by J. G. Jurado
“Dr. Evans! Somebody’s been asking for you, named Jim Robson.”
I blinked in amazement. That was the last thing I’d expected. My father-in-law had never been to see me at work. In fact, I’d have bet a case of Bud he didn’t even know the name of the hospital where I practiced. By the looks of things, I’d have lost.
“I’m not in the mood for monkey business. For God’s sake, get rid of him. Tell him I’m not here.”
The nurse swiveled her eyes and pursed her lips. I got her meaning a second before I heard a voice behind me.
“It’s too late for that, David.”
I wanted the ground to swallow me up, or to jump over the counter and hide among the half-open boxes of rubber gloves. But I had no alternative other than to turn around, shamefaced.
“Hello, Jim.”
There he was, with the creases on his pants straight as knife edges and his stare every bit as sharp. He said nothing, although I would have preferred him to shout and call me everything under the sun.
“I . . . I’m sorry,” I went on. “I didn’t mean to insult you. It’s just that I’m tied up right now.”
“For a change. I don’t want to waste your time. Is there any place we can talk?”
We went to the snack bar in a typical Robson silence, as impalpable as smoke but as solid as a brick wall. Rachel used to take her time getting mad, but when she did she was exactly like her father, much as it would annoy her for me to say that. She would sink into a baleful sulk, at which I would throw everything I had, from jokes to hugs. It was useless; the best thing to do was ride it out.
We both ordered some of the god-awful coffee they serve there and went over to a table by the window. When I sat down I felt a shooting pain in my ribs that made me jump. Jim looked at me askance but said nothing. I guess he was working himself up to speak and I didn’t want to sway him.
“Thing is,” he said after he cleared his throat, “I’ve come to beg your pardon.”
That I did not expect at all, and it put me even more on my guard. Jim had never asked my forgiveness for anything, and, as far as I knew, Rachel took after her father when it came to apologies. And I had sampled many of my wife’s. Rachel belonged to the sorry but species. The group of people who never simply apologize. If after an argument you manage to corner them and make them face facts, they apologize, only to counterattack with an explanation that shows you were actually to blame. “Sorry I was late, but I wouldn’t have been if you’d remembered to buy the bread.”
That had stoked many an argument in my first few years with Rachel, until I ended up accepting that that was the way she was and she wouldn’t change. She would never acknowledge her mistakes in words, but in more subtle and tangible deeds. For example, by making juice and bringing it to me in bed for breakfast. Buying me a novel on her lunch break. Putting on the stupid show about pawnshops that I loved and she hated. And at the same time I realized that those gestures were better than the five-letter word most of us say far too easily.
“Why do you want to beg my pardon?” I said carefully.
“For the way I behaved the other night, but I thought you deserved a dressing-down . . .”
I used the coffee cup as a shield so Jim wouldn’t see me smile at the sorry but.
“. . . and even so I went about it the wrong way. You were in my home and I behaved like a punk. That isn’t the Virginia way, David.”
I had personal experience of Jim’s Virginia ways, so I did no more than give a nod, without committing myself.
Jim couldn’t look me in the eye but stared into space while the twilight cast half his face in shadow.
He clearly wanted to keep talking, but our shared history had been a very rocky road. We had never talked, not really talked. At most a couple of noncommittal pleasantries—nearly always pathetic attempts on my part—before Jim got tired and turned up the volume on the TV. The nearest thing we had ever had to a heart-to-heart was that Tuesday night.
“I need to ask you something, Dave.”
“Go ahead.”
“Did you ever cut a deal with God? You know, talk to Him, ask Him to bring Rachel back. I have, many times. It makes me feel so stupid and so childish.”
His frankness disarmed me. Like many guys who’ve been the man about the house for decades, Jim was used to having others interpret his feelings for him. It must have been a painstaking effort for him to say those words. I thought maybe I’d been too hard on him.
“No, Jim. I have not. But I would have, had I thought it was any use. I’d have done anything. You may believe I didn’t do enough, that she died because I didn’t notice she was ill. You know what? I don’t care. You can’t think anything I haven’t thought already.”
My father-in-law shook his head.
“I haven’t come to blame you, even if I do, damn it. I’ll blame you as long as I live, because I’ve got nothing better to do. I spend the whole day stuck at home moping over old photos and brooding. Photos in which just three people are having a good time and which I don’t recall taking. Photos of birthdays, special occasions, a heap of good memories which a stranger captured on film because I was too busy breaking my back to support my family.”
He paused to take a sip of coffee. Mine had been finished for some time.
“All those years I thought it was enough to put bread on the table. That someday there would be time to relax and enjoy life with my daughters. But there never was. And when I was at home, when we had a little time together, I was too busy setting an example of the damned rectitude I wanted to instill in them. I was strict, too hard. I was a shitty father, Dave.”
A tear trickled down his cheek and splashed on the table. He either didn’t notice or didn’t care.
“If I had a second chance, if I could have my time over again . . . this time it’d be different. I’d get it right. If I had a girl again, I wouldn’t talk to her about the importance of hard work, or hellfire, and never, ever would I spank her. If I had a girl, I wouldn’t force any rules or values on her. I’d tell her to go after whatever it took to make her happy, because before you know it you’re dead and can’t make amends, nothing can be undone, there’s no . . .”
His voice was full of broken glass and he couldn’t finish the sentence.
“No turning the clock back.” I finished it for him.
We remained silent for a few minutes. Back there in the kitchen somebody dropped a tray of cutlery on the floor. They were getting ready for suppertime. The place would soon be full of weary relatives and companions who would chew their soggy spaghetti out of sheer boredom.
“I know how you feel,” I said after a while. “That’s how I felt the first time I killed somebody.”
He looked at me distrustfully.
“A neurosurgeon is not a dentist. If I cut something, it stays cut. And at times, above all while you’re learning, you cut where you shouldn’t. It’s that simple.”
“I don’t know if I want to hear this, David.”
“No patient does, and we don’t like talking about it, either. It isn’t great PR. We all have our own private cemetery. And the one you most remember is the first.”
Jim hesitated for a second but in the end curiosity got the better of him.
“What happened?”
“Her name was Vivian Santana. She was a fifty-year-old teacher who loved crackers. She ate tons of them, so the upshot was mammoth blood pressure and an aneurysm. She was one of the first ops I did on my own. Supposedly, all I had to do was clamp the clip in the right place. I’d already done it a dozen times under supervision. But this time, there was only me and my fingers, nobody else. The aneurysm burst and she went without blood supply for a few minutes. By the time I got another neurosurgeon’s help, it was too late. She died two days later.”
My father-in-law stared at me long and hard. He said nothing, but I believe there was a flash
of understanding between us. He understood I was a bit more than a smart-assed know-it-all with a degree in medicine, and that it takes guts to do what we do.
“After you deal with the relatives and your bosses as coolly as you can, you have a guilt trip. You get depressed, you think of chucking it all to become an attorney or an insurance salesman. If you’re lucky, a buddy helps when you’re down in the dumps, although that almost never happens. And sooner or later you realize somebody had to do the op. Somebody had to hold the scalpel. And the only way to get anywhere is by doing it.”
“So you hear me.”
“I hear you. There may be no way back, but you did the best you could, which is all anybody can ask for.”
Jim leaned over toward me. There was a weird glint in his eyes.
“But I want to try again. I can do it better than last time around. That’s why I asked you to let Julia come live with us.”
I hardened my expression.
“I thought I’d made myself clear, Jim. That will never happen.”
“I know, I know. I won’t insist,” he said, raising his hands. “But you could let us spoil her a bit now and again. I could swing by your place now and take her away for a long weekend. There’s a fair in the next town. We’d drop her off on Monday, with a bellyful of cotton candy and a bunch of teddy bears.”
For a second I froze, not knowing what to say. I could not believe this was happening.
“She’s got school tomorrow,” I spluttered.
“At her age a day off school won’t make any difference. I’m not asking just for my sake. It would also perk Aura up a bit. Every night, when we turn out the light, she sobs away in silence for hours. She thinks I don’t notice, but I do. And it breaks my heart.”
“Can’t be done.”
Jim’s face darkened, and he contorted his lips into a crooked smile.
“Why, David?”
I don’t know whether it was the heat in there, the sunlight, the tension, the fatigue or dehydration, but I began to feel lightheaded. It was an effort to look straight ahead and pain hammered at my temples.
“Next weekend,” I said when I could find a reply.
“There won’t be a fair next weekend. We always used to take Rachel to the fair, you know? But her mother and I never let her go on too many of the rides.”
I felt faint again. I tried to ward it off by massaging my temples. For a second I thought I would collapse onto the table, but I held myself upright.
“I’m sorry. It’s simply impossible.”
“It has to be possible.”
“Enough, Jim,” I said, raising my voice almost to a shout. I just wanted him to shut up and leave me in peace. I had no credible excuse to offer, no explanation to satisfy him.
There was a sudden change in the look on his face when reality forced its way through to his brain and smashed the props for his phony smile to smithereens. It was like watching a building being demolished by explosives, leaving behind a pile of twisted girders and rubble.
“I know what’s going on here,” he said. “Own up.”
I was befuddled by the dizziness and a dawning migraine. I heard that sentence clearly and I gauged it inside my head until it acquired monumental proportions. I was so scared somebody would find me out that I began to stammer.
“Wha . . .What are you talking about?”
“What’s up with Julia. You think I don’t know what’s going on?”
“I . . . How long have you known for?”
“Since you came over. Then I knew it. When were you going to tell me?”
“I was going to leave it as long as possible. I hoped you wouldn’t find out.”
“For God’s sake, Dave. What do you take me for? These things are obvious, and if you want my opinion, it’s too damn soon.”
I was totally at a loss. He had blindsided me. How could it be too soon to kidnap my daughter?
“What did you say?”
“Don’t act dumb with me. It’s normal for you to want to find another woman, but it’s still too soon. It’s only been a few months. Show a bit of respect, Dave. Take it like a man.”
“I haven’t got another woman . . . How could you even think that?”
“Don’t you lie to me! I knew you were hiding something as soon as you walked through the door. You’re a terrible liar, David.”
“You’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“Julia’s very young. This could do her great harm. I’m afraid another woman will make her forget us. Her grandmother and I want to spend more time with her so that doesn’t happen.”
I had thought of nothing other than losing Rachel in the long and painful months that had gone by since she had passed away. There had been only a void, a void and memories. For that reason, Jim’s words hurt and humiliated me as much as if he had spat in my face.
I got to my feet, vaguely aware people were stealing surreptitious glances at us. Jim huffed and puffed, and his face was livid. If I didn’t end that conversation we would come to blows, and I could not afford to make a spectacle of myself.
“Jim, your granddaughter will spend next weekend with you. This weekend is out. I’m sorry, I have to leave.”
I stormed off and tried not to run, while Jim shouted behind me and underlined each sentence by slamming the table.
“She’s my flesh and blood, damn it! My flesh and blood! You can’t keep her away from me!”
Kate
Kate went back to her car and drove to the outskirts until she found a quiet spot in a parking lot by a carpet store. Huge “FOR SALE” and “CLOSING DOWN” notices covered the storefront. Another of the many businesses the economic slump had put paid to. The loud but faded letters matched her feelings.
She had gotten an enormous weight off her chest with the words she had just spoken over the phone to Barbara, and massive relief had been left in its place. But those words were out there now, and there was no getting away from them.
I’ve been smitten ever since I first saw him.
For many years she had been incapable of admitting to herself that she was in love with her sister’s husband. Now she had let the cat out of the bag, just like that.
She cried for a good while.
She didn’t feel sorry for herself. She never had, and despised those who did. She cried because it was so unfair, because she wasn’t strong enough, and out of exhaustion. She was physically and mentally tired out with all that was going on. She turned up the ringer volume on her cell and moved to the backseat. She needed to rest her eyes, for a few minutes only, to recover after being up almost all night.
She cried there for a while longer and let the long salty tears comfort her, until she fell asleep.
The cell woke her up.
Her mouth felt like the bottom of a birdcage and her neck muscles were as taut as piano wire. She blinked in astonishment at the low light. Night was falling, so she must have been out for hours.
Shit, she thought when she saw the caller ID.
“Hi, boss,” she said.
“You’re not coming in,” McKenna replied. It was not a question.
“I’m afraid I’m still sick.”
“Robson, guess what? Suddenly tomorrow’s venue is your brother-in-law’s goddamn hospital after all. Those cabinet guys are making a lot of very stupid decisions in a very short time. I have to set up briefings again tonight and do a shitload of overtime. And everybody is on edge. Especially me, because I’m wondering why the agent who gathered all the intel from the simulator isn’t here to lend a hand.”
Way back when, Secret Service agents prepared for important missions using maps and cardboard models made to scale by specialists. Now it was all done by computer. The parameters were entered into a program which perfectly simulated the surroundings the agents would operate in, so they could run over multipl
e scenarios, as well as plan access and escape routes, without drawing attention to themselves. Kate didn’t usually do fieldwork, but she had stepped forward on this occasion. The week before she had been to St. Clement’s a couple of times. Both incognito, both without David’s noticing, both without admitting he was the real reason she had volunteered to go there. She had pulled together an impeccable scenario, so McKenna didn’t make a fuss. But it was her obligation to be beside her boss to give the briefing.
“Sorry, sir.”
“If I had a nickel for every one of your excuses, I could buy myself the Post. Something’s cooking here, Robson. I don’t know what it is, but I can smell it. I’ve asked Renaissance to cancel tomorrow’s gig, to postpone it.”
No. That cannot be. If the operation doesn’t take place . . .
McKenna waited for her answer.
“You don’t say? That’s big news,” Kate lied, her voice faking relief. “If we can put it off until Monday everything’ll be so much easier. At least I could take part in the preparatory briefing. I hope to fin—”
“She said no.”
Kate felt her heart falling back into place.
“Pardon me?”
“Everybody’s gone plumb loco over this, and no wonder. For now, only the cabinet and those of us on duty tomorrow know about it. The agents have no clue what kind of op Renegade’s having, just that it’s a bigger secret than the color of the Pope’s underwear. But tomorrow they’ll have to activate protocols, there’ll be more people in on it and there could be setbacks during transfer. Somebody will see him, somebody will tweet it, or whatever. And before lunch everyone and their dog will know Renegade is in St. Clement’s. This is Grade A explosive shit. There’s no way to keep it under wraps. And that’s what I told Renaissance.”
“Let me guess. She didn’t take the least bit of notice.”
“Like talking to the wall. A half hour going over all the cons of the operation, the pros of going to Bethesda exactly as they’d told me they would do this very morning, damn it. And when I finished, she says, ‘Thank you for expressing your point of view, but we’ll stick to the original plan.’ And I got to wondering . . . is your bro-in-law Jesus Christ? Do they work miracles in that place, Robson?”
