by Alton Gansky
“Healings,” Dick replied. “Strange healings.”
“Healings? What do you mean ‘healings’?”
“So far two people, a girl with third-degree burns and a man with terminal cancer. Both expected to die.”
“You mean, they’re going to make it?”
“Oh, no, Pastor,” Chloe said. “They were healed. No more burns and no more cancer.”
Adam studied Chloe for a moment. She was a large woman standing three inches taller than Adam and weighing a good thirty pounds more. Her premature gray hair, something she blamed on living with Dick and rearing three boys, gave her a soft, matronly look. Her mind was sharp and her wit keen. She could give and take good-natured barbs with the best of them. She was the epitome of good nature and was helpful to those in need. One thing to which she wasn’t prone was exaggeration.
“Let me get this right. One person was healed of a terminal disease and the other—a burn victim—is no longer burned?”
“That’s right,” Dick said. “But I think it was the other way around.”
“No,” Chloe said, “it was the man with cancer, then the girl with the burns.”
“Nah,” Dick said, “you got it backwards.”
“I’m sure I’m right.”
Adam shook his head and said, “It doesn’t matter. All those people standing outside are there because they think they might be healed?”
“That’s right,” Dick said.
“Incredible.”
“What? You don’t believe in miracles, Pastor?”
“Of course I believe in miracles. It just seems . . . unusual.”
“It’s certainly that,” Dick replied.
The drive to his apartment passed quickly for Adam; his mind was engaged in what he had been told. He had never seen or experienced a miracle, but that didn’t shake his belief. In fact, he had to believe in miracles, not because he was told to, but because of his belief in God. By definition God was both omnipotent and omniscient, which meant that He possessed both the power and the knowledge to perform miracles. The Bible, of course, was filled with miracles executed by God, Old Testament prophets, Christ, and the apostles. Despite his intellectual belief, Adam felt a sense of disquiet about what he had been told. Would God perform miracles in secret, leaving a mystery behind? Would He send His emissary stealthily to walk the halls of a hospital? No, God always performed miracles to draw attention to the message-giver; and since, at least so far, there was no message, then these events must have some rational explanation instead of supernatural.
“We’re here,” Chloe said jovially.
“I hope you kept your promise,” Adam said to Dick.
“What promise is that?”
“The one where you agreed not to make a big fuss,” Adam said sternly.
“Hmm. I don’t recall a promise like that,” Dick said, pretending to look puzzled.
“They’re not going to yell ‘Surprise’ when I walk in, are they?”
“What ‘they’?” Dick exited the vehicle and jogged around to open Adam’s door. “I think you worry too much.”
“They teach us to worry in seminary. They teach us to be especially worried about devious deacons.”
“Well, it’s a good thing you don’t have any of those.”
“I’m not so sure.”
Chloe said nothing and kept her silence masked behind a smirk. “You’re part of this, aren’t you, Chloe?”
“I’m just a simple housewife, Pastor.”
‘Chloe, I know you to be many things, but simple isn’t one of them.” Together the three walked to Adam’s apartment. The walk proved to be a challenge for Adam; he winded easily and each step caused his tender abdomen to ache. At the door, he pulled his keys from his pocket, opened the door, and braced himself for the “Welcome home” cheer from the church members.
When the door opened, he was greeted with silence. There were no cheers, no “Welcome home,” and no hidden church members. To his surprise, Adam felt a twinge of disappointment. “So you did keep your promise, then,” Adam said, making his way across the living room.
“Well, sorta,” Dick replied. Then, facing the kitchen area he yelled, “Ladies, look who’s home.”
Rounding the wall that separated the kitchen from the dining nook came Adam’s secretary, Fannie Meyers, and the president of the Ladies Mission Auxiliary, Mrs. Bachelder. Fannie, a cheerful, slightly rotund woman in her fifties, rounded the corner in a near trot, her face beaming.
Mrs. Beatrice Bachelder was the antithesis of Fannie. Tall, her hair pulled back into a tight bun, she was a serious woman who viewed her role in life and in the church with the gravity of an overworked undertaker. Where Fannie was quick to laugh, Mrs. Bachelder rarely smiled.
Oh, Pastor,” Fannie said jubilantly, “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you. We’ve missed you at the church.”
Thanks, Fannie. I missed you too.” Adam leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “And I even missed the office. I hope you brought me some work.”
“There’ll be none of that now,” Mrs. Bachelder said. “Deacon Slay said that you should have your rest and I agree wholeheartedly. You are our pastor, and it’s our job to take care of you.”
“I only meant —” Adam started.
“No, I’ll not hear of it,” Mrs. Bachelder crossed her arms as though preparing for a fight. Even at seventy Adam felt that she could take on half the church and not even scrape a knuckle.
“Well, maybe just the mail.”
“That’s all been taken care of,” Mrs. Bachelder said. “We have everything under control. You won’t have to do anything but rest for the next two weeks.”
“I’m sure I’ll be able to function long before—”
“We insist on you resting. We want you back in tiptop shape. The pastor’s role is a demanding one, you know.”
Adam looked at Dick who merely offered a wry grin and shrug. “Now to make sure you rest,” Mrs. Bachelder continued, “we of the Ladies Mission Auxiliary have stocked your pantry and refrigerator with sufficient staples for breakfast and lunch. We have been careful to choose foods that require a minimum of preparation. Then for dinner one of our ladies will bring you a hot, nutritious meal.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Bachelder, but there’s no need—”
“Oh, of course there is. It’s our Christian duty. You wouldn’t deprive us of that, now would you?”
“No, of course not, Mrs. Bachelder, I only meant—”
“Well, it’s settled then,” she said, taking two steps back in a restrained victory dance. “And someone will be by each day to tidy up.
Adam started to object but it would be a useless effort, and he had grown tired of standing. “I think I’ll sit down now,” he said, and gingerly eased into an overstaffed chair.
“Very wise,” Mrs. Bachelder said. “I’ll just finish straightening up the pantry.” As she turned to go to the kitchen, she added, “You should take more care of your pantry, Pastor. If you’re not careful, you’ll attract mice.”
“Just what you need, Adam,” Dick said in a hushed tone. “Another pest.”
Chloe smacked her husband’s shoulder. “Dick, that was horrible.” She looked at Adam and saw that he was biting his lip. “Do you have a pain, Pastor?”
Adam glanced over his shoulder at the kitchen and then looked at Dick. A moment later both men erupted in laughter.
“Ow!” Adam said, holding his abdomen. “Oh, that hurts.”
“It serves you right,” Chloe said smiling and with mock outrage. “You two ought to be ashamed of yourselves.”
“I can’t be held accountable, Chloe,” Adam said, still grimacing from the pain. “I’ve been sick.”
“Well, it is good to see you laugh,” Fannie piped in. “I brought you a get-well present.” Walking to the television she picked up a brown paper bag and handed it to Adam.
“What’s this?” Adam asked.
“Open it,” Fannie said.
&nb
sp; Adam reached inside and pulled out an old, leather-bound book. The book’s worn edges did not detract from its beauty and craftsmanship. The front of the book bore an ornate embossed border with the initials T.R. in each corner. A larger set of the same raised initials was prominently displayed in the center.
“This couldn’t be what I think it is,” Adam said quietly. Holding the book reverently he turned it so he could read the spine. At the top were gold-lettered words: Theodore Roosevelt, an Autobiography. At the bottom of the spine was one word, also in gold, Scribners.
“I found this in an old bookstore in Ojai,” Fannie said, as she nervously chewed her lower lip. “I know how much you like to read about Teddy Roosevelt.”
Gently Adam opened the book. Its pages were yellow with age and brittle to the touch. He turned past the first few blank pages and came to the reproduction of the Laszio painting of Theodore Roosevelt when he was president.
“It was published in 1922,” Fannie said. “He wrote it in 1913, but you probably know that. I know it’s not a first edition, but it’s the first edition Scribners printed.”
“It’s magnificent,” Adam said in hushed tones. “This is really too much. You shouldn’t have.”
“I couldn’t pass it up,” Fannie replied. “I was going to save it for your birthday, but since you’re going to have some time on your hands, I thought you might appreciate it now.”
“Thank you,” Adam said sincerely. “I don’t know what to say except I love it and will enjoy reading every word.”
“Well,” Dick said, “if you like that, then you’re going to love this.” He handed him a glossy, multicolored piece of paper.
“A baseball schedule?”
“Yup. I know how much you like baseball, so I took the liberty of subscribing to all the cable telecasts. You can sit here, watch the Padres play, and read your new book between innings.”
“The season doesn’t start until next month,” Adam said.
“I know that. This nifty package includes preseason games—well, at least some of them.”
Adam chuckled, “If I had known I would get such great treatment, I would have blown an appendix earlier. I might just get used to this.”
“You can’t be serious,” a voice said behind him. Turning he saw Mrs. Bachelder enter the room again.
“No, Mrs. Bachelder, I’m not.”
“We should be going,” she said authoritatively. “You need to rest. Now promise me you’ll go right to bed after we leave.”
“Soon, Mrs. Bachelder,” Adam said, starting to get up from the easy chair. They each tried to object to his rising, but he waved them off. “I have to get my strength back. Sitting in a chair all day isn’t going to help. I need to move about.”
“But not too much,” Fannie said.
“I’ll be careful.”
They said their good-byes and filed out of the apartment. The last to leave was Mrs. Bachelder. She paused at the door, turned, and faced Adam: “It really is good to see you doing so well.” Adam sensed her sincerity. For a moment, just a moment, she was lowering her guard and letting a genuine emotion escape. He walked to her, leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. “Thank you, Mrs. Bachelder. Thank you for everything. It means a great deal to me.” Despite her apparent brusqueness, Adam had come to treasure her as a unique member of the church. Without her, both he and the church would be diminished.
Slowly she touched the spot where Adam had kissed her. Her eyes moistened. “It is I who should thank you.”
A moment later, Adam was alone.
Nine
Monday, March 9, 1992; 2:00 P.M.
A LATE WINTER STORM SLOWLY moved overhead, pushing its bruised and swollen clouds further south on its journey that originated in the far reaches of Alaska and would end somewhere south of Baja, California. The storm had dropped nearly two inches of rain in Los Angeles and was supposed to do the same that evening in San Diego. The water-gorged clouds seemed to consume the normally vibrant colors of El Camino Memorial Park.
The weather matched Priscilla’s emotions; the ashen clouds reflected her deep contrition. She did not feel the cool March breeze or take notice of the mist. She was too filled with anxiety to be bothered with physical sensations. In the turmoil of competing thoughts and emotions, she struggled to not think or feel at all, but there were too many reminders to snap her back to real time and place.
Most of the people stood in clumps of three or four making small talk and masking their discomfort. Some, however, stood numbly watching, lost in their thoughts or wondering when the graveside service would begin. Some of those gathered sat on brown folding chairs positioned in rows under a beige canvas canopy. The front row had been reserved for family, but only three people sat there, none of whom Priscilla had met before.
He had a daughter and she had seen a picture of her on Irwin’s desk. The young woman who sat gazing vacantly at the cherry wood casket had the same straight blond hair and hazel eyes. She had to be Irwin’s daughter. Seated to her right was a gaunt man with hollow cheeks and a ruddy complexion. His thin brown hair fluttered in the moist breeze. He wore a blue blazer that had passed from fashion a decade before; his shoes were scuffed, and he coughed frequently. He had an air of poverty and illness about him. Priscilla felt sorry for him. The weather must be causing him great discomfort. He coughed, pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket, and wiped his mouth.
To the left of the daughter sat a man in an expensive double-breasted pinstripe suit and red tie. He was as dapper as the other man was tattered. He held her hand in his and whispered in her ear. Priscilla knew who he was because he had delivered the eulogy during the memorial service in the chapel. George Jenkins was a close friend of Irwin’s and one of the partners of the media group that owned KGOT-TV. She could only wonder what he thought of her.
Priscilla wondered if she should approach the woman and offer her condolences but was uncertain about the response she would receive. Will she blame me for her father’s death? Priscilla didn’t know and didn’t want to find out in such an open forum.
The breeze increased and Priscilla put a hand on her broad-brimmed hat. She, like many people present, was wearing black. In her case a medium-length black skirt, a powder-blue blouse, and black coat. It was her desire to be as inconspicuous as possible. She was uncomfortable, not just because of the funeral, but because she believed that her coworkers credited her with Irwin’s death. In more rational moments, she knew her fear was fabricated from the emotional debris left over from the attack. Still, she thought she saw them looking at her askance. No one had said anything, but she couldn’t shake the belief that she was responsible.
“How are you holding up?” a voice on her right asked. Turning she saw Pham Ho, the assistant news director.
“Okay, I guess,” Priscilla said as she broke eye contact.
“I’ve never been very good at funerals,” Pham said. “It seems as though there’s something I’m supposed to say, but I never know what it is. So I end up standing around saying nothing.”
“I’ve been to only one other funeral; my grandmother died about ten years ago.” Priscilla paused and looked at the crowd of Irwin’s friends and coworkers. “This is different.”
“Yeah. A lot different.”
An uneasy silence settled between them; Priscilla stared off into the distance, and Pham looked at the ground.
“Camera crew gone?” Priscilla asked a few moments later. “Yeah. We didn’t think it was right to shoot this part of the service, although Irwin would probably have insisted.” Pham had assigned a crew to tape part of the memorial service. It was his plan to play a portion of it at the end of the evening newscasts. “We wanted to be sensitive to the family’s needs. Have you met them?” He nodded at the three people in front row.
“No.”
“The woman is Irwin’s daughter, Irene. The man in the sport coat is Irwin’s older brother. He lives on a farm in central California— McFarland, I think. The other
man is George Jenkins, an old friend of Irwin’s. He’s also one of the owners of the station. I hadn’t known that Irwin was so well connected.”
“How are things at the station?” Priscilla asked quietly. “Different. It’s not the same without Irwin. He was one of the great ones.” Pham turned and looked at Priscilla. “I might also add that it’s not the same without you. We miss you.”
“It’s only been a few days, Pham.” Priscilla had not gone to the studio since Irwin’s death but had spoken to Pham over the phone, giving him the details needed to telecast the story. Other than that she had isolated herself in her home, not even returning phone calls from friends or other reporters. “I’ll be back soon.”
“I’m not trying to rush you. You take as much time as you need. We just miss you, that’s all.”
“I know,” Priscilla said softly. “I just need a little time to sort things out.”
“There’s something you should know.” Pham turned to face Priscilla and, after a moment of hesitation, put his hands on her shoulders forcing her to face him. “No one blames you, Priscilla. I mean no one. Irwin was an experienced newshound and he knew the danger. I’m no psychologist, but I think you’re afraid that we’re sitting around accusing you of killing Irwin. We’re not. Irwin’s not the first to lose his life pursuing a story, and he won’t be the last.”
“But it was my story, not his. He was killed because I—”
“Absolutely not! Irwin was the news director. Every story was his. You are not responsible for his death. The burglar killed him, you didn’t.”
“But he died protecting me.”
“That’s the kind of man Irwin was. He reacted on instinct. Sometimes his instinct got him in trouble, but most of the time it served him well. What happened to Irwin was a tragic accident. You’re not culpable. And no one blames you. Everyone wants you to know that.”
The two stared at each other and then he embraced her. Priscilla fought to bridle her tears but could not.
The minister, a short, bald man in a black suit and gray tie, stepped to the head of the casket. He was from a local church whose name Priscilla could not remember. He seemed pleasant, friendly, and genuinely concerned for the grieving. He had delivered the memorial service message, mixing words of comfort with the promise of a future life. Priscilla heard little of his message then and even less now. Her mind was flooded with images of a dark night, the glimmer of a flashlight beam, a masked man, and Irwin’s bloody chest.
