Eli

by Bill Myers

  He took another hairpin curve, and the mansion appeared to the right. It was cut out of the hillside, its marble facade glowing in the milky moonlight. Just ahead, a pair of car jock-eys waited to park his car. They were dressed in black-and-white French maid costumes, complete with fishnet stockings and garter belts. The fact that they were young men was a clear indication of what awaited Conrad inside.

  What could Eli possibly be thinking?

  Conrad stopped his car, climbed out, and gave his key to one of the attendants. The night air felt warm and pleasant.

  And the sweet smell of jasmine lay heavy along the hillside.

  He turned toward the mansion. It loomed fifty yards ahead.

  With a sigh, he started up the brick driveway toward the open, wrought-iron gate. But before he’d even entered, he heard a voice call from the side, “Conrad! Hey, Connie!”

  He peered to the left, toward a large group of oleander bushes, eight to ten feet high, covered with white and pink flowers. “Who’s there?”

  Two forms cautiously stepped from the shadows.

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  “Jake?” Conrad asked. It was the burly softball player Eli had helped to hit the home run. Beside him was the racist biker, the one with the shaved head and tattoos. “Will?” The men slunk out into the moonlight. “What are you guys doing here?”

  “Waiting for Eli,” Jake said, throwing a glance up to the house.

  “They wouldn’t let you in?” Conrad asked.

  “You crazy?” Will answered. “There ain’t nothin’ up there but Jews and blacks and perverts. No way we’re going up there.”

  “But Eli’s there,” Conrad said.

  Will said nothing and looked down. Jake nodded sullenly.

  Conrad glanced back up at the house. It was obvious these two country bumpkins had more sense than their leader. He turned back to them. “I’m going up to get him now. Just stay put; we’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

  Relief flooded their faces, and Conrad had to smile as he turned and started up the driveway. Anywhere else, somebody like Will would have chewed up and spit out Leon Brewster in a second—a black porno king infesting the world, particularly God’s “chosen race,” with his poison. But put some money around him, a fancy mansion, fancy cars . . . and suddenly Will is cowering in the bushes. Funny how money can turn the tables.

  The house up ahead was Greco-Roman and anything but understated. Marble pillars, marble steps, and of course marble statues. Lots and lots of statues, each separately lit and each anatomically correct. A dozen in the yard, at least that many surrounding the entrance. Once he reached the porch he was greeted by two slave girls, blond twins, dressed in leather and chains. Their perfume rivaled the jasmine as they pushed open the large brass doors. When he entered, the one to his right was careful to brush against him, just in case he was interested.

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  Inside, it was no better. An explosion of bad taste and vul-garity. Turquoise soap bubbles drifted down from bubble machines up in the balcony. Alternating floodlights of blue, yellow, and red lit men of every persuasion, scantily dressed and impossibly endowed women, transvestites, adults with children’s bodies, children with adult’s bodies. Many were drunk or loaded or both, and several sported more body-piercing rivets than a Navy battleship.

  Conrad worked his way through the crowd, waving aside the drinks and a silver tray of cocaine that floated past. He entered a large archway and stepped down into the main room. It was encircled by marble pillars and more statues. A large fountain set directly in the middle and bubbled a pink liquid, most likely champagne. And there, sitting on the edge of the fountain, the focus of the room’s attention, was Eli. He wore the same jeans, T-shirt, and sports coat that he’d worn on Charlene’s show. At least fifty guests surrounded him. Several stood; others were stretched out on the floor. All appeared to be listening, enraptured by the story he was telling.

  Conrad moved closer to hear. Eli spotted him and gave a slight nod. He was speaking with the same enthusiasm and joy he’d had when talking to the group at the softball field.

  “. . . but the younger son, he wanted to get out there and live. He wanted to leave the farm and taste everything the world had to offer. Everything and then some.”

  “You go, boy,” an anorexic model shouted in approval.

  Others chuckled.

  Eli continued. “So he asked his father for his half of the inheritance now. And his father said—”

  “No way, child,” a platinum blond transvestite shouted.

  “You gotta stay on this farm, shoveling horse pucky, till you croak.”

  More chuckles.

  Eli grinned and shook his head. “No, not with this father.

  Even though he knew what was on his son’s mind, he hon-hththt 5/14/01 11:34 AM Page 79

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  ored and respected him enough to let him go. He gave him the entire portion of inheritance and bid him farewell.”

  “Why, that’s just plain ignorant,” scoffed a handsome black man in his thirties. Conrad recognized him immediately: Leon Brewster, host of the party.

  Eli shot him a smile. “No, not for this father. You see, he loved him, Leon. He loved him so much that he was willing to let him go.”

  Even though Leon looked away, shaking his head in dis-approval, it was obvious Eli had hit some sort of nerve. The two had connected about something.

  “What about the kid?” a buff male guest asked.

  Eli continued. “The son had the time of his life. I mean, with his daddy’s money he tried everything, every drug, every club, every party, fast cars, fast women. Until one day it was all gone. The poor kid had run out of cash and he’d completely maxed out his credit cards. Eventually he was evicted and thrown onto the streets.”

  “What about his friends?” a pretty teenager asked.

  “Without the money, honey, he ain’t got friends,” the platinum blond said.

  Others agreed knowingly.

  “So what could he do?” Eli asked.

  “There’s always Jack in the Box,” someone quipped.

  “No way,” a woman in her late thirties answered. She had the worn and haggard look of someone living too long on the edge. “If he’s been doin’ drugs and the party scene, he’s got himself a habit to feed.” She turned to Eli. “Am I right?”

  Eli slowly nodded, holding her gaze just a fraction longer than necessary. She gave a nervous smile, then glanced away.

  “Maybe he gets discovered by ol’ Leon here,” another suggested.

  “No way,” Leon scoffed, “I only hang out with the beautiful people.” A few guests applauded. He turned to the group and played for more. “Am I right?” More applause and some cheers. “Well, am I right?”

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  The group clapped and voiced their approval.

  “So what happened?” the teen girl called over the applause. “What happened to the boy?”

  The crowd settled and turned their attention back to Eli.

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” he said. “The kid had no friends, he had no trade, and he had himself a major habit to support.

  One thing led to another, and, well, eventually he had to start working the streets, turning tricks on the Boulevard.”

  “You gotta start somewhere,” Leon quipped. A few chuckled, but the focus remained on Eli.

  “So what happened?” the platinum blond called out. “Did he ever break away and get out?”

  Eli answered. “He worked the streets night after night.

  Month after month. Eventually he became so skinny and rid-dled with disease that nobody would touch him. And then, one day, standing in line at the free clinic, he suddenly came to his senses. Why am I here? he thought. Why don’t I just go home and throw myself at my father’s feet?”

  “’Cause he’ll kick your sweet butt back ont
o the streets and call the cops after you,” Leon answered. There was no humor in his voice this time.

  Eli nodded. “That’s what he figured. So he thought maybe, just maybe he could go back and become one of his father’s field hands. He wouldn’t even stay in the house; he’d just live like the other migrant workers. He’d do anything, just as long as he could come back.”

  “Fat chance, Jack,” someone muttered.

  The blond agreed. “As far as my old man’s concerned, I’m dead.”

  “And buried,” Leon added, “dead and buried.”

  Others nodded.

  Eli turned to Leon and shook his head. “No . . . this father was different. Every day the boy was gone, this father had hoped for a phone call; every day when he went to the mail-box, he prayed for a letter.”

  “That’s some father,” the teen girl said.

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  “Yes, he is,” Eli agreed. “And, though it took a while to save the money, the young man eventually got a bus ticket and headed back home.”

  “And you’re telling me the old man took him back?” Leon asked skeptically. “Just like that?”

  Eli nodded. “He got the call from the Greyhound station and raced into town to pick him up. And right there, in the middle of the terminal in front of everyone, he threw his arms around his child, embracing him, kissing him, and weeping over him. And the boy cried, ‘Dad, I’m sorry, I’m so very sorry.’” There was no missing the emotion growing in Eli’s voice. “‘If you’ll just have me back, if you’ll just let me be a field worker for you, I’ll do anything, but please, please take me back.’”

  Except for the fountain, the room had grown silent. Conrad glanced around the group. Everyone was lost in the story.

  Some eyes were even shining with moisture.

  Once again Eli’s gaze landed on Leon. Only this time it did not leave. “But instead of punishing him or making him pay, the father took him back into his home. He gave him everything he’d originally had and more.” Eli slowly rose from the edge of the fountain. “He even called up his family, his friends, his neighbors, and he threw a tremendous party, all in honor of the boy.”

  “Why?” Leon’s voice was softer, thicker.

  Eli held his gaze. Something powerful was happening between the two. Everyone saw it. “‘Because,’ his loving father said . . .” Slowly, Eli started toward him. People scooted aside so he could pass. “‘This son of mine, who was dead, has come back to life again.’”

  Leon was breathing a little heavier.

  Eli continued, his voice growing hoarse with emotion.

  “He was lost, given up by everyone as dead. But now . . .” Eli finally arrived, stopping directly in front of Leon. The producer’s gaze faltered, then dropped to the floor. Eli gently set a hand upon his shoulder. The man looked up, his eyes filling with moisture. “But now, at long last, after all these years

  . . . he has been found.”

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  Tears spilled onto Leon’s cheeks. His body shuddered once, then twice. Eli wrapped an arm around him. Leon responded, awkwardly at first, then clutching him fiercely.

  The crowd murmured approval as the two continued to hold one another, both clenching their eyes against their tears.

  Eli whispered something into Leon’s ear. No one heard what was said, but they all watched as Leon’s body continued shuddering in quiet sobs. Others were crying now, too. Obviously their own lives were being touched. Even Conrad’s eyes began to burn as he recalled all that he’d destroyed, all that he’d left behind.

  But the moment was short-lived. Suddenly, one of the slave girls ran into the room shouting, “It’s the police! The police are here!”

  Panic filled the mansion as people began to scatter.

  Minors were hustled toward exits; silver drug trays quickly disappeared. But the warning came too late. Within seconds the blue-clad vice squad poured into the room. And behind them came the glaring lights of a news crew. McFarland’s news crew—two cameramen and a sound man from EBN.

  Conrad spun back to Eli, who remained standing at Leon’s side, watching. Conrad wanted to separate them, to pull Eli away and try to run for it, but he knew it would be useless.

  There was no place to go. Besides, the real damage was already being done. Because, off to the side, one of the cameramen had spotted them together and was zooming in for a tight two shot.

  “Connie . . .”

  He turned to see McFarland approach.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Making sure his voice dripped with sarcasm, Conrad answered, “Just like you, I guess I can smell a good story.”

  “Yeah.” McFarland grinned.

  “What a coincidence that you just happened to arrive the same time as the police.”

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  McFarland’s grin broadened. “Just lucky I guess. But that’s how it usually is with Dr. Kerston. When you know the right people, it’s easy to be lucky.”

  Conrad nodded, knowing full well what had just been said.

  “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a story to cover.”

  McFarland started forward, then turned back and nodded toward the police. “If they give you any trouble, just let ’em know you’re with me.”

  v

  “You what?”

  “I’m, uh.” Julia cleared her throat. “I’m not prepared to order that life support systems be removed. Not yet.”

  “That’s absurd!” Ernesto stood up in the ICU lobby beside his mother and sister. He was a handsome fellow, a year or two younger than Julia with strong Latin features. His sister, Beatrice, who had ridden to the hospital with him, was equally attractive—a twenty-year-old version of her mother before the trips to the Beverly Hills’ surgeons.

  Ernesto continued to sputter. “You’ve seen his condition?

  You know what the doctors say?”

  “Actually, I haven’t spoken to a doctor yet.”

  “Well, we’ll see to it that you do.” He turned to his mother. “What did they tell you?”

  Roseanne shook her head, bringing a tissue to her face.

  For the first time since they’d met, Julia almost thought the woman’s sorrow was sincere.

  Almost.

  “They say . . . he will not survive.” Roseanne took a trembling breath and forced herself to continue. “That his brain, most of it is . . . they say it is gone.” Tears rolled down her sculptured cheeks, and Beatrice moved in to wrap a comforting arm around her. It was quite a performance, and Julia almost felt guilty for being too jaded to believe it.

  Almost.

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  “Doctors can be wrong,” Julia replied.

  “What, you’re suddenly a medical expert?”

  “Ernesto,” Beatrice chided.

  The man ran his hands through his short dark hair. “I’m sorry, Julia, I know this isn’t any easier for you than it is for us.” For the briefest second Julia wanted to punch him in the gut. How dare he put their feelings on the same level as hers?

  He continued, “But you must understand, we need to start thinking about what is best for him.”

  “He’s the one I am thinking of. Who are you?”

  His eyes widened a fraction, making it clear he understood the barb. Julia had taken off the gloves. She was too tired and spent to play the game. But not Ernesto. Once he’d caught himself, he continued, smooth and gentle in his understanding. “I just don’t want your love to cloud your judgment. Let’s face it.” He looked to his mother and sister for affirmation. “You are his only child. Of course this is hard-est on you.”

  The two nodded in agreement.

  It was a nice recovery, but a bit late. Julia waited, expecting to hear more. She was not disappointed.

  “You want him to stay alive and remain with us. We all want him
to stay. But not like . . . not like that.” He motioned toward the ICU door. “It’s just not fair to him, Julia. You’ve read his directive.” Ernesto reached into the pocket of his sports coat and pulled out a paper. It was a copy of the same living will Julia had been reading minutes before. She watched as he unfolded the paper. How convenient for him to have it, she thought . And efficient.

  He found the appropriate spot and began to read:

  “‘I do not want heroic efforts made to prolong my life, and I do not want life-sustaining treatment to be provided or continued (1) if I am in an irreversible coma or persistent vegetative state; or (2) if I—’”

  “I know the document.” Julia cut him off. “I know what it says.”

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  “Then you must put aside selfish emotion and do what is best for your father.”

  If Julia had wanted to punch Ernesto before, she wanted to beat the tar out of him now. But she managed restraint and maintained her composure. After all she was the responsible one, the professional. And, as a professional, it was important she put aside her emotion and act in the best interest of her client. “I am not yet convinced that the coma is irreversible or that he will remain in a persistent vegetative state,” she said.

  “Julia,” Roseanne tried to reason, “how can you say that?”

  “I heard him speak.”

  All three caught their breath.

  “You what?” Ernesto said.

  “You heard Connie speak?” Roseanne asked.

  Julia nodded. “Not words . . . I mean, maybe they were words, it was hard to tell with the respirator in his mouth.

  But I believe he was trying to communicate.”

  “You’re not serious?” Ernesto said.

  Julia nodded.

  “It was a gasp,” he argued, “an involuntary reflex.”