looks down. Don’t know him. Or her. Do I?
More people come. Maybe I know them, too. It doesn’t matter. Out there among the fuzzy pier and splashing pineapple fountain, a dark figure approaches. His steps, slow and steady. Always slow and steady. I know him.
He told me this was coming.
He counted the days.
Now he comes for my last moments.
DAY 5
Day five is a Friday.
The day starts like they all do.
I take my bike up King Street to grab coffee at Starbucks. The streets are clean; the puddles slick with rainbows. The horses are already out, hauling early-rising tourists eager to hear about the ghost of General Sherman still committing war crimes in Charleston. That’s something you don’t read about in textbooks, kids. I get off King, turn onto Wentworth, hopping curbs to avoid traffic.
My office is a small house off the street, hidden behind palms and an extremely large loquat tree. Seems silly to use it as an office when I could rent the thing for a small treasure. Fortunately, my ancestors bought several Charleston houses hundreds of years ago, paid what a hotdog costs today. That’s no shit.
There’s a tarnished plate next to the front door. Dr. Gallagher.
That’s all. No letters at the end of the name, no titles. Hell, I wouldn’t even put doctor but folks need to know I have some training. You don’t open your soul to just any guy that rides his bike to work.
A bell rings when I open the door. Old-fashioned, sure, but it goes with the house. Reminds some of my clients of five and dimes. The front room serves as the waiting room. It’s spacious, comfy, magazines, that sort of thing. Not that it gets used much. I schedule folks with plenty of space in between. The backdoor rarely gets used.
The hallway door was installed to separate the front room from the rest of the house. I lean the bike against the wall and flip a switch on the Zen waterfall. Water trickles down a rough-hewn slab, disappearing into a rock basin. It’s tranquil, white noise. The whole set up reminds me of a Zen Center where I once practiced. The teacher was in a back room, meeting with attendees one at a time. We would sit zazen until we heard a tiny bell tinkle. And then the line would move up one until the next bell.
I’ve got a tiny bell, but I’m no Zen Center.
I help people with their problems, but I’m only checking in three days a week. I don’t need the money, really. I rent most of the ancient Gallagher houses; they pay for everything. I keep up the therapy, quite frankly, because that Zen teacher – the one with the tinkling bell – once said, “If you think the purpose of life is to pursue pleasure, then your practice is misguided.”
So I do this to serve Life, as she would say.
And then I serve drinks.
I’m kidding. Actually, I’m not.
The bike goes in one of the closed rooms. I go into the back room. The office. Where the magic happens. Furnished entirely at Morris Sokol on King. Each chair – or credenza, if you choose – puts your ass in total comfort. Why? Because when clarifying problems of the mind, it helps to forget the problems of the body. And my clients have both. Plus money.
The drapes are heavy. I wrap them back, let daylight inside. The birdfeeders are empty. I check my phone. No appointments until 11:00. That gives me a few hours to finish my dark roast and sit meditation. But first, the birds are hungry.
The bell rings.
I look up from the Post and Courier, look at the small clock mounted on the mahogany bookshelf. It’s 9:55. I check my phone again, this time see a name for a 10:00 that wasn’t there an hour ago and I don’t remember scheduling. And a name I don’t remember. I place the phone and newspaper on the small table and pause. I don’t have a weapon in the house. And, honestly, I don’t know why I just thought that.
Why the hell would I need a weapon?
I open the hallway door.
A young man is there. He’s standing in the middle of the room, very still. Plainly dressed. Very dark skin.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t remember scheduling you.”
“You didn’t.”
Okay. All right. Now I’m thinking about that weapon again. It’s just me and this stranger in a small house. He’s odd. Not threatening. Just standing there in the dimly lit room.
The Zen fountain bubbling.
“Then how’d you get one?”
He tilts his head, slightly. That’s it.
Suppose that would freak me out. It should. It doesn’t, though, and I don’t know why. But as my Zen teacher would say, Life calls. Practice always answers. I don’t normally take on new clients like this. In fact, I never do. But then it’s only 10:00. I got time.
And I’m curious. Let’s have a look.
“All right, then.” I step aside. “Come on back.”
He takes a moment before starting forward, his heavy boots clopping on the wood floor. I feel foolish for thinking about a weapon. Is it because he’s black? I don’t consider myself racist, but would I feel threatened if he was white?
But I felt scared before seeing him.
The young man wanders into the office, looks out the window.
“I’m Dr. Gallagher, but you can call me Jimmy, if you like.”
I don’t always make that offer. In fact, I never do. Don’t know why I did. And that’s two things I never do in less than two minutes. Three, if you count my lack of freaking.
“Drayton.” He’s staring at the clock on the bookshelf.
“You’ll need to fill out some paperwork before we get started.” I find a blank form in the filing cabinet. “It just goes over fees and release statements, personal information. That sort of thing.”
Drayton picks up the wooden Buddha next to the clock. He turns it over, rubs the belly with his thumb.
“Flea market, ninety-nine cents,” I say. “You meditate?”
He carefully puts it back, his motion so mindful and fluid. It’s clear he does. There’s a certain presence that fills a room, a light beaming from someone accomplished in meditation. Joriki it’s called, I think. Star Wars geeks call it The Force.
And that’s when he says something.
I remember staring at the clock, the numbers 10:02. You remember something
like this when you hear it. You remember every detail. Every smell, every sensation. A snapshot that defines the rest of your life.
He turns slowly, says, “You will die in five days.”
Fuck. I need a weapon.
Icy water drains into my legs. I’m moved by the sudden urge to urinate a Starbucks grande down my pant leg. The phone is on the nightstand and I’m in the corner, next to the filing cabinet, stupid fucking forms in my hands. The backdoor and hallway door are too far away.
“Are you threatening me?” I try to sound unperturbed. At the very least, not like I’m twelve. I’m not sure I pull it off.
Drayton eases into the Habersham chair, across from my usual seat. Crosses his legs like he’s ready to begin his session.
“You will suffer an aneurysmal subarachnoid hemorrhage,” he says, lightly. “Bleeding between the first two layers of tissue that protect the brain. I’m afraid you won’t survive.”
“Uh-huh. And how the hell could you know that?”
Drayton’s nostrils flare.
I don’t trust my legs but if I don’t sit down I just might crumble. The surreal moment is causing vertigo. I grasp the filing cabinet, reach for the back of my chair and collapse. I look into the eyes of my possible killer. The pupils are large, circled with dark brown irises. His face so smooth, so relaxed. I fall into his gaze, the room darkening.
Disappearing.
An ancient hand falls on my soul, an immovable presence that removes the fearful sensations clenching my legs, hardened in my stomach.
He blinks.
I’m back, seated in my chair. No longer concerned about wetting myself.
I remember him. I saw this kid the other day, downtown, when Tommy walked by. This kid saw me pinching my nose, laying back on the bench with a migraine. This little shit is in on some sick joke. I got clients that blame me for their problems, maybe one of them put him up to this. Or maybe Tommy’s busting my balls, the sonofabitch. I should’ve made this creep pay up front, my fees getting the last laugh.
The Drayton Chronicles Page 18
