by Tim Downs
He took the keys from his pocket and dangled them in front of her. “I came by here to show you my new car—and to take you for a drive. Maybe that’s not such a good idea. I might drive too fast. I might wreck the car, and where would we get the money to repair it? I tell you what—why don’t I go for a drive, and you can stay here and worry about it.”
“Kemp—”
He climbed into the car and roared off.
28
Emmet guided the floor polisher into the custodian’s closet and coiled the thick black extension cord around the silver handle. He took a toilet brush and a pair of rubber gloves from a shelf and picked up a corroded metal pail; he held it under the spigot of a fifty-five-gallon drum and pumped the handle until a thick, sweet-scented liquid spurted into the bottom of the bucket.
He heard the door close behind him. He turned and looked.
“Hey,” Kemp said simply.
“Hey yourself.”
“I thought maybe we could talk.”
“In the janitor’s closet?”
“There’s not a lot of privacy around here.”
“In other words, you don’t want nobody to see you talkin’ to me.”
“Something like that, yeah.”
Emmet set down the bucket. “Well, go ahead and talk.”
“A couple of weeks ago, when that movie star was here.
Olivia Hayden—remember her?”
“I remember. The woman seems to be in the news a lot lately.”
“She was my patient.”
“I remember that too.”
“You . . . walked in on me one night. Do you remember that?”
“Sorta hard to forget.”
“You didn’t say anything at the time—you just turned around and walked out again.”
“Didn’t quite know what to say. In my experience, when a man don’t know what to say it’s best not to say anything.”
“I was just wondering . . . what you think you saw.”
Emmet paused. “Now that’s an odd question.”
“I mean, it probably looked a little strange.”
“Strange in what way?”
“Well, that’s what I’m asking. Did it look strange to you?”
“Mr. Kemp, I been around here a long time. I seen all kinds of things—things a man with my background can’t even begin to understand.”
Kemp seemed to relax a little. “That’s true—some of these procedures are very technical and they must look pretty strange. That’s all it was, of course—just a standard procedure.”
“What sort of procedure?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The thing you were doin’ when I walked in. What sort of procedure was that?”
“Well—”
“I remember a big light with you standin’ right in front of it. I remember you dressed up like a doctor—in a white coat instead of your usual scrubs. I remember the woman starin’ up at you even though she was supposed to be sound asleep. And if I’m not mistaken you were talkin’ to the lady, though I had the feelin’ I interrupted when I poked my head in.”
Kemp said nothing.
“Now that you mention it, it did all seem a bit odd—never saw anything quite like it. What sort of procedure was that, anyway?”
“It was just—an examination, that’s all. That’s what I needed the light for.”
“You know, you might get a better look if you step to the side a little—you seemed to be blockin’ the light.”
“I—didn’t want the light to hurt her eyes.”
“Funny they were open right about then.”
“Well, that’s why I was examining her. Patients can grow resistant to anesthesia over time—we have to constantly regulate it. I saw her coming out of it a little so I thought I’d better check.”
“And the white coat?”
“Oh, right, the coat. See, when a patient comes out of sedation too quickly they can experience anxiety and agitation. I thought it might have a calming effect if I looked more like a doctor than a nurse.”
“So you were talkin’ to the woman just to calm her down a bit.”
“That’s right—just to reassure her.”
“Well, that makes perfect sense then. That explains all of it—except for one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“If it was all just a standard procedure, how come we’re talkin’ in a closet?”
Kemp’s eyes began to dart like gnats.
“Like I told you, Mr. Kemp, I been around here a long time, and I seen all kinds of things. I seen patients come runnin’ out of their rooms buck naked and nurses runnin’ right after ’em. I seen people who were supposed to die walk right out of here, and people who came in with nary a scratch pass on. I thought I seen just about everything—but I got to admit, I never saw a man pretend to be an angel before.”
“Now, wait a minute—”
“You’re good, Mr. Kemp—good at lyin’ I mean. You’re just about the best I ever seen. You’re light on your toes—you think on your feet. I can’t say I admire the quality, but I truly am impressed. Please don’t take that as a compliment.”
“You’ve got it all wrong,” Kemp said.
“Do I? You once asked me what the janitors are reading these days; let me show you what I been reading of late.” From a shelf beside the door he took a copy of Star magazine and showed Kemp the cover. “Have you seen this? Somehow I got a feelin’ you have.”
The cover headline announced: LIV AWAKES! MOVIE STAR MEETS HEAVENLY HOST—BRINGS DYING CAREER BACK FROM THE DEAD.
“It’s not my usual fare,” Emmet said, “but I found it in the waiting room and the headline caught my eye. Interesting story—let me read you part of it.” He opened to the first page and read:
Most people in comas spend their days and nights in a deep and dreamless slumber. Not movie star Liv Hayden—she passed her time in conversation with an angel, dispatched to her bedside with what Hayden calls “a life-changing message of hope and renewal.” Hayden, seriously injured in a recent automobile accident, was kept in a coma at UCLA Medical Center for more than a week. Upon awakening, Hayden immediately reported her heavenly visitation—and announced a change in career. “Something precious has been entrusted to me,” Hayden said in an exclusive interview with Star magazine. “I feel responsible to pass it on.” Hayden apparently intends to “pass it on” by publishing her story with Vision Press, well known for the international best seller Lattes with God. Industry insiders tell Star that if Hayden’s book is anywhere near as successful as Lattes, the angels won’t be the only ones rejoicing.
Emmet closed the magazine and returned it to the shelf. “Sorta makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“The woman’s supposed to be in a coma, but she comes out of it just a little. When she opens her eyes she sees a man standing over her—a man dressed in white. The next thing you know she thinks she’s seen an angel. That’s quite a coincidence.”
“You think she confused me with an angel?”
“Not by accident.”
Kemp lowered his voice to a whisper. “Look, Emmet—”
“You know my name. I wasn’t sure.”
“The whole thing was just a harmless prank.”
“Does that seem harmless to you? You put words in an angel’s mouth—that’s a mighty bold thing to do. You’re foolin’ with things you don’t understand, Mr. Kemp. An angel’s just a messenger; that means you put words in the mouth of the Almighty, and that’s a fearful thing to do.”
“I don’t believe in angels—or the bogeyman.”
“Your daughter does.”
“My girlfriend’s daughter is a loon. Bad genes, I suppose.”
“Then let me put it to you another way: You’re foolin’ with words. Folks are gonna read those words, and some folks are gonna believe ’em. Words are some of the most powerful things in the world, Mr. Kemp. Not a terrible thing’s been done in this world t
hat didn’t start off with words. Words matter—a smart man like you should know that.”
“Skip the sermon,” Kemp said. “What is it you want?”
“I just came in here to fetch a bucket. How ’bout you?”
“I want you to keep your mouth shut.”
“And why should I do that?”
Kemp paused. “I can pay you. There’s money in this—a lot of it. I stand to make . . . thousands on this deal, and I’m willing to give you a share.”
Emmet shook his head. “You make fun of my name, you speak to me with contempt, you treat me like I’m somethin’ you’d scrape off your shoes—but this is the first time you really insulted me. You think I’m like you, and I’m not.”
“There are powerful people involved in this,” Kemp said. “Trust me, you don’t want to cross them.”
“Now you’re threatening me.”
“A word to the wise—that’s all I’m saying.”
“Now that’s funny,” Emmet said. “A word to the wise from a fool.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I believe you—I’m just not afraid of you.”
“Then I’ll give you another reason to keep your mouth shut.”
“What’s that?”
“Natalie. You like Natalie, don’t you? I know she likes you. So does Leah—she talks about you all the time.”
Emmet paused. “What’s Natalie got to do with this?”
“Nothing—and everything. We’re both nurses; we work in the same ICU in the same hospital; we even work the same shift. I live with Natalie—we share everything. If you go public with this, do you really think anybody will believe she had nothing to do with it? It would mean her job. It would mean her career—no hospital would touch her after this. She’d end up doing home visitations for shut-ins.”
Emmet slowly cocked his head to one side. “Mr. Kemp, I believe I’m seein’ you in a whole new light.”
“Glad you’ve seen the light,” Kemp said. “So—can I count on you?”
There was a long silence as Emmet considered.
“It was harmless,” Kemp assured him. “Just a little scam to pick up a few bucks on the side. So a washed-up movie star writes a book—so what? Books like this one come and go all the time—a year from now nobody will even remember what it said. Everybody profits; nobody loses. What’s the harm?”
Another pause.
“C’mon—for Natalie. For Leah.”
Emmet reluctantly nodded. “There’s just one thing I’d like to know. How did a fine woman like Natalie ever get hooked up with a good-for-nothin’ like you?”
“Just lucky, I guess. So—we’re okay?”
“We are definitely not okay—but I’ll do it for Natalie’s sake. I won’t say anything, Mr. Kemp, but I won’t lie for you either. That’s a different thing entirely.”
“Fair enough. And don’t forget, there’ll be a few bucks in it for you. You can buy yourself a new mop.”
When Kemp reached for the doorknob Emmet said to him, “You know, you’d do well to take your own advice.”
Kemp looked back. “How’s that?”
“I’d be careful if I were you.”
29
Natalie heard the bedroom door open and looked up from the TV; a moment later Kemp came bounding into the living room like a wet retriever.
“Are you watching this?” He plopped down on the sofa beside her and pried the remote from her hands.
“Apparently I’m not. Please, help yourself.”
Kemp began to eagerly flip through the channels.
“There are two of us living here, Kemp. Don’t you get enough golf and Sports Center on the weekends? I sit down to watch a few minutes of TV before I pick up Leah from school—”
“Would you shut up? I can’t hear anything. What channel is she on?”
“Who?”
“Oprah.”
Natalie stared at him in disbelief—then took back the remote and punched in the number 7 for KABC. A commercial for auto insurance was airing.
Kemp checked his watch. “Shoot—it’s after three. I might have missed part of it.”
“Part of what?”
“Watch—you’re in for a surprise.”
When the commercial ended and the show returned, Oprah was seated beside a strangely familiar face—it was Olivia Hayden, propping up a book on her thigh titled It’s All About You.
“What a surprise,” Natalie said with a groan. “You know, if all you want to do is ogle your girlfriend, why don’t you just go rent one of her—”
“Do you mind? ‘Talk show’ means they talk.”
Kemp took the remote back and turned up the volume.
“It’s All About You,” Oprah announced. “That’s the title of the astonishing new book by my old friend Liv Hayden, and let me tell you all something: This is a book that could change everything.”
The audience erupted in applause.
“Liv, we’ve known each other for a long time—ever since I was filming The Color Purple and you were shooting See You in Your Dreams.. So I’m going to ask you a hard question, because that’s what friends do.” She reached over and took Hayden by the hand. “You were kept in a coma because of a possible injury to your brain. A brain injury, Liv—that could explain a lot. How do you know this angel was real?”
“Is this that angel thing?” Natalie asked. “I saw this in the paper.”
“Shut up!” Kemp leaned closer to the screen.
“I know there are doubters out there,” Hayden said confidently. “Some people think I made the whole thing up, but I could never have invented a message like this—it could only have come from a superhuman intelligence.”
“You got that right,” Kemp said with a smirk.
“Kemp—I’m trying to listen.”
“I’ll tell you how I know it was real: The same way I know you’re real—that you’re flesh and blood and not just some figment of my imagination.” She held up Oprah’s hand and shook it as if to demonstrate.
The audience applauded again.
“Did you ever actually touch the angel?” Oprah asked.
“No—I was afraid. But somehow I think he wanted me to.”
Kemp winked at the screen. “Right again.”
Natalie gave him an elbow. “Will you be quiet? They talk, remember?”
“Describe the scene for us—tell us all what you saw.”
Hayden reached into the air in front of her and began to make small sweeping gestures, as if she was painting a picture on a canvas that only she could see. “It’s as if I was floating in a great darkness, when all of a sudden I saw a pinpoint of light. The light began to grow larger—closer—as if I was rushing through space toward a distant star. I finally arrived—who can say where—and all the darkness was suddenly gone. There was nothing but blinding white light all around me—light so bright that I could barely look into it. And in the middle of the light was a man—a man like no man I’ve ever seen before.”
“And you’ve seen some good ones,” Oprah said.
The audience laughed; so did Hayden.
“You bet I have—that’s how I knew that this was no ordinary mortal.”
“What did the angel say to you? What were his very first words?”
Hayden shook her head. “You’d never believe me.”
“Try me.”
“Seriously—it’s too ‘out there.’”
“Come on now, Liv. Most of us will never get a chance to meet a real angel. What did he say?”
“Well—he said . . .”
Kemp grinned. “Greetings, earthling!”
“ . . . he said, ‘Greetings, earthling!’”
Natalie looked at Kemp. “Hey—how did you know that?”
Kemp shrugged. “Lucky guess.”
Oprah looked at Hayden doubtfully. “You’re pulling my leg. This angel had a sense of humor?”
“You need a sense of humor to survive in this world—I think that’s what he was tel
ling me.”
The audience applauded gratefully.
Oprah leaned closer to her guest. “Did you get the impression that the angel knew you—I mean, knew who you are?
What you do for a living?”
“Yes, I did. In fact—”
“What?”
“No, this is too weird.”
“Go ahead, say it.”
Kemp spoke first: “He said, ‘I’ve seen most of your pictures.’”
Hayden was just a beat behind him: “. . . he told me that he’d seen most of my pictures.”
The audience broke into laughter.
Oprah said, “I wonder if he watches my show. Did he say anything about that?”
Natalie grabbed the remote and switched off the TV.
“Hey! Turn that back on!”
“Kemp—what’s going on?”
“At least record it so I can watch it later.”
Natalie aimed the remote at the DVR and pushed the red Record button, then stuffed the remote down between the seat cushions. “Now what’s going on? I want to know.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Why the sudden interest in Oprah? You’ve never watched her show before—never.”
“It’s Olivia Hayden—I heard she was going to be on, that’s all. She’s been in the news lately. She was my patient. What’s the big deal?”
“This is a live show, Kemp—it’s not a rerun. How come you seem to know what Olivia Hayden’s going to say before she says it?”
“It seemed obvious to me. All you had to do was listen.”
“‘Greetings, earthling’—you call that obvious? I was listening, and I never would have thought of that.”
“Maybe I’m a better guesser than you are.”
“Stop treating me like an idiot. You’ve been meeting with her, haven’t you?”
“What? That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it? I tried to look the other way when you had your little emotional ‘fling’ with her in the hospital. Don’t deny it—all the nurses noticed it. You practically bit my head off when I interrupted one evening. I thought it was just a silly infatuation, but you’ve obviously been talking with her.”