By My Hands

by Alton Gansky

  “Help!” Priscilla cried. “Help me, he’s been shot.” Turning her attention to Irwin, she saw him slowly open his eyes. He smiled and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

  “Sorry,” he said in a voice barely audible. “Sorry about the drinks.”

  “Hang on, Irwin,” she said, tears streaming down her face. “We’ll get you well, and then we’ll have lots of drinks.”

  “Make mine coff—” Irwin convulsed, closed his eyes, and let out his last breath.

  Priscilla heard the deep rattle in his lungs that only the dying make. “No, Irwin, don’t leave me! I’m sorry. I’ll make it all up to you, just don’t leave me.”

  Irwin did not respond.

  A strong hand touched her on the shoulder. She looked up into the face of Sergeant Reedly.

  EIGHT

  Sunday, March 8, 1992; 10:00 A.M.

  “I’LL TELL YOU WHAT I want,” Adam said forcefully. “I want out of this place.”

  Dick Slay simulated shock. “Why? You have lovely women waiting on you hand and foot, meals brought to your bedside, cable television for entertainment, and lovable people like me to engage you in meaningful conversation.”

  “I don’t deserve such fortune,” Adam replied, with a barely perceptible grin. “I should be forced to return to work immediately, instead of lying in bed and walking hallways I’ve walked a dozen times. I want my bed, my home, and the inalienable right to fix my own meals.” The two men sat in silence for a moment, then Adam continued, “Besides, the nurses on the night shift aren’t all that cute.”

  “Lechery is not a pretty sight in a pastor,” Dick chuckled.

  “It’s not lechery, it’s frustration. I want to go home.”

  “Just one more night, Pastor. You can endure that.”

  “Of course I can, but why should I? I feel great.”

  “Great?”

  “Okay, maybe not great, but I feel well enough to take care of myself.”

  “The nurse said that the doctor will release you tomorrow if your fever doesn’t come back. Besides, there’s no one at the house to take care of you.”

  “I’m smart enough to come back if my fever returns, and I can take care of myself. They should release me now.”

  “Adam, if you were sitting in this chair talking to me lying in that bed, and I said I wanted to go home before the doctors released me, what would you say?” Dick leaned back in his chair and waited.

  At first Adam said nothing. He was remembering the times when he had conversations just like this one and had insisted that the person do as the doctor instructed. A few times he even pulled rank: “I’m your pastor, and I’m telling you that you need to stay.” Now he realized that it was easier to give advice than take it.

  “Well?” Dick’s eyebrows shot up.

  “All right, you win. I make a lousy patient.”

  “That’s what the nurses say.”

  “Okay, so I tend to be a little testy.”

  “Did you really kick a nurse out of your room?” Dick was wearing a Cheshire grin.

  “Well, she wanted to weigh me.”

  “So?”

  “It was 5 in the morning. I told her to come back at 7 and assured her that I would weigh the same.”

  Both men laughed, but Adam’s laughter was cut short by a stabbing pain. “It only hurts when I laugh.”

  “I thought that was just an old saying.”

  Adam shook his head, “I wish it were.”

  “You know, Pastor,” Dick said, “I’m really glad you’re all right.”

  Adam nodded, “Thanks, Dick. You’ve been a big help.”

  The two fell into an awkward silence that men experience when expressing emotions to one another. It was silly, but he was as much a product of his upbringing and environment as any male. Dick Slay was the closest thing to a best friend he had. Despite his profession, Adam spent a great deal of time alone, partly by choice and partly by the circumstance of his personality. As a child, Adam had been a loner. He had no brothers or sisters and spent many hours alone while both parents worked hard to keep their home and put food on the table. Both his mother and father worked for General Dynamics near Lindberg Field in downtown San Diego, his father as a machinist and his mother as a secretary. Coming home to an empty house didn’t bother Adam; in fact, he learned to enjoy it. He would watch cartoons, play with his toys, or play fetch with their collie, Sparky.

  The loner habits Adam developed as a child carried into adult life. He relished times at home by himself, although he occasionally missed Sparky. Yet, he had not allowed his love of being alone to interfere with his normal social development. He was an entertaining host, a fine pastor and, according to his few close friends, a great confidant.

  Most of the friends Adam had made came from college and seminary. Unfortunately, all had moved to churches outside the area. He occasionally saw them at conventions, but most contact was reduced to the occasional phone call.

  Adam’s limited number of friends was also by design. If asked, he would say that every one of his congregation was his friend; but deep and abiding friendship required the ability to confide in others. As a pastor, he felt comfortable being confided in, but uncomfortable confiding in others. So Adam had surrounded himself with an invisible shield through which he could reach out, but no one else could reach in—no one except Dick Slay.

  No two men could have been more different than Dick Slay and Adam Bridger. Adam was tall with dark hair and thick glasses, a highly educated scholar, and (except when confined to a hospital) had the patience of Job. Dick was short, squat, and blunt. While he had developed a better than average vocabulary which grew from his love of mystery novels, he lacked the refined knowledge that came from a fine college education. Yet, no one ever thought of Dick as slow. His mind was quick, and his ability to comprehend new facts was amazing.

  Despite his abruptness, Dick was filled with an abundance of love. He liked people, liked laughter, and loved his pastor. The two had become fast friends. In many ways, Dick became the brother that Adam never had.

  “You the one giving me a ride home?” Adam asked, breaking the hush.

  “I’m your chauffeur. I’ve been thinking about bringing one of my big rigs. It’d do you good to be bounced around in the cab of an eighteen-wheeler.”

  The thought made Adam wince. “You’re not serious, are you?”

  “Nah. My wife said I could bring the minivan.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “When should I be here?”

  “They’ll probably spring me around noon.”

  “I’ll be here with bells on.”

  “Could I ask one other favor?” Adam said. “Would you please make sure the church doesn’t make a big fuss over me. All I need is a couple days of quiet.”

  “Are you kidding? They haven’t even noticed you’re gone.”

  “How’s the church doing?”

  “We burned it down, didn’t you hear?” Dick shook his head. “Stop worrying, Adam. Everything and everyone is fine.”

  “What about David?”

  Dick frowned. “No change, but then you know that. You’ve been making the nurses give you reports.”

  “I can’t believe they wouldn’t let me visit him.”

  “It’s their job to make sure you take care of yourself. You can visit him tomorrow.”

  “I wish there was more we could do besides wait.”

  Silence once again shrouded the two men. Dick chose to change the subject. “You sure you won’t stay with Chloe and me?”

  “Thanks, but I’ll be fine.”

  THE CONDO SEEMED COLDER than normal as Priscilla entered and locked the door behind her. The gunman was dead, the police had told her that; yet, she was apprehensive. Perhaps this was normal for one who had narrowly escaped being shot. Perhaps this was how one felt when one watched a friend die. Except the one was Priscilla, a hard-as-nails journalist who couldn’t stop sobbing or shaking.

  Shedding
her coat on the floor she slowly made her way to the bathroom. As she went, she kicked off her shoes and dropped her purse. She was in emotional shock. Scenes from the night’s violence randomly popped into her head like images of slides being flashed on the screen of her mind.

  In the bathroom she looked in the mirror and saw that the carefully styled red hair, her trademark, was mussed with several pieces of grass clinging to her curls. Her eyes were dark and her cheeks streaked black with mascara; her nose was red and irritated from repeated blowing. Priscilla took in the sight that was her image. She had seen others with this look, others who had watched family die or a house burn, others she had interviewed for broadcast. Now she understood the look. Now she could comprehend the storm of personal anguish that raged inside. She would have to be more sensitive.

  “All right, lady,” she said to the face in the mirror, “it’s time to pull yourself together. After all, you have an image to protect. You’re strong and you can deal with this.” She gazed at the reflection for a moment and then watched as it burst into tears, sobs erupting from a wounded soul.

  Time no longer had meaning. She wasn’t sure if she had cried for a moment or an hour. She just slowly became aware that she was sitting on the floor of the bathroom, knees pulled to her chest in a fetal position; rocking back and forth.

  “I’ve got to get a grip on myself,” she said aloud. “Maybe a drink would help.” She thought about the Scotch she kept in the kitchen. She thought about pouring a large glass and drinking it as fast as she could. Perhaps the alcohol would numb her mind and blur the images of the night. Shaking her head, she dismissed the idea. “That’s all I need right now—mass consumption of a depressant. No, I’ve got to stay clearheaded.”

  Pulling herself up from the floor she opened the shower door, leaned in, and turned on the water. She finished undressing and stepped into the steaming compartment. She let the hot water run over her head and down her body. In an odd way she envied the water: it was mindless, without feeling, and simply following nature’s course. She wished she could melt and flow down the drain into nonexistence, but the images came back, clear, crisp. Each scene was reenacted in slow motion and with the greatest detail. She could see the flashlight beam as it shone through the window and onto her face; she could hear the door of the house smash against the wall, she could hear Irwin groan as the bullet pierced his chest, she could feel the fiery pain from her twisted knee; she could feel the damp grass where she landed with Irwin on top of her; and most of all she could see the hateful eyes of her assailant.

  Her mind shifted to other scenes: the policemen administering CPR; the ride to the hospital with the paramedics still pumping Irwin’s chest; even the cracking of his bones as the force of the CPR flailed his rib cage. Then there was the official announcement of what she already knew: Irwin was dead. The bullet had pierced his aorta causing internal bleeding.

  An emergency room doctor had wrapped her knee and suggested that she keep ice on it. The wrapping now lay in a heap next to the shower. She barely noticed the pain in her knee; a greater pain ruled the moment.

  The police had been gentle and kind. Apparently Sergeant Reedly was running interference for her. She had expected to be grilled about her actions that led to Irwin’s death, but a police lieutenant asked just the most basic questions. She was released and Sergeant Reedly drove her home.

  It was over now. There would be more questions by the police but no trial, since the gunman had been killed. The police would file reports, and the news media would tell the story. The news media . . . she was the news media. What would she do now? For the first time in her professional life she didn’t want to report a story. Perhaps that was because for the first time in her life she was the story. But the story would be reported by every newspaper and news show in the area including her own.

  It was odd that no one had contacted her. The station had a radio scanner that monitored all frequencies used by police and fire departments. Surely someone had heard about the shooting. They may have shown up at the scene, but she left in the ambulance with Irwin and would have been gone when they arrived. Still, someone would have tried to contact her.

  There would be messages on the answering machine. She considered stopping the shower to retrieve her messages, but chose instead to remain in the warm blanket of water. The truth was that she didn’t want to speak to anyone. She had always thought the story was the most important thing, but now isolation seemed far more valuable. There would be time later to talk, but now was the time to search for oblivion; mindless, emotionless oblivion.

  Monday, March 9, 1992; 6:45 A.M.

  “GOOD MORNING, REVEREND BRIDGER.”

  Adam turned to see a tall, lanky young man wearing a white doctor’s smock enter his room.

  “That depends,” Adam said, offering a cautious smile.

  “Don’t tell me,” the young man said. “It depends on whether you get to go home today. Right?”

  “On the money.”

  “Well, be nice to me then because I’m the one who gets to make that decision.” He smiled as he read Adam’s chart. “Let’s see, you’ve been off antibiotics for a while and still maintained a normal temperature; that’s good, considering that little infection you had.”

  “Little infection? It kept me several days longer than I wanted.”

  “Yes, little infection. Occasionally, people whose appendixes burst spend time in ICU. At least you were spared that. Your chart looks good. How do you feel?”

  “Fine, actually. Some tenderness, and my back hurts from spending too much time in bed.”

  “The tenderness is normal. After all, we did cut you open to get that mess cleaned up.”

  “Excuse me for asking, but who are you?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Dr. Fredrickson, an intern here. Normally, Dr. Tremaine would do this, but she’s been reassigned to some special duties.”

  “Special duties?” Adam felt some relief at not having to match wits with his surgeon.

  “I can’t be sure. I’m just an intern. But my guess is that it has something to do with that.” He pointed at the television mounted on the wall opposite Adam. The screen showed the front of the hospital with a massive crowd gathered around the entrance. Police were stationed across the front of the building.

  “What’s going on?” Adam asked.

  “You haven’t been watching the news?” Dr. Fredrickson said. “No.”

  “Strange things, my friend, strange things.” Fredrickson paused, as if weighing the ethical implications of discussing hospital matters with a layman. “I’ll let the media fill you in. In the meantime, let me have one last look at that incision, and then I’ll start the discharge papers.”

  “Great.”

  “Do you need to call someone to take you home?” The doctor asked as he pulled the dressing back.

  “A friend is picking me up later today.”

  Fredrickson replaced the bandage, stood straight. “You can go home today.”

  “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

  The intern chuckled, “I thought as much. The nurses will be in to change the dressing again and give you some literature to read. They will also schedule you for a follow-up visit.”

  “Will Dr. Tremaine be doing the follow-up?”

  Fredrickson shrugged and left the room.

  “You about ready, Partner?” Dick Slay was standing behind Adam’s wheelchair.

  “I’ve been ready for a couple of days.” Adam was dressed in a loose-fitting jogging suit and leaning forward.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to do that?” The discharge nurse asked.

  “Nope,” Dick replied with a grin. “I’ve been waiting to push him around for a long time. This isn’t what I had in mind, but it’ll have to do.”

  “Well, I’ll see you to the car,” the nurse said.

  “Home, James,” Adam said, “and don’t spare the horses.”

  “Lucky for you we’re going out the back way,”
Dick said. “At least you won’t have to deal with the crowds.”

  “Somebody needs to explain that to me,” Adam said. “I feel a little out of touch.”

  “I’ll explain it on the way home, Pastor. Unless our nurse here would like to tell us what we’re not hearing on the news.”

  “All I know is what I watch on television,” the nurse said.

  It took less than ten minutes for Adam to be ushered out of the hospital and into the back seat of the blue Chrysler minivan.

  “Hi, Pastor,” Chloe said from her front passenger seat. “Is there something I can do to make you comfortable?”

  “No, I’m fine, Chloe. Thanks anyway.”

  “Do you want to lie down on the seat back there?” she asked. “I brought some pillows, to—”

  “Leave the poor man alone,” Dick said. “If you’re not careful, you’ll mother him to death.”

  “I’m only trying to help,” Chloe said.

  “And I deeply appreciate it,” Adam replied, as he slid to the middle of the seat. “You’re one in a million. Dick doesn’t deserve you.”

  “That’s what I keep telling him.” Chloe smiled at Dick. The two had been happily married for twenty-seven years. Outsiders might misread their quips and brusque manner, but their friends knew that no two people were more married or more in love.

  The small van pulled from its curbside spot and drove through the parking lot, through a temporary gate and out toward the frontage street. Adam looked out his window as they passed the front entrance. Uniformed guards were stationed along the curb to keep the crowd of people off the macadam parking area. Several hundred people milled around on the grass in front of the hospital. Adam guessed that a few dozen more were inside the lobby.

  “What’s going on?” Adam asked.

  “It’s been all over the news and you haven’t heard?” Dick said. “No. I didn’t watch television or read a paper. I did see some of the images on the news this morning, but I was being examined by a doctor so I didn’t hear the story. I guess I’m out of touch.”