“Yes,” Rich said, to Charlotte’s surprise. “What caused him to go into a coma?”
“That’s hard to say,” Dr. Stephens replied. “It was a stroke, but the next question, of course, is what causes strokes. Also, why would one person have one and someone else with a seemingly identical medical history not? Of those who have strokes, why would one lapse into a deep coma and another not? I could talk for a long time about different medical theories, but the plain truth is, we don’t know. I guess you could call it an act of God.” Dr Stephens took a quick look at his watch. “I’ll check on him again tomorrow.”
Charlotte was searching for words of comfort for Rich when a totally unrelated thought penetrated her mind. “Mother!” she exclaimed.
“I wouldn’t have expected you to use that kind of language.” Rich wore a superior grin.
“No, I have to pick up my mother at the airport in twenty minutes,” she said, ignoring his remark. “I’m sorry, Rich, but you’re going to have to go with me. I’ll drop you off as soon as I get my mom.” Charlotte gave Dick a peck on the cheek, whispered something in his ear, and headed out the door.
Rich hesitated for a minute, then rose and started to follow. At the doorway, he turned back toward his father. “Good night, Dad. You sure know how to pick ’em.”
Charlotte ran through the hospital parking lot, leaving it to Rich to keep pace with her. After fumbling for her cell phone, she tried to place a call while digging for the car keys. She was relieved when Rich offered to drive while she did her telephone business. Charlotte called four airlines—none had an eight-thirty arrival in San Antonio. Three carriers had flights coming in from Dallas within fifteen or twenty minutes of eight-thirty.
They looped past both possible arrival terminals without Charlotte sighting Lottie. Calls to her mother’s cell phone went to voice mail—obviously her phone was not turned on. Any vehicle that dawdled more than a minute or two got a “move along” motion from the airport police. Rich suggested Charlotte go inside Terminal One and look for her mother in the baggage area while he circled back around in the car. If there was no luck with Terminal One, they would repeat the process at Terminal Two. As she walked into the terminal, Charlotte was again aware of her grimy clothing.
Rich’s plan worked. Charlotte found Lottie and Martha inside Terminal Two, waiting for their luggage. They had landed on time at eight-fifteen. Charlotte reminded her mother to turn on her cell phone and went outside to let Rich know she had found Lottie.
When she told him the women were still waiting for their bags, Rich suggested Charlotte take over the driving while he took care of the luggage. “Can you tell me how to recognize your mother and her friend?” Rich asked.
“No problem,” Charlotte said, smiling broadly enough to show the dimple in her left cheek. “Mom and Martha are the only two ladies in the airport wearing red hats.”
After two loops around the airport, Charlotte spotted her mother, Martha, and Rich standing on the curb with enough luggage to outfit a safari. Lottie plopped into the front passenger seat. Rich closed Lottie’s door and helped Martha into the back seat.
“Charlotte!” Lottie bubbled in a fake whisper. “Why haven’t you introduced me to Rich before now? He’s such a gentleman. I didn’t even know you were dating.”
“I’m not dating him or anyone else, Mother,” Charlotte said. “And I have no plans ever to start.”
As soon as Rich closed her door, Martha fairly yelled, “Woo-hoo, Charlotte! That’s as good looking a hunk of manhood as I’ve laid eyes on in many a moon. Where have you been hiding him? Catch me, girls, I think I’m going to faint.”
Rich was busy fitting all the bags into the trunk. “I’m simply giving him a ride,” she said.
“Next time he needs a ride, you can tell him to call me,” Martha chirped.
“Not if I get there first,” Lottie countered.
“Simmer down, ladies,” Charlotte advised them. “He’s married. And even if he were single, I for one would not be the slightest bit interested.”
“No problem,” Martha said, looking out the back window of Charlotte’s car. “You can send me all your rejects, starting with this one.”
Charlotte was glad to see the trunk lid close. Martha and Lottie were still tittering as Rich slid into the back seat.
“You really should have let me sit back there,” Lottie said to Rich.
“Oh, no, ma’am. That might interfere with my plan to flirt with Miss Martha,” he replied.
Charlotte rolled her eyes and pulled away from the curb, while everyone else in the car giggled.
As she exited the airport, Charlotte said, “I’ll run Rich home first. He’s staying right here in Alamo Hills…”
“Charlotte!” Rich interrupted. “Surely you don’t want these two delicate little flowers to carry their own luggage, do you? Why don’t you drop me off after Miss Lottie and Miss Martha? I wouldn’t mind if they don’t. Besides,” he went on, “I’d really like to hear the end of the story about the Dallas city councilman.”
Charlotte sensed defeat even before Lottie and Martha both started talking at once to demand Rich’s presence. Let them have their fun, she thought. Actually, it would be nice to have someone big and strong to deal with the luggage. Otherwise, Charlotte would be responsible for getting bags out of the car and into the houses.
Lottie picked up with a long-winded tale that must have begun in the airport. As Charlotte drove to Martha’s house, she wondered how her mother would react if she knew Rich been married four times and hadn’t seen his children in fifteen years.
At Lottie’s home, Charlotte popped open her trunk. Rich hopped out of the car, opened Lottie’s door, and started unloading bags.
“It’s too bad he’s married, Charlotte,” Lottie said. “He’d be perfect for you.”
“No, Mom,” Charlotte said, smiling. “He’d be perfect for you. He’s the only man I know of who can get all of your luggage from the car to the house in one trip. I’ll call you tomorrow. Goodnight. Sleep tight.”
Charlotte watched her mother open her front door, turn on some lights, and beckon Rich inside. From the amount of time it took to return, Charlotte guessed he had taken her mother’s things to her bedroom in the back of the house.
Rich folded his long legs into the front seat of Charlotte’s car and they headed to Alamo Hills. She suppressed a sudden urge to address him as Sir Galahad. Charlotte had worked long and hard to stop tossing out sarcastic remarks without considering they might hurt someone’s feelings, and she didn’t intend to let Rich goad her into resuming the habit. Instead, she said, “Thank you for managing all that luggage. And thanks, too, for being nice to my mom and Martha. You made Martha’s day when you said you wanted to flirt with her.”
“I enjoyed their company,” Rich said. “They’re the first two people I’ve met since I arrived back in this country who actually seemed glad to see me. Unless you consider Buster a person. He’s pretty close.” A street light illuminated his face as Charlotte glanced sideways. The poor man looked exhausted. Thinking back on everything Rich had been through recently, Charlotte felt a rush of sympathy for him.
After a minute, he said, “A lot has happened in the two years I’ve been gone. I need to find Rita and figure out my financial and marital status. At least I have some clues now, based on things Jerry told me. I have a lot of catching up to do about dad as well. That one baffles me. Charlotte, you have a great deal of information I need to know to put all the pieces of this puzzle together. So, my question is, will you help me? And when can you give me some time?”
“I helped your father, professionally, through a very difficult time in his life,” Charlotte said softly. “He was very open and honest with me. And, yes, he revealed things you would probably want to know. But there are strict ethical rules about patient privacy.”
Rich turned in his seat to face her. “Charlotte,” he said, in a soft, tender tone that would have melted tungsten carbide. “I’
m asking you to do what’s right, maybe not what the book says, but what you know in your heart is best. Factor in the personal responsibility you have to look out for my father’s best interests. And, please, consider this. If my dad could talk and think right now, do you sincerely believe he would keep any secrets from me? About anything? What would he want you to do?”
“You and I both know your dad loved—loves—you more than life itself,” Charlotte replied. “When he thought he had lost you, he suffered more than most men could endure. I would love to share the story of his journey with you, but I’m not sure it’s my place. I’ll have to pray and ask for guidance.”
Rich stared at her. “Are you telling me you actually believe there’s a God out there somewhere and even though millions of prayers get said every day, somehow he’s going to hear yours? And pay attention to it? Then he’s going to think it over and get back to you with an answer?” Rich asked. “I don’t know which would be worse—if you’re putting on an act, or if you really have convinced yourself to believe this nonsense.”
“I do believe those things,” Charlotte said. “And I assure you it’s not nonsense. So tell me, which part do you have trouble with? Is it distinguishing my prayer from one coming in from Calcutta or Hoboken? Or is it that God would bother with someone as insignificant as Charlotte Phillips from San Antonio, Texas?”
“Logic one-oh-one,” Rich replied. “The conclusions don’t hold up because the premise is false. He doesn’t hear because He isn’t there. Maybe I would think differently if I hadn’t been where I’ve been and seen what I’ve seen. But I have. It all leads me to one inescapable conclusion. There is no God.”
“You’re an atheist,” Charlotte whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
“Yes, I am. And there’s no need for you to be sorry,” he said. “It’s a highly liberating realization. No more ‘thou shalt not’s’. You should try it.”
“No thank you,” she said. “Being an agnostic was a hard enough life for me. I’ll pray for you, Rich.”
“Sure thing,” he said in a brittle voice. “Ask your God why he would let a helpless old man think his son was dead when he wasn’t. Ask him if the old fellow had to have a stroke why couldn’t he at least have had it after he found out his boy was alive. While you’re at it, ask him about places in this world where little kids go hungry and you can contract to have someone killed for less money than you and I would spend going out to dinner. I’ll be very interested in His answers.”
“It’s good you’re facing your anger instead of trying to ignore it the way you were earlier,” Charlotte said.
Rich laughed shortly. “Do I owe you a fee for that observation or is it all part of your Christian duty?”
Charlotte didn’t give him answer and didn’t think he expected one. They pulled in the circular driveway. “Good night, Rich. God bless you. Oh, the new security code is zero-five-two-three.”
He sat for a moment. “Who has a birthday on the twenty-third of May?”
“My son,” she replied hesitantly.
“You should change the access code for your bank account to something different then.” He smiled and got out of the car. “Good night.” She wanted to tell him he was wrong, but zero-five-two-three actually was the PIN she used at her bank’s money machines. How had he figured that out so fast?
Charlotte watched Rich walk into Dick’s house, thinking how sad he was, an intelligent man so full of charm and yet so lacking in character. She was convinced he was in dire need of getting to know Jesus Christ. She leaned against the steering wheel and prayed that would happen, not only for Rich’s sake, but also for Dick’s. Then she added what was, for her, an unusual footnote to her prayer. “Please, Lord, don’t make him my mission. I’m asking You please to give that assignment to someone else.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Rich stepped into the house. He leaned against the front door, remembering how much he hated what he called “the empty house syndrome.” It wasn’t the emptiness exactly nor the silence, certainly not fear. May as well call it by its real name—loneliness. Even as a kid, he remembered, he would go to the park or another boy’s house when he knew his mother was gone. He’d stay there, or somewhere, where there were people until his mom was home, all to avoid being by himself in the house.
He flipped on some lights, walked to the kitchen and looked outside. Good old Buster was nestled against the back door.
Rich cracked the door and said, “Come on in, Bus.” The dog put his head and tail down and slowly walked inside. Rich scratched Buster’s ears. “Guess Dad gave you strict orders to stay out of here, huh? You probably wish he was here to yell at you. No such luck. It’s just you and me tonight, buddy. Maybe every night from here on in. I don’t know.”
Rich checked the refrigerator for something to eat. Slim pickings. Dad usually kept more food around. He searched some cabinets and took out two boxes—pretzels for himself and dog biscuits for Buster.
“You hungry, boy?” he asked. Buster sniffed at a dog biscuit for a moment, then ignored it. “Apparently not.”
Rich strolled into the family room. Buster followed slowly, checking left and right with each step, as if he expected someone to appear any moment and shoo him outside. The contents of Dick’s liquor cabinet were about what Rich expected, not much in the way of hard stuff. Behind the kahlua and a cream sherry, he found half a bottle of Lord Redmont’s Premium Jamaican Rum.
“This is more like it.” Rich suspected he had been the last person to pour a drink from this bottle, two years ago, at his send-off party.
After channel surfing long enough to eat the pretzels and drink a tumbler of rum on the rocks, Rich clicked off the TV. Feeling warm, he checked the thermostat and set the temperature to seventy-five. He retrieved his luggage from the living room and headed to his bedroom, patting his thigh and whistling to indicate that Buster should follow. Rich was relieved to realize how tired he was. The combination of alcohol, emotions and jet lag had him totally exhausted. Good, he thought. Nobody will have to rock me to sleep tonight. The clothes hamper that used to be in his closet was gone, so Rich folded his clothes and laid them across his upright suitcase. Tomorrow morning would be soon enough to unpack and get settled. The thought of a shower was inviting, but fatigue overruled all other desires. Nothing could take precedence over a few hours of rest. Buster took up a spot on the floor as close to his master as possible, while Rich folded his frame into the confining softness of his childhood bed.
The rising moon traced a window-shaped outline across the floor of the bedroom. A light breeze began to stir, and made shifting patterns of lace from the moonlight and the slender leaves of an old Mesquite tree that guarded the bedroom window. The only noticeable movement outside was an occasional automobile creeping along in compliance with the strict Alamo Hills speed limit. As the rectangular patch of moonlight crept toward him, Buster snored contentedly at his master’s feet and in no time, Rich joined him, sleeping soundly.
* * *
Rich woke, rubbed his eyes, and stared upward. He remembered as a teenager buying the bedside clock that projected the time on his bedroom’s ceiling. He wanted to know what time it was instantly, whenever he awoke. Besides, gadgetry had always intrigued him. Two fifty-four.
Of course, what the clock said didn’t really matter, nor did the fact he had only been asleep a few hours. His body was still attuned to a time zone halfway around the world from Alamo Hills. Rich had been through this before. For a while, he would be hungry and drowsy on a schedule that made no sense in central daylight savings time. Maybe in a couple of weeks, he would begin to sleep through the night. By the time a month had passed, his biological timing mechanism should be readjusted. Never mind all that—his immediate problem was hunger. Whatever the people of San Antonio might think, Rich’s stomach was convinced it was mealtime.
He was suddenly seized with an obsession for a plate of cheese enchiladas. With brown chili gravy, beans, rice, and fiery hot sauce. Extra c
heese and onions on the top. Guacamole and pico de gallo on the side. Oh yeah, and some fresh, hot, homemade flour tortillas.
Rich slung his feet over the side of the bed, nudging Buster out of the way. Stumbling against his suitcase, he sent the contents of his luggage flying. As Rich turned on the light, Buster stood, yawned, and shook himself. Rich let the dog out and came back upstairs. He gathered clothes, shoes, and miscellaneous toiletries from the floor and tossed them onto his bed. Digging out clean clothes, he jumped in the shower.
Tia Maria’s was a Mexican eatery tucked into the corner of a truck stop on south Interstate Highway 35, deep in the heart of San Antonio’s traditionally Hispanic neighborhood known as the West Side. That name went back to a time when the area geographically comprised the western sector of the city. Although now more in the center of town, the title remained.
The menu was handwritten on one wall, with prices that were occasionally marked out and replaced with a slightly higher number. There were no symbols to denote heart-healthy fare, because there was no such thing at Tia Maria’s. The restaurant, which some might call a dive, never served the dry, cardboard-like tortillas found at the big hotels along the River Walk. Tia Maria’s made fresh tortillas on the premises. The waitresses were not called servers and they never introduced themselves to customers. Furthermore, they put up with no foolishness from anyone. A faded sign thumb-tacked crookedly near the cash register proclaimed a simple philosophy, “Tip, si. Lip, no.” It was Rich’s favorite spot for Mexican food.
Since he was accustomed to being a foot taller than the people around him, and the only blond in a room full of brunettes, Rich felt at home on the West Side. There were plenty of places to sit at this hour of the morning. Rich selected a booth where he could keep an eye on his dad’s car in the parking lot and still see the TV mounted high on the wall. An elderly waitress, no more than five feet tall, placed a fork wrapped in a paper napkin and a yellow plastic glass of water in front of Rich. She nodded toward the wall menu. Rich greeted the waitress politely and asked for the enchilada plate in Spanish.
A Hero's Homecoming Page 6
