by Bill Myers
“I don’t really see what —”
Short Suit took Reichner’s right arm and shoved up his shirtsleeve as Tall Suit grabbed the other arm.
Reichner resisted, trying to push them away. “What are you doing? I don’t want — what is that stuff?”
“Ativan,” Short Suit explained as he wiped an alcohol-soaked swab across the arm. “It is a sedative.”
Reichner continued struggling. “I know what Ativan is.”
Tall Suit pushed him farther back into the seat as Short Suit continued. “It is four milligrams. You will be asleep before you know it.”
Reichner struggled. “I will not be sedated!”
The two men were strong. Reichner twisted his body, kicking against the front seat, but they held his arms firm while keeping him pinned down.
Reichner felt a tiny burn in his right arm. He looked down. Short Suit had found the vein and was pumping the liquid into it.
“Just sit back,” Tall Suit encouraged. “You’ll be there before you know it, Mr. Reichner.”
He could feel the drug rushing through his body. “It’s Dr. Reichner.” The chemical swept into his brain. “Dr. Reichner. I have a Ph.D. I have two Ph.D.’s.”
“You certainly do, Dr. Reichner.” The voice grew fainter, more distant.
Reichner fought the fogginess. He had to continue talking. “I have a degree from Princeton Seminary. I also…I’m …” He felt an irresistible urge to close his eyes, fought it, then obeyed, but only for a moment, just to gather his wits. “I also…in physics…I have two degrees. Princeton…and in, one in …”
That was the last Dr. Reichner remembered of Katmandu.
Brandon shuffled into Momma’s kitchen wearing nothing but jeans and an old T-shirt. He’d have worn less than that if he thought he could get away with it. But Momma was from the South, and though she had been up here in Indiana for over twenty years, there were still certain customs, certain civilities she insisted upon from her family. And wearing a shirt to the breakfast table was one of them.
“Morning, darlin’,” she called from the stove.
“Mornin’,” he mumbled as he pulled out a chair and took his seat.
It wasn’t seven in the morning and the kitchen was already sweltering. The weather had been hot like this most of the summer. But Momma didn’t complain. It wasn’t her way.
Sunlight blasted through the screen door, forcing Brandon to squint and turn his head. But the back door would remain open. That was where his father sat — every day, unmoving in his wheelchair, staring out at the world through the screen. The expensive, silver-and-turquoise wristwatch Brandon had given him six Father’s Days ago glinted in the sun. Back then it had cost Brandon most of his savings, but it had seemed a small price to pay. Even now Momma made sure the man wore it every day. Not that it mattered. As a stroke victim, he couldn’t look at it. Probably didn’t even know he had it on. Even if he did, he could never show any appreciation. He was incapable of showing any emotion.
Brandon glanced down at the table. After all he’d put his father through, it was probably just as well.
“He sure loves that mornin’ sun on his face, doesn’t he?” Momma asked.
Brandon said nothing.
Momma continued, uncomfortable in any silence. “Looks like we’re gonna have ourselves another blisterin’ day.” She scooped the pancakes from the griddle. “Weatherman says we’re settin’ ourselves some kinda record. Comin’ up to thirty days without a speck o’ rain. And none in sight.”
She crossed to the table and set the plate of eggs and hotcakes before him. Brandon saw the sweat glistening off the hairs of her forearm, knew a thin dark stain was already working its way down the back of her housedress. He hated to see her working like this. He’d made it clear a hundred times that he didn’t need breakfast. But she insisted. There were certain civilities expected from a family.
He picked up his fork and began to eat. She moved to the fridge. He could feel her standing there, pretending to busy herself by pouring a glass of milk but scrutinizing his every move.
“’Course, the farmers are complainin’ to beat the band.” She forced a chuckle. “Guess they need somethin’ to complain about, though. If it’s not too dry then it’s too wet, or too cold, or too somethin’.” She crossed to him and set the glass on the table, then nervously brushed the damp strands of hair behind her ear. “Still, I bet they could use a little help.”
Brandon continued to eat in silence. He could feel her eyes still on him.
She turned back to the stove. Nearly half a minute passed before she finally turned and said what was on her mind, what he had suspected she wanted to say since he’d entered the room. “You had another dream, didn’t you?”
He gave a half shrug.
“Jenny?” she asked.
There was no need to reply. She already knew the answer. She crossed back to the fridge and opened it, striving to be matter-of-fact. “You know, if you took that medicine like the doctor says, you wouldn’t have to be puttin’ up with those things. You slept real well when you took it before. Remember?”
He gave no answer.
“Oh, sugar.” She had turned back to him and was now speaking from her heart. “Your sister’s gone.” She took a tentative step toward him. “She’s gone and there’s nothin’ we can do about it.”
More silence. Brandon continued to eat. She moved closer. “And you gotta stop blaming yourself. It was … her time. And the good Lord knew it. You just happened to be the one there, that’s all.”
“A tool in his hand — is that right, Momma?” The sarcasm came before he could stop it. “I just have to believe it was his will.” They were hard words, stinging words, and he regretted saying them as he watched her retreat back to the stove.
Another minute passed before she spoke again, her cheeriness a little forced. “I’m dropping by the Wilson’s this afternoon. Thought I’d pick us up some more of that cider your daddy likes so well.”
Brandon looked toward the door. His father sat motionless, just as he always did.
“Remember — remember that jug we forgot and left in the cellar all winter?” She chuckled. “My, oh my, now that had some bite to it, remember? Wasn’t too long ’fore we all got a little tipsy? Remember?” Her voice grew softer, drifting into memories. “What people would’ve said…the pastor’s family gettin’ — ”
But Brandon had had enough. His chair scraped against the yellowed linoleum as he rose.
“Where you goin’?”
“The shop’s got another deadline,” he said as he turned and started for the door. “Putnam wants everybody there by 7:20.”
“But you’ve barely touched your —”
“I’ll grab something later.”
“But —”
He squeezed past his father, careful not to look at him. He never looked at him, not if there was a chance of their eyes meeting. He headed out the door and down the porch steps. When he reached the bottom, Drool came lumbering after him. Normally, Brandon would have stooped to give the big old dog a scratch and rub, but he had to get away. He knew Momma was trying to help, but he also knew her suffocating ways and that he could literally drown in her chatter. He gave the dog a quick pat on the side and moved for his pickup.
He climbed inside and started up the engine. He dropped it into gear and started down the dusty, potholed lane that ran a hundred fifty yards to the highway. He knew she was standing at the screen, watching, and it took every ounce of willpower just to raise his hand and give her a wave.
He didn’t know if she waved back. He didn’t care.
He just had to get away.
Sarah stood in front of her bedroom closet, more asleep than awake. She’d spent less than four hours in bed. But four hours would have to do. Now it was time to put down the coffee and stumble out the door to work. But first, what to wear. Not that it mattered. Most of her wardrobe was the same: dark colors — grays, browns, greens, nearly all loose-fitting
. Not that she’d planned it that way. It had just happened.
Friends scoffed at her. “You got a body most would die for. You can’t keep hiding it. You’ve got to get back out there and ad-ver-tise.”
But Sarah wasn’t interested in advertising. Not anymore. In her high school and college days, oh yeah. Big time. It had been great fun, and she’d been good at it. But that was long ago and far away. Another life. Now there was her work and the lab and her research. Oh sure, she could still force the smiles, be charming, flirt and play the game. But that’s all it was: a game.
And the truth was, she was no longer interested in playing the game, much less winning it.
She reached into the closet, pulled out a nondescript sack of a dress, and quickly slipped it on. It was important to hurry, today more so than ever. Because, although she was careful not to let the thought completely form, in the back of her mind she knew: This was the date, this was the third anniversary of her abortion.
Brandon slipped the hand dolly under a four-foot stack of pamphlets. He tilted them back, then turned and wheeled the pile across the floor of Bollenger’s Printing and Lithograph. He’d started working for the plant part-time back in high school. After graduation, some friends headed off to college, but Brandon remained behind. What good would college do anyway? Just postpone the inevitable: searching for a halfway decent job. Besides, there were no guarantees, not for his generation. Skeptical, figuring America’s best years lay behind, Brandon did what many of his so-called “Generation X” did. He found a safe place, then quietly and silently began giving up his dreams.
It hadn’t always been that way. As a boy, he’d been everybody’s favorite. Especially his father’s. He had adored the man, and the man had adored him. They’d done everything together, and there wasn’t the slightest doubt that he was destined to follow in his father’s footsteps. It was believed by all who knew him that Brandon Martus would be a bright and shining light for his generation. Some thought he’d become a pastor like his father; others said a famous teacher or evangelist. Whatever the details, everyone knew that he was destined for greatness. Everyone told him so.
And Brandon had believed them. He had believed everything — until his father’s stroke six years ago. After that, no amount of believing did any good. Not that he didn’t try. At first he had tried everything, even insisting that Momma drive all the way to Chicago and later to Indianapolis to attend faith-healing crusades. But no matter how hard Brandon prayed, no matter how hard he believed, his father remained paralyzed.
That’s when the doubts crept in. If God couldn’t be trusted with a little thing like healing his father, how could he be trusted with bigger things? And if he couldn’t be trusted with bigger things, then how could Brandon trust God with anything — including this supposed “call” that everyone said God had placed on his life?
The answer became crystal clear: He couldn’t.
And that’s when the downward spiral began — a spiral of doubt, anger, guilt, but most of all, self-hatred. A spiral that made it difficult to talk to his mother and impossible to look at his father. A spiral that had finally reached bottom just seven months ago when Brandon had sealed his fate by killing the only other thing that mattered in his life. That was the night he had accidentally killed Jenny, his little sister.
With the stack of pamphlets balanced on his hand dolly, Brandon crossed the plant, heading for the loading dock. As he approached the giant printing press, he could hear Frank laughing, no doubt reveling in last night’s exploits at the country club. Word of their antics had spread quickly, due in no small measure to Frank’s gift for gab.
Brandon rounded the corner of the press and saw Warner, the ponytailed operator, listening and laughing as he inched the press’s big rollers forward, cleaning them with a rag. He spotted Brandon and shouted, “Hey, Martus — sounds like you boys done all right against them techies!”
Brandon gave a nod as he moved past.
“I tell you, it was beautiful,” Frank laughed. “And this guy” — he motioned toward Brandon — “this guy was insane, man. Thought he was Mario Andretti.”
The familiarity of the phrase caught Brandon off guard. He glanced over his shoulder as Frank rattled on and Warner listened with admiration. Brandon’s gaze shot to Warner’s right hand.
It held the same rag as in the dream. It darted in and out of the same rollers.
He looked at the other hand.
It carelessly pressed the reverse button on and off, on and off, also as in the dream.
But before Brandon could react, he ran his dolly into Roger Putnam, the plant foreman. The stack of pamphlets tumbled to the floor, and Putnam grabbed his shin, swearing. “Come on, Martus!”
Brandon muttered an apology and quickly moved to restack the load — at the same time, keeping an eye on Frank and Warner.
With a groan, Putnam lowered his massive bulk to help him. “When you gonna start putting some mind into your work?”
Brandon gave no answer. Frank and Warner were still laughing.
“Listen,” Putnam continued, “you’re screwing up on the orders again.”
The phrase chilled Brandon. Hadn’t that also been in the dream? He shot another look at the press.
“I can’t always be covering for you, man. I mean, I’ve got my rear end to protect too, y’know.”
Incredulous, Brandon rose, staring first at Putnam, then at the press and at Warner’s left hand pushing the reverse button.
“Now — you got another delivery over at the Institute this …”
Warner’s right hand darted dangerously close to the rollers.
“… so try not to — ”
That was all Brandon could stand. He leaped to his feet, shouting: “Your hand!” He started toward them. “Look out, your hand, it’s going to —”
Just as Warner hit the off button to shut down the press.
Brandon slowed and stopped as the big machine wound down. Frank and Warner turned to look at him. He could feel Putnam and other workers doing the same.
What had happened? He’d been so certain. It had been exactly like his dream.
Frank was the first to speak. “What’s up, buddy?”
Brandon stared at the rollers of the machine, then over at Frank, then Warner.
“You okay?” Frank asked.
Slowly, Brandon nodded. “Yeah. I, uh — I’m fine.” For another moment he stood, unsure what to do. Finally, he turned back to the dolly and finished restacking the pamphlets. He rose and quickly wheeled them off, more than a little grateful to be away from everyone’s curious gaze.
CHAPTER 3
“IF HE IS IN such a hurry to see me, why is he not here?” Reichner paced back and forth on the bare, earthen floor. The building was a single room, ten by twelve feet, constructed of stone and plaster. At one end sat a combination fireplace and open-hearth oven. At the other, a roughly hewn wooden door and a single window that looked out into the night rain. The furnishings consisted of a spartan bed complete with microthin mattress, a wooden chair and table, a chipped porcelain washbasin, and a small thatched mat, probably used for meditation.
A tiny barefoot woman was replacing fruit in a bowl at the table while a man in a yellow, long-sleeved robe smiled politely. He was small and brown, like any of the peasants Reichner had seen swarming the streets of Katmandu earlier that evening. But when he spoke, there was no mistaking his university training. “Patience is a great virtue, Dr. Reichner.”
“I have been waiting nearly four hours!”
“I assure you, Teacher will arrive at the perfect time.”
The woman completed her work and stood silently, waiting to be dismissed. The man nodded and she opened the door, exiting into the night.
“So you are holding me prisoner?” Reichner demanded. “Is that it?”
“You may leave at any time you wish. Although I suspect it is as advantageous for you to see Teacher as it is for him to see you.”
Reichner
hesitated. For the second time that day, he’d heard that the guru wanted badly to see him. This was good. Valuable information to store for later use. “What about my laptop and my suitcases?”
“They will be returned to you in time.”
Reichner ran his hand through his brown crewcut. He was getting nowhere fast. “Why won’t you tell me where I am?”
“You are one-half kilometer from the main compound.”
“And where exactly is that?”
“Now, Dr. Reichner, if Teacher had wanted you to know such things, we would not have given you the sedative.”
“Yes, well, in the future it would not hurt to ask your guests’ permission before you start pumping drugs into them.”
“I hope the experience was not unpleasant.”
“It was rude and frightening and entirely unwarranted.”
“I am sorry. I suppose we could have thrown a gunnysack over your head and knocked you unconscious.”
It was meant as a joke but Reichner didn’t smile. The man nodded in understanding. He reached into his long, flowing sleeve, pulled out a small piece of paper, and handed it to Reichner.
“What’s this?” Reichner asked.
“Teacher wishes you to have it.”
Reichner looked down at the paper. One very long word was written upon it. The penmanship was sloppy, like a child’s, and it was in language he didn’t recognize.
“That is Sanskrit,” the man explained. “An ancient Indic language.”
“What does it say?”
“It is a special mantra the Teacher wishes for you to meditate upon.”
“Mantra?”
“It is the God-name of Teacher. Just as our Hindu brothers recite ‘om’ to more fully connect with the universe, if you meditate upon this name, it will help cleanse your mind and allow you to more fully communicate with Teacher’s spirit.”
Reichner eyed the man, then glanced back at the words. He knew all about meditating. Back in his college days he’d practiced it. Even now at the Institute he used similar techniques to help relax his subjects before beginning their sessions. But he seldom practiced it himself, and never by chanting Eastern mantras.
