Following breakfast, Dr. Bickel would go off and work for a few hours. I would sit back on one of his comfortable circa-1960s chairs and enjoy a book. He had an eclectic taste in novels, and I discovered Brad Thor and James Rollins during those visits. After I had become fans of their writing, I mined my local library to read everything else they’d written.
Then, to celebrate my visit, my new friend—the talented but socially awkward scientist—would serve a truly remarkable midday dinner. He was (as it turned out) quite as good a cook as he’d said he was, and I began to look forward to such treats as freshly baked breads, a small assortment of fanciful appetizers, a main course accompanied by all the trimmings, and a totally awesome dessert.
Dr. Bickel had this little trick he liked to play: He would keep the dessert hidden away until time to serve it, then he would bring it out with a mix of flourish, pride, and embarrassment. I loved taking pictures of his sweet creations with my phone and raving over his inventiveness, especially given the limits to his supplies.
When, at the end of the day, he handed me his shopping list for my next visit, I would try to decipher from the list of ingredients what fun or fabulous confection he was already conjuring ahead of time. Still he managed to surprise me, and I loved that.
Yes, my funny friend was a bit unpredictable—some might say eccentric, bordering on mad. That was the paradox of Dr. Bickel: unexpectedly tender and whimsical one moment; paranoid and given to garrulous rants the next; yet somehow brilliant and insightful. And while he might be perceptive on many levels, he was utterly blind toward his own shortcomings. Certain topics (like corrupt generals and unscrupulous government bureaucrats) just set him off, so I learned to avoid those areas.
Sigh.
I miss him and his desserts. I miss how he flushed with pleasure when I praised each delectable offering. I even miss the tirades—and the embarrassment and apologies that inevitably followed.
After dinner, we would clean up together and sit down to a game of Canasta. Aunt Lu and Genie and I used to play Canasta, so one day I brought up a double deck of cards and insisted on teaching Dr. Bickel how to play.
“I’ve never played cards,” he grumbled, struggling to hold fifteen or more cards in his hand.
“Good. Then I have a chance of winning.”
At first, while learning how to hold and manage his cards, he would fumble and drop a few (or a bunch) from his hand and pitch a fit. On those instances, he would explode in frustration and, more than once, he threw his hand on the table vowing, “I’m done with this stupid, mindless game!”
I didn’t let him quit, though, and didn’t let his conniption fit go unchallenged.
“Really? The inspired Dr. Bickel, one of the world’s most exceptional and accomplished minds, can’t master a simple card game? Can’t beat my small, limited intellect?”
His eyes would narrow and, without a word, he’d shake the cramp out of his hand, pick up and sort his cards, and rejoin the game.
Oh, I ribbed him mercilessly. It was good for him—and fun for me. I decided that too much cerebral activity as a child and a young adult had robbed my Dr. Bickel of a normal coming of age. I doubted that he had enjoyed the little joys of family life while growing up. I’m glad to think that in his last days he experienced some of life’s simple pleasures.
As summer wore on, we laughed and vied for supremacy over those card games. He rarely won—a surprise and a huge blow to his ego—but then he didn’t grow up playing cutthroat Canasta with Aunt Lu and ego-freak Genie. As soon as Dr. Bickel had learned Canasta, though, and was starting to gain on me, I added a third deck and taught him Samba, a more complex variation on Canasta.
I had no idea that our arrangement and those idyllic days would come to a crashing end.
Soon.
IT WAS LATE IN AUGUST and night had fully fallen when I left the tunnels after another visit. I descended the steepest part of my climb and was not far down the slope from the outcropping that screened the door to the tunnels. I was approaching the road that banded the mountain when I heard the roar of an engine.
Headlights rounded a curve, and I panicked. Instead of dropping to the ground, I scrambled back up the slope toward the tall rocks. The lights of the vehicle briefly illuminated me.
By the time reason overcame my stupidity, a base patrol vehicle had screeched to a stop just downhill from me. I slithered between two rocks where I was screened from view.
I heard the two airmen on the road yelling back and forth, heard them on the radio raising the alarm. One of them scanned the hillside with binoculars. I wondered if they were the night vision kind.
If I stay here, they will find me.
I glanced above. I could get back to the door if I moved quietly.
I stayed low and crept back up the hill. My legs and back burned from the effort to climb in a crouched posture. I kept an ear tuned on the two airmen but concentrated on staying close to the ground.
When I reached the outcropping and slid behind one of the first rocks, my heart was pounding. My legs quivered like rubber, more from fear than from exertion.
I moved farther into the rocks, knowing the airmen could not see me. Then I peeked between two boulders to see what they were doing.
They were waiting.
Ten minutes later, two other vehicles arrived and several SPOs—armed DOE security police officers—jumped out. One of the vehicles maneuvered sideways on the road until its headlights lit up the hillside. I watched as five SPOs with flashlights formed a line and began climbing the hill.
I swallowed hard. If I had remained where I was, if I hadn’t climbed back up here, I would have been trapped.
“The guy was about where you are,” one of the airmen yelled.
“Are you sure? I don’t see anyone,” a SPO answered. He moved his light across the rocky slope.
The two airmen were talking to each other, but they seemed to disagree. The one who had yelled to the SPOs insisted, “I know what I saw!”
The SPOs were only yards below me. If they kept coming, I would have to retreat back into the tunnels and pray they did not venture into the rock maze and find the door.
As they neared the base of the outcropping, one of the SPOs called a halt. “Turn back, spread out, and sweep the hillside again.”
They are turning back!
I shook with relief.
Twenty minutes later, the airmen and SPOs loaded into their vehicles. The airmen continued on their patrol; the SPOs returned to wherever they’d come from.
I didn’t care where they’d gone; I was just happy they were gone, and I was relieved to have escaped detection and capture.
By the time I made it back to my car, it was close to midnight and I was exhausted, physically and emotionally. But when I got home I couldn’t quite calm down, so I took a few minutes to write an email to Dr. Bickel and leave it in my draft folder in a message with the subject line, “Position Description.”
I made my next trip into the mountain the Tuesday after Labor Day. It was uneventful, but I think Dr. Bickel and I were preoccupied with our own thoughts that afternoon. During our midday meal, I rehearsed the incident to him again and answered his questions.
“I have concerns about General Cushing,” he admitted. “It’s just a feeling, but I have this sense that she’s closing in.”
“How could she be? How would she find you?” I didn’t want to hear what he was saying. “Are you basing your concerns on anything other than this feeling?”
“You’re probably right, Gemma. I’m sure everything’s fine,” he murmured when we’d talked the event to death. I could tell he was troubled, though, especially when he added, “Still, we should take additional precautions”
“Such as?” I demanded.
He thought for a while before he replied. “I have a cell phone I want you to take with you. It’s what they call a ‘burner.’ Untraceable. Plug it in and keep it charged, but don’t use it except in the direst of circumstances.
”
He dug in his desk drawer, removed a phone and its charger, and handed them to me. “Only the direst of circumstances,” he repeated.
I tucked the phone and charger into my backpack, the words “direst of circumstances” digging a hole in my gut. We sat down to play cards, but I could not seem to relax. For the first time ever, he beat me at Samba.
ZANDER CALLED THE FRIDAY after Labor Day weekend. “I thought I’d give you a call instead of randomly showing up at your house.”
“That’s considerate,” I laughed.
I’d thought a lot about what he’d told me, about his past with a gang. It still bothered me, but maybe not as much as it had when he’d first told me.
“I can manage ‘considerate’ once in a while,” he replied.
We were joking with each other, completely at ease again. I was surprised—but glad.
“So, listen, a group of us from church are doing a barbecue tomorrow at a park where we know a lot of homeless people hang out. We posted signs letting them know about the food and when we’d be there. I thought you might like to come and help?”
“You’re going to barbecue for the homeless?”
“Yup. We’ll have burgers, dogs, potato salad, and baked beans. We’ll also be giving away bottled water, wipes, socks, things like that.”
“And you want me to help.” Derision had leaked into my voice. “You mean no one at Downtown Community warned you about me? I developed quite a reputation for being a troublemaker back in the day. They even asked Aunt Lu not to bring me to kids’ Sunday school anymore. I had to sit in her class with adults.”
“Oh, please.” He was just as sarcastic right back at me. “I’ve heard those tales. Whatever they still say about you, I know better.”
He waited a tick; his timing was dead-on. “I know you’re much worse than that.” He snarled, winked, and added, “You rabble-rouser, you.”
It was just the right touch of edgy, dry humor. I snickered.
He asked again. “So what do you say? Barbecue for the homeless?”
I sighed (in keeping with our little charade), but I was intrigued. “Yes, all right. What do you want me to do?”
“Just dress casually—you know, nothing you are afraid to get dirty—and be willing to work. I’ll pick you up around four tomorrow. Probably have you home by dark.”
“All right.”
We hung up and I thought about his offer again. Was it a date? Or was it just an attempt to get me involved with his church?
I sighed. Neither one of those scenarios will work, I warned myself. I’m not ever going to “get involved” with his church, and he can’t “get involved” with someone like me.
The “someone like me” stuck in my craw. Someone who doesn’t believe the way he does, I amended.
He picked me up the next day and as I got into the passenger seat, I was surprised to see another woman sitting in the back. I stared at her, my face a perfect blank slate.
“Gemma, this is my little sister, Isabelle.”
Sister?
“Don’t ever call me Isabelle,” she scowled. “It’s Izzie.” Then she flashed a smile and grabbed my hand. “Nice to meet you, Gemma. Zander’s told me about you.”
I managed a smile in return. “Nice to meet you, too, Izzie.”
The ride to the park took about ten minutes. The whole time, Izzie and Zander cracked jokes and teased each other. I stayed silent but smiled along with them. It was fun listening to siblings get along. I didn’t know much about that.
When we got to the park, a crowd of about twenty young men and women were unloading two pickup trucks and hauling grills, tables, chairs, ice chests, and boxes to the center of the park. The park was one of Albuquerque’s older ones; it boasted a wealth of stately cottonwoods and lots of shade. It was also rundown.
If Zander’s church was looking to attract the homeless, they’d come to the right place.
Setting up for the barbecue was chaos, but light-hearted chaos. I pitched in with the others and followed the orders of the couple who seemed to be in charge. I noticed that Zander did, too.
An hour later the mouth-watering aroma of grilling hamburgers and hotdogs filled the park. Maybe a hundred or more people were gathering for the food. Call me clueless, but I was a little dumbfounded at how many of the homeless adults had their kids with them.
Kids are homeless, too?
I had no idea.
Izzie must have guessed what I was thinking. “Lots of people are only a paycheck away from disaster, Gemma.”
My tongue felt stuck. I’d come too close to disaster myself to hazard a reply.
Izzie and I manned the potato salad and baked beans table. I was quiet as I spooned beans onto paper plates; Izzie was anything but.
“Hey, Sweetie! You like potato salad? How hungry are you? I’ll give you extra if you give me a smile,” and, “You look like you’re a growing boy. You need to carb-load, Hon. Gemma, give this good-looking young man some baked beans. No; give him more than that. He’s gotta keep his strength up.”
With every interaction she added, “And I want you to know how much Jesus loves you, Chica,” or “Jesus loves your smile, Baby.” Something along those lines. It was kinda sweet.
The men we served were the hardest for me to handle—guys who were in their thirties or forties but who looked so much older, their skin weathered by the outdoors, their hearts and eyes worn by hard living. They were mostly quiet and nodded their thanks.
I needed something to drink. I turned away to take sips from a bottle of water. I didn’t think I could take much more of this.
At another table I saw Zander and a few other men filling plastic grocery bags with bottles of water and sundry items. People lined up for those meager supplies, too.
When the food was gone (every last bite of it) Zander climbed up on a little wooden platform under a tree and started speaking. He didn’t have a microphone and he didn’t speak loudly. What was interesting was that the crowd in the park quieted and some of them came in close to listen.
So did I. Zander’s voice carried well to where I leaned against a tree.
“Folks, I hope the little bit we brought this afternoon encourages you. I use the word ‘encourages’ because I think it takes real courage to live today. Times are hard and courage is not always easy to come by.”
He smiled and reached out with that smile to draw his listeners closer. “A long time ago, about five thousand people walked for days to listen to a man they hoped could give them courage. If you think times are hard today, it was a lot harder back then. These people and their kids were out of food, and there weren’t any stores around to buy more, no McDonald’s on the corner. The man they’d been following was Jesus, and all he had was five little buns and some dried fish. Still, he told his friends, ‘Give these people something to eat.’
“His friends fed all five thousand people that day, five thousand people who had walked three days to hear what Jesus had to say. As I said, just bread and dried fish—but everybody ate until they were full and there was still food left over! It was a miracle.
“Today’s barbecue isn’t a miracle, but it is offered in love. And I’d like to share the other kind of food Jesus came to give the people, the kind that those folks were willing to walk three days to get.
“To one woman Jesus once said, Those who drink the water I give will never be thirsty again. The water I give them becomes a fresh, bubbling spring within them, giving them eternal life.
“To a different crowd Jesus said, The thief’s purpose is to steal and kill and destroy. My purpose is to give you a rich and satisfying life. I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd sacrifices his life for the sheep.
Zander smiled. “Today we gave you a little something to eat and a few things to take with you. We hope you’ll go away knowing that you are not alone in this world. More than that, we want you to know that Jesus, the good shepherd, still offers living water. He still wants you to be free inside, f
ree from the thief that steals, kills, and destroys, free to have a full, satisfying life.
“If you would like to know more about the life Jesus offers to you, please meet me under that tree over there and we’ll talk. I would be happy to talk with anyone and pray with you, too.”
He walked over to the tree he’d pointed at and a few people made their way toward him. I was shaken. I took a deep breath and let it out.
Hard-core. He’s a hard-core Christian. It wasn’t that I hadn’t already known it, but knowing it and seeing it in action were two different things. I needed to get away. I couldn’t keep seeing Zander anymore.
I looked around. “Hey, Izzie.” I walked up to where she was boxing up tablecloths.
“Hey, Gemma!” She smiled at me.
“So, um, listen. I’m going to take off now. Thanks for inviting me.”
She saw me then, fiddling with my shirttail and not making eye contact. Her smile faded. “How will you get home, Gemma?”
“Oh, I’ll just walk.”
“Are you sure?” I think she was asking me more than one question.
“Yeah. I’m sure.”
Zander called that evening. I was expecting him to. I hoped I was ready.
“Ah, how’s your garden going?”
“It’s okay. I have lots more tomatoes and peppers coming on.”
“Well, I just wanted to see if you were all right.”
“I’m fine.”
Awkward silence.
For the first time, conversation was uncomfortable between us. Neither one of us wanted to bring up why I’d bailed on him and Izzie at the barbecue. We knew anyway.
The next day Zander knocked on the door but I pretended I wasn’t home.
It’s better this way, I rationalized.
I peeked through the curtain, expecting to see him leave. But before he got in his car, he walked across the road to Emilio’s perch on the curb. Again.
Zander had a Blake’s Lotaburger bag in one hand, something else in the other, and a Powerade bottle under each arm. Zander sat on the curb next to Emilio, his long legs sticking out into the street far past the boy’s legs.
Stealthy Steps Page 18
