I have seen people tell patients to keep fighting—typically sons speaking to fathers—when clearly all the exhausted patriarch wants to do is rest. I bide my time, then point out how hard the patient has fought already, and ask them to consider giving him permission to go.
Sometimes the people listen, and the patient dies at peace. Sometimes they don’t listen, and the patient dies anyway. Nature will have her way.
But the winner of tough family members would have to be Kevin. His mother Dana was a lovely retired attorney who’d had a series of heart attacks. I met Dana during inpatient training, when the illness was well advanced and she had already told everyone, “Enough.” She seemed at peace. Under her orders, a surgeon switched off her pacemaker, I arranged for clergy to visit; family members made the trek and said their good-byes.
But not Kevin. He refused to come. He lived only ten miles away, but days passed and he did not show. Dana asked me to call him.
“I can’t get there,” he said. “Business is crazy right now.”
Dana’s daughter Felicia, who lived two hours south, came every night after work, missed her daughter’s school play, and told her husband she would make it up to him when it was all over. She called Kevin too, but he evaded her.
When Felicia finally reached him, one night when I happened to be standing with her in the ICU waiting room, she put him on speaker.
“Don’t worry,” Kevin said. “I might not be able to make it to the hospital, but everything else is taken care of. It’s all set.”
Felicia bugged her eyes at me, as if to say, can you believe this? “I’m right here with Mom. What else on earth is there to take care of?”
“The logistics,” Kevin said. “I’m on top of all of it.”
And then, unexpectedly, Dana rallied. I’ve seen it happen once or twice with congestive heart failure—if the situation involves excess body fluid due to low urine output from failing kidneys. The patient stops eating and drinking, preparing to die, but that brings the fluids gradually into balance, and three days later she’s better. A week after everyone told Dana good-bye, we rode a medical transport to take her home. It was my first transition of that kind, which is why I didn’t know better about checking the apartment beforehand.
When we opened the door, we learned what logistics Kevin had been talking about. The apartment was empty. Not a stick of furniture, no art on the walls, no rugs underfoot. Felicia checked, and the fridge was cleaned out. In fact, the whole place smelled of fresh paint.
I found Dana standing at the bedroom door, arms limp at her sides, and over her shoulder I saw the only thing Kevin had overlooked: one wire hanger on the closet floor.
D was prickly, no question. The murder accusation made her a contender. But she would have to get far nastier before she outdid Kevin. A woman that bitter would have minimal openness to a support group, I suspected, or bereavement services. But would she turn down a therapeutic massage?
“NOT INTERESTED,” D said that afternoon, back at the kitchen table, eyes on a book. “I am extremely particular about who I permit to touch me.”
“A sensible policy,” I said. Barclay Reed was asleep again, which meant I had some time. My next move, because this work is so often about courage, was to pull back the chair beside her and sit.
D did not raise her head, the book in front of her like a little fortification. Sighing, she slipped a bit of paper in to hold her place. “Has he told you about losing his post at the university?”
“On my third day here.”
“Whatever his explanation was, don’t believe it. He is the most expert liar that ever lived.”
“I believe he has been generally honest with me.”
She snorted. “Has he read to you from his so-called unfinished book?”
“Actually, I have been reading it to him.”
“Perfect,” D said, throwing her hands up as if to say it was all just too incredible. “Classic Barclay. Vanity right to the end. All for a pack of lies.”
I could not resist asking. “The Sword is not true?”
“It’s complete nonsense, which is why no publisher would touch it.”
“Your father thought that was due to the scandal.”
As she spoke, D addressed the book on the table rather than me. It reminded me of the Professor’s impromptu lectures.
“My father has hobbled together a mishmash of unrelated facts and speculation,” D said, “presented in a context that never existed except in his imagination. The heartwarming story of an apologetic warrior? It is a concoction to salve American guilt about the ruthless obliteration of two Japanese cities. A fabrication to sugarcoat the extermination of hundreds of thousands of innocent civilians. It is a fairy tale.”
“Wow.” I had nothing else to say.
“And while we’re chatting,” she was talking louder now, and faster, “the reason he didn’t fight the plagiarism charges—I’m certain he has propagandized about that fiasco too—is that he was caught red-handed. Richard Blount, that brilliant young scholar? Now he’s a department chair at Columbia, a serious and respected intellect, but that scandal nearly killed his career in the cradle. Barclay pretends that he chose not to defend himself out of nobility and restraint. Actually, he was guilty as hell. His conduct was indefensible.”
With the s in her last word, a fleck of spittle flew out and vanished on the rug. It was a giveaway. D’s excess passion made her argument weaker.
So, just like when she’d insulted me earlier, I let her assertions breathe. Maybe there was some kernel of truth in them, too. Portland State would not remove the Professor’s books from the library if everything were as he’d described.
But The Sword? I wanted that to be true. I wanted it for Barclay Reed’s sake because he needed so badly to be believed. I wanted it for Michael’s sake as well: If Ichiro Soga could change from a warrior into a man of peace, it might be possible for my husband too.
D was staring at me, and I realized she was waiting for an answer of some kind. “I promised your father I would read the whole thing before I decided whether or not it was true.”
She picked up her book again, using that slip of paper to open to the page she’d left. “I just saved you the time.”
“Thank you.” I stood. “But I keep my promises.”
I left her there to read on undisturbed.
MICHAEL WAS SITTING on the back stoop when I pulled in the driveway. Before reaching a standstill I had already taken the data in: sneakers and socks on the step beside him, a glass in his hand with lots of ice.
I climbed out of the car to the fragrance of phlox, which bloomed flagrantly in our neighbor’s garden. Michael basked in the afternoon sun, eyes closed. Barefoot Michael. It was another one of those moments when I just reenlisted, when it didn’t matter how hard life was right then, or how tired I was feeling, because I felt the irresistible pull of love.
I called to him over the roof of the car. “Hiya, handsome. How’s your day?”
“I am the greatest walker that ever lived.”
“Is that so?”
He nodded. “Well, you’ve got your Gandhi, your Lewis and Clark—”
“Don’t forget Johnny Appleseed.”
“A piker. Guy didn’t have to deal with one minute of Portland traffic.”
I came around to kiss his cheek. “Which I gather you did today?”
Michael opened his eyes. “Am I allowed to brag?”
“I think you just were.”
“Then can I brag some more?”
I pushed his sneakers aside and sat. “I’m listening.”
“OK, I had just reached the shop this morning when the congressman’s office called to say the screw had arrived.”
“You did that, Michael. You made that happen.”
“So I walked there to pick
it up.”
“That must have taken forever.”
“Two hours. Then I swung by here—”
“Oh, honey.”
“Then walked to Gene’s to drop it off.”
“Johnny Appleseed falls three notches. And Gene must have been so appreciative.”
“Actually, he got all awkward on me. But I made him put the screw in, and strap his leg on.” Michael laughed. “Of course he insisted we go for a walk.”
“Wait, though. Doesn’t Gene live on the north side?”
Michael jiggled his glass to tip an ice cube into his mouth. “Uh-huh.”
“Then why’d you come by here? That must have added an hour at least.”
“Yeah.” He crunched the ice, swallowed it, stared into his cup.
“Sweetheart?”
“To get my gun.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I brought him the .50, Deb. The big one. Four hundred rounds, too.”
“You walked halfway across this city carrying a high-powered rifle?”
“I didn’t figure any taxi would want me for a passenger. But it was in the zip-case, so everything was all legal.” He chuckled. “Never in my life saw drivers more ready to let a pedestrian cross the street.”
“Oh, Michael. Congratulations. And thank you.” I threw my arms around him, but he did not respond. I hugged him closer, but he still held solid so I let go. Then he rattled himself another piece of ice to chew.
“Was Gene pleased, at least?”
“Like I said, awkward. He didn’t want the gun, even though it’s way better than his. But then he seized on it, you know? And started talking about how this was a great gift, because now he could really sharpen his shooting, and that would help him start the process of getting shipped back over.”
“What? He wants to be deployed again? That’s crazy.”
“Times five. I get it, though. The guy was a janitor before the war, no power, no respect. Join up and you get training, responsibility, rank. But there’s no way anyone wants a one-legged soldier.”
“Did you try to talk him out of it?”
“Well, I wasn’t going to lay down the whole disability thing. So I told Gene the most spectacular pile of horse shit about the explosion day, because he has no memory of it. About him being a hero. The lives he saved, including mine. Duty done, mission accomplished, that kind of thing. You should’ve seen him, standing straighter. Literally, his body changed.” Michael held the icy glass to his forehead. “Today I learned the power of a loving lie.”
“A what?”
“The truth didn’t matter, Deb. I would have told Gene anything to help him. My conscience doesn’t feel so great about filling him with bullshit. But I got the gun out of the house for you, and now he has a functioning leg.”
Again the Professor had been right. Or was it Soga? “I am proud of you.”
He shrugged. “Crazy fuss over one little screw. Madness.”
“Still,” I said. I wrapped my arms around my knees, since he was uninterested, and hugged myself for a while instead.
THE 51ST ANNUAL BROOKINGS AZALEA FESTIVAL featured a special guest who had not visited in years. In 1990, Ichiro Soga was seventy-eight years old. Nearly forty-eight years had passed since his American mission. Yet the controversy in anticipation of his arrival remained virulent and visible.
Jack Eggiman, a Pearl Harbor survivor, wrote the Pilot to castigate a man “who dropped a little bomb in the weeds. There are not enough words to put on paper the contempt I feel for the Brookings Harbor Chamber of Commerce and the people of this town who are trying to make this individual a hero.”
Yet when the festival arrived in May, and with it the visitation of a stooped and elderly man, the community’s embrace appeared devoid of controversy. At the welcome banquet, Leanna McCurley showed him a giant sandwich she had made in the shape of a submarine and plane. A photo in the Pilot shows a presentation so detailed, half an olive serves as Soga’s flight helmet.
The Japanese visitor presented another check for the library’s programs for children. He gave giant carp wind socks to the mayor, Chamber of Commerce president, and library director. When they appeared perplexed by the gift, he swung one in the air so they could see: It was like a giant fish-kite, but secured in one place on the ground instead of flying high on a string. In turn, the welcome committee presented Soga with a walking stick made of myrtlewood, the tree of local pride.
Controversy surfaced at the festival parade because Soga wore a hat decorated with a small American flag on the brim. Several veterans declared that they were insulted. Staff Sergeant Shirley Laird, who drove the lead Jeep in the military portion of the parade, gave his explanation to the Pilot: “He’s still a Jap.”
Otherwise Soga’s visit resembled the others: touring the port of Brookings, inspecting local fisheries. He stayed at the home of local banker Henry Kerr.
In general there was less bowing this time, not due to any diminution of manners, but rather because the guest showed fatigue in the afternoon and therefore participated in fewer activities than in past years. Toward the end of each day, he appeared to lean more heavily on the myrtlewood cane.
The next-to-last evening, seven local churches sponsored a dinner that caused an unexpected reunion. Heather Baker—now twenty-three years old, a college graduate working in Portland and engaged to the owner of a small hotel—hailed Soga from the moment she entered the room.
Heather was taller than Soga now, full haired and buxom. Soga was diminutive and frail. When he made a deep bow to her, she responded by giving him a bear hug. The moment was sufficiently moving that the crowd applauded. It was also immortalized by the lens of the indefatigable Piper Abbott.
All the while, Donny Baker kept his own counsel in matters concerning Ichiro Soga. There were indicators, however: Although he now served as treasurer of the Chamber of Commerce, he remained at his business rather than attend any festivities during the visit. He did not appear at the event where his daughter behaved so photogenically. Donny was mum about Soga, yet somehow managed to be universally considered on that topic to be as rough as sandpaper.
By contrast, his conduct upon seeing the Pilot the following morning was revelatory. Under a headline that in 1990 could only be read as tongue-in-cheek—“World War II Officially Over”—the newspaper devoted nearly half of the front page to a photo of his daughter embracing the Japanese man.
The subsequent sequence of events can be reconstructed by Heather’s interview with the Pilot.
Donny saw the photograph and swore. “Damn it to hell.”
He stood, throwing the paper down. He paced a moment, refilling his coffee cup and glaring at the front page again. “That Jap bastard,” he said, storming from the room. He returned strapping on his holster, a pistol clipped in its slot.
“Where are you going with that?” Heather asked.
“Just you keep shut,” he said, wagging a finger at her. “You’ve already done enough.”
As he pulled on a windbreaker, Donny’s wife wandered into the kitchen. “What’s going on?”
“Back later,” he said, and with a slam of the door, he roared off in his truck.
IT WAS 7:00 A.M. Donny was expected at 7:30 for the daily pre-opening tasks at the nursery: unlocking the safe, turning on computers, and activating the watering system. He was due at a meeting of the Chamber’s finance committee at nine o’clock. Lunch was with the builder of a new subdivision, to negotiate a landscaping contract.
Instead, Donny drove east of town, to the Kerr home. The household was barely stirring. However Soga, perhaps due to the eight-hour time difference between Japan and Oregon, was awake, dressed in his suit, and strolling in the garden. Piper Abbott sat parked in the driveway waiting for eight o’clock, when the Japanese guest was scheduled for a bre
akfast meeting with the school board.
Donny pulled into the driveway and called out his truck window. “Hey, Soga.”
The pilot paused in his meandering, smiling as if by reflex.
“C’mon,” Donny said. “Let’s go for a ride.”
Ichiro Soga raised an eyebrow but did not say a word. Leaning on his myrtlewood cane, he hobbled to the truck. Donny opened the passenger door, and Soga climbed aboard.
CHAPTER 16
CHERYL MET ME at the door the next morning. She blocked the doorway and looked at me over the tops of her purple cat’s-eye glasses. “Chat a sec?”
“Oh no. Has he begun dying?”
“No,” she said, gesturing down the driveway. When I stepped back, Cheryl pulled the front door closed behind her. She had her things already packed, the bag’s strap over her shoulder.
We ambled out onto the road. The pavement was dark from rain, but the skies were clearing, and it felt as if the humidity might burn off.
“What’s up?”
“I just wanted to check in with you about the daughter.”
“A charmer, isn’t she?”
“I thought it might be just me. Last night we had a fair dose of ‘What are you doing to him?’ and ‘Why isn’t my father in a hospital?’ ”
“So there’s a need for education about hospice?”
“It may take a little more than that,” she chuckled. “I also heard ‘Are you completely incompetent?’ and ‘Are you trying to kill him?’ ”
“Oh, Cheryl.” I put my hand on her arm. “I’m sorry.”
We had nearly reached her car, and she laughed. “I would like to make some clever observation about apples falling near trees. But Professor Reed actually has some charm, way down deep. While this peach of a gal . . .”
“I haven’t found the sunny side of her either,” I said. “Are there any immediate issues we need to deal with?”
“The problem is solving itself. She’s leaving today.”
The Hummingbird Page 23
