When she walked out of the place, Ruthie was in a daze. She staggered out into the sunlight, arms folded across her chest, and didn't say a word.
"Come on," said David, leading her to a diner across the street. "Let's celebrate."
It took a long time for her to snap out of it. For a while, she just sat there in the booth and stared at the table while David drank coffee.
Finally, she looked up at him. "They said my white cell count's normal," said Ruthie. "My viral load's zero."
David put down his coffee cup and smiled. "Great news, huh?"
She shook her head as if to clear out cobwebs. "But how? How can that be? I don't understand."
"Neither do I," said David. "All I can say is, just enjoy it."
"Did you do something to me?" said Ruthie, staring at him. "Last night, that shock thing you did at the bar."
"I don't know," said David. "But whatever did this, I'm glad it did. You've got a second chance."
"A second chance," said Ruthie. "I like the sound of that."
"Me, too," said David. "I'm all about second chances."
*****
With that, David started his new life.
He stayed on the road from that point on, moving from place to place, seeking out the people who needed most what he had to give. And everywhere he went, there was someone who needed it.
He found a home for Lucy, but Ruthie went with him. There was nothing and no one keeping her in Baton Rouge, and she wanted to help him help others as he had helped her.
Together, the two of them found the dark places and the dying people, the people with the same incurable illness that she had once had...and David cured them. One after another, he touched them, miraculously drawing out the wasting disease that was killing them inch by inch.
And one after another, like Ruthie, they walked away with a second chance.
The work continued for month after month, taking David and Ruthie from Louisiana to Virginia, from Illinois to New York. Always, they sought out the destitute, the homeless, the unwanted...the ones with nothing and no one and nowhere to turn.
And as time went on, they saw that the work would never end. For every person David healed, they found ten more, twenty more, a hundred more. A nation of the suffering, a nation within a nation, lay before them, reaching out trembling hands for a single touch.
The further he went, the more determined David became to give them all that touch. For as long he lived, he would do everything he could to share the gift he had been mysteriously given after the disaster in Clover, Texas.
For as long as he lived.
*****
On the day that David and Ruthie rolled into Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, they had no idea that they were about to discover the true cost of his power.
They got a room in a crummy motel downtown and unpacked. They planned to hit the streets right away and begin the search for the sick they knew they would find.
Unfortunately, they didn't make it out the door as planned.
David was in the bathroom when the first coughing fit hit him. It came without warning, ripping out from the depths of his lungs, staggering him. He fell back against the wall, hacking so hard that he thought he might vomit.
It went on for ten minutes before subsiding. He finally managed to calm the spasms enough to catch his breath and pour a glass of water from the spigot.
"Are you all right?" said Ruthie, her voice full of concern. "That sounded terrible."
"Yeah, it felt terrible," said David. He had a long swallow of water, and that seemed to soothe his ragged throat. "I don't know what brought that on."
"You've been pushing yourself pretty hard," said Ruthie.
"You know I have to," said David. "So much to do."
"Maybe we ought to take the day off," said Ruthie. She soaked a washrag under the spigot and dabbed at his face.
And then she stared at him.
"What?" said David. "What is it?"
Eyes narrowed, Ruthie gazed at him, moving around first one side and then the other. "That's weird," she said. She reached up to scrub at a spot on his face, then pulled away the rag and looked again.
And frowned.
"There's something," she said, moving closer. "Some kind of splotch."
David turned and looked in the mirror. He saw what she was talking about then...a bluish spot, an inch in diameter, on his right cheek.
He leaned closer to the mirror, staring at the spot. "Some kind of bruise, maybe," he said. "I don't remember bumping into anything, though."
Ruthie leaned in and touched the spot with a fingertip. She rubbed at it, then pulled her hand away and shrugged.
"Who knows?" she said. "Does it hurt?"
"A little," said David.
"We'll keep an eye on it," said Ruthie.
*****
The spot on David's face grew darker, and another one appeared on his throat a day later. The day after that, similar spots cropped up on his chest, back, and legs.
And his cough grew harsher every day. He felt gurgling in his lungs when he breathed.
He got sicker and sicker, and was unable to do the job he'd come to Pittsburgh to do. On the fourth day, he managed to get dressed and down the stairs, only to find he was suddenly too weak to walk out the door. He had to struggle to drag himself back upstairs to the room.
On the fifth day, Ruthie decided they had to get to a doctor. There were more splotches, and David was losing weight and growing weaker all the time.
With great difficulty, the two of them got downstairs and out on the street this time, then hailed a cab. The driver took them to a hospital and dropped them off at the emergency room.
It took over an hour for David to see a doctor. It took less than five minutes to get a diagnosis.
But when he heard it, David wasn't all that surprised. He'd recognized the symptoms, and he was pretty sure Ruthie had too, though neither of them had talked about it.
So it didn't surprise him. And when he thought about it, he decided it made sense, in his line of work.
The tests confirmed the diagnosis. He had full-blown AIDS.
*****
"It makes sense," he told Ruthie back at the hotel. "I took all that sickness out of all those people. I guess it had to go somewhere."
Ruthie watched a game show on TV and said nothing. She hadn't spoken since they'd left the hospital.
"I did three years of work, though," he said weakly. "Who knows how many people we helped."
Ruthie didn't answer.
"I think, looking back," said David, "it was the best work I ever did."
She refused to talk to him, and he continued to fade.
*****
The AIDS that was devouring David's body, perhaps because of the way it had entered him, advanced at a staggering rate. His body withered away like a grape in the sunlight. His periods of alertness were fewer and farther between.
Toward the end, he dreamed of his old life in Clover, Texas, and the people he'd known there. He dreamed often of Fox Brazos, knitting horse blankets and spitting tobacco off the back porch at his ranch....playing putt-putt golf on a summer evening...working with David's father at the ammunition plant, waving at David, inviting him to join them.
And once, right near the very end, he dreamed (though he couldn't be sure it was a dream) that he saw the faces of the people he'd healed. They were gathered around him, smiling down at him, filling him with light and strength just the same as he'd done for them.
And then he heard (or dreamed he heard) Ruthie's voice, finally breaking the silence, telling him she loved him, begging him not to leave her.
And finally, he heard or dreamed or felt the rushing of a wind and saw or dreamed a flash of light like a star falling from the sky and he was gone.
*****
Special Preview: Day 9
A Literary Thriller
By Robert T. Jeschonek
Now On Sale
*****
Chapter One
Three...two...one.
The church exploded in a tremendous blast of fire and smoke. Rubble rocketed in all directions as an ear-splitting boom cascaded across the valley. Flaming debris crashed down on car hoods and bounded over the pavement. A church bell hurtled into the cab of a garbage truck, smashing through the windshield with a loud, discordant bong.
An enormous, blazing crucifix plunged on the roof of a car speeding away from the blast, sending it spinning in circles. Tires squealed as the car swept around and around, finally slamming into the pump in front of a gas station, which then exploded.
A plume of fire shot skyward from the pump, blowing the car end-over-end across the street. The gas station windows shattered inward, and every car on the block bounced from the force of the blast. Power lines snapped and whipped like cobras, spraying showers of sparks through the air.
Then, suddenly, someone yelled, "Cut!" And the whole movie crew erupted in wild applause at once. Everyone behind the cameras clapped and hooted and whistled at the spectacular display of carnage.
Dunne Sullivan clapped, too, though he felt as dazed as he was excited. The mayhem had left him in a state of shock; he wasn't part of the crew and wasn't used to spending time around high intensity action scenes during filming.
It was true Dunne made his living off movies and TV shows, but he did so by writing tie-in novels based on them. Till today, the closest he'd been to a movie set or location shoot was the TV screen in his apartment.
But according to Thad Glissando, producer extraordinaire for Halcyon Studios, he'd be spending a lot more time there from now on. "Hey now, hero!" Thad clapped Dunne on the back, jolting him forward. "Think we got enough bang for our buck here?"
Dunne nodded and grinned. "I want toys like that for my movie."
Thad laughed. "Don't worry!" He ran a tanned hand over his slicked-back blonde hair. "Weeping Willows The Movie will have twice the budget of this picture."
Dunne got a shiver of excitement just hearing the title. He was going from lowly tie-in writer to Hollywood screenwriter just like that. All thanks to a bestselling novel he'd written about the cult classic 70s cop show Weeping Willows, a kickass hit breaking big just as Thad was gearing up for a Willows movie.
So Dunne was about to write a major motion picture. Meeting on location with Thad would seal the deal, and then Dunne, at age 25, would finally get his shit together.
At least as much as he could ever get his shit together after what he'd done to his family.
"Ready to start writing?" Deep crescent dimples set off Thad's mile-wide smile like parentheses. "Does this get the creative juices flowing?" He spread his arms wide to take in the smoky set, hissing with the spray of fire hoses putting out flaming debris from the shoot. The afternoon sun flared on the sleeves of his tailored white suit, giving him a radiant, angelic glow.
"Are you kidding?" said Dunne. "When do you want the first pages?"
Thad threw an arm around Dunne's shoulders and gave him a squeeze. "Actually, you need to do some preproduction first." Thad nodded and raised his blonde eyebrows. "Some research."
"Research?" Dunne frowned. "What kind of research?"
"On location." Thad turned Dunne from the set and pulled him along as he started walking. "Expenses paid, of course. And you'll have a partner."
"Partner?" Dunne kept frowning. Thad was guiding him in the direction of a white limousine parked alongside a trailer twenty yards away. "A writing partner?"
"More like a hunting partner," said Thad. "And inspiration."
Suddenly, Thad jammed two fingers in his mouth and let loose a shrill whistle in the direction of the limo. "Time for your close-up, Hannahlee!"
The back door of the limo swung open, propelled by a slender arm. A woman's arm in a long, black sleeve.
As Dunne watched, the woman's arm withdrew. After a moment's pause, her foot slid out, wearing an ivory pump. It was followed by a shapely leg in pale white hose. A black skirt with white piped trim rippled just below the knee.
Thad elbowed Dunne in the ribs. "Take a deep breath, kid. This is what they call a life-changing experience."
Thad's warning did no good. Dunne still wasn't ready for what he saw. For whom he saw.
When the first foot touched the pavement, the second one swung out beside it. Dunne saw more of the dress: gathered waist, wide white belt, white buttons. Understated, businesslike, crisp. As the woman braced herself against the seat, he saw white piping running from cuff to shoulder along her sleeve.
Squinting into the shadows of the limo, Dunne strained to glimpse her face. For a moment, all he could make out was a faint, gauzy shape, like a veil concealing her features. Like a ghost.
Then, suddenly, she emerged. She pushed up from the seat and stood straight, revealed all at once before him in bright daylight.
Which was exactly when Dunne gasped.
He could not believe his eyes. Not even a little. She couldn't be.
Thad laughed beside him. "I was wrong, wasn't I?" He shook Dunne's shoulders. "Life-changing experience is putting it mildly."
Dunne nodded and stared.
She was striking. The woman at the limo was in her late fifties or early sixties, at least. She was dressed conservatively, and the red color in her shoulder-length hair must have been dye.
But she was still striking. And not just because of who she was. Not just because she'd been the biggest star of the Weeping Willows TV show. Not just because Dunne had worshipped her from afar and written book after book starring her character.
She was most striking because of the way she carried herself. The way she stood there, tall and regal in the late afternoon southern California sun. Thirty years past her Weeping Willows glory days, twenty years since she'd dropped out of the public eye...and still somehow resplendent, impressive, luminous. Still the star of all she surveyed.
Dunne stumbled as Thad walked him to the limo. His heart pounded, and nervous chills flashed through his body. His mouth went dry, and his palms turned wet.
There she was. Right in front of him. The actress who'd played Kitty Willow. Kitty Willow.
"Dunne Sullivan," said Thad. "Meet Hannahlee Saylor."
Dunne frowned as Thad pushed him toward her. He recognized the woman, but not the name. "Pleased to meet you, Ms. Saylor." He extended his hand. "Or should I say Ms. Caprice?"
The woman smiled and shook Dunne's hand. "Lianna Caprice was a long time ago." Her voice was so familiar, deep and velvety, yet cracking with age on the lowest notes. "I go by Hannahlee Saylor now."
Dunne shivered as he held her slender hand. Until now, she had never been quite real to him. An image on a TV screen, she might as well have been a goddess, transfigured in distant cloud tops and rainbows.
Dunne held on to her hand for an extra moment, aware of nothing but her face, her presence, her touch. Her blazing green eyes, locked with his.
Finally, Thad broke the spell. "You two will be spending a lot of time together. We need you to find the ultimate Weeping Willows authority."
Dunne let go of Hannahlee's hand. He suddenly felt self-conscious and broke eye contact with her, too. "Who's that?"
"Cyrus Gowdy," said Thad. "Maybe you've heard of him."
Of course he had. "The creator of Weeping Willows."
"Bingo," said Thad.
Dunne combed his fingers through his thin, sandy hair. "But no one knows where he is, right?"
Thad shrugged. "You see our problem."
"He's been off the grid for what? Five years?" said Dunne. "Is he even alive?"
"He's out there somewhere." Hannahlee said it definitively.
"There are more rumors than you can shake a stick at," said Thad. "But we think there's some truth to them. We think he's hiding somewhere in the Weeping Willows fan underground."
Dunne scowled. "There's a fan underground?"
"Is there ever!" Thad rolled his eyes. "Which is why we need you two.
Kitty Willow herself and the writer whose books have kept Weeping Willows alive all these years. You'll have instant entrée with the fan community."
Dunne rubbed his chin. "And you want us to find Gowdy why, exactly?" He had a thought, and his hopes and dreams took a sudden nosedive. "Do you want him to write the screenplay?"
"No, no." Thad chuckled and thumped Dunne on the back. "But he is the only one who can save the movie. We need him to sign a release."
"What kind of release?" said Dunne.
"In Gowdy's original contract, he signed over everything to Halcyon Studios...almost," said Thad. "But he still has right of refusal on future Willows projects."
"Like movies," said Hannahlee.
"See where we're going with this?" said Thad. "No signed release from Gowdy..."
"...no Weeping Willows The Movie. Got it." Dunne nodded and clapped his hands together. "So when do we start?"
"Show him the flyer," said Thad.
Hannahlee slid a folded sheet of pale blue paper out of her pocket and handed it to Dunne. It was an ad for the "25th Annual Willowcon" in L.A.
"The world's biggest convention for Weeping Willows fans," said Thad. "Might be a logical place to start, eh?"
"This is tomorrow," said Dunne.
"Then that's when you start." Suddenly, Thad shot his hand in the air. "So can I get a 'Hey now, hero?'"
It was the most famous catch phrase from Weeping Willows. Dunne knew it well, but he hesitated. Meeting the piercing green gaze of Hannahlee, he felt exposed. As if she could see through to what he really was. As if she knew he was as far from being a hero as anyone could get.
Because the truth was, Dunne's wife and baby daughter had died because of him. Because when a murderous gunman had broken into their home, Dunne had been too scared to fight back. He'd been too much of a coward to fight for his family's lives.
6 Short Stories Page 9
