by Phil Lollar
Johnny reflected on the notes his father had translated from the book. If the cloth in the story was the one in his possession—and according to his father’s research it seemed to be—then it must have healed McDuff. And if it healed McDuff, it could also heal Steve.
Johnny considered going to see Steve without his father’s knowing, but he knew that even if he made it to the hospital, the nurses would not let him into Steve’s room. He just needs to improve enough so I can get in and use the cloth to completely heal him! Johnny thought.
Johnny also pondered the mystery he literally fell into at Granville House. He was actually relieved that Ben told him to do nothing about it. At the moment, he didn’t have the heart or energy to do much of anything until Steve improved. It seemed crazy that Steve’s own father could be mixed up in a murder, especially since he seemed to care so much about his son. Johnny tried talking to Ben about it from time to time at school, but all Ben would say was, “Don’t worry ’bout that stuff. You leave it to me.”
The Friday before Thanksgiving, a phone call came from the Mangle home. Harold listened to Karl as the others in the house held their breath. After a short pause, the concern on Harold’s face turned into a relieved smile. “That’s great news, Karl!” he said. “I’m so glad to hear it!”
A huge, collective sigh of relief filled the room. Johnny whispered to his father, “Ask if I can visit!”
Harold nodded. “Do you think Steve’s up for visitors? Johnny has been champing at the bit to get over there.” A pause, and then Harold nodded. “Excellent! We’ll come first thing tomorrow.”
The next morning, Harold pulled into the parking lot of Duke University Hospital, a relatively new facility that in its short history had already become one of the top medical institutions in the nation. It stood like a castle against the gray sky, an imposing structure that gave an air of hope to the ailing patients who entered its doors.
Inside, the receptionist provided directions to the pediatric wing and Steve’s room. When they entered, they found two beds there, both occupied—one by Steve, the other by Karl. Paul sat on a chair in the corner.
Mangle, who’d obviously fallen asleep in his clothes, rose as soon as they entered. “Pardon. I didn’t expect you to come so early,” he said.
“Where’s Frieda?” Harold asked.
“We take shifts,” Karl said. “She’ll spell me this afternoon.”
Johnny walked over to Steve’s bed. “Hey, pally,” he said. “How are you feeling?”
“Oh, just hunky-dory,” Steve answered, grinning faintly. His breathing sounded a little raspy, but not as bad as Johnny expected. He remembered when Charlie came down with the croup a few years back. The rattle in her breathing and the hoarseness of her cough were sounds he had never forgotten, they’d scared him so badly.
Mangle blathered on and on about hospital beds and the extravagant cost of medical care and the realization that doctors really do “practice” medicine. Once he finally ran out of commas and landed on a period, Harold asked, “Care for a cup of coffee, Karl? You look like you could use a break.”
Mangle hesitated for a moment but then responded, “Ja, that sounds gut. I need something to clear the Spinnweben out. These hospital beds are hard as a rock. I didn’t sleep much at all.” As they walked out the door, Mangle added, “I’ll check on your breakfast, boys.”
“We already had ours,” Steve answered.
“You were sleeping when they brought it in,” Paul added.
Mangle looked surprised. “I guess I slept better than I thought.” As the door closed behind them, Johnny faintly heard Mangle saying, “I’m glad we have a few minutes alone, Whittaker. There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you about.”
Johnny sat in a chair beside Steve’s bed, his bag resting on his lap. The bag felt much heavier than it appeared due to the gravity of its contents. The cloth was safely tucked inside.
“Thanks for coming,” Steve said. “It’s dull as dishwater around here.” His eyes resumed that impish mischief that Johnny noted the first time they met. “When my dad isn’t working, he’s sleeping. And Paul listens to football on the radio. College stuff mostly. I like baseball much better, but Duke is doing great this year.”
“Yeah, Southern Conference champs so far,” Paul chimed in. “Though North Carolina is closing in.”
“We should talk to our dads—see if they can get us tickets to a game,” said Johnny.
“Soon as I get outta here!” Steve smiled, then turned serious. Turning to Johnny, he asked, “Hey, whatever happened at Granville House?”
The suddenness of the question startled Johnny. He’d forgotten that Steve was supposed to be there the night they returned to check on the contents of the coffin. He hesitated. How do you tell someone that his father is hiding a dead body?
He decided to say just enough to keep from lying. “Oh, a dead end.”
Steve laughed hoarsely. “Dead end. I get it!”
Johnny hadn’t meant the pun, but it served his purpose. He chuckled in response. “Yeah. The coffin was actually empty. All that for nothing.”
“Well, that’s boring,” Steve said. “I hope you’ve had some adventure while I’ve been locked up in this jail.”
“What could happen in dreary old Provenance?” Johnny sighed, even as he thought, You have no idea how much is going on in that little town.
Steve chuckled, which turned into a cough. He wasn’t strong enough to cough with enough air to expel the mucus in his lungs. He choked badly, and Paul rushed to him, lifted him into a sitting position, and patted his back until the phlegm came up.
Paul looked at Johnny’s pale white face and said, “It’s okay. This happens a lot.”
Johnny girded up his courage and opened his knapsack. “I want to show you guys something,” he said. “But you have to promise to keep it a secret. Okay?”
Steve looked tired after his episode. “Is it illegal?” he asked. “I didn’t think you were that kind of kid.”
“No, it’s not illegal. Do you guys promise?”
“Wild horses couldn’t drag it out of me,” Steve said, closing his eyes in fatigue.
“Paul?”
“Sure, I promise.”
“I found something,” Johnny said, his hand reaching into his bag. “Something important.”
Steve’s eyes opened, his interest piqued. “Yeah? What?”
Johnny pulled out the cloth. “This,” he said.
Paul stood and walked over. “It must be valuable to wrap it up like that.”
“Nothing’s wrapped up. This is what I found.”
“A rag?” Paul said in a deadpan tone.
“Further proof that nothing exciting happens in Provenance,” Steve snorted.
“You may not believe it,” Johnny acknowledged, then stated with an air of mystery, “but this . . . is a healing cloth.”
“Oh, brother,” Steve said, turning his head in disgust. “You need to go to acting school, buddy. Clark Gable has nothing to worry about.”
Johnny began to spin a fantastic tale, hoping to get them to at least go along with him. If the cloth didn’t work, they would regard it as nothing more than an imaginative story. But if it did . . . “This cloth is hundreds of years old,” Johnny said. “It’s been on every continent on the planet, and it has been known to heal every sort of disease. Maharajas and kings and emperors have been healed of pox and other diseases. Kingdoms have been saved. Kids got rid of pimples. Bald men grew hair. This thing even healed a dog.”
“Good grief,” Paul said, shaking his head.
“I have a pimple,” Steve said. “Put ’er on!”
Johnny motioned to Paul and instructed, “Pull the blanket off him. The cloth should lay directly over him.”
As Paul did that, Johnny ceremonially unfolded the cloth. He laid it carefully over Steve and then said, “Stand back and be amazed!”
Steve lay silent for a minute—so long that Johnny wondered whether the cl
oth was helping or hurting. He exchanged glances with Paul.
“Steve?” Paul nudged him. “Are you all right?”
Steve’s eyes slowly opened. He turned and looked at Johnny. “I feel . . . something . . . happening . . .”
Johnny’s heart began to race, and he waited, hoping to see a miracle take place in that hospital room.
Steve’s voice grew louder with each word he spoke. “I’m . . . I’m . . . III’MMM . . . !” He stopped, then casually added, “Hungry. You have anything in that knapsack to eat?”
Johnny’s heart fell. “You’re not healed?” he asked, crestfallen.
“Nope. I guess it’s just a piece of old cloth after all,” Steve said.
Paul shoved Johnny and said, “That was dumb. I like playing around too, but not about stuff like this.” He grabbed the cloth off Steve, wadded it up, and threw it in Johnny’s face. “Get that clupid stoth out of here.”
“Knock it off, Paul,” Steve scolded. “He was just trying to have some fun.”
Johnny’s eyes welled up with tears. “I’m sorry, Steve,” he said. “I didn’t mean . . .” His voice trailed off.
“You’ve got a good imagination,” Steve said. “But there’s no imagining this away. It’s how things are meant to be.”
“Stop saying that,” Paul urged him. “You’re gonna get better.”
“Maybe you need to stop saying that. It’s not like I can’t do anything, Paul. I can do a lot of things—most of them as good as anyone, some even better.”
Paul walked back to his chair in the corner and sat down, glowering at Johnny the entire time.
“Besides,” Steve added, “it’s almost Thanksgiving. We need to spend time thinking about what we’re thankful for.”
Johnny tentatively asked him, “Don’t you . . . ever wish you could walk?”
Steve cleared his throat and gazed through the hazy hospital window into the cloudy fall sky beyond.
“Someday I am going to walk,” Steve said resolutely. “I know it.”
Steve looked at Johnny and smiled. “Stop feeling sorry for me. I get enough of that from him,” he said, nodding at Paul, sulking in the corner. “The thing is,” he said with an air of peace, “I don’t believe that my having muscular dystrophy is a punishment or some . . . mistake of nature. I think . . .” he said, searching for the right words, “I think it’s a gift. After all, God can use anything for good, you know.”
Chapter Eighteen
The next day was Sunday, so the family attended service at the University Church. Afterward, as they drove home, the wind picked up, and a few drops of rain began to fall.
“Can you believe this weather?” Fiona said. “You’d think it was August instead of November!”
In the distance, a thundercloud loomed. A faint flash lit the cloud, and a few seconds later, a low rumble boomed.
Harold said, “Looks like we’re in for a storm.”
I need to get to the water tower, Johnny thought. This storm looks perfect for my experiment.
He started to ask permission to work on his experiment but then quickly decided against it. After what happened the last time he was there, his father would never allow it. Then an idea sprang to mind. “Can I go over to Emmy’s when we get home?” he said.
“I suppose so,” Fiona answered. “After Sunday dinner.”
The storm could be gone by then, he worried. Before he knew it, he spouted out another lie: “Her folks invited me over for dinner at their place. I should have asked earlier. I’m sorry.” He knew he’d catch it if his parents found out, but they never spoke with Emmy’s parents, so it was an unlikely danger.
“Yes, you should have,” Harold scolded. Fiona put her hand on his arm. He sighed loudly and added, “Very well, but don’t be gone all day.”
When they pulled into their driveway, Johnny barely waited for the car to stop before he bolted from it, sprinted into the house, changed out of his church clothes, grabbed his bag, went out to the shed, tossed a few tools in the bag, and then trotted to Emmy’s house and knocked on the front door.
Her mother answered. “Hello, Johnny!” she greeted with a trace of an Italian accent. “How was church this morning?”
“Fine, Mrs. Capello. Yours?”
“Oh, it was wonderful. Very inspiring message.”
“That’s great. Is Emmy home?”
“She is. Come in.”
“Thank you.” Johnny entered.
Mrs. Capello called out for Emmy, who was already tucked away in her room. “I need to get back to cooking dinner,” Mrs. Capello said. “Would you like to join us?”
“Actually, I was going to ask if Emmy could come to my place for dinner.”
Emmy walked in. “That sounds great,” she said.
“But I’m making creamed chipped beef on toast.” Her mother said it as if the meal were an allure.
Emmy’s eyes bulged, and her mouth spread out in a wide frown. “Yeah. I know. May I? Please?”
“No one appreciates my cooking around here,” Mrs. Capello said with mock disdain. “Take your umbrella. It’s starting to rain.” Then she made her way to the kitchen.
“Thanks for the reprieve,” Emmy whispered.
“Actually, we’re not going to my place for dinner,” Johnny softly responded.
“Then where are we going?”
“I’ll tell you on the way,” he answered as they walked out the door.
The rain had begun to pour by the time they reached the water tower. Thunder rumbled nearby. “The lightning’s getting closer,” Johnny observed.
“I’m hungry,” Emmy whined. “I can’t believe you didn’t bring any food with you.”
“Who can think of food when we’re on the verge of a scientific breakthrough?” Johnny nobly declared.
He found the car battery where he had left it, concealed in a patch of overgrown prairie grass. He set down his bag in the overturned dirt directly under the tower and smiled. The battery was a pleasant reminder of their previous adventure there. He reached into the bag and grabbed a pair of pliers.
“What do you want me to do?” Emmy asked.
Johnny pointed to the side of the tower. “See if you can find the wire. It should still be hanging off the tower.”
A bolt of lightning flashed, the almost-immediate report of thunder resounding loudly.
“That was close!” Emmy yelled, bug-eyed.
“Yeah. Hurry!” Johnny commanded.
Johnny loosened the cable connections on the battery terminals. He had left the cables on, planning to stick the wire between the cable connections and the terminals so he could tighten them down securely. Because of the fall rain and the early light snow, however, the terminals were rusty.
“The wire will never make a connection through that rust,” he muttered. He looked in his knapsack for something to clean them off with. The first thing his hand landed on was the cloth. Might as well, he thought. It’s no good for anything else.
Johnny wiped the terminals with it, getting off as much rust as possible, and then tossed the cloth on the ground. When he did, he snickered. The rust from the terminals fashioned what looked like a face on the cloth.
He imagined the face belonging to one of the names in the book he’d found in his father’s study. Lucian, was it? Or Gama-something? But his smile turned to astonishment when the rusty face on the cloth began to speak.
“Help him,” the face said.
Johnny recoiled. He looked for Emmy, but she had vanished. He hunched over the cloth. Again, the voice repeated, “Help him!”
“Help who?” Johnny asked.
The face turned toward the back part of the Granville House property. “Help him,” it repeated.
Johnny followed the face’s eyeline. The Mangle home was in that direction. “You mean Steve? I tried,” Johnny answered.
“Help . . . Ben,” the voice said, the eyes of the face serious and cold.
At that moment, a lightning bolt carved a hole in th
e sky over Granville House. Johnny’s eyes darted up to see how close it hit. “With the experiment? I am!” Johnny explained, looking back down at the face.
But it was gone. The rain pouring down had washed the rust from the cloth. Johnny took it and put it back in his bag.
At that moment, Emmy grabbed his shoulder. She held the wire. “Take this thing, quick!” she urged. “If I get electrocuted, my dad’ll kill you.”
I must be tired, Johnny thought. I’m starting to hallucinate.
Lightning flashed all around. He grabbed the wire from Emmy. “Is it still connected up top?”
“I think so,” she answered. “It’s hard to see in all this rain.”
He nodded, then wrapped the wire around the positive terminal, and tightened the cable connector securely over it.
“Done!” he called out. Standing up, he grabbed Emmy’s arm. “Let’s get under the tower! Hurry!”
They ran and knelt beneath it, hoping the lightning would connect with the battery—and not with them.
Within seconds, a huge bolt of lightning flashed immediately above, lighting up the darkened sky. In that moment, Johnny saw someone walking out through the back gate behind Granville House into the forest beyond. He recognized the man immediately.
It was Ben.
Chapter Nineteen
Emmy had seen him too. “Why do you suppose Ben is there?” she asked.
“He said he’d look into what was going on in that house,” he replied. “Maybe that’s what he’s doing.”
“Should we follow him?”
“Well, he did tell us to let him handle—”
Before Johnny could finish his thought, a thick bolt of lightning struck the water tower. Johnny’s hand had been gripping one of the metal braces, and he felt the electricity jump into his body, throwing him backward onto the ground outside.
Emmy screamed, rushing over to him. “Please don’t be dead! Please don’t be dead!” she begged. She put her head on Johnny’s chest to listen for a heartbeat.
