Текст книги "Poisoned Soil"
Автор книги: Tim Young
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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 22 страниц)
Looming tall from the pulpit, Lonnie overlooked the congregation as he opened his Bible. “Can there be anything worse than isolation?” Lonnie asked the congregation as he began his sermon. “The feeling of helplessness, of being alone when confronted with crisis. With tragedy. No one that knows how you feel, if you’re sick, if you’ve lost a close friend.” He surveyed the room and parked his eyes on Blake before continuing. “No one you can confess to. Can tell the truth about what you’ve done.”
Shit! A lump formed in Blake’s throat, he was sure it was a massive, visible lump that parched his throat and suffocated his breath. Thoughts raced through Blake’s mind of isolation, the feeling of loneliness he had. It was as if the sheriff...the pastor was speaking directly to him, about him. How could he know anything about what I’ve done? What I’m feeling?
“For each of you,” Lonnie continued, “for all of us, we are not alone. We have the Lord to hear us.” The men of the congregation spoke up. “Amen brother. Amen.”
“We have each other to comfort us, to be there and share in the times of despair, whether they be of a singular and personal nature, as in the case of a grave illness.” Lonnie’s eyes fell to the loving family of an ailing elderly man seated on the front row, clearly attending one of his last sermons.
“Or in the case of a natural calamity that unites us in despair, such as Hurricane Katrina, or the horrible tornadoes that tore through the South in recent years, killing so many innocent children of God.”
Angelica squeezed Blake’s hand in a reassuring way.
“Imagine how much worse those times could be. Would be, if you had to endure them alone.” Lonnie said. Heads nodded throughout the congregation. Blake’s head dropped, his eyes falling from Lonnie. He realized this and popped his head back up, fighting against the burdensome weight he felt levied on his mind and his shoulders.
“Today, we live in a world of greed,” Lonnie said. As he began the main thesis of his sermon, Blake felt connected via a tunnel directly to Lonnie, the people on each side fading as the message was channeled through a conduit directly from God through the pastor to Blake. Or is the message from the sheriff himself, Blake thought?
“Sometimes the greed is far away. On places like Wall Street, where unscrupulous souls worship and pursue material wealth at any and all costs.” All heads nodded knowingly to a chorus of “amens.”
“But the temptation isn’t always far away. It’s sometimes among us, my friends, luring us away from the Lord, away from Jesus,” Lonnie said looking at Blake. “Away from the law.”
“The book of Timothy is very clear about this temptation,” Lonnie continued as he read Timothy 6:10. For the love of money is a root of all evil: which while some coveted after, they have erred from the faith, and pierced themselves through with many sorrows. “Pierced themselves, my brothers and sisters. Not the way these teenagers pierce their ears and body parts these days.” Lonnie said with a affable smile. Eyes looked around the room as a couple of shaggy-haired teens on the back row hung their heads, waiting for the disproving attention to pass.
“No. Pierced like a lifeless hog on a spit,” Lonnie said, using a visual reference that all could grasp. Blake’s eyes widened in disbelief, unable to comprehend the uncanny irony of the reference.
“Today, I’d like to share with you a story from Kings chapter twenty-one, verses one through twenty-nine.” Lonnie said. “I’ll summarize the story in my own words rather than read it for you.”
Angelica opened her well-worn King James Bible to the book of Kings and turned to chapter twenty-one. She laid it open on her left leg for both her and Blake to read. Blake dropped his head to look at the words on the page, relieved for the moment to have a reason to turn his gaze away from the sheriff.
“You see,” Lonnie began, “Naboth lived on a vineyard in Jezreel next to King Ahab of Samaria. But Ahab wanted that land for himself to create a vegetable garden, so he offered to buy it. Naboth refused to sell the land because it was important to him since it had been in his family for generations. King Ahab sulked in his house and told his wife, Jezebel, the bad news.”
All eyes were open and on Lonnie, nary a one looking at the Bible itself. Lonnie knew that the way to reach people was through stories and by making stories real. Sometimes the word of the Bible, particularly the translation of the King James Version, made that difficult for anyone other than Bible scholars. “But Jezebel came to Ahab with a plan,” Lonnie continued as he furrowed his eyebrows, “pointing out that he, Ahab, governed the kingdom of Israel. I will give thee the vineyard of Naboth, she told Ahab.”
Lonnie unfolded the rest of the story, in which Jezebel used Ahab’s royal authority to arrange for two witnesses to falsely accuse Naboth of cursing God and the king. Naboth was then taken outside the city and stoned to death, thereby allowing Ahab to immediately claim possession of the vineyard. When the prophet Elijah learned of this and confronted Ahab with the truth, he prophesied a terrible fate for him and Jezebel. Once he heard the words of Elijah, Ahab removed his clothes, put a sackcloth upon his flesh, and fasted until he wasted away. As for Jezebel, she met the end that Elijah predicted, being eaten by the dogs at the wall of Jezreel.
“This is indeed a dark story of avarice,” Lonnie said as he concluded the story. “As we see, greed isn’t something new. It’s as old and ever-lasting as the sand. As Christians, we must be on guard against it, help one another to resist it and cherish what is important in this physical world. As sheriff, I must help to root it out.”
Lonnie spread his arms as if to reach and hug the congregation as a whole. “We are not alone, my friends, for we have each other. Our love for one another and for Jesus Christ,” he said, “who died on the cross for us. It’s this love that cost nothing and that’s worth everything. Let us take this love for one another, for Jesus, and let it sustain us, fulfill us so that we want for nothing else.”
Closing the Bible, Lonnie signaled for Mrs. Wyatt, the high school music teacher, to begin playing after the pastor offered the closing prayer. Parishioners wiped at their eyes on both sides of the aisle as the members walked toward the door, their steps light with the knowledge that they were walking straight down the center of the aisle, both in the church and in life. Blake, too, felt tears forming in his eyes. But his footsteps and his heart were heavy as he began to slowly slumber toward the exit. He caught himself walking on the edge of the aisle and not in its center. He no longer wanted to walk on the edge of any of life’s paths so he began to move right. In his haste to get to the door to greet everyone, the sheriff hurried past as Blake tried to move right. He lightly bumped Blake as they met, and caused Blake to stray back to the left. The sheriff, the pastor, continued walking right down the middle.
Lonnie nodded at Blake as they passed.
Chapter 23
John sat in the left seat of the Beechjet 400A, feeling like a kid in a candy store as the pilot announced his intentions to the tower at Athens Ben Epps Field. “Athens Tower Beech Charter November niner one five eight Echo holding on runway two-seven, ready for takeoff.” The African Rosewood doors that divided the main cabin’s four leather seats from the cockpit remained open, allowing John to feel like a captain himself. The co-pilot looked back to John and Rose. “Heck of a Sunday morning isn’t it?” she asked. John smiled and nodded. “Well, you two sit back and relax and we’ll have you roaming the beaches of San Salvador in a couple of hours.”
“Beech five eight Echo cleared for takeoff, runway two-seven.” The lone flight attendant secured the cabin door in response to the tower’s response just as the pilot’s right hand pushed the throttle forward. The chartered executive jet rolled down the tarmac and climbed effortlessly at nearly 4,000 feet per minute. The captain began a shallow, sweeping turn to the right, coming around all the way to a southeasterly heading of 139 degrees.
John reached across the aisle for Rose’s left hand, which was gripping her armrest. Her head rested on a pillow and her face was without expression as she stared out her window. John thought she might be a little nervous. It was understandable. Rose had never cared much for flying and the only thing she hated more than John being called away on business was if she, too, had to fly away. But they had agreed it was time for a nice vacation on their own away from the girls. Just the two of them for a week on a secluded Bahamian island.
When John told Rose that he had chartered the private jet from Athens, non-stop to San Salvador at a rate of $2,800 per hour, she thought the price was absurd until John explained that they only had to pay for the actual flight time. He figured the cost each way would be about $6,000, a steep price to be sure, but something John felt that they had earned with the success of WallCloud. Besides, he didn’t want to have to drive Rose to Atlanta, go through all the airport hassle before boarding a huge commercial jet to Nassau, only to have to change planes and find a puddle jumper to get them to the tiny island of San Salvador. Still, he already regretted booking the flight so early in the morning. They had stayed at the 50-Forks dinner the night before far longer than they had intended and drank far more than they should. John had chartered the plane to take off at 8:00 a.m. so that they could have the afternoon on the beach after navigating to the beach house they had rented for the week.
As Rose responded by squeezing John’s hand lightly, he reclined his plush, leather seat and fell fast asleep. Rose kept her head still, resting on a pillow as she looked out the window, staring at nothing. She concentrated on how she felt, knowing that something wasn’t right, but unable to put her finger on what it was. Pulling her hand away from John’s, she touched her forehead. Slightly warm, but only a mild fever if anything at all. Her stomach was sore, she thought, but then again maybe there wasn’t any abdominal pain. Discomfort was a better description than pain, she thought. Am I getting sick, or is it something else? She concentrated on the question she asked herself as the plane leveled at 35,000 feet. Could it simply be that I miss the girls? She reflected on the many wonderful excursions she had taken with John before the girls were born. Cruises, Vegas, New Orleans, and beaches. She and John had loved every minute of it, of their time alone together. Now, she was a mother. Something had changed, she seemed to now fully realize for the first time, as she lost herself in the endless blue sky. She had no longings for exotic travel, no desire to drink daiquiris on a mega cruise ship. No, she was a mother now and she wanted only to be with her girls and to be with them all the time. Just the girls and John together, anywhere.
Is that it? Is that making me feel uneasy? The general malaise that comes from being homesick, away from who and what you love? Or is it the motion of the plane, the unnatural feeling of being in a tin can, moving on a seat at 450 miles per hour almost seven miles up in the air?
Something wasn’t right. Rose knew it, but also knew she couldn’t explain it. Just a mother’s intuition, she told herself, as she tugged a blanket under her chin and tried to sleep.
***
Kevin Colbert returned weakly to bed in his Sutton, Massachusetts home with two glasses of orange juice and the Sunday Boston Globe. His wife, Monica, lay in the bed semi-awake, moaning, with the covers pulled tight. Kevin laid the newspaper on a chair, hoping he would feel well enough later to read it.
“Can you get me some more Motrin?” Monica groaned. Kevin sat the orange juice on the nightstand beside her and leaned over to feel her head. He wiped away the beads of sweat from her burning head and visualized a body emerging from a steam room. He stroked her head. “It’s too early,” he said. “We just took some three hours ago at 5:45 a.m.”
As he stood back up, Kevin felt every part of his body ache. He trudged to the master bathroom and soaked a washcloth in cool water, wringing it out lightly as he looked up at the mirror. The man returning the gaze was blurred, disheveled, and in no way resembled the suave gentleman who had been on the CNN supper club segment the month before, or the debonair gentleman who dined with some of society’s elite the night before at an underground supper club in an exclusive home in Dover.
Thank God we didn’t get this flu yesterday, he thought to himself. We would have never been able to make that dinner. Kevin shuffled back to the bedroom and placed the cloth across Monica’s forehead, having determined that there was really nothing else he could do. Of the two of them, Monica was the first to feel the symptoms come on, having awoken at 5:30 complaining of all-around body aches and pains. Kevin tended to her by giving her some juice and Motrin. He then used his computer to research the symptoms that Monica complained about–aches, pain, fever, and slight breathing difficulty–and found them to match the flu-like symptoms on the CDC’s website. The recommendation was to stay home, drink fluids, get rest, and don’t visit the emergency room unless you were in a high-risk category. Take ibuprofen or acetaminophen for fever if necessary, and have a family member look after you if possible.
That wasn’t possible. As a precaution, John had sent a text to his only daughter, Kelly, just to let her know how they were doing. Kelly lived about an hour away, in Watertown, and had gone with her husband to Vermont for the Columbus Day weekend. She wouldn’t return until late that night or the following morning...Kevin wasn’t sure. He had not wanted to call her early on a Sunday morning so he simply texted her, “hope you guys are having fun! mom and I feel down today with flu so we’re in bed. Turned phone off so we can rest. luv dad.”
Had they lived in a more populated area, Kevin might have gone to a health clinic despite the CDC’s recommendations. But they moved to their quiet and wooded home on Town Farm Road in Sutton for a reason. It was out in the boondocks, or at least as far out as you can be and still be close to Providence and Boston, and reasonably close to the Cape and the Berkshires. The only downside was that there was no medical clinic in Sutton and certainly no doctor’s office open on a Sunday morning. The closest choices would have been emergency rooms at Milford Regional or in Worcester. There was no reason to make a big deal out of this, Kevin reasoned, so he turned off the computer and went back to bed.
Now, he had awoken with the same symptoms, and Monica had not improved. He crawled into bed to get his own rest. Monica’s raspy breathing sounded like air was being sucked through a straw that was punctured with pinholes. Her lungs were trying to inflate, but it seemed like all the air wasn’t getting in. Kevin went to sleep worried about her and hoping that he would fare better.
***
The taxi stopped in front of the Athens Regional Medical Center. “$6.50,” the driver said. Megan Wilcox fumbled through her purse and squinted at the bill, trying to determine if it was a ten or a twenty. She shook her head in frustration at her blurred vision, which only succeeded at making her head pound even more. She tossed the bill in the driver’s direction and grabbed the door handle.
“Hey, that’s a twen—” the driver began as she closed the door. Megan looked up at the large red letters that spelled EMERGENCY in front of the huge panes of glass windows. She walked to the admissions station and stood behind an elderly man. Now he should be here, she thought. The admissions nurse pointed to a clipboard and nodded her head in the direction of the waiting area. Megan took the clipboard and walked to take a seat.
Walking slowly through the maze of interlocking, cheap, tweed-covered chairs, she looked for a place to sit where she could be at least a few feet away from the walking wounded, thinking naïvely that she wouldn’t want to catch whatever they had. Not thinking at all that she might have something that they’d prefer not to have, thank you. As she passed, she took in the faces, some looking vaguely familiar to her even though that seemed impossible, given how far away from home she was. I guess sick people all look the same, she thought to herself.
She tried to focus on the form as she sat. Megan Wilcox, her trembling hands began to write with difficulty. It was difficult for her to see the form, even though she had perfect vision. She concentrated and tried to continue. 1445 Hutchinson Street, Armonk, NY, she wrote and then paused, trying to remember her ZIP code. Distracted, she glanced at the magazines on the table. Always the same ones in these places, she thought. WebMD, Smart Money, Georgia Magazine and People. She removed a copy of Reader’s Digest from the seat beside her that featured the short stories of Edgar Allen Poe. On the cover, a raven held its mouth open and cast an ominous gaze. She tossed it on the table with the others as she returned to the the maze of questions on the form. Not reading any of them, just checking “no” to each one as she walked back to the desk.
“May I have your health insurance card?” the nurse asked. Megan sighed and reached into her wallet for the Blue Cross Blue Shield card and handed it to the lady. The health care coverage was the last thing on her mind. IBM offered a great health care plan, even if she was almost a thousand miles from home. No, the only thing she wanted was some meds, something to get rid of the chills, aches and fever that had come over her out of nowhere in the early morning hours.
“Here you go,” the lady said, returning the health care card she had just copied. “The nurse will take you in now.”
The nurse asked Megan to step on the scale and recorded her weight and height. She wrote down 127 pounds, 5 feet 6 inches on the form as Megan slumped on the scale and stared at the wall. “You can step down now,” the nurse said, “and have a seat. Says here you’re thirty-four years old, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“New York,” the nurse continued. “Long way from home.”
“I’m staying at the Marriott here in Athens. Flying home tonight.” Megan said.
The nurse popped a thermometer in Megan’s mouth and recorded her temperature of 102 on the form. She sensed that Megan wasn’t in the mood to roll up her left arm sleeve so the nurse leaned over and did that for her, strapping the blood pressure cuff over her arm. She pumped air into the cuff with the squeeze bulb as she surveyed Megan’s condition. The nurse had already made up her mind that it was the flu. It was the fourth case she had seen in the past hour, even though it was months away from the heart of the flu season. After four years this job had become so mundane to her, other than the real emergencies that came in. But those generally went straight into the emergency room or prepped for surgery. The cases she saw were generally the same. The most exciting case she had seen this year was a beekeeper that was stung twenty times and was on the verge of anaphylactic shock. He couldn’t speak and could barely breathe, so the doctor wasted little time giving the epinephrine injection. Other than that it was always people with cold or flu-like symptoms who came in and paid the exorbitant emergency room fees even though, she thought, everyone knew to not waste the emergency room’s resources for common colds and flus.
She released the air pressure from the cuff and expected the blood pressure to be a little high, as it was with the other cases. The nurse recorded the numbers and then looked back to make sure she had seen them correctly. 162 over 114. The nurse checked the form to see if Megan had any family history of high blood pressure and recognized that Megan had blindly answered every question.
“Ms. Wilcox, do you have any family history of high blood pressure?” the nurse asked with a smile, not wanting to alarm the patient.
Megan had been leaning her head against the wall, her eyes closed. Now she opened them, but the bright florescent lights hammered spears right into her eyes and stabbed her temples. She closed them and said, “No. None.”
The nurse squeezed the bulb again to take another reading. The result of 164 over 118 did nothing to assuage the nurse’s concerns. “Ms. Wilcox, come with me and we’ll take care of you.” Megan tried to stand, but found she couldn’t do it. The nurse took her right arm and helped her up. She walked her to a bed in the emergency room and helped her to take her shoes off and lie down. The nurse turned to get one of the doctors on duty and began to pull the curtain closed in her room. As she did she looked back at the admission form and turned back to Megan. Masking her concern, she smiled reassuringly and said, “Ms. Wilcox, can you give me the name and number of someone I can call for you in case we need to notify them of your condition?”
