by BILL BARTON
Dewayne did not know if what he saw at his feet was vision or reality, but he raised his trembling hand off the tattered arm of the chair and moved it toward the dark, sinuous hair. When his fingertips touched the top folds of the hair, he felt a static spark igniting a heat within his blood that dispensed a warm strength into his hand and arm. The current moved past his shoulders into his chest and settled into his heart. He knew he was awake. He knew the sensation flowing through his fingers and into his heart was real. He felt connection to a familiar touch; the hair and the head and the body he knew, had fully known, had given him life, and now it was giving it to him once more. But the body was slumped in shame. The body would not turn toward him.
The body seemed to grow weaker, as if passing its life into him. The body quivered and continued to shed disquieted tears. The body waited. The body waited to hear its name called, to hear words of comfort, to hear forgiveness spoken. The body could not move until summoned.
"Rosella;" Dewayne whispered, and her face moved into his fingers as she turned her head around. It was now skin-to-skin, fingertips to delicate cheek and nose and eyes and forehead. His fingers smoothed out each wrinkle, each pinched line of foreboding, like the sculptor smoothing out rough clay. "Rosella."
"I did not know how I would come back," she said. "I just knew I had to try."
Dewayne nodded like an old soul, wise in the ways of human action. The lowered head beneath his caressing hand remained submissive, her hand resting upon his, not wanting release. But was he able to trust this touch, this reconnection? Could he ever fully trust Rosella again? The heart is deceitful above all else. Could he even trust his own heart in the short time he had left?
"Do you feel like taking a ride?" she asked.
He knew this would be a test. He knew this ride would try the mettle of his soul and could prove to be the beginning of healing, a healing more of the spirit than of the body, but what would the medicine be?
Rosella drove them back to his high school football field in her rental car. She wanted to return to the spot where she had accepted his offer to be his lifetime partner, hoping the memory of her willingness to marry him might curry favor. She had flown into Memphis that day and was prepared to fly back immediately if the situation warranted. She did not know how to interpret the silent ride to the stadium. Was Dewayne indulging her? Was he mystified or coherent? Was he processing venom or forgiveness?
Dewayne was a willing child led through the fresh-cut grass of his youth. He still struggled with the reality of the moment. He knew pulsating life had begun in his veins with the first stroke of her hair back at the house and continued to surge through his system. He believed the outcry from within his soul was for life, and as long as he stayed connected, as long as he maintained this touch, as long as he followed this source, restoration to life was possible. Murderous floods had fallen from the sky on both of them, but that darkened torrent had washed neither of them away. Standing; seeing; touching; expelling air; feeling multiple levels of pain; moving in any direction at any speed; hearing your voice in silence; hearing the breaking of silence by the muscles in your throat praising or cursing or weeping or comforting-all of these and more were signs universally recognized as circulating life. In this moment of twilight, the choice was upon them.
"We're here;" Rosella said, stopping their forward progress with an easy tug of the hand on the point of the fifty-yard line where she had stood to receive his proposal of marriage. The memory was fresh, but the time between then and now had slipped into eternity. She opened the palm of her hand, and Dewayne saw his mother's ring, Rosella's wedding band. "I am not worthy ... I do not deserve these. .
"How did you ... ?"
She put a finger to his lips. "I am not worthy. I do not deserve them. I do not deserve you. When I tore them from my finger, I threw away the only thing that had any meaning to me. A security guard at the prison returned them, a stranger who could have kept them. I swear to you, when they came back to me, before any of us knew you were innocent, it was the first touch of hope I felt. I have raged against everything, beginning with God and ending with myself. I wasn't ready for what happened to us. How can you be ready for something like that? I will always question why our son and Sabrina and Bruce were taken from us. If I could have fought to protect them, I would have. If I could have died to spare their lives, I would have, but I did not get that choice. I have been given other choices"
She opened Dewayne's hand and let the rings slip into his palm, then closed his fingers around them. But she did not let go, clasping her hands around his fist. The tears she shed lubricated his fingers, and with each kiss upon the skin of his clenched hand, Dewayne felt the pulse of life, an exposure to hope, a sign of the dreadful logic of joy.
Rosella laid her head upon their intertwined fingers, a respite for her soul's raw disclosure. "I'm so ashamed, but I had to come to you and beg your forgiveness."
Dewayne's faith taught him to believe what he bound on earth was bound in heaven; what he loosed on earth was loosed in heaven. Could there be that much power to forgive given to a person? Yet the sparks of life that moments ago had splashed off the flint of his soul would not ignite. His breath quickened. His face pounded as if from shock. He nearly choked. There was nothing to draw on, nothing within him, that could fan this attempt to inflame hope.
He began to uncurl his fingers, relieving the pressure from around the rings in his hand. He allowed Rosella's hands to nest beneath his open hand as he stared at the precious tokens, the wedding band and the engagement ring of his beloved mother. He gently rattled the mementos in his palm, then stirred them with his finger like a preparatory ritual for a mystic reading that would provide him an answer. But there was nothing mysterious about the discord in his heart, nothing enigmatic about the quest to forgive. Was he capable of forgiving? That was the question.
"When does the heart stop bleeding?" he asked, and he surprised Rosella by removing his hand from hers and stepping back. "Nothing to this point has been able to stop the constant stream. The hole you made in my heart is too big. You plunged your knife into it that day in the hospital when I woke up not sure of what had happened. What had I done? What had I done? I had no contact with the outside world. I never saw the news. I never witnessed the public's rage. They told me what I had done and kept me in isolation. My only connection to the horror was through you, and when I see you now, I only see the memories of your hatred, you throwing these rings at me, you insisting I sign divorce papers, and worst of all, the comfort you took with Sly right in front of my face. I don't have a memory of the deaths of the children. I slept through all of that, and I will go to my grave bearing the guilt of being unable to save them. My memories are of you, of your disloyalty, of your condemnation, of your loathing"
The strength to support her weight vanished from her legs, and Rosella collapsed to her knees. The judgment she had measured out was returning to her.
"I don't want to be alone when I die, but I've lost my innocence. I thought for a moment it could be as it was, our love could be restored, but I don't know. I'm dying and I want to forgive, but I have no strength, no capacity. Too much blood has flowed out of me, and I'm very sorry."
He slipped the rings into his pocket and hobbled off the field with Rosella's excruciating cries rending the heavens.
"Chemo and radiation have shrunk the tumor, but didn't kill it. I propose we would insert the needle here;' Dr. Macy said, pointing to the picture of the tumor on the image from the CAT scan with his pen. "We heat the needle with radio waves and kill all the tissue in the immediate area"
Jake stood behind Dewayne, who sat in a chair in Dr. Macy's office. Both studied the small diameter of tissue at the tip of Dr. Macy's pen. How could a man Dewayne's age and in such excellent physical shape grow so lethal a combination of pulp? The University Hospital in Memphis told them up front the operation posed risks; it was only an experiment. The doctors could give no guarantee of a positive result, but the
procedure had been successful with liver, lung, and kidney cancers. Dr. Macy and his team would try to "cook" this tumor if Dewayne was willing.
"The first procedure will target the core of the tumor;" Dr. Macy said. "We will follow up in a few weeks with a second stage to wipe out any cancerous cells that may have survived around the edges. If necessary, we can go to stage three where we insert tiny capsules of chemotherapy drugs at the margins of the burn zone. By isolating the capsules, it should spare you the toxic side effects of normal chemo"
In the last few months he had not been spared from the worst of evils-the deaths of his mother, son, nephew and niece, fortunes vanished, career over, reputation vilified-so what could the toxic side effects of one more round of chemotherapy do that hadn't already been done to destroy him? When Dr. Macy had tracked Dewayne down and invited him to Memphis for a consultation, he had decided he had nothing to lose. After listening to Dr. Macy's presentation, he was still of the same mind. Dewayne reached his hand toward Dr. Macy, and the doctor shook it.
"Dr. Macy, I will put my tumor into your hands, and what's left of my faith I will put in God"
"Let's hope it will be a winning combination," the doctor said.
There was no reason to return to Springdale. Time was of the essence, and Dr. Macy was anxious to start the pre-op process. University Hospital would absorb all expenses. Dewayne was taking a risk for science, the first brain cancer patient to undergo such an experiment. There would be several days of tests to establish the operational protocol with Dr. Macy's team and build up Dewayne's strength; he also had some time to prepare mentally for what lay ahead of him. Dewayne insisted the room he was given be large enough to accommodate a bed for Jake; he wanted him by his side. He requested the hospital do all in its power to keep this information from getting to the media. If they caught wind of this story, they would descend. Dr. Macy and University Hospital administration agreed to the news blackout, but requested that, if the operation proved to be a success, they could announce the results with Dewayne at their side, and he agreed to the press conference.
There were three calls Dewayne asked Jake to make once he made the decision to have the operation. Coach Gyra was the first. He wanted Gyra to know what he was preparing to go through with all its risks, but its potential for positive results as well. He had no idea what it might mean for his future if the operation was a success, and Gyra relayed the message that there would be nothing he would like better than to welcome Dewayne back into the Stars' locker room.
Dewayne wanted Detective Hathaway to know, and when Hathaway found out, he asked if he could come and see Dewayne. He had some news, and given the circumstances, he would like to deliver it in person. He was owed vacation time, and why not spend a few days in Memphis?
The third call was to Rosella, which Jake argued Dewayne should make, but he abdicated the task.
"Should I return to Memphis?" she asked. "What should I do?"
"I'd catch the first plane out of Los Angeles;" Jake told her.
"Is this what he wants? Does he want me there?"
"He has not said those words." Jake could not lie and he could not manipulate, but he did not restrict himself from editorial comment. "I know he's hurt. I know he's scared. And I know I can't do this alone"
"I'll call back when I have my flight plans, but say nothing about this to him."
On his own, Dewayne made a fourth call to Winston Garfield, the reporter for the Springdale Leader. Winston drove to Memphis, and after the first battery of pre-op tests were done, they spent the rest of the day together. Should he not survive the operation he wanted Winston to publish his full story. The last call he made was to a lawyer Winston recommended in Springdale. There were some loose ends he wanted to tie up.
Detective Hathaway's first comment when Jake escorted him into Dewayne's room was about the upgrade in hospital accommodations.
"Yeah, this is what experimental surgery will buy you, but I'd rather see someone else lying here;" Dewayne said.
"This may cheer you up;" Hathaway said and took a seat beside Dewayne's bed. "A few days before Jake called me, I was contacted by the authorities of the federal prison in San Jose. They transported Tyler and his LA gang from Dominical once we busted them, quite a comedown, going from a five-star mansion to a third-world penitentiary. This was the end of the line for Tyler Rogan. I don't think the boys from LA appreciated being brought to Costa Rica on a vacation and ending up extending their stay a good ten to twenty. His autopsy report shows signs of acute torture; call it the three Bs: burns, bruises, and blunt instrument abuse in places where blunt instruments don't belong. He suffered. He suffered in the extreme, but it was the slit throat that finished him off, no doubt administered without last rites."
"How do you know it's the right guy?" Jake asked.
"Photos from the coroner, and the fingerprints and DNA match from his juvie days," Hathaway said.
Dewayne's face had been expressionless the whole time he listened to Hathaway. The tale was outrageous, too unbelievable, ill timed in its telling. Dewayne was facing the prospects of his own death; his emotions were at peak level, and hearing of Tyler's brutal death brought confusion. Still, one feeling began to rise out of the jumbled mass.
"They beat me to him;" he mumbled. "I wanted the pleasure.
Jake and Hathaway looked at him, thinking it was a perverse stab at humor, but the frustrated glint in Dewayne's eyes revealed true disappointment.
"This way you can have all the pleasure and none of the guilt," Hathaway said, hoping to lighten the morbidity in the room, and then he moved on to the next subject.
"With this new turn of events the money stolen from you will be restored. It will still take some time, but you should get back most of it"
"I'll trade you one brain tumor for everything in my account." Dewayne began to laugh at his gloomy attempt at a joke. His laughter continued and became infectious. It drew in the other two men, and when Hathaway said he would only take cash, they laughed even more, and even harder when the stern-faced nurse entered the room and demanded the volume level be brought down, which by that point was almost impossible. Dewayne had not laughed in months. He did not know he was capable of laughter. He did not know how much laughing he would do in the near future, but now was a good time to laugh.
Dewayne asked if he and Jake could eat their last evening meal together on the observation deck before the operation the next morning. He needed a break from wheeling all over the hospital, in and out of different rooms where the medical staff performed every imaginable test. He needed to be outside, breathing fresh air and looking into the night sky. The slight cool breeze felt good on his skin but made the flame of the candle inside the glass hurricane on the table hiss in complaint. Dewayne could not eat much. He sipped on a smoothie while studying the will he had drawn up.
Jake quietly ate his supper and nodded when necessary so Dewayne would think he was paying attention.
"Rosella gets everything;" he said. "That is the right thing, isn't it, Jake?"
Jake nodded as he buttered his roll.
"If I'm not around and there's a glitch in the system about getting our money back, you'll take care of it, right?"
Jake nodded, his eyes cast down upon his food.
"And you'll help her decide what ministries to give money to."
Jake held up his hands as if to say, When is this going to be over?
"It's important, Jake. It's important. And you get Mama's house or its monetary equivalent"
Jake stopped chewing and stared at Dewayne. He set down his fork and washed his last bite down with a swallow of sweet tea.
"You deserve it. No argument. The hospital notary is stopping by before the operation tomorrow to notarize it, and we're good to go," he said and plopped the document in front of Jake's plate.
Dewayne leaned back in his wheelchair and looked into the clear night sky. The lights of Memphis diffused the reflected brightness of the vast universe of stars
above him, manufactured light and light-years away competing against the darkness. He believed there were more stars than he could see, but he had to imagine them.
"Jake, I thought I knew so much, but I know so little," he said. "I do know this; mercy is not a natural instinct. When Detective Hathaway told me about Tyler's death, mercy did not come to mind. Disappointment that I wasn't the one who took the knife to his throat, pleasure at knowing how he suffered, but not mercy, not forgiveness. I'm about to have this operation, and I don't know how to ask God for mercy when I'm incapable of giving it. I wonder if God's capable of giving it. I thought that was a given, came with the faith package like a bonus, but I haven't felt it in a long time and don't know if I should expect it now. It certainly didn't arrive in time to save my family or me"
"Lay it down;" Jake said. "It's one of those unanswerables"
Jake finished his last bite of supper and set his empty plate on the table next to them. He slid Dewayne's will toward him and brushed some crumbs off the top page.
"Rosella know about this?" he asked, tapping his finger on the document.
Dewayne was quiet, the heavens still capturing his pensive gaze, and Jake repeated the question.
"She'll know soon enough," Dewayne said. Sorrow filled his voice. "When was the last time you spoke with her?"
Jake seized the moment. "Son, if you're gonna die, don't die a fool," he said, tossing diplomacy out the window. "Your mother might have loved me if I hadn't been a stubborn drunk. She might have married me if I had spoken up. Instead, I did that crawl-inside-the-bottle thing and kept my self-pity iced and pickled. I can't talk to you about theology matters since I haven't been very good at practicing them, but you do have one last chance for mercy, and that's with that girl. Don't let it be when she reads this will:"