HELLO, DR. KILLEEN,” Wilson called out.
Dr. Killeen was sitting on the small front porch of his home, not in the driveway, this afternoon. There was only room for the wheelchair and a large cement pot that held a breath of flowers and ferns and assorted greenery. The flowers were colorful but did not match—yellow and orange and blue and white and red and green and leafy—as if some color-blind planter had bought the leftovers of a plant sale. Martha Stewart would be aghast, Wilson thought.
Thurman, as was his wont, grew excited and eager to greet someone he knew, and he bounced and pranced the entire length of the front walk in a sort of canine dance revue.
“Hello, Wilson. And hello, Thurman. How are you both?”
Thurman responded by barking loudly and tossing his head backward.
Wilson had noticed him doing that on previous occasions, and had actually looked up the behavior on the Internet, but found no consensus of opinion on what it might mean, this head tossing. He likened it to the vague, subtle head nods that hipsters give each other as they pass, too cool for a wave, just a shade of movement of the head.
Cool.
But Thurman was no hipster, and definitely was not cool, but perhaps it was some manner of instinctual behavior.
Maybe the wolf packs way back when were made up of wolf hipsters who all practiced the very same canine head toss.
“We’re fine, Dr. Killeen. And how are you?” Wilson asked, stopping a few feet from the front stoop.
“My name wasn’t in the obituary columns this morning. So that makes it a very good day.”
Thurman moved in closer and reared up, gently placing both front paws on Dr. Killeen’s right thigh. The old man reached over and patted the dog’s head; he cupped his hand under Thurman’s chin and stared into his eyes.
“Good dog, Thurman. You’ve got deep eyes, you know that? The deep eyes of a prophet.”
Thurman growled out, I do, but Wilson knew that Dr. Killeen would not understand his reply.
“Your dog thinks deep thoughts,” Dr. Killeen said, now looking up at Wilson and squinting even more. “He’s got old eyes, Wilson.”
Wilson shrugged.
“I know. I didn’t pick him, remember? He was thrust upon me.”
Thurman turned his head and growled at Wilson, a growl that hinted at hurt feelings and scorn—but not really. A good-natured growling scowl.
“You mother stopped by a few days ago. She brought Thurman with her and was walking with some other woman whom I didn’t recognize. And Gretna happily filled me in on all the happenings at her retirement…Village? Association? Condo?”
“Sorry about that. And they call it a village, although it’s just one big building.”
Dr. Killeen waved off his remark.
“I do enjoy talking to her. Well, I enjoy talking to anyone. Once all your friends die off, you get fewer visitors, you know?”
Thurman seemed to be comfortable half-standing there, his head and shoulders in the old man’s lap, the sun on both their faces, the deep lines shadowed on the old man’s face, the tremble in his hands more evident in the bright sunshine, the watery eyes held to slits.
“She told me, or rather she whispered to me, that she was going to become a grandmother.”
Wilson nodded.
“It’s an ongoing delusion. Ever since Thurman showed up. She’s been telling others the same story.”
Dr. Killeen stroked Thurman’s head, and if Thurman could purr, he would have, his eyes shut in contentment.
“Is she feeling all right? I know she’s old and sometimes an idea, no matter how ludicrous, can get stuck. But other than that, she was very lucid. Cranky, but lucid.”
Wilson opened his palms skyward.
“The doctor says she’s fine. Passes all his little memory tests. It appears that this becoming-a-grandmother idea is her only affectation. Well, one of her more noticeable affectations. Harmless, I suppose, but definitely on the odd side.”
Dr. Killeen stopped petting Thurman and the dog looked up, then butted his head into the old man’s hand.
“She said that Thurman told her.”
“She mentioned that to me,” Wilson replied.
“I said the knowledge must give her comfort—the fact that he promised her grandchildren.”
Wilson had no reply for this.
Dr. Killeen cleared his throat, began petting Thurman again, and then said, “What gives you comfort, Wilson?”
“What?”
“Comfort. Where do you find comfort, Wilson? Or contentment? Your mother seems to have found it. To a degree, anyhow. Have you? Have you found it?”
From inside the house came a voice, calling out for Dr. Killeen. Except whoever was calling did not use his formal title.
“Clarence, do you want coffee?”
The voice was heavily accented. Wilson surmised Spanish, most likely South American Spanish. He had a knack for guessing the general origin of most accents.
Dr. Killeen winced, almost as if he had been stricken by some intense interior pain, and he looked up at Wilson, an imploring expression on his face.
“The secret is out. I went by C. Killeen—not Clarence—for so long…almost all my life. And now, betrayed by a very cordial caregiver.”
He tilted to his left, trying to get a little closer to Wilson.
“You will keep my secret, won’t you?”
Wilson grinned.
“Of course. I guess we all have secrets.”
Dr. Killeen paused, then looked at Thurman.
“You’re right. I hadn’t thought of it that way,” he said softly. “Secrets. Goodness. Well, would you like some coffee? Margat is from Peru, and they seem to know how to make coffee that has some intestinal fortitude to it.”
“I wouldn’t want to bother you any more than I have already,” Wilson replied. Apparently Thurman had not received the we-wouldn’t-think-of-imposing memo, because he had already squirmed past the wheelchair and was nosing at the front door, happily growling in anticipation of seeing the inside of a new and different house.
“It’s not like I have to do anything to make it. Please, stay.” And he half-turned in his chair and called back, “Dos cafes, por favor, Margat.”
The front door opened inward and a small woman stepped out. She had long black hair, a round peasant face, and a beaming smile.
“Come in. I get coffee. Dos.”
With a practiced hand, the woman, Margat, grabbed the wheelchair and pulled it inside with a strength that belied her small stature. Wilson and Thurman followed them into the kitchen, the house holding faint odors of Vicks VapoRub, mothballs, and liniment.
Or is that witch hazel? I haven’t smelled that in years and years.
Dr. Killeen was wheeled to the kitchen table and Wilson took a chair opposite him. The table was similar to Wilson’s, with a shiny metal edge, flared metal legs, and a top with an amorphous squiggly pattern on it. Clarence’s kitchen was much more out-of-date than Wilson’s; the appliances and countertop all appeared to be at least several decades old.
Hospital clean and tidy and spartan, but old. Vintage, perhaps, would be a kind descriptive, Wilson thought.
In a few moments, after hearing sinister hisses from some sort of coffee machine, Margat brought out two mugs of coffee, both thick with cream, and a thin scrum of foam covering the top.
“I hope you don’t mind a little crema with your coffee. It’s the only way she knows how to make it, right, Margat?”
Margat nodded and slid a plate of cookies onto the table. Thurman’s ears perked up and his nose went into third gear as he stared at the plate while obediently sitting a few paces away. His nostrils opened as wide as they could, inhaling as much cookie goodness as he could without being rude.
The two men sipped and nibbled at the cookies, which were some sort of vanilla sugar cookie, with enough variations of shape to indicate they had to have been produced at home.
Wilson noted Thurman’s desperate look of hunger and longing. He broke one cookie in half and extended the smaller of the two pieces to Thurman, who almost leaped at the offer of sweet sustenance. He chewed the morsel carefully and slowly, smiling as he did so.
“You have a gourmet dog there, Wilson.”
“He thinks so as well.”
Again the kitchen was quiet, save for drinking and chewing. Thurman had another half-cookie.
“You came to talk, didn’t you, Wilson? Your mother said she had been pushing you to talk. Not to me, necessarily, but to someone.”
Wilson offered a weary smile.
“She has been pushing for the last forty years.”
“A long time to be silent. A long time for secrets.”
Wilson appeared to agree.
“You’re a religious man, aren’t you, Dr. Killeen?”
“I should hope so. It was in my job description. Being a pastor and all.”
“Touché. But what I meant was, how do you deal with real life? At Pitt, we have professors who teach church history—or the history of religion—in the history department. I spent a painful evening between a pair of them at a faculty dinner. They may have known history, but not much else. I think they were both agnostics…at best.”
Dr. Killeen cradled his half-full coffee cup in both hands, as if drawing additional warmth from it.
“I know the type,” the old man said. “There are many pastors suffering from the same twelve inch problem.”
“Twelve inch problem?”
“They have it in their head and not in their hearts. A distance of twelve inches…give or take an inch or two. To be honest, I think I was that way for years. Until I decided that knowing about God is not the same as living for God, that having knowledge is not the same as having wisdom. It takes a person willing to admit that they are flawed and human and that they only have a simple understanding of life to really get it—to get what life means—and to be fully aware of our place in the universe, and aware of God’s place in relationship to us.”
Dr. Killeen took a deep breath, the passionate explanation taking a toll on his breathing.
Wilson offered Thurman another half-cookie, as if he wasn’t really thinking of what he was doing.
“Let me ask you a religious question, then,” he said, his voice low, quiet, as if he was about to make a confession, about to open up to some sin in his life. “How long is God’s statute of limitations?”
Dr. Killeen did not reply for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was as raspy as leaves scabbering along on the street, dancing in an early winter wind.
“This is about the war. This is about what you did. Isn’t it, Wilson?”
Thurman growled something, a long, low, guttural growl, as if he was adding an addendum to the question, a clarifying statement of sorts.
Wilson did not want to answer the question, and wanted to answer the question—both simultaneously, both in equal amounts.
“Maybe.” He had spent most of his adult life not answering, not thinking about, not reliving, trying to be unaware of all that happened…back then.
But Dr. Killeen was a patient veteran of waiting, often waiting for hours or days until an answer became manifest, or years, or decades, until he could see God’s hand in a life—God’s direction, God’s plan.
And so he simply sat, still, quiet, waiting.
Then he spoke, his words as even as words could be uttered, as neutral as words could be spoken.
“You saw things, didn’t you?”
Wilson looked at his hands. He slowly clenched his fists, as if enduring a painful injection into muscle, into bone.
“You did things, didn’t you?”
Wilson wanted to answer it but could not—not yet.
“Maybe.”
“And you’re not sure that God will forgive?”
Wilson shrugged.
“I teach writing for a living…and I don’t know the words. For this. What I feel.”
Thurman whispered his new word, louder this time, then growled it again.
Forgive.
Forgiven.
Wilson was certain that he alone heard it. And he was just as certain that the word, those words, were absolutely not from some deep place inside himself, not from a place that had been hidden for decades, not from a place where the guilt lived and refused to enter into the light of day.
The word came from Thurman. And Wilson did not, or would not, speculate on where Thurman had received that word.
Forgiven.
He closed his eyes and tried to imagine it.
How sweet the sound, Wilson thought. And how impossible.
Gretna stabbed at the TV remote, muting the sound, and slipped it back into the pocket of her favorite housedress, the one with the paisley pattern. She shuffled into the kitchen, her right arm out, fingers just grazing the wall—for security, she said.
“No one wants to fall down.”
She scowled at the fruit bowl and picked up an orange. She examined it for a moment, then put it back down. She picked up a banana and put that back down as well.
“Too green.”
She thought about making a cup of coffee.
“Too late in the day. I’ll be up all night.”
She padded back into the living room and stared at the TV.
“Stupid show,” she said. “No one is that stupid. Real courtroom drama, my foot. They’re all unemployed actors.”
She shuffled back into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. She did not expect to find anything that she wanted, really, and did not.
She shut the door and stood in the middle of the room and folded her arms across her chest.
She thought about taking the almost crumpled pack of cigarettes from where she had hidden it—in the pocket of her winter coat—and sneaking outside and hiding around the block, away from the dozens of prying eyes that occupied the front lobby.
If passersby only knew some of the comments the seniors bestowed on the unsuspecting.
But that’s too far to walk right now. And it’s too hot. Cigarettes don’t taste good when it’s hot.
Gretna stood and stared out to her living room window, without really seeing. Then she stopped and shook her head slowly, as if admitting defeat.
“So you really want to hear me pray about this again?”
She looked up at the ceiling. She imagined that God would want to make eye contact with people who bothered him like this.
“I talked to you before. You didn’t answer. Remember? I could have saved myself a lot of time if you had just let me know early on that you were too busy doing something else.”
She scowled upward, just a little.
“Maybe I’m being a little…harsh. Or judgmental, right? That’s your job, I guess.”
Then she looked down, a bit nervous.
“Sorry.”
She kept her head low, her eyes averted.
“It’s just that…Thurman…you know Thurman, right? Thurman told me things. That I would be a grandmother. And since Wilson is all I have…well, that means Wilson. And he’s still…broken. Or wounded. I know he doesn’t want to be like that. And I can’t help him. I tried, but I can’t. It hurts when a mother sees her child in pain and can’t do anything about it. You know how that is, don’t you? I see it in his eyes, every time we talk. Like he’s hiding from something. Or trying to hide something. That he’s hiding. That hurts. I know he’s not at peace. He hasn’t been at peace since he came home. And I can’t die in peace, knowing he’s broken.”
Her voice wavered, and she did not like showing any form of weakness like this, when it left her with a wavery, quivery voice.
“And the pastor said I should pray again. So I’m giving this praying rigamarole one more shot. For Wilson. And for Thurman.”
She swallowed and closed her eyes.
“And maybe for me as well.”
She drew in a breath, steeling herself for her request of God.
“Please, please…give him peace.”
She waited in silence for a long time.
“I can’t think of anything else. I suspect you know all about this. I suspect you know what to do—and how to do it.”
She opened her eyes and offered a smile to the ceiling.
“The way I figure it, if you didn’t want to be bothered, why would you have sent Thurman to me? Right? Am I right? Or what?”
She waited another moment.
“So…amen.”
She looked up.
“Okay?”
Hazel had an early breakfast and shuffled out of the hotel, dragging her two suitcases, one containing all newly washed clothes, to the car as the sun broke the horizon. She made a point of leaving early so she would not run into Jennifer or any of her family.
What would I say to them? And if I talk to the son that’s sick, I’ll probably start crying.
She tapped at the screen and entered the city of Phoenix on the Quest’s GPS unit.
Once I’m close, I’ll stop for the night.
The trip, according to the electronic map, would take her six hours and three minutes.
Longer if I get lost again.
She spent several minutes looking at the route so she would not be surprised or confused.
I’m sure I’ll be confused regardless.
She said the routes out loud, thinking it would help.
“Take the 105 east to 605 north to 60 east to 10 east—and follow that the rest of the way to Phoenix.”
Should be easy.
Traffic was either really thick or really normal, Hazel thought as she merged onto the freeway.
Hard to say if this is horrible traffic or not, she thought. This is California, after all.
She had previously decided to stay in the right lane, regardless of how slow it was, regardless if she was behind a semi truck or not, regardless if she was following a ten-car parade of ninety-year-old drivers with their blinkers on, so as not to be put in jeopardy again by being five lanes to the left as she whizzed past her intended exit on the right.
Steady and slow and certain.
She kept a check on both her mirror and GPS unit.
That saying should be embroidered on a pillow.
An empty school bus raced by her.
If I knew how to embroider, that is.
She had filled her old thermos, the one she had used while working, with coffee. This way she could have warm coffee the entire trip—and she could stop at a Starbucks to augment her coffee supply.
The one thing that Hazel had realized on this trip, the one thing that struck her more solidly than any other truth—and this was only after a week or so of traveling—was how much she missed dialogue, that simple, day-to-day, humdrum conversation with other people.
Conversations with the waitstaff at the roadside McDonald’s did not count; that was simply an order and an acknowledgment. It was not genuine, even if most of Hazel’s previous daily conversation consisted of vapid comments on the weather, about the Seahawks’ most recent game, or about the rising or falling price of gas.
She even began to miss some of her old coworkers, just a little.
There was always something to talk about with them: the latest problematic client, the latest ridiculous edict from human resources, the most recent wardrobe nightmare worn by Suzanne, the odd agent on the third floor. Had Hazel known that she would miss commenting on a purple blouse with a tangerine skirt, she would have thought the idea ludicrous.
“I do miss it,” she said to herself.
She did not berate herself for talking aloud to herself. Her mother had been a self-talker as well, walking about her house chattering on, carrying on very complex conversations with herself, which often contained two or three contentious points of view.
“And here’s what I’ve decided,” Hazel said aloud as she finished the first cup of coffee and managed a double move, bringing the full cup to the nearest cup holder while shifting the empty to the vacated holder. “I’ve decided to let this trip to Phoenix determine my fate, as it were. Maybe that’s a stronger term than I need, but I know what I mean.”
Her intended exit was only two miles away, so Hazel readied herself for the exit and re-merge process.
“If the Army vet knows who that soldier is in the picture…well, that means I will go and try and find him. If he’s still alive, that is. If he can’t identify him…well, I think I will travel a bit more and then head back to Portland. I’ll get a small place in the woods. I’ll live on the interest of the money. I’ll volunteer at church—maybe offer to work in those apartments they have for the homeless. I guess I’m developing a soft spot for being homeless.”
The large green-and-white exit sign slipped past and Hazel used her blinker for the announced distance of a half-mile until the exit, and smoothly transitioned to Interstate 10. That would be the last change in routes for the entire trip. She would have no other choices until she got to Phoenix.
By the time I get to Phoenix…
She heard that old song bubble up in her thoughts, and she tried to remember what the next line was, but it eluded her at the moment.
“I’ll let it steep for a while. It’ll come. Eventually. It is Glen Campbell, right?”
A FedEx truck whizzed past her, making the Quest vibrate and shimmy.
“And that’s why I could never appear on Jeopardy!”
Dr. Killeen adjusted himself in the wheelchair. He pushed himself up as straight as he could, despite the fact that his disease was slowly causing him to crumple in on himself, cell by cell, muscle by muscle, as it were. His arms quivered with the effort.
Wilson looked up.
He must have been an imposing figure in the pulpit…back in the day.
“Listen, Wilson, I told your mother that I served in Vietnam. Did she tell you that?”
Surprise was evident on Wilson’s face.
“No.”
No one spoke until Thurman warbled a growl.
“Where? When?” Wilson asked, his voice almost a whisper.
Pastor Killeen’s face now had a serious, somber edge to it.
“I was commissioned into the First Armored. But once I was there, I went all over. Became a sort of traveling chaplain. And I was there the same time you were. We overlapped for two years.”
Wilson, without thinking, drew himself tighter, folding his hands together, as if trying to avoid something, to make himself smaller, to make himself hidden.
“Wilson, whatever it was that happened over there…well, I saw it too. Chaplains participate in a lot of unburdening, you know. What soldiers did. Or what they didn’t do. What they watched others do and did nothing to stop it.”
Wilson just nodded, now mute, now powerless.
“I don’t need to know what you did or saw or didn’t do, Wilson. And I’m not sure I want to—unless you need to give it voice.”
The air in the kitchen seemed to have disappeared. Even Thurman stood up and growled, a mumbling growl, as if asking for clarification, as if not understanding what was being discussed.
“But I do know that Jesus says, in many ways, that if we ask for forgiveness, forgiveness will be given. The act of asking precedes the act of absolution.”
Wilson managed a strangled “No.”
“Even for horrible things, Wilson. Even for those. Jesus offers forgiveness.”
Wilson pulled himself back upright, almost upright. He started to speak, several times. Thurman growled a soft encouragement. Wilson tried again.
“I was a helicopter gunner, most of the time, in a Huey medevac. A machine gunner kills people. Sometimes they weren’t much farther away from me than you are.”
He inhaled a gulp of air. His voice grew more reedy and thin with each word.
“But to be forgiven, one needs to believe, right, Pastor?”
Pastor Killeen nodded and replied, “Wilson, I have been asked this before. I have held the hands of soldiers who were about to be dead. They often posed the very same question. I did not lie to them then. And I will not lie to you now. The answer is yes. Believe. Ask. Repent. Be forgiven. It is that simple. It is all you need.”
Wilson shut his eyes and Thurman’s growl had an otherworldly tone to it, as if he was trying to summon courage from a hidden canine source, or some understanding that Wilson could not find on his own.
The words were no louder than the petal of a flower, falling on dew-covered grass.
“I don’t believe,” Wilson whispered. “And I don’t know if I can repent.”