Waking Lazarus

by T. L. Hines

‘‘Acourse.’’ Nathan had recently discovered the term ‘‘of course’’ and found it to his liking for most situations, but he always pushed the two words into one: acourse. Jude wasn’t sure if Nathan heard it as one word himself, or if he just liked the sound of the words together.

  Jude bent down to pick up Nathan, and they made their way to the dining room. As they entered, Rachel froze when she saw them. ‘‘What’s the matter?’’ Jude asked.

  She blinked, then the moment passed. ‘‘Nothing,’’ she answered. ‘‘Sit down, sit down. What do you guys want to drink?’’

  ‘‘Milk, Mommy,’’ Nathan said as Jude put him in a chair.

  Jude looked at her and smiled. ‘‘Me too,’’ he said. She smiled back and disappeared into the kitchen again.

  Jude sat and started to ask something about kindergarten but stopped when Rachel came back into the room with two glasses of milk. As much as he wanted to be gregarious and attentive for his son, he was still a long way from it.

  Rachel sat, then Nathan immediately chimed up. ‘‘Can I say the blessing, Mommy?’’ he asked, the eagerness dancing in his eyes.

  ‘‘You bet,’’ she said.

  They closed their eyes, and Nathan delivered his prayer in an unmistakable singsong cadence. ‘‘Dear God. Thank you for Mommy and Daddy, and for Poppa and Gramma Sanders, and for kindygarden. And bless this food, in Jesus’ name. Amen.’’

  ‘‘Amen,’’ Jude added as he opened his eyes. Both Nathan and Rachel were staring at him. Uncomfortable, Jude looked down at his plate, found the salad in front of him, and started dishing it into his bowl. Obviously he’d made a mistake. It must have been the amen thing. Maybe they resented him saying it; he knew Rachel was a bit of a Holy Roller, even though she’d never tried the ‘‘God loves you’’ lecture on him. She and Nathan went to church regularly, and he was okay with that. Let Rachel believe what she wanted. Like his mother had.

  And wouldn’t he, Jude Allman, the Incredible Dying Man, know more about that than most people? He had died three times, come face-to-face with . . . Best not to think about that.

  Jude decided he should just shut up for the rest of the dinner. He’d once seen a bumper sticker that said A closed mouth gathers no foot. Now, there was something he could say ‘‘amen’’ to. Just not aloud.

  Jude played with the mound of spaghetti on his plate, avoiding eye contact with either of them. Who was he kidding, anyway? Rachel couldn’t wait to get him out of the house. And Nathan would soon be old enough to figure out his father was more idle than idol. Maybe he could move again, start over. Leave behind the sham life he’d set up for another sham, add another blanket of secrecy. That would also solve the newly discovered Kristina problem.

  Nathan broke the long silence. ‘‘Are you ready for your surprise, Daddy?’’

  Jude looked nervously at Rachel. She smiled (a forced smile, he thought), then he looked back to Nathan. ‘‘Yeah. Sure.’’

  ‘‘Can I get it?’’ Nathan asked.

  Rachel touched Nathan’s hand, caressed it a bit, and nodded. Nathan jumped out of his chair and ran from the room.

  Jude admired how she could touch their son so casually, without a thought. Each time he touched Nathan—the one person he actually would touch—he had to make himself do it. Not because of Nathan. Nathan was perfect.

  But touching other people was so foreign to him now; doing it overloaded his senses and sent shock waves into his mind. He had hugged Nathan and brought him to the table that evening, and the feeling was wonderful. But before the hug, before picking up Nathan, he had to tell himself: touch your son. Rachel didn’t have to do that, and Jude was jealous.

  Nathan came back, slid into his chair. ‘‘Close your eyes, Daddy.’’

  Jude did as instructed. Closing his eyes was easy, comforting. As long as he was sitting up.

  ‘‘Surprise!’’ Nathan squealed. Jude opened his eyes and saw a picture: an outline of Nathan’s hand turned into art. Scribbles of color raced across the page, displaying a creative disregard for the boundaries of the handprint.

  ‘‘My hand, Daddy. I did it in kindygarden today.’’

  Jude smiled, forced himself to pick up the paper. ‘‘It’s great, Nathan. It’s really great.’’ Nathan beamed at him.

  ‘‘I can almost remember doing something like that,’’ Rachel said, ‘‘when I was in kindergarten or first grade or something. It was . . . wait, it wasn’t quite that. It was a handprint in that plaster of Paris stuff. And I remember my teacher—Mrs. Zieske, that’s right, it was second grade—painted it gold.’’ She looked at Jude. ‘‘You ever do anything like that, Ron?’’

  He returned Rachel’s gaze for a second. It was too much for one night, trying to talk as well as touch. One sense at a time, no more. And to top it off, there was the ‘‘amen’’ mistake. Jude’s head was starting to itch, and despite his vows to avoid a headache, he knew one was in the neighborhood. Soon it would be pounding on the front door of his brain, demanding to come in. ‘‘I’m not sure. I don’t remember too much about school. Maybe.’’

  Rachel turned her attention back to the spaghetti.

  Maybe next time they could talk. But not tonight. The batteries were too low.

  During the rest of the dinner, Jude listened to the old-fashioned clock on the wall pound out the seconds, then minutes. Jude counted the ticks to himself, a comforting action that staved off the waiting headache: one thousand three hundred twenty-seven, one thousand three hundred twenty-eight.

  He wanted to be home, safe in his recliner behind locked doors. One thousand three hundred thirty-three, one thousand three hundred thirty-four.

  Nathan, for his part, seemed not to notice. Spaghetti was indeed his favorite dinner, and he happily slurped it into his mouth as he chattered on about school, puppies, his best friend, Bradley Whittaker, and every other thought that floated through his mind. Jude was glad to have Nathan’s incessant questions and giggles to fill the void that he couldn’t.

  And time clicked by. Two thousand one hundred sixty-two, two thousand one hundred sixty-three.

  Rachel eventually stood and started to clear dishes. Jude thickly offered to help. She looked at him with that same odd sparkle in her eyes, then told him to tuck Nathan into bed.

  This thought electrified Nathan, and he jumped up and down in front of Jude, begging to be picked up. Pick up your son. Jude lifted him for the second time that evening—this time didn’t seem as draining, but more natural—and retreated down the hall.

  In Nathan’s room, Jude watched as Nathan peeled off his clothes, then wriggled into pajamas decorated with blue bunnies. Jude was amazed by his son’s seemingly endless energy, and he watched Nathan bounce up and down on the bed a few times.

  ‘‘Wanna read me a story?’’ Nathan asked.

  Jude nodded. Nathan crawled to the brightly colored bookcase at the end of his bed to retrieve a book. He handed it to Jude and then lay back down on his pillow. Jude opened the book, something about a mouse named Marigold, and turned to the first page. Jude started to read when Nathan’s voice interrupted, asking, ‘‘Aren’t you gonna lay down with me?’’

  Jude stared into his son’s eyes, wanting to say yes. Wanting to simply put his head down on the pillow and read a fun little story about a mouse who builds a yellow house. Maybe. Maybe. What was so hard about lying down, anyway?

  ‘‘Okay,’’ he said. Jude hesitated, then did it quickly. He put his head on the pillow, and his son snuggled against his shoulder, ready to listen before going to sleep. So far, so good. Jude took a deep breath, opened the book again, and started at page one.

  He made it all the way to page five before the panic tightened his lungs. It always happened this way whenever he tried to lie down. His body stiffened, and his chest tightened like an iron clamp. Lying down was like . . . well, it was like dying—really dying, not the ‘‘dying’’ Jude Allman had become famous for doing—and the thought of that scared him. He bolted upright, gasping for
air.

  Nathan sat up with him, then put his hand on Jude’s back and rubbed. Jude looked at Nathan, dimly thinking how he himself felt so young and terrified while his son seemed so old and wise.

  ‘‘You’re scared of laying down, Daddy?’’

  Jude paused, then nodded.

  ‘‘ ’Sokay. I’m scared of some things, too.’’

  Nathan continued to rub his father’s back, and a tear formed in Jude’s eye for what felt like the first time in forever.

  10

  SHAMING

  After Rachel finished putting the dishes in the washer and cleaning up—it really didn’t take much time at all—she walked silently to Nathan’s room. She wanted to check, make sure everything was all right. Not because she thought anything would be wrong, nothing like that. It was just . . . Ron really hadn’t been alone with Nathan very much. She didn’t have any reason to feel that Ron was a danger to her son. His son, too, she reminded herself. But then, she didn’t have any reason to feel that Ron wasn’t a danger, either. He was now, as ever, mysterious and unknown. And she wasn’t about to distrust her God-given maternal instincts.

  When Rachel was a young girl, the family next door owned a wolf/dog cross. The dog had always been happy and friendly, ready to slobber all over anyone who came within a mile, and he had the very unfrightening name of ‘‘Sunny.’’ But Rachel was terrified of Sunny, all the same.

  She knew some part of him was wolf, and wolves ate children.

  Rachel felt the same way about Ron being alone with Nathan. No, Ron wasn’t a wolf, but he was . . . something. That was perhaps even more unsettling.

  Rachel paused at Nathan’s mostly closed door when she heard someone sobbing. Alarmed, she wondered what Ron had done to make Nathan cry. But that thought quickly faded when she realized it wasn’t Nathan. She’d heard Nathan cry plenty of times before, and it was quite obvious this wasn’t her son sobbing.

  She cracked open the door, ventured a peek inside. Nathan was tightly hugging Ron as Ron’s head rested on Nathan’s shoulder. An odd picture. Her radar kicked down to zero. She pulled the door shut and went to the sofa in the living room, her mind full of questions. What had they talked about? What had made Ron cry? What was suddenly so different about him?

  A few times that evening Ron had done things that shocked her, things she never would have expected. First, he went to Nathan’s room right away. Never happened before. Even though she invited Ron over to see Nathan regularly, and even though Nathan genuinely loved his father, Ron had never seemed that . . . interested. He’d always been more like a lobotomized patient than anything else. He showed up, you told him where to sit or stand, he did it, then he left. But tonight, when she opened the door, she could tell right away he seemed more . . . awake, maybe.

  Then, when Nathan finished his prayer at the dinner table, Ron uttered a quick ‘‘amen.’’ What did that mean? Was God softening his heart? Did it mean she was supposed to talk to Ron about God?

  Yes, that signal was crystal clear, now that Ron was crying in Nathan’s room. Ron obviously needed someone to confide in, and Nathan had been the only one to show him unconditional love and acceptance. Her five-year-old had been there for Ron, while she herself had acted like the five-year-old. She felt the ball of pain starting to thrum a bit at the top of her chest.

  She sat on her sofa and waited, unsure what else to do, until she heard Ron coming down the hallway. He stopped as he entered the living room, apparently surprised to see her.

  ‘‘Oh,’’ he said. ‘‘Hi.’’

  ‘‘Everything okay?’’ she asked with a tinge of hope in her voice.

  ‘‘Yeah. Sure. He’s asleep. I mean, not really asleep, but he’s in bed.’’

  She nodded. ‘‘You want to sit down? Want some coffee or something?’’

  He looked at her for a moment. ‘‘I’m . . . I’m sorry. I’m no good at being—’’ he stopped and looked at the floor, and Rachel could tell he was searching for the right word—‘‘no good at being real, I guess.’’

  She smiled. ‘‘None of us are.’’

  Ron shuffled. ‘‘I do want to thank you for dinner. Not just tonight, but every time. I appreciate you letting me see Nathan.’’

  ‘‘He’s your son.’’

  Ron pointed toward the door. ‘‘I should get going.’’

  Rachel followed him. Ron unlocked the dead bolt, relocked it and unlocked it again, then turned as if to say something to her but didn’t.

  He turned back to open the door, and she reached out to touch his shoulder. He flinched and stopped, actually stopped, in mid-motion. ‘‘I’m sorry,’’ she blurted. ‘‘I didn’t mean to—’’

  ‘‘It’s okay. I’m just not used to, uh, that.’’

  Was he this bad the night she first met him? She didn’t think so. Ron seemed more withdrawn, more paranoid now. And she felt even more shame at this thought, knowing in her heart she could have prevented some of the slide. ‘‘I just wanted to tell you, Ron, that you can talk to me anytime. About anything. Really. I know I’ve never said that before, but there it is.’’

  He looked down at the wood floor of her porch. ‘‘Thank you,’’ he answered. ‘‘I’ll remember that.’’

  He stepped into the night. Rachel bit her lip as she closed the door, quite sure he wouldn’t remember it.

  11

  SEEING

  Jude didn’t park in front of his home. Not at night. It was much better to park a block away, turn off the lights, and watch. He scanned the home and the surrounding area, looking for any kind of movement. He knew it was odd to act this way, but it felt right. It was warm, comforting.

  Satisfied everything was safe, Jude opened his car door and walked down the block to his home. He unlocked his front door and dead bolts, then stepped inside. It was dark, impossible to see inside the home at night without any windows. But he could hear a steady, low whine coming from the back of the home: the security system, waiting to be disarmed. He moved quickly through the home, knowing the way without the aid of lights, and keyed the override code into the keypad. The whine stopped.

  He turned to walk out of the room again when a blinking light caught his attention. It was the message indicator on his answering machine. Odd. He had the answering machine because it was built into the most recent phone he purchased (it was nearly impossible to find a basic phone anymore, almost as impossible as a basic analog clock), yet he rarely received any messages. Maybe Frank at school? Rachel? He hoped not; if Rachel left a message, that might mean something had happened to Nathan since Jude had left their house.

  Or maybe it was worse. Kristina had found him; someone else probably could, too. Once the dam was breached, it wouldn’t take long for a torrent of water to start forcing its way through.

  Maybe it was even one of them.

  Jude turned on a light, looked steadily at the blinking ‘1’ on his machine. He pushed the button on the caller ID. The call was identified as a Red Lodge, Montana, number, but no name accompanied it. It wasn’t Rachel’s number or the school number.

  He pushed the New button and listened. The machine whirred a second, then found the message.

  ‘‘Hi, it’s Kristina. Look, I’m sorry about just barging in on you like that. So how about a coffee to make it up to you? My treat. I’m staying at the Stumble Inn—how’s that for a fine motel name?—room 305. Give me a call.’’

  Jude was relieved to hear Kristina. Mostly relieved. That meant it wasn’t an accident involving Nathan, or some other amateur sleuth sniffing down his trail. No additional fires to fuel the headaches in his mind. Still, he was a bit troubled. A part of him had hoped Kristina would just fade away, discouraged he wasn’t the eloquent saint she had pictured in her star-struck mind. Now it was obvious she wasn’t about to do that. And—Jude was ashamed to admit he was thinking this, but it was true—she would be dead soon, anyway. Cancer, or whatever it was. She hadn’t given him specifics, but she didn’t need to, not with her veile
d ‘‘Let’s just say I won’t be here long’’ reference. His location was a secret that would die with her, and then he’d fade back into obscurity. So if he just kept her happy and kept her quiet, he would be safe. He could retreat under his nice, warm blanket.

  The bigger issue, of course, was: what was he, Jude Allman, aka Ron Gress, going to do next? Would he call Kristina? She needed some help, some reassurance, and if he could swallow his own miserable fear, he could give that to her. (And so keep her quiet, helping himself in the process.) The way he’d given it to his best friend, Kevin, so many years ago. The way he’d given it to thousands of people before he disappeared.

  Or would he throw a few things in a bag and hit the highway? The thought had been simmering in the back of his mind since Kristina’s visit. It would be so easy and painless, and he could sink back into the murky depths of his own thoughts without letting in anyone else.

  As Jude sat and debated, an image of his son appeared. Nathan, a boy who was wise beyond his years, a boy wise beyond his father’s years, for that matter. He thought about what Nathan would do, and the answer became very clear.

  Jude pressed the caller ID button and memorized the number for the Stumble Inn.

  Jude and Kristina met at the Red Lodge Cafe, perhaps the easiest place to find on the town’s main street. Its sign was a large tipi, with orange neon Indian figures dancing around it.

  People who weren’t exposed to Indians, he knew, were always offended by the term Indian. They wanted you to use the euphemism Native American. But growing up around Indians in Nebraska, and living near the Crow and Northern Cheyenne reservations in Montana, Jude knew there was nothing wrong with Indian. Most of the tribal members called themselves Indians and had no problem with the word. It only made outsiders uncomfortable. In a lot of ways, death was a similar thing. People who hadn’t faced death, hadn’t experienced it, wanted to think warm, comforting thoughts about it. People who knew death up close and personal, people such as himself, were more pragmatic. There was nothing touchy-feely about the experience.