by Wallace Ford
“I am here with Mr. Perkins’s business partners, Ms. Diedre Douglas and Mr. Jerome Hardaway, and given the urgent nature of the message that we received, we would appreciate an immediate briefing.” I was looking straight at Holloway as I said this.
Quincy Holloway was one of the few short people I knew who really thought that he was a tall person in a short person’s body. He drew himself up to his full height, just slightly past five feet, and while motioning to the camera crew to turn off the video and the lights, he attempted to assert the legitimacy of his presence.
“Paul, Jerome, I am so glad to see some brothers with some sense. Maybe you can explain to these godless gentlemen that whatever his sins in the past, Gordon Perkins deserves to have a spiritual advisor at his bedside during these urgent moments.” With his grandiose gestures and grandiloquent phrasing, he made one believe that one of the original apostles had been dispatched by the Great Redeemer to look after the New Prodigal Son, none other than Gordon Perkins.
“Reverend Holloway, as you mentioned, this appears to be a very urgent moment, so allow us to speak with the doctors and hospital representatives, and then we can figure out how you can best minister to Gordon.”
Quincy Holloway and I had been through too much too many times for us to spend too much time in a choreographed debate. We both knew that he was pushing his luck, as usual. We both also knew that Quincy Holloway was capable of creatively manufacturing trouble for anyone who didn’t try to help him get his way. So, without further conversation, there was an unspoken agreement that I would see what I could do to address whatever concerns he had as soon as we all found out what the hell was going on with Gordon.
“Paul, I have always known you to be a brother possessed of good judgment. My colleagues from the media and I will wait with proper courtesy and respect while you and your people sort things out.”
Quincy was smiling as if he had already won a victory, and in point, he had. Our presence and brief conversation had legitimized his presence in front of the New York Hospital representatives, who realized, with some finality, that arguing any further with Reverend Quincy Holloway was a losing proposition. On the other hand, I am sure that they experienced some feeling of relief because now the good reverend was our problem.
I wasn’t too crazy about Quincy now being “our” problem. On the other hand, I was reminded of an expression that I had heard in South Africa during one of my many business trips there: “When you are trying to eat an elephant, you cannot do it all with one bite.” In other words, when you had a big problem to solve, you had to solve it in bits and pieces. Sending Quincy Holloway down the hall was one small bite.
“Thanks for understanding, Reverend. Gentlemen, could we go somewhere quiet so that you can explain to Mrs. Perkins and me the nature of the crisis? And actually, given the circumstances, I think it would be appropriate for Ms. Douglas and Mr. Hardaway to also be in attendance.”
“Whatever will let us get down to the reason for our meeting is fine with me, Mr. Taylor. Right this way.” One of the hospital administrators, who I later learned went by the name of Alfred Kennedy, seemed to take charge and led us to a quiet alcove area that had several chairs and a small couch. With the air of an Elizabethan courtesan, he motioned us in the direction of the sitting area, and our little party of five—Kenitra, Sture, Jerome, Diedre and I—walked the short distance to be seated and to finally find out what all the fuss was about.
As we walked away from Quincy Holloway and his camera crew, I subtly signaled for him to wait and not to follow. I have always had to hand it to the tiny reverend. He may never have been the smartest player in the game, but he always had good instincts. And at that point, his instincts correctly told him to play it cool for the moment. And so he acknowledged my direction and stepped back to have a few words with his crew.
It took a moment for all of us to get situated and for introductions to be made. When the formalities had been dispensed with, it was time for the physician who was in charge of Gordon’s case, a Dr. Vijay Krishnamurthy, to explain why he, and New York Hospital’s finest thought that it was so important to meet at three o’clock in the morning to urgently discuss Gordon’s condition.
Dr. Krishnamurthy was a native of Bangelore, India, tall, bespectacled, mustached and elegant without seeking to impress the world. Extremely dark, in the manner of many natives of the Indian subcontinent, he was dressed in a pair of crisply pressed slacks and a white medical jacket, neither of which looked as if they had ever been worn before. He stood before us and took out a fine linen handkerchief to clean his glasses—a process that, under the circumstances seemed to take forever. He finally finished clearing his vision, and then he cleared his throat.
CHAPTER 28
Sture
In a Mellow Mood
From the time we got off the elevator at the hospital, it seemed to me that Kenitra and I had stumbled into a kaleidoscopic whirlwind of sights and sounds and people and voices. Since we were already wound as tight as guitar strings, it didn’t take a lot for us to quickly approach being unhinged. I know that I felt as though I was trapped in a nightmare inside of a circus inside of a hospital.
I thought that Kenitra might permanently damage the circulation in my left hand, which she was holding tightly. I had always suspected that Gordon, and his memory, had a special hold over her. There was no way that she could have lived with such a fearsome person and not been permanently terrorized and traumatized. And after she had told me some of the gruesome details of their relationship during the ride from the hotel to the hospital, I was amazed that she could summon the will to be in the same building with him, even if he was in a coma.
Knowing what little I knew about their relationship, I was feeling queasy at the mere thought of the things that man had done to her. I can only imagine what she was feeling as we sat down in that small alcove to listen to Dr. Krishnamurthy.
The doctor spoke in the clipped, lilting tones that characterize the speech patterns of most Indians that I have known. He looked around the room at all of us as he spoke. Jerome, Paul, Diedre and I all were paying close attention. But it was clear that his message was intended for Kenitra, whose eyes were still veiled by her sunglasses and who still had not loosened her surprisingly viselike grip on my hand.
“As you are aware, at the time of his original, ah, accident, Mr. Perkins suffered a catastrophic episode involving temporary heart failure occasioned by a massive ingestion of stimulants—stimulants that we believe were cocaine-based. The consequence of the heart failure was a severely diminished flow of blood to the brain, resulting in conditions that we find in patients who have suffered a massive stroke.” The doctor’s cadence and tone were unchanging, but I could sense a certain tension and urgency in his voice.
As he continued, the only ambient sounds that I remember hearing were the occasional beeps coming from the various monitors and machines that were attached to Gordon Perkins, in the room just a few yards down the hall.
“When Mr. Perkins was brought to our facility, his vital signs were barely perceptible, and our original diagnosis was that he had suffered irreversible brain damage and that he would never awaken from the comatose state that he entered almost three years ago.” It was not clear whether the doctor paused again for dramatic effect or to make sure that all of us were listening to what he was about to say. I glanced over at Kenitra. She was like a mahogany statue, not a muscle moving, her gaze riveted on the doctor, her hand still clenched around mine.
“Until recently, Mr. Perkins’s condition was stable. His vital signs have stayed constant, and his brain activity has been barely perceived by our most sensitive monitors. Our physical therapists have done all that they can to ensure that his muscles do not completely atrophy, and his overall musculature is not bad, given the fact that he has not voluntarily moved from a hospital bed during all this time.
“We have actually observed the occasional tensing of his muscles during times when his minimal bra
in waves have increased almost imperceptibly. The minimal movements and even more minimal brain waves could be indicative of some kind of dream process occurring—a real indication of brain activity.” It was at this point that Kenitra became even more tense, as if bracing herself for an avalanche of bad news.
“However, in my opinion, this activity, if I can call it that, can only be described as illusory and ephemeral. There is absolutely no possibility that Mr. Perkins will ever recover from the brain damage that he has suffered, and there is even less possibility that he will ever regain consciousness. To put it simply, he will never come out of this coma.” I thought that I felt Kenitra’s death grip on my hand relax, if ever so slightly.
“Dr. Krishnamurthy, we certainly appreciate your updated diagnosis. Our concern regarding Mr. Perkins’s condition has remained constant over these three years.” I could sense that Paul was about to ask the question that was on all of our minds.
“But doctor, with all due respect, what event has occurred that required you to call us in the early hours of the morning? Exactly what is the emergency?”
“I was just getting to that point, Mr.—Mr. Taylor is it? Yes, yes, yes. My colleagues and I apologize for the lateness of the hour, but in the last twenty-four hours, we have begun to observe the onset of organ failure. His vital signs, which have been relatively constant, have started to definitely move downward. I am of the opinion that if we do not take immediate extraordinary steps, Gordon Perkins will be dead within the day.” Dr. Krishnamurthy paused to take a breath before answering the remaining questions that his stunning statement had sprinkled around the room. Once more, it seemed as if Kenitra relaxed ever so slightly. I almost felt as if I could read her mind: Please, please, God, please let him die. Forgive me for what I’m thinking, but please, God, please let him die. I just can’t live with him still being alive, even like this. Please let him die, God. Please.
“Well, doctor, whatever the issues might be, perhaps you should get to the point so that Mrs. Perkins can take a moment or two to consider whatever options you are going to present to her. I assume you are going to give her some options?” Diedre always had a way of getting to the point, and it was probably a good idea for her to have stepped in before the good doctor went off on a lecture tangent as if we were a bunch of first-year medical students longing for enlightenment.
“Yes, yes, of course. Please forgive me for rambling. My wife says I do that all the time ... my, my, I am doing it again.” The doctor started to get flustered, took a deep breath and settled himself down.
“The human body is meant to function on its own. Life-support systems are meant to be temporary aids and not the basis for a patient staying alive indefinitely. What happens with some patients, and what has happened with Mr. Perkins, is that the human body can become overly reliant upon the various monitors and life-support systems that medical science can provide. The organs can become ‘lazy,’ in laymen’s terms. Once that happens, the body will die within a relatively short period of time.” At this point, he paused to let his words sink in. He certainly had our attention, and at that point, I don’t know that any of us knew where the doctor was heading with all of this.
None of this sounded like good news for Gordon, of course. The question now was whether any of this would constitute good news for Kenitra and the rest of us.
CHAPTER 29
Kenitra
Desafinado
As I listened to Dr. Krishnamurthy, I felt like I was in some kind of insane movie scene—a bizarre and horrible scene that was being played out as a comedy. Only I wasn’t laughing.
It wasn’t just that I loathed Gordon. It wasn’t just that I feared him, even with him being in a coma and seemingly sliding off towards the open arms of Death. I wanted Gordon to die, and I hated myself for that. But I still had been praying for his death for all those years.
I prayed for him to die when he was beating me. I prayed for him to die when he was raping me—raping me in the “traditional” way and then, in his more depraved moments, with sex toys, champagne bottles and anything else that he could get his hands on. I prayed for him to die when he caused me to lose my eye. And I prayed for him to die every time he fed me cocaine and pills and alcohol.
And when he almost died as a result of his escapade in New Orleans with Ray Beard, I thought that my prayers had been answered. From what little I could make out of the medical reports, there was just no way that the bastard could live after the damage that he had visited upon himself.
In fact, I remember sitting in that very same alcove at New York Hospital listening to the very same Dr. Vijay Krishnamurthy explain to Paul and me that Gordon’s expectancy of survival could be measured in months, if not weeks, if not days. But even that rosy prognosis kept me in New York City only long enough for Paul to get my finances in order and to help me buy my condominium unit in Venice Beach. Now that Gordon seemed to be powerless, I wanted to be sure to be as far away from him as possible. That’s because as long as he was alive, my life and my sanity were in danger. So, like Diedre, Paul, Sture and Jerome, I waited and listened to hear what the doctor had to say next.
“The best course of action that I can recommend—indeed the only course of action—is to remove Mr. Perkins from life support immediately. There is, of course, a certain risk attendant to such a course of action. Indeed, he may die as a result of being taken off of the life support and monitoring systems. But I assure you that there is no chance that he will live for more than another two days at the most if he remains on life support.”
We were already paying attention, but now we were literally hanging on his every word. And it seemed as if his every word was directed at me.
“Doctor, let me see if I understand what you are telling us. If my ... husband stays on life support, he will die and there is no chance of his living for anything more than another two days. But if you take him off life support, he may live, but he may die.”
“Exactly. You now understand the situation perfectly, Mrs. Perkins. Obviously, your witnessed consent to his being taken off life support is needed for us to move forward. However, as I have tried to explain, time is not our friend in this situation, and if we are going to move forward in this fashion, then we must do so quickly. Otherwise, any decision that you make will be moot and will have no bearing at all on your husband’s condition.”
I tried to let the words sink in. In what seemed to me to be another cruel twist of fate, my prayers for Gordon’s death might be answered. If I left him on life support, he would certainly die. If I had him taken off life support, he might die. And, he might live. Either way, the decision regarding his life and death was in my hands. If he died, I would have to live with that guilt for the rest of my life. If he lived, that monster might walk the earth again and try to befoul my life once more. If he lived, I would most assuredly die, by his hand or my own.
Oddly enough, I was reminded of an ancient bit of cautionary advice: “Be careful what you ask for.” I had prayed for Gordon’s death for so long, it was like saying grace before meals. And now, I had the power of life and death over him, with all of its awful consequences.
“I see. Thank you, Doctor. Now I understand the need for urgency, and I appreciate your taking the time to explain this. Now, could you please excuse me for a few moments while I speak to my friends? I will give you my decision in a few moments.”
“Yes, yes, of course. My colleagues and I will be in the hallway. I wish I could say to take your time, but I’m afraid that time is of the essence.” And with that, Dr. Krishnamurthy and the other doctors and Mr. Kennedy and the hospital administrators left the alcove and gathered down the hall outside of Gordon’s room.
I could hear Quincy Holloway and his camera crew milling about at the other end of the hall. Everyone in the alcove was silent for a moment. I am almost certain that we were all thinking the same thing. Could we all be witnessing the end of Gordon Perkins?
CHAPTER 30
Paul
>
Maiden Voyage
That evening at the hospital, I found it hard to figure out if bizarre things happen when Quincy Holloway is around or if the mighty reverend is the cause of bizarre things occurring in the first place. Whatever the case, Reverend Holloway’s presence turned a very compelling and difficult situation into a semiclassic scene from the eternal theater of the absurd.
Quincy smelled the imminence of some significant event the way a shark smells blood in the water miles away. As I approached him, I could see a look in his eyes that would best be described as feverish. He knew that something was going on, and being that he was the Right Reverend Quincy Holloway, he assumed the right to be a part of that something, whatever it was, whatever it was going to be.
“Quincy, I ...” I hesitated as I tried to figure out what I was going to say. I noticed Quincy’s camera crew bustling in preparation for springing into action. It seemed that the tense conference in the alcove was turning out to be the proverbial quiet before the storm.
“They’re going to do it, aren’t they, Paul?” Quincy did not believe in beating around the bush.
I leaned over so that we could speak to each other without raising our voices. I needn’t have bothered.
“Do what, Quincy?” Playing dumb has never been my forte, as I flatter myself that I have no natural aptitude for the role. In any event, it was a futile ploy in this situation.
“Paul, Paul, you know the old expression ‘Don’t bullshit the bullshitter.’ It’s too late at night and too early in the morning to be playing these kinds of games. They’re going to pull the plug on Gordon, aren’t they?”
