by Ted Peters
“I’ll drink to Lutheran pessimism,” said Hayim as he raised his coffee cup.
Leona smiled. “And God loves the whole goddam creation and all of us in it.” Her cup met his. Then she clinked with Nancy as well.
“I’ll drink to Lutheran grace too,” pronounced Hayim. The three clinked cups again.
Shortly before midday Leona was back at street level, walking to let the remainder of the brunch digest. When she reached the lakeshore, she could see that the asphalt trails had increased in human population. A few elderly couples on a stroll. Young mothers in groups of two or three chattering while pushing jogging carriages. Dog walkers. Within ten minutes Leona was up to speed, jogging south.
As Leona passed the Museum of Science and Industry at 59th Street, a fellow jogger approached her from the front. The jogger was a teenager, an African American high school girl—why is she not in school at this time of day?—running with such short steps that she was hardly moving. The amateur jogger was wearing the appropriate sweat clothes, but it was clear that this exercise was new to her. Maybe she’s out here on a gym class assignment? As the two neared one another, the teenager smiled and hollered, “May I ask you a question?”
The two stopped to face one another. Over the girl’s shoulder Leona caught sight of a man perhaps two hundred yards distant. He was a heavy-set bearded man in a gray and maroon sweatsuit, walking in their direction. With one eye on the strange man and one on the teenager addressing her, Leona said, “Sure.”
“My fingers are all swollen up,” the young lady complained. “They’re puffy.”
“Let me look at them,” said Leona. She grasped the girl’s hands and tenderly touched random fingers on each hand. “Have you been jogging long?”
“About a half mile. Actually, I run a little and walk a little. Is there something wrong with me?”
“No. When we exercise like this, blood rushes to our extremities. Feel my fingers.”
The teenager grabbed a number of Leona’s fingers. “Oh. They’re puffy too.”
Leona kept one eye on the suspicious man in the distance. “When you get home and relax, the puffiness will go down and you’ll be normal again. I promise.”
“Oh, thank you very much!” exclaimed the girl with a relieved smile. The two parted. Leona jogged southward. As she hit her stride, she saw that the maroon man had begun jogging too, but at such a slow pace that Leona wondered if this would even count as exercise. He was coming toward her. Is he carrying something in his left hand?
With each of Leona’s long strides, the distance between the two joggers shortened. His eyes fixed on her. Leona noticed two other men sitting on a bench. She anticipated that her path and that of the burly jogger would cross near the bench. Her intuition tapped her on the shoulder. She was alerted, but she did not let on.
Suddenly, a swishing sound behind her. She glanced over her right shoulder. Nothing unusual. Then, to her puzzlement, she saw on her left a large dog falling into rhythm, trotting at her pace. A Siberian husky, perhaps a year or so old. The dog stared business-like straight ahead. As the gap closed, the fur on the husky’s neck stood straight up. He snarled at the bearded jogger heading her way.
The two Caucasian men wearing sweat shirts and sunglasses had been sitting stiffly on the bench. They stood up. The bearded jogger panicked at seeing Leona’s canine protector, reacting defensively to the husky’s snarling. His left hand—carrying what looked like a twelve inch pipe—waved at the two men, who then sat back down on the bench. Leona passed through the now opened blockade. The dog stopped to growl at each of the three men in turn. Then, the husky ran south to catch up with Leona.
Slowing her pace only slightly, Leona looked back. She saw the three departing the lakeshore together, heading toward a parking lot. She turned her gaze back to study the dog. The husky ran with her for another hundred yards. Suddenly, he was gone. Leona finished her run by herself.
18 Wednesday, Chicago, 11:31am
While passing the 24/7 Coffee Shop on 79th Street, Leona noticed a hand vigorously waving at her through the window. It was the hand of Carter Hansen. She interrupted her jog to enter the shop, where Carter, along with Brad Kuhn, was sitting at a table, each enjoying a cup of coffee, both white with cream. “Can I buy you a cup?” asked Carter.
“Heck no,” responded Leona. “I’ve been jogging. Gotta have a gallon of water! I’ll get it when I get home.”
“Sit down, Pastor,” ordered Carter. Then he shouted while waving his hand again. “Waitress, please bring this good woman a large, very large, glass of your vintage water.” Carter received a nod from the smiling waitress.
“Carter thinks he can help me grow up right,” began Brad. “He’s telling me what to do when I become full-time with the Chicago PD. That’s tomorrow.”
“You look full-time to me already,” remarked Leona approvingly. “Your belt’s equipped with an entire arsenal. Is that a Glock 17 in the holster? Stand up.”
The uniformed man rose to his feet while Leona pretended to study him. “I see a cartridge clip; a pair of handcuffs; mace; a baton, a radio phone; and even a bottle of drinking water. Even a two ounce bottle of Purell. You’re ready for battle, my good man. Doesn’t all of this mean you’re an official cop?”
Kuhn smiled. “You seem more proud of me than ol’ Carter is. He’s telling me the ropes.” Brad sat down and sipped his coffee.
“Yeah, Pastor,” added Carter. “I’m lettin’ him know what it’s like to have a career in law enforcement. Here’s the secret advice. Get fat. Don’t exercise. Drive around in one of those Victoria squad rolls. Wear your battle rattle even when you’re driving. This’ll make your back go out. Once your back is sprung and useless, then apply for disability and retire. You’ll make more in retirement that you did on patrol.”
“Now, Carter, is this what you learn in church?” asked Leona with a motherly expression.
“It’s what I learn from watching the lazy bastards in blue. It’s a lesson of life.”
Brad began laughing. “I’ve got the picture. Don’t worry, Pastor, I’ll take charge of my own soul.”
“Brad,” asked Leona, “why do you carry a bottle of Purell? Do you want to be a cop with clean hands?”
“I wondered that too. It's not standard issue. But some of the veterans at the academy said it's good to carry this. If we suspect someone is intoxicated, we wash our hands in hand sanitizer and then administer the breathalyzer test.”
“Brad! Do you know what that does?” gasped Leona.
“Huh. Whatya mean?” Brad looked puzzled.
Leona continued. “Hand sanitizers are typically seventy percent alcohol. If you wash your hand in that stuff and then administer a breathalyzer test, it's sure to test positive. Everyone you test, no matter how sober, will look like a drunk.”
“Really?” said Brad, trying to comprehend. “But..."”
“Now, Brad, I just wonder what your mentors are teaching you,” said Leona. “What else have you learned in your police academy training?” Leona's disapproving frown forcibly changed to a contrived smile. “Any tips for a pastor?”
“Actually, Pastor Lee, the counter-terrorism training was very interesting. They brought in experts. One was a guy with Special Forces experience. He’s a contractor with NSI, the National Security something or other. What he had to say was fascinating.”
“What was so fascinating?”
“What he had to say about Muslims. Some people think Islam’s a religion of peace. But this guy made it clear that the peace stuff is just a smoke screen. Muslims are out to get us. Make no mistake. We in law enforcement gotta be on the lookout for the signs. We gotta stop ‘m before they get us.”
Leona sat back in her chair. She sipped her water. “What else, Brad?”
“What if ya see black guys in red tams?” said Brad.
“So, what if I do see ‘em?” quizzed Leona.
“That means blood,” said Brad, as if teaching a first grade class. “
We all know that. Now, if ya see a Muslim with a head band, what does that mean? Well, the color of the band doesn’t matter. It means the guy is ready to become a martyr. ‘I am ready to be a martyr,’ that headband says. He’s ready to blow himself up and everybody around him.” Brad shook his head as if he had made a dramatic point.
A quizzical expression took over Leona’s face. Hanson watched the conversation, directing his vision to whoever was speaking.
Brad continued, confident he had the floor. “Muslims will not rest until the entire world is Muslim. We in America are stupid, because we’re politically correct. We want to deny this truth about Islam. But the truth is we gotta defend ourselves.”
“But,” interjected Leona, “how do you cops on the beat get involved? Islamic terrorism is, well, an international thing. Isn’t it?
“Oh, no, Pastor Lee. It’s everywhere, even in the U.S. We were shown pictures of how terrorists cut their beards into V-shapes. We were told to watch DMV registrations for Arab names. We were told that some of these people open up small stores and businesses so they can launder money. When we in local law enforcement spot such suspects, we’re supposed to report what we see to Fusion Centers. They pick it up from there.”
“Brad, did this guy distinguish between combatants and noncombatants among Muslims?”
“What?”
“Oh, never mind.” Leona thought for a moment. “Brad, are the only terrorists we need to fear Muslims?”
“Of course.” Brad sipped his whitened coffee.
“Mmmmmm,” mumbled Leona. “What if you in your police work found evidence of a terrorist plot? Do you think it might be possible that the terrorists are not Muslim? Maybe they’d be...oh, I don’t know...maybe some Americans with...oh, I don’t know...some motive?”
“Pastor Lee, I’m not getting at what you’re driving at.”
“Oh, never mind.”
Water finished, it was only a few short blocks to the parsonage.
Once home Leona allowed the steaming hot shower to pour over her long after she had shampooed, soaped and rinsed. This water was soothing, healing, relaxing. The conversation with Hy and Nancy consumed her thoughts, and she offered silent prayers of gratitude for friends who understood her so well. She wondered whether she should worry about Brad Kuhn’s worldview. She placed her face fully into the water’s force.
After her shower, Leona wrapped her body in a large, white plush bath towel, a luxury that she felt served to prepare her for facing an often demanding day of parish ministry. She vigorously rubbed her hair dry with another towel, as she casually relocated to the bedroom.
She proceeded to ready herself for the day, first slipping into her black clerical shirt and collar, and then her new black suit, this time with the slacks. She stood tall in front of her closet door mirror and examined the outfit with satisfaction. The jacket was custom-designed with an interior zip pocket that allowed her to carry a gun without an obvious protrusion. She slipped her Kimber neatly into the pocket and again examined herself in the mirror, nodding an affirmation to her own reflection. Just for today. Just in case I need to protect myself.
The LED on the bedroom wall flashed. It was a text message from Graham: “Call me.” Leona lifted up her mobile phone. She hit Graham’s speed dial.
“What’s up?” asked Graham. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you. Do you remember our agreement?”
“Sorry. I forgot. I’m headed out for afternoon calls. Got some people to visit in hospitals.”
“What if I would come along?”
“Sure. Pick me up at my gate. We’ll go in my car.”
19 Wednesday, Chicago, 1:54 pm
Graham slid into the front passenger seat of Leona’s red Ford Escape hybrid. Leona reported the jogging trail incident. “Any sight of the Evanston Cleaners van?” Graham asked.
“No. But then, I wasn’t looking for it,” she said.
They both puzzled over the curious entrance and exit of the dog during Leona’s jog.
“I've just had a thought. Could it be, no, it just couldn’t be, that the eyes that glow in the parking lot belong to this guardian?” Graham mused further. “Might angels come in the form of a dog?”
As they drove north on Lakeshore Drive, a black high riding Chevy Tahoe zipped by them in the left lane. “In a hurry, ain’t you, sister?” exclaimed Graham, as if directly addressing the speeding driver.
“Graham, control yourself,” cajoled Leona.
“Let’s catch up and see if we can read what that rod’s got printed on its rear window,” said Graham. Leona hit the accelerator. In a moment Leona and Graham were tailgating the speedster. Across the large rear window of the Tahoe were two messages for all who would eat its dust. The first read, “NO! This is not my boyfriend’s truck!” The other read, “Bad ass girlz drive bad ass toyz.” Both Leona and Graham could not help but laugh out loud.
“I sure as hell don’t want to tick off the driver of that baby,” said Graham, chuckling. “If she only knew just what a real bad ass girl I have sitting next to me.”
Leona glared at Graham. “No comment, Mr. Washington.” Graham thought he perceived a slight coquettishness hidden in Leona’s glare.
On the fourth floor of the university hospital Leona and Graham called on Ulla Stigaard. Leona asked the near century-old patient if her new friend, Graham, would be welcome during the pastoral visit.
“Yes, of course,” said Ulla in a sweet, yet frail voice.
The two visitors sat down facing Ulla’s bedside. Ulla thanked Pastor Lee for coming, reporting how her sight was almost totally gone and that she felt lonely in the blackness. She could hear the voices of her two visitors, but she could at best just make out their shadowy forms.
Leona opened with the expected health questions.
“The doctor tells me that it’s terminal, Pastor. There’s no turning back from cancer at this stage.” Then Leona spoke silently with her hands on Ulla’s shoulder, not her voice.
Ulla continued. “I don’t expect to leave this hospital. But I’ve lived for ninety-nine years on God’s good green earth. I have nothing to regret. I’m ready to go home. I only wish there could be less suffering on the way.”
Graham reached out and placed his hand on Ulla’s. Ulla’s scraggly skin was marked with brown spots and raised blood vessels. She remarked, “Now, that’s a good strong hand. It’s comforting.” Ulla batted her blind eyes at Graham. “Pastor Lee, is this your new boyfriend?”
“No,” Leona responded quickly. “But Graham is a very fine man. Any woman would be glad to have Graham as a boyfriend. You have good taste, Ulla.” Leona turned her face to Graham.
Ulla smiled. Graham smiled.
Leona turned back to the blind woman. “Ulla, you say you’re lonely in the darkness. How do you pass the time? What do you think about?”
“I recite passages from the Bible. When I was a little girl we spoke Norwegian in our home. I learned so many passages by heart. After this many years, I can still recall them. I remember them in Norwegian, not in English. It comforts me to say them over and over.”
“I bet you know the 23rd Psalm,” said Graham.
“Yes, of course.”
“Can we hear it? Or, can we at least hear what ‘yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death” sounds like in Norwegian?”
Ulla composed herself, almost as if she were on stage.
“Herren er min hyrde, mig fattes intet. Han lar mig ligge i grønne enger, han leder mig til hvilens vann. Han vederkveger min sjel, han fører mig på rettferdighets stier for sitt navns skyld. Om jeg enn skulde vandre i dødsskyggens dal, frykter jeg ikke for ondt; for du er med mig, din kjepp og din stav de trøster mig. Du dekker bord for mig like for mine fienders øine, du salver mitt hode med olje; mitt beger flyter over. Bare godt og miskunnhet skal efterjage mig alle mitt livs dager, og jeg skal bo i Herrens hus gjennem lange tider.”
A tear migrated down Ulla’s cheek, glistening as it reached her chi
n. She wiped it away with a worn linen handkerchief embossed with the letter ‘U’. Leona tenderly touched Ulla’s left cheek with her right hand, gently kissing the other cheek.
After exchanging emotional goodbyes, Leona promised to return soon. Graham and the pastor departed Ulla’s room. Leona checked her cell phone calendar. “Now, down to the 2nd floor. Got a teenager with a broken leg.”
“I’m at your side, Pastor.”
Once in the elevator, Leona looked up at Graham. “You possess genuine pastoral skills, my friend the spy.”
Graham shrugged with a hint of embarrassment.
“A killer who cares. Mmmmm. Quite a combination.” Leona was smiling.
“Who said I was a killer?”
“Well, it goes with the territory, doesn’t it? Once you’ve given your soul to the red, white, and blue, then you’re ready to pull the trigger. Right?”
“Lee, sometimes I think you’re much too cynical. How can you...?”
The elevator stopped and the doors opened. Graham’s left hand reached out and settled in the small of Leona’s lower back. Ostensibly this was a gentleman’s guiding hand granting the lady’s right to go first. Yet, it was more. Graham felt erotic electricity in this touching. He kept this minimal body contact longer than perhaps warranted. Leona accepted the tactile contact without acknowledgement.
The two marched into Room 2210. A thin but husky African American teenager looked up from his bed, “Pastor Lee! How’s it goin?” The two shared a vigorous handshake, curling thumbs and gripping wrists. “Who’s the new dude?” he asked, nodding in the direction of Graham.
Leona introduced the two to each other. “Hey, Bro,” said the young man, who introduced himself as Romeo Davidson. All three could not help but look at Romeo’s right leg in a plaster cast and slung a few inches above the other.