Childless: A Novel

by James Dobson

  “Thanks, my boy,” he said with what sounded like sincere affection.

  A few minutes later the two sat side by side in the living room, Reverend Grandpa in his favorite chair and Matthew on the sofa. No eye contact, just as Matthew preferred for this particular conversation.

  “I think God wants me to tell you something.”

  The old man seemed pleasantly surprised by the comment. “He does, does he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which God?”

  Matthew turned toward the question. “What?”

  “Which God told you to say something to me? The one I believe in or the one you believe in?”

  Matthew didn’t know how to respond, prompting the old man’s playful sigh.

  “Look, son, my God speaks through the Bible, not through a college boy.” The sting of offense quickly dissipated as Reverend Grandpa added, “Even a college boy I’ve grown fond of.”

  “I still need to say something to you. Promise me you’ll listen and at least consider what I’ve got to say. I think I’ve earned that.”

  A deferential nod. “OK. Take the pulpit.”

  Matthew tried to remember the reference.

  “I’m all ears,” the old man added.

  Matthew swallowed hard before diving into his hastily planned speech. “I think Marissa wants you to volunteer.”

  He paused to let the words sink in.

  “And I think that you want what’s best for her and the kids, so I think you need to consider the option.”

  There, he’d said it.

  “Marissa told you that?” Reverend Grandpa asked with injury in his voice.

  “No. She didn’t say she wants you to transition. But I can tell.”

  “How?”

  “By the look in her eyes when I suggested it. I can tell she feels the same way I felt when facing a similar situation with my mom.”

  “You lost your mom?”

  “Long before she died.” Matthew sensed the old man looking at him as he kept his own eyes fixed on the wall.

  “What happened?” Reverend Grandpa asked gently.

  “We decay.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Matthew looked at his client. “It’s something my religious studies professor told me. It was certainly true of my mom. She had been deteriorating for years before she finally volunteered.”

  “She killed herself?”

  Matthew turned back toward the wall. “No. She didn’t kill herself. She sacrificed herself. For me.” He felt the admission moisten his eyes. He swallowed back the growing lump in his throat. “She wanted me to go to college in order to become a teacher. But her medical expenses were burning through our savings.” He looked at his client. “Just like you’re burning through yours.”

  Reverend Grandpa looked away. He was either ashamed of himself or angry at Matthew. Probably both.

  “So she decided to escape.”

  “Escape?”

  “Escape the decay. Transcend the limitations of physical existence to follow in Jesus’s footsteps.”

  “Jesus’s footsteps?”

  “That’s what I wanted to tell you. I think God wants you to know you’ve misunderstood. You see Jesus as someone who rose from the dead like a death-conquering hero. But he was actually showing us the path to our true destiny.”

  “Which is?”

  “Which is to transcend the limitations of a decaying body by becoming a death-embracing mystic. To escape the body.”

  Matthew noticed Reverend Grandpa reaching at an awkward angle as he twisted his torso while shoving a hand deep into his pocket.

  “What are you doing?” Matthew asked. “Do you need some help?”

  “No need for help. I’ll have it in just a…ah…here it is.”

  The old man held up a small pocketknife. Matthew wondered why on earth he had been carrying a tool used by campers and hunters. Perhaps a keepsake preserving bygone memories?

  “I had planned to wrap this as a gift for little Pete,” Reverend Grandpa began, “to celebrate today’s big accomplishment.”

  What did a celebration gift have to do with Matthew’s speech? Was the old man even listening?

  “But I think you need it more.” Reverend Grandpa pulled open what appeared to be a dangerously sharp tip. He flipped the knife around to hold it by the blade. “Here you go.”

  Matthew accepted the gift with a confused gaze. “Thanks, I guess. But why do you think I need this more than Peter?”

  “So you can slit your own throat.”

  “What?” Matthew asked, covering his Adam’s apple protectively with his other hand. “Slit my throat?”

  “Or should I say, set yourself free?” A scathing laugh.

  Matthew handed the knife back, rejecting the ridiculous notion.

  “What’s the matter, my boy? Don’t believe your own philosophy? Or is it just something you believe when it applies to old debits like me?”

  Matthew stood to leave the room. “I was trying to be serious,” he said with disgust. “My mom’s death isn’t something to joke about.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Reverend Grandpa agreed. “Nor is it something to compare to Jesus’s sacrifice on a cross!”

  Matthew sensed his client’s rising indignation.

  “Death-embracing mystic? Nonsense! You have no clue what you’re talking about, boy. Jesus Christ was not showing us the way to some harebrained enlightenment. He was giving his life as a payment for sin. My sin. Your sin. Even your mom’s sin.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Your mom committed suicide, Matthew. No matter how much you try to dress it up as a heroic act, it was taking the most precious gift God gives us. Not to mention adding another coffin to the bonfire of human dignity.”

  The words made Matthew too furious to speak. How dare the old man call his mom’s transition a sin! Even if it had been wrong, she hadn’t done it. Matthew had. He was the one who had convinced her frail mind to volunteer. He was the one who had put the sword of guilt into her back as she walked the plank of “heroic sacrifice.” He was the one who had chosen to heed the advice of Dr. Vincent rather than the warnings of Father Richard.

  It wasn’t a sin! Matthew tried to believe. It was the right decision.

  “You’re the one who has no idea what you’re talking about!” Matthew finally retorted. “My mother was a good woman. She did what you’re too selfish and cowardly to do. She’s better off today because of it. And so am I!”

  Matthew stormed out of the room, ignoring Reverend Grandpa’s effort to coax him back.

  “Sit down, my boy…” The bedroom door slammed to shield Matthew from noisy words he had no interest in hearing.

  He spent the next few minutes trying to quell an irrational desire to grab the old man’s knife and silence him for good. He instead grabbed his tablet from the top of the dresser and searched the PICTURES folder to find a portrait of his mother. He found one taken in her better days, when she still retained an echo of girlish beauty, a reminder of what she had been before dementia started stealing her away.

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” he heard himself whisper. “I thought it was for the best. But now I can’t even get to the college money you left me.”

  He closed his eyes. Then he cursed.

  When he opened his eyes he noticed a bouncing icon at the bottom of his digital screen. An unopened message from Maria Davidson! His mood lifted immediately as he tapped.

  Hi Matt:

  It was great catching up after so many years. I’m afraid I’m entering a pretty busy season of life, so it probably isn’t a good idea to try getting together again before you head back to your mysterious life. But I had a wonderful time and appreciated you taking an interest in Jared. Thanks for reconnecting. Be happy and be good.

  Maria

  Matthew read the letter twice before the meaning finally sank in. Maria Davidson had just said goodbye. Or rather, good riddance!

  He cursed again as he let
the tablet fall to the floor.

  I won’t let this happen, he thought. Then he frantically searched his dresser drawers to locate some stationery and a pen.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Sitting at her dining room table, Rebecca Santiago tried to push past her fear. Her weakness. She picked the letter up from the floor and read it one last time.

  Dear Victor:

  Please forgive my sending this note to your wife Rebecca. Prior attempts to correspond through your assistant have proven unfruitful. I have yet to receive a single response to any of my previous letters regarding the wrongful death appeal involving NEXT Transition Services. As you know, many lives hang in the balance in this matter. That’s why I was pleased the case fell to a man with the kind of wisdom and restraint you have demonstrated throughout your distinguished judicial career. But this case is far too important for any hint of ambiguity. That’s why I must know where you stand before the scheduled ruling deadline of September 4th. Please consider Rebecca’s future as you contemplate the following alternatives:

  Option One: Assure me that you will indeed decide in favor of NEXT.

  Option Two: Bid your sweet wife farewell since you will die before issuing an opinion.

  Once again, I apologize for alarming Rebecca. But she deserves to know about the increasingly tense situation in which we find ourselves. I could not allow any of what might transpire to come as a surprise, and I trust that her intervention will motivate you to do what’s right for everyone.

  As always,

  A Manichean

  P.S. Kindly post your response at the following private forum address: ANON.CHAT.4398

  Rebecca walked into the kitchen, where a small stack of dirty teacups and saucers reminded her that she had been plunged into a different universe from the one she had inhabited only a few minutes before. Hadn’t she just waved goodbye to Shelly, the last straggler from a chatty afternoon with friends? Hadn’t she intended to complain to Victor about the tragedy of burned pumpkin scones? It was part of their daily ritual over dinner to share the high points and low points of their day. She suddenly had a new, dreadful low to report. And it couldn’t wait until dinner.

  She found the phone and pressed the image of Victor smiling back at her. She heard his recorded voice begin the custom greeting made for her ears only.

  “Hi, Rebecca. There’s two things I want to do at this moment. First, answer your call. Second, tell you how much I love you. Unfortunately, I’m probably in session at the moment. So I’ll have to settle for saying that I love you. I’ll call back as soon as I can.”

  She smiled. Then she panicked. What if he could never talk to her again? What if the crazy killer had been impatient and decided not to wait until September fourth after all?

  She quickly tapped another image. A live voice answered. Thank God!

  “Jennifer?” It was all she could say, her fear and sorrow surfacing at the relief.

  “Rebecca?” Jennifer responded to the sound of crying. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

  Jennifer McKay had been like a daughter to the Santiagos. There was no one Rebecca would rather have called, short of Victor himself.

  “Rebecca? Are you hurt?” Jennifer was asking through the phone with urgent concern.

  She finally regained a semblance of composure. “I’m all right, Jennifer.” Then she swallowed back another ocean of moisture and took a deep breath. “But I’m afraid for Victor. We need to do something to protect him!”

  She had never said anything like it before. Victor had always been the sentry in their relationship. It was his job to worry about his frail bride. Rebecca knew herself to be weaker than she wished. She relied on Victor’s strength. But in this moment she would settle for Jennifer’s.

  “A letter arrived today,” she continued. “Somebody wants to kill my Victor!”

  No response.

  “Did you hear me, Jennifer? I said—”

  “Did the letter specifically mention killing?”

  “Yes, of course. Why would I make something like that up?”

  “Is the letter signed?” Jennifer asked.

  Why doesn’t she seem alarmed?

  “I’m afraid, Jennifer. I’m so afraid.”

  “Listen to me, Rebecca. I need to know if there is a signature.”

  Rebecca walked back to the dining room to find the letter and search for a name. “Someone named Manichean,” she replied. “Why, what’s going on?”

  Before Jennifer could respond Rebecca saw a line in the letter she hadn’t noticed before.

  Prior attempts to correspond through your assistant have proven unfruitful.

  “You’ve received other letters, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, we have. But don’t worry. We have a detective investigating the situation.”

  A detective? Situation? Rebecca felt her fear becoming anger. “What situation? And why didn’t you tell me about this? Why didn’t Victor tell me?”

  A long, torturous silence. Jennifer finally answered. “Rebecca, Victor doesn’t know about the letters.”

  She couldn’t believe her ears. Why would Jennifer keep such an important secret from her boss? From Rebecca’s husband? “What do you mean?”

  Jennifer explained everything: Victor’s policy of ignoring any correspondence related to an open case, her role of deciding how to handle each situation, and why in this instance she had chosen to hire a private investigator rather than go to the police.

  Rebecca looked back at the signature. A Manichean. “Do you have any idea of his identity?”

  A two-second delay. “We have a few leads.”

  Rebecca sensed the truth. They had no idea. “I want to talk to Victor immediately,” she insisted.

  “I understand,” Jennifer said. “But, please, can you read me the letter? Word for word.”

  She did, her voice breaking again when she reached the ultimatum.

  “He’s going to kill my Victor!” she said, the panic recoloring her voice. “We have to tell him now!”

  A momentary hush meant Jennifer must have been assessing her dilemma. If she did as Rebecca suggested she would be violating Victor’s policy. A policy Rebecca both admired and suddenly hated.

  “Listen, Rebecca,” Jennifer began. “The judge will be in session for at least another ninety minutes. Security is on high alert due to the earlier letters, so nothing can happen to him here.”

  “Nothing can happen to him? Come on, Jennifer. Anything could happen!”

  “Please, Rebecca. I promise we’ll protect him. But I need to come over and see that letter right away. I’ll call the detective and we’ll meet you there. Then we’ll decide. One hour, that’s all I ask.”

  Rebecca considered the request. What would Victor want her to do? She knew the answer immediately.

  “OK,” she said reluctantly. “One hour.”

  The call ended. Rebecca felt light-headed. She sat back down at the dinner table where her living nightmare had begun. Then she refolded the note, slid it back into the envelope, and wrapped her arms around a delicate frame now home to the consuming demon of terror.

  Part Three

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Jennifer McKay was sitting on the living room sofa beside a distraught woman who was downing the last swig of a drink that was not, Tyler presumed, her first. Although he had never seen her before, Tyler knew the woman immediately: the judge’s wife, understandably shaken.

  He glanced toward the dining room table, then groaned at the sight of Assistant Chief Greg Smith. Tyler had hoped to arrive in time to read the letter first and then debrief his former partner rather than the other way around. Jennifer had said she’d phoned the police before calling Tyler. He had raced through downtown Denver in slow motion behind rush-hour traffic hoping to beat Smitty to the house. No such luck.

  Tyler heard the clack of a dead bolt latching behind him as an officer closed the front door. The sound prompted a glance from Smitty, who looked up from the letter
to offer a summoning wave.

  “Tyler,” he said in a hushed voice.

  “Smitty,” Tyler replied with a nod. “What’ve we got?”

  It was the same question he’d asked a hundred times before, back when he and Smitty had investigated everything from petty burglary to serial homicide. But this time it felt impertinent. They were no longer partners. Tyler wasn’t on the force. Nor was he an effective private investigator—he had failed to prevent whatever threat Smitty was reading.

  He quickly corrected himself. “I mean, what have you got?”

  Smitty handed Tyler the page. “Take a look for yourself.”

  He did. Then he glanced in Jennifer’s direction. She was rubbing Rebecca Santiago’s forearm to offer comfort. Their eyes met. His shot an I told you so rebuke. Hers stubbornly refused any I should have listened regret.

  “I was afraid of this,” he said while following Smitty around the corner to speak in private. Tyler wanted his former partner to believe the letter hadn’t been a surprise. And in a way it hadn’t. Tyler’s gut had told him the situation could escalate. He had told Jennifer she should write back to smoke out the culprit. That she should alert the judge so that he could resign from the case to protect his life. “Maybe now Ms. McKay will take my advice,” Tyler continued.

  “What advice is that?”

  “Tell the judge about the letters.”

  “You mean he doesn’t know?”

  “No sir. He has a strict policy against paying attention to any correspondence related to an active case.”

  Smitty sighed. “Of course.”

  Tyler waited a moment to let Smitty appreciate his dilemma. “I have a few potential suspects,” he lied. “But I need the judge to write back so we can spring the trap.”

  Smitty looked at Tyler questioningly but said nothing. Then he glanced back into the living room.

  “Ms. McKay, may I speak to you for a moment?” he asked. “That is, if Mrs. Santiago doesn’t mind.”