My life has never been the same. I retired as a professor of history at the University of Chicago, and now I volunteer here every day.”
“Doing what?”
“Whatever patients want. I talk to them. I read to them. Sometimes I play the sax for them. I play games with them. My cart is filled with games. Checkers. Scrabble. Parcheesi.”
“I don’t imagine chess.”
“It’s one of my favorites. I play in clubs and tournaments. Is it your game too, Paul?”
“A long time ago.”
“Well, I have a game that will work for you. Nice big pieces you’ll recognize easily by touch. If that interests you at all, I am here every day.”
“So am I.”
Straight laughed. “My time is almost up, but let’s make a date for a game tomorrow.”
“Can’t guarantee I’ll feel like it.”
“Just let me know. What’s that you’re listening to?”
Paul started. He hoped the title wasn’t showing. Only family and coworkers would understand. “Ancient texts,” he said. “Trying to understand the motivations of people who would risk their lives to promulgate fiction.”
“A worthy task, friend. I’ll be interested to hear what you make of it.”
12
Violent mood swings became Paul’s routine. He awoke daily to realize afresh his blindness. He’d had his bed moved close to the window so he could reach the curtain, and he’d instructed that his blinds never be shut.
He loved the warmth of the sun magnified through the window, but it also reminded him that he enjoyed zero visual sensation of the light.
The bandages on his eyes were now thin discs of gauze, held in place by one layer of a mesh strip secured at the back of his head. His hair had begun to grow back. The patches were situated so he could open and shut his eyes, which he was encouraged to do as much as possible.
Though Paul had been urged not to let direct sunlight linger on the worst of his burns, he began each day by turning his face directly toward the warmth. Try as he might, he couldn’t sense the difference in brightness from facing the window versus facing the door. Every day he hoped some tiny ray of light would sneak through the bandages to herald the return of his sight. But no.
Shortly after breakfast, he faced what he called the torture chamber, where the burned mask on his face and ears was frozen and debrided with a laser to prepare for the grafts of synthetic tissue. No matter how Paul psyched himself up and how much medication they gave him, this was by far the worst part of his day. It didn’t help when the personnel who inflicted the torture reminded him that most other severely burned patients had much larger areas to treat and that such treatments used to be done by hand and had been many times more excruciating.
The physical pain, worse than anything he had ever experienced, was the least of it. He burned with rage, convinced he was the only patient in the unit who had to face the ordeal with an unsupportive family.
It galled him that though Jae visited the hospital every day, she came mostly in the evening, after dinner, with the kids. They’d stay for an hour or so, and then it would be bedtime and she’d take them home. So all day he’d sit there, miserable and bored, alone. Why wasn’t she here? She had to chauffeur the kids to and from school, but what else did she have to do all day? What was so precious about her daily routine? Paul wasn’t about to beg her to spend her days with him, but he deeply resented her absence.
True, he wasn’t very good company. Often he was harsh with Jae and the kids. He had been furious when Brie and Connor were still afraid of him by their fourth visit, and he yelled at them, making Connor cry. He had fought with Jae about that—he was still convinced they were picking up on her fears—and it seemed to make a difference. Now they came all the way into the room and even close to his bed or chair, so he could touch them before they ran to play in the hall. But his whole family still seemed to tiptoe around him, wary of his temper. He was sick of feeling guilty for his anger. What did they expect? Some kind of phony good-boy, model-patient cheer? Of course I’m angry. Who wouldn’t be?
Night and day, Paul was haunted by the same dream. Jae and the kids were running down the hall to him while he squatted, waiting. But just as one of them jumped into his arms, he was jolted awake and found himself still blind.
Bob Koontz visited about once a week, and while he always reiterated that Paul had a place on his team, Paul couldn’t conceive of it and Bob couldn’t describe it.
The main thing that kept Paul going was his daily afternoon visit from Stuart Rathe. Straight’s rich voice and easy laugh gradually lifted Paul’s spirits and gave him something to look forward to. Straight talked and listened, walked him around the wards, and set up the chessboard in different lounges so they could play several games a day. Though he had been a club and tournament player in grad school, it had been years since Paul had devoted much time to the game. Playing with Straight engaged Paul’s mind and reminded him how much fun chess could be. Paul was surprised how he could visualize the entire board and the locations of each of the pieces by just brushing them with his fingers between plays. If anything, his blindness helped him focus on strategy. But Straight was good. Paul was able to beat him only about one in five games.
One day Straight noticed two bowls on Paul’s bedside table, one full of paper clips and the other holding only a few. “What’s this about?”
“I’m trying to count,” Paul said. “This ancient text I’m listening to mentions blindness so often that I started wondering how many times I heard it. The nurse set me up with this system. I start with one bowl empty, and then I put a paper clip in it each time I hear a reference to blindness.”
“So, how many times?”
“So far, forty-nine in just the first four sections.”
“And what does it say about being blind?”
“Well,” Paul said, “most of it is about blind people being healed. But there are also several references to figurative blindness, like ‘the blind leading the blind.’ And there’s one passage where a man is arguing with self-righteous religious leaders, and he calls them blind guides who strain at a gnat but swallow a camel.”
“Wonder what that means.”
“I think he’s saying they’re worrying about details and missing the big picture.”
“And what’s the big picture?” Straight said.
“I’m still figuring that out.”
“Well, keep listening. Sounds like it’s helping you cope.”
* * *
As their routine got established, Paul grew comfortable enough to ask Straight for a favor.
“Would you write a note for me?” he said one afternoon. “It’s a business thing that I didn’t get squared away before I got hurt. You’ll have to look up the work address, if you don’t mind, because I left the card in my office.”
“No problem. Fire away.”
Paul dictated:
Dear Angela,
It must seem strange that I wrote you about that letter and then dropped out of sight. As it happened, just days later, I wound up hospitalized after an accident in Gulfland. I was burned and am now—temporarily, I hope—blind.
I was grateful for your kindness in helping me with the analysis, and I would like to thank you by taking you to lunch. I will be in Washington in May. Would you write and tell me of your availability?
Until then, with all best wishes,
Paul Stepola
“Gulfland, huh?” Straight said. “I saw on the news that they had some peculiar goings-on.”
“Did they?” Paul said.
“Yeah, wildfires or something.”
Straight paused but didn’t press for details, and Paul was glad.
“Now Washington is a place where I’ve got people,” Straight said.
“That’s a nice town.”
* * *
Angela wrote back immediately. Paul eagerly handed over the letter as soon as Straight walked in the door and asked him to read it aloud.
Dear Paul,
How shocking to hear of your accident. If it’s something you’d like to talk about, I’d be interested to know what happened. I’m enclosing the brand-new audio edition of The History of Delta Force, which we just got in at the Library of Congress. I hear it’s terrific, and I hope you enjoy it.
Yes, of course, I would love to see you when you’re in Washington. Just let me know the particulars, and I’ll keep my calendar clear. Meanwhile, take care of yourself and get better soon. After losing my husband, Brian, to colon cancer two years ago, I know how hard it is to keep up your spirits when you’re in the hospital. So hang in there! Your new friend in Washington is thinking of you warmly and wishing you well.
Love,
Angela Pass Barger
“Whoa! Love?” Paul said. “She signed it love?”
Straight paused. “That’s not atypical of cordial notes, Paul. I do it myself. How old is this woman?”
“Thirty or so, I guess. And incredibly beautiful.” Paul couldn’t hide his elation. “And she’s single. I can’t believe it.”
“I thought this was business.”
“Frankly, I hope it can be more.”
Straight was silent.
“You don’t approve?”
“Leave me out of it.”
“C’mon, Straight. Speak your mind.”
“You need me to remind you you’re a married man?”
“But what kind of a marriage? How often have you seen my wife?”
“Coupla times.”
“You spend more time here than she does.”
“Paul, she’s wrangling two children.”
“Who are in school every day.”
“And what do you think she’s doing with her time, Paul?”
“What do you think?”
“Well, it wouldn’t surprise me if she was looking for work.”
Paul hadn’t even considered that. No doubt Jae could see the handwriting on the wall. She didn’t believe Koontz had a job waiting for Paul any more than Paul did, no matter what was being promised. She was fully expecting to be, in essence, the single parent of three. Even his care would fall to her.
“I get it. She assumes I’m going to be dependent on her forever. She doesn’t have the guts to tell me, so she just leaves me sitting here fuming every day.”
“All I’m saying is that you ought to be patient with your family. I just wish mine was still here. You don’t want regrets, Paul.”
“Straight, I dread the day I have to go home. I miss my kids, of course, but they’re already pulling away. They’re never going to accept me as a father if I’m incapacitated, especially with Jae handling it this way.”
“That’s why you wrote this Angela woman?”
“Well, not entirely. Straight, I’ve never had much trouble in that department—women, I mean. But now that I’m losing Jae, it makes me wonder if other women will see me the way she does. Disabled.
Dependent. Useless. So I loved Angela’s response. She sounds like a woman who could deal with my blindness even if it was permanent.”
“Paul, let me tell you something now, and I want you to hear me.
You’re still the same man you were before you lost your sight. Life’s dealt you a blow, but you’re a man with deep resources. You’re the kind of a person who can work through this. Go easy on Jae. Put yourself in her shoes. Does that book you’re listening to have anything to say about situations like yours?”
Paul thought a moment. “Matter of fact, it does. This miracle worker heals a man of blindness and says to him, ‘Go your way. Your faith has healed you.’”
“Paul Stepola! You remembered that? You are one good student!”
“Tell you the truth, Straight, I just surprised myself there.”
“Oh, Paul—there’s more to the letter from Ms. Barger.”
P.S. I’ll give you the details when I see you, but our expert says that ink is at least thirty years old. And the handwriting samples definitely match. Hope this helps.
“Straight, would you mind if we didn’t play chess today?” Paul said. “I think I’d better rest awhile.”
* * *
Was it possible? Paul had become so convinced that Ranold’s newfound faith in him related to the letter that he had abandoned any thought that it might be genuine. Old paper could be scrounged up. Old ink could be procured by the agency, no doubt, and there was probably a way to fade it.
But the handwriting matched—“definitely,” Angela said.
Still, it was difficult for Paul to think the letter had actually been written by his father. That he was not the hero Paul so desperately wanted to believe in, but a flagrant, fantasy-worshiping Christian. That he spoke the same incendiary language as the bombers in Pacifica and the firebugs in Gulfland, pledging allegiance to ideals that caused the murders of Coker, his team, and Donny Johnson—and, very nearly, of his own son.
Because of the very beliefs you tried to foist on me, I am blind.
Paul had worked his way through the New Testament discs a couple of times. He still suspected that the book of Revelation held the key to the Christian uprising, but so far he hadn’t managed to tease it out. In fact, he’d had trouble concentrating on Revelation because it was so richly detailed and graphic. In a few weeks without sight, he hadn’t yet learned to absorb as much by listening as he would have seeing a printed page.
Now he skipped again to Revelation, hearing the familiar introduction in which John, in exile, receives a visitation from a man with “a voice that sounded like a trumpet blast” and feet “bright as bronze.” He held “seven stars in His right hand, and a sharp two-edged sword came from His mouth.”
What was the code—the hidden message?
13
By the first of May Paul was home and into a routine that did not endear him to Jae. Straight visited every day, and they spent hours playing chess and talking. Occasionally Straight would bring his sax, and if he was still there when the kids got home from school, they seemed fascinated by his music. At least a couple of nights a week, Straight took Paul to chess clubs.
Often Jae felt relieved to have Paul out of her hair, occupied and relatively happy. She was grateful for little things Straight did around the house, such as minor repairs. But most of the time she felt terribly alone. It was as if Paul were using Straight as a distraction to avoid confronting his blindness, and as a buffer to keep his distance from her and the children.
He acts more like a guest than a father and husband.
Twice a week, Jae drove Paul to the doctor. She had come to dread those trips because they inevitably led to arguments. Paul refused to let her come in the examining room or even talk to Dr. Bihari. “I am not that weak, Jae. I don’t need you calling the shots.”
“Don’t I get some say in your treatment?”
“Treatment? Bihari still doesn’t believe transplants would make a difference. And there’s nothing else to try.”
“Why not get a second opinion?”
“To give me false hope? Or to confirm I’m a lost cause?”
“I’d think you’d want to investigate every possibility.”
“Don’t forget, I have more of a vested interest than you. It’s my life.”
“Isn’t it our life?”
Paul shrugged. “Not necessarily.”
“What are you saying?”
He hesitated. Then, “No one’s making you stick with a blind husband.”
“Have I said a word about leaving?”
“You don’t have to. I can hear the ‘poor me’ in your voice.”
Jae changed the subject. “We never did get your mother’s basement cleaned and the house fixed to sell. Why don’t I go see what’s left in there?”
“No. Don’t.”
“There’s not that much left. And it’s already May. Summer is probably the best time to put the house on the market.”
“Jae, I said leave it. I don’t want anyone poking through my mother’s stuff. When I�
��m able, I’ll sort the rest of it.”
“I could move the boxes here. There ought to be room for them in our basement.”
“What’s your problem with the house, Jae—money? You want to sell it because you’re saddled with a husband who will never work again?”
“Of course not.”
“Then let me worry about the house and my family’s affairs.”
* * *
In truth, Paul couldn’t bear the thought of Jae discovering the letter from his father. Paul weighed that disillusionment on the same scale as losing his sight. Of course, the blindness was the more devastating—profoundly altering every aspect of life—but strangely, there was a challenge in fighting to master new skills, gauging the compensations made by the other senses. He could measure his progress and regain some sense of control. But the virtual loss of the father he’d thought he had left a hollowness, and there was nothing to fill it but rage.
* * *
One afternoon Paul came across something exciting in the New Testament. At the beginning of Revelation, John’s visitor offered an appraisal of the different Christian cells or churches in the ancient world.
Each was promised its own reward if it remained faithful. In Sardis, believers were told, “All who are victorious will be clothed in white. I will never erase their names from the Book of Life.”
Paul’s heart raced when he remembered Stephen Lloyd’s medallion, which was imprinted with a palm frond and a book. And Lloyd had worn a white T-shirt and light-colored pants, which even at the time had struck Paul as inappropriate for the dirty work of a roughneck. Obviously these were symbols. The Christian underground was communicating using the imagery of Revelation!
Sardis was also the name of Johnson’s oil company, which was harder for Paul to compute. But surely it was no coincidence. Maybe the name inspired terrorists to target it . Poor Donny. His own corporate logo may have gotten him killed.
But even if Paul had stumbled onto the key to the Christian code, he was still stymied by their potential plots—their so-called appointed tasks.
The book of Revelation was filled with page upon page of acts of judgment from heaven—twenty-one in all, from famine and disease to stinging locusts and horses’ tails with the heads of snakes. The bomb in San Francisco was arguably an effort to simulate an earthquake, but with so many scourges it was hard to guess where or how the subversives might strike next. In the hated letter, Paul’s father spoke of “punishment and suffering beyond anything we can imagine or have ever managed to inflict upon each other.”
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