The Unlikely Savior (The Unlikely Savior Trilogy)

by T. S. Seley Elliott

  “Now that that’s settled, check this out… I met the dude last night who’s buying the pub. And you do know him. Well, kind of. When I saw who it was, I damn near told him the deal was over, and he could kiss my ass. Thank God I came to my senses…I had to remember that you said it was cool.”

  Johnnie was only listening with half her brain, concocting a plan for him and Betsy with the other half, when he suddenly managed to thoroughly derail these thoughts in one fell swoop.

  “So…it was that Jeff guy I thought followed you out of the bar that night! The tequila-shot-guy. His name is Jeff Powers and he’s going to name the place, ‘New Beginnings.’ Crazy, huh?”

  “Way.” She said weakly, trying to summon a response more in tune to his expectations. You have no idea… she thought to herself, before regrouping so they could finish their discussion.

  After volleying options for Betsy and exchanging sufficient information, the friends ended the call. Johnnie smiled at Sandy’s obvious excitement; in a matter of a few days he’d gone from a burdened, lonely 30-whatever-year old to a 10-year-old with full access to Toys R Us. Johnnie had no idea how she felt, particularly with the almost inconsequential news of Jeff’s role in this unpredictable saga. Emotionally spongy, was her best estimation.

  She reluctantly remembered Loretta’s words last night and forced herself to look at her lot in a different light. The woman’s assertions about control were well noted, but Johnnie was in no way ready to see her “curse as a blessing…”

  But, she would be a fool not to find some blessings in the mess. She thought of that old joke about the little boy happily digging through a pile of manure, to his parent’s horror, exalting, “I know there’s a pony in here somewhere!”

  If she were to get through this intact, she had to remember to look for ponies.

  Jeff Powers had wanted to find a way to “thank” her… As had Lisa Douglas. By chance, or perhaps as providence would have it, they had both compensated her in ways they would never know. And she was grateful.

  Byron sat alone in Marg Sr.’s large kitchen drinking his morning’s first cup of coffee. Although an English teacher and pseudo journalist by trade, in his mind, he could simply not summon words to properly describe the true sensations associated with this… this most holy of moments. The first sip of java after a deep sleep. Rhapsodious? That wasn’t a word, but it was pretty damn close to nailing it, he considered as he took the second, almost-as-magnificent, swallow.

  Setting the cup down, he slowly shook his head. He was certain that people in the world who deprived themselves of this nectar were either not human, in the sense that they functioned without its magical powers…or they were not human in that they had some sort of inner source of fuel which allowed them to function without it. Either way, life without this experience would hardly be worth living. And it would be unnatural.

  Hands free, he went for broke with his already severe case of chicken-head. Rather than engaging in the compulsive slicking back of his hair, he wildly rubbed it back and forth, relinquishing it to its natural free will. Man, it was great to be home; Marg Sr.’s old family colonial was the closest thing to home for him and Margie these days.

  Margie. Reaching for his cup, Byron remembered getting off the plane the night before with the anticipation of a 15-year-old about to see his new girlfriend. He and Margie hadn’t seen each other for a little over four months and although he was not happy for the reason behind his return, the process of coming home and the associated anticipation of seeing her made it clear that it had been too long.

  He’d seen her first through the security glass, and with the vision, the acceptance of their too-long separation struck him ten-fold. He was grateful she was not able to see his initial shock; his wife had aged years in the brief months. He had grossly underestimated the toll Marg Sr.’s full time care had taken on her. His guilt was immediate and overwhelming.

  Her response upon seeing him was quite different, however. She literally ran to him when he walked through the glass security doors. This added to the strength of his emotional cocktail … she had been so remote in the past months; overt sentimental displays had become nonexistent.

  They’d held each other like young lovers; he wasn’t sure who had been more vulnerable at that moment. In retrospect, he suspected they both felt neglectful of the other, but all scores seemed to fade during their subsequent hours alone. It had been way too long, and in that moment as the last of the coffee slid down his throat, Byron vowed that this would never happen again. He couldn’t have known the vow, and the associated passion, were totally unnecessary.

  As he stood for a return trip to the coffee pot, Margie entered the kitchen. While the wear and tear were still apparent, she looked far younger and more refreshed this morning as she stood in the doorway, fully dressed to head to the hospital. She smiled and opened her mouth to speak, but Byron held up one hand to stop her.

  Striking his most suave and debonair expression (creating a very comical contrast with his Don King hair and ratty bath robe), he said,

  “No, please, don’t thank me. I assure you, the pleasure was all mine.” Ahhhh…and she blushed! Her reaction was only momentary, before lobbing a more typical response, “Oh, yes, I’m well aware of that, Dear…it was only sheer exhaustion that got me to the finishing line in time!” She raised one eyebrow, clearly a touché moment.

  Discarding his cup on the counter, the mess of a man enveloped the perfectly groomed woman in a hearty – and noisy – bear hug. It may have crossed both of their minds how wonderful that such things were still possible for a couple in their sixties, but if the thoughts were there, they were rudely interrupted by the phone.

  She pushed him away, ruffling his outrageous hair in the process, and answered the phone. He assumed, based on the tone of short conversation that it was the hospital and he padded back across the kitchen to fill his cup. After filling it, it occurred to him that the room had fallen completely silent. Almost more of a reaction than an intentional move, he quickly turned his head to look over his shoulder. Margie held the phone against her chest and her head leaned against the wall.

  “Honey?” Was all he said.

  “She died.” Was her quiet reply.

  ____________________________________________________________________

  In her remaining time before departing Omaha, Johnnie became familiar with James’ unbelievable home. She made a mental note to ask him just how much this place set him back…and if there were others like it. The staff was minimal, but all were very nice people; in fact she suspected they were hired more due to their personal nature than any particular expertise and she respected her brother for that.

  She and Betsy met James’ dogs. Bonnie was an older golden retriever and Horatio, a younger and very energetic border collie. While Betsy appeared ambivalent and it was not love at first sight for her, Bonnie and Horatio struck a workable personality balance and soon the three indicated they could occupy the same space. When indoors, they had full run of the house and Betsy would be able to seek privacy there.

  It was temporary anyway, Johnnie thought, with lingering guilt over leaving the dog behind. Sandy would arrive in the very near future to save the day; his mission – and he had chosen to accept it – was to get Betsy to Johnnie, in whatever way he saw fit.

  Late in the afternoon, with another hour to spare, Johnnie checked her phone for new messages and listened to those she’d saved. She had forgotten about the one from that Hoffstedder guy. Listening to the message again from Brian or Byron--she brooded over what he could want and wondered who they knew in common. If he wasn’t in the Air Force, the odds were pretty slim they had any mutual acquaintances. She turned to the source of most red-blooded Americans for answers; she Googled Brian or Byron Hoffstedder, doubtful of getting any hits. What she found surprised and infuriated her.

  “Angel Tracker? Are you kidding me? With the Constellation?!” She shoved her laptop away and sprung off the bed in respo
nse to the quickly rising anger. Who sicced this nut case on her? Nation-wide exposure in a rag like the Constellation was the last thing she needed; not that anyone with half a brain read the thing anyway, but she had to stop this. Pacing the room, hands on either side of her head, she racked her brain to figure out who would have done this. An image flashed through her mind and she stopped mid-stride.

  Lisa! She’d had a stack of those stupid papers in her trailer… and she swore by their validity. As angry as she was, Johnnie stepped back and tried to put herself in the woman’s shoes. This probably was her way of thanking the person who she believed healed her baby; in her mind, there was probably no greater honor. Shit.

  She didn’t have long to work up a response, and time was of the essence. Her only exposure to journalism had been in her job with the Air Force and she assumed that the armed forces public affairs rules of engagement had slightly higher standards than those of a tabloid. Think! She admonished herself while packing up the laptop and glancing at the clock.

  This guy could run the story whether he talked to her or not. He could, and probably would, if Lisa had painted a picture which would appeal to the readers. So… if she didn’t call him back (and she didn’t want to call him back), there was no chance of stopping him. Although a conversation wouldn’t guarantee stopping the presses, it offered chance.

  Certain things were probably sacred, even in the world of yellow journalism, she just needed to figure out how to appeal to that principle. Come on, Johnnie…think! Communication is your thing…

  When she quickly sat on the bed, she inadvertently landed on the television remote control, bringing the wide screen to life. It was still set to the news channel she’d watched that morning. She picked up her phone with one hand and mindlessly reached down to mute the TV volume with the other so she could get this call out of the way. What to say…

  The phone rang four times, and she heard the recorded greeting.

  “Hello! This is Byron, I’m sorry I missed….” She didn’t even hear the rest of the message; she wasn’t prepared for a voicemail. She knew she wouldn’t have time to call again till tomorrow, so she scrambled to condense her words into a short message. After hearing the tone, she said, “Hello, Mr. Hoffstedder. This is Johnnie Carter calling you back. I did not want to call you back. I really don’t even want to talk to you especially since you didn’t bother to tell me who you worked for. I don’t know if it makes any difference, but I’m asking you to not run this story. I’m sure you don’t even have the whole story, but you need to know at I am a disabled veteran now and have documented … issues….issues that would discredit your story, not that the Constellation would care. And, well, if you are a patriot, maybe you’ll reconsider. Again, I don’t want to talk to you, but I will if that’s what it takes to put this thing down. I….” The tone signifying that she’d run out of time sounded in her ear and she closed her mouth. She wanted to puke…no, what she wanted to do was wring Lisa Douglas’ neck and kick this Byron guy’s ass for even calling her, especially with such a misleading message.

  She gathered her bags and prepared to leave, her back to the muted television. If she had glanced at the screen she still probably would have missed the continuous stream of text updates as they slid across the bottom of the display in abbreviated bullets. In truth, having been lost in the cyclone of personal events, she probably wouldn’t even have understood the significance of the brief line which was sandwiched between other news tidbits:

  “OPEC announces hard-ball strategy to counter Chinese/Pakistani Complex plans…Threatens to cut all supplies before US & Canada resources are available…

  Pa rt II

  Discovery

  And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.

  -- Anais Nin

  Johnnie arrived at the La Guardia Airport in New York after eleven o’clock that night. She was grateful for the time change; if it were closer to ten, she wouldn’t have had the excuse that after getting her bags and a cab to the Brooklyn, it would be too late to go to her mother’s. She was pretty sure this was one of the things James had in mind when booking her late flight since he’d also booked a room.

  The cabbie took one look at her and welcomed her to “Noo Yawk,” with somewhat plausible sincerity. He gave her another quick up and down when she told him she wanted to go to the Battery Park Ritz Carlton. He was plugging her old military duffle bag into the taxi’s trunk and he must have thought he heard her wrong. A cigarette was clamped between his teeth, she assumed this was since his hands were busy, but it really added to his “Noo Yawk” cabbie persona, she thought. She felt completely alien in the midst of the exhaust and incessant honking.

  She shrugged apologetically, “Don’t judge me, Man. My brother got me the room…” The cab driver, squinted through the persistent cigarette smoke and gave her a wordless and sympathetic nod and went about closing the trunk; it was as if he understood the burden of having a sibling who was shamelessly wealthy.

  During the twenty minute trip, Johnnie wondered if she’d returned to the streets of Baghdad. She would have thought the necessity for offensive driving was nil at this late hour, but Francois, who looked a LOT more like a Harry or Buster, must have wanted to exploit the full offensive advantage while navigating even moderate traffic. He asked the usual questions he’d ask an out-of-towner--and she answered in kind, more to keep her mind off the driving than to be social. As they approached the hotel – which looked like an empire to her, he asked if she’d actually served in the military or if that duffle bag was just her luggage of choice.

  She told him she had till just a week ago and he grunted in response as he whipped into the stately round-about in front of the Ritz. After jamming the car into park, he quickly caught her eye with a direct gaze through the rear-view mirror,

  “Well, tanks for dat. For da suhvice, dat is.” Having said his piece, he leapt out to retrieve her bags from the trunk. When she tried to tip him, he glanced at the duffel bag and pushed her hand away.

  “Fahgit about it. Have a nice stay in the city!” And he was gone.

  Johnnie wasn’t sure if first class seating on the plane and the luxury hotel were symptoms of James’ wealth, or consolation prizes from him for expediting the encounter with their mother. He was, by no means, the type to flaunt his lifestyle so she suspected the latter. They both loved their mother, but she was like one of those necessary evils in life…like a colonoscopy, maybe … and although she trusted James’ judgment to rush the meeting, she guessed he felt like a culprit nonetheless.

  Either way, she decided to resist the urge to withdraw to more humble accommodations and took the opportunity to try to relax and see how “the other half” lived.

  And they lived well.

  After having her ass kissed by every staff member unlike at any other time in her life, availing herself to the in-room bar (she was intrigued by the laser-tracked inventory system in the refrigerator and unwittingly increased the room bill by moving the bottles around), and soaking in a tub big enough for Betsy and her, she slept well and deeply in the plush bed. Her body was grateful for the respite after sleeping on floor with a bony dog just one night before.

  __________________________________________________________________________

  In the kitchen again, only fully dressed and feeling numb, Byron sat alone. The high ceilings of the historical home loomed overhead and he felt as if he were in a lonely orbit in the midst of the substantial room.

  He deeply mourned the loss of his dear mother-in-law, once a great force to be reckoned with. He mourned the fact that they’d truly lost the woman long before today’s passing – Alzheimer’s was an insidious taker of lives well before the victims ceased to breathe. He mourned how she’d lost herself over the years, disappearing into an existence known only to those with the affliction; loved ones secretly hope that place is either innocently peaceful or that it’s no place at all, as they watch th
e outer version become a stranger, tormented by a world they no longer understand. He mourned the fact that he simply couldn’t remember the last time he had looked her in the eyes and seen Marg Senior look back with understanding. How did he miss that moment?

  Head in hands, Byron wept bitterly with the sole desire to get it out of his system; he couldn’t afford to indulge his grief. More important than anything right now was his job to be the rock for Margie that she had been for her mother…and for him. Just the thought of his wife today brought on a new wave of pain. The nature of true love is never more evident than when one’s pain for another’s suffering far exceeds their own.

  Margie was in the tub at that moment; he’d drawn the bath, helped her undress and held her arm as she eased into the water. He’d left her alone, but the door was open, just in case. The strongest person he knew on the planet now depended completely on him because she was lost. Not just lost in grief, but in purpose. She’d devoted her world to the care of Marg Senior for years …and had not noticed the day her role as caregiver had assumed her identity. He’d seen the result, clearly, for months now, but had also missed the transition.

  Tears subsiding, Byron felt inexplicable guilt having indulged in the luxury of crying when Margie had maneuvered through the entire day completely dry-eyed. But she was empty-eyed, as well. Ever in control, she’d gone through the steps at the hospital, scheduled the necessary appointments with the funeral home and filled out forms. She’d mechanically packed her mother’s few items at the hospital and dutifully put them away back at the house. It wasn’t until an hour ago that her autopilot seemed to have simply run out of commands and she stopped. He’d found her standing in her mother’s room, now void of even the strange person who had possessed Marg Senior. His wife simply stood in the middle of the large room, arms across her chest, then hanging at her sides, then crossing again. That’s when he led her to the bath, on instinct rather than by request.