This is a work
of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons living or dead
is entirely coincidental.
Chapter XXVII
On her way home from work, Johanna bought a computer program for setting up a web site and signed up for a community college class on web design. Learning Internet software at night school was almost as good as dating.
As soon as she had learned enough, Johanna went to work on her home page. She posted a picture of the earth as seen from space, and she made it turn slowly. And on the spinning world, islands disappeared and coastlines eroded as predicted by global warming.
Below it, she entered one of her favorite quotes:
“Here is the true meaning and value of compassion and non-violence, when it helps us to see the enemy’s point of view, to hear his questions, to know of his assessment of ourselves. For, from his view, we may indeed see the basic weaknesses of our own condition, and, if we are mature, we may learn and grow and profit from the wisdom of the brothers who are called the opposition.
Martin Luther King, Jr.”
Then she dug through her old files for all the prohibited fairy tales. ‘Finally, freedom of the press,’ she thought, and she grinned and hugged herself with joy.
Ivan’s layout editor knocked on his door. “Hey, Ivan, you asked me to keep an eye on Johanna’s column. Well, she’s sneaked another item into it. She referenced a website, www.fairytalesfortherestofus.com and it’s not the one she uses for the newspaper.”
Ivan shook his head, and then he laughed. “Good for her! What the hell! Leave it in. If there’s flack, I’ll handle it.”
On her web site Johanna posted the story of the coyotes in the chicken coop and her version of “The Emperor’s New Clothes” along with everything else she’d been forbidden to write at the “Gazette”, and she wondered if anyone read them and what they thought. Two weeks later, she found out when she added a chat room. Most of the comments went along the lines of:
“You’re sick!”
“Watch your back. We shoot traitors for sport.”
“If you’d lived in Afghanistan, you’d have been beaten and stoned by now.” ‘That’s true, thought Johanna, ‘but that doesn’t mean we should stoop to their level. But she felt disheartened.
Strawberry Canyon was wet and cold and Johanna hugged her jacket close to her. “Where’s the joy, Lord? The liars and bomb droppers have all the fun. What about me? Eeyore the donkey was cheerier than I am.” She shivered and slipped her hands into her pockets for the warmth. “This must have been how Jesus felt at Gethsemane. Well, God, I’m not Jesus. And I can’t drink his cup. And I can’t walk his path. I’m not even a saint. And, sometimes, I’m not even a very brave or a very nice person. I’m just me. And I can’t keep working on this web site when the only feedback I get is someone wanting to stone me. So don’t ask. I’m not going to do it.” She nodded her head in emphasis. But she felt a tugging at her heart. She tried to ignore it - only it wouldn’t go away. “Okay, I’ll try, God. I’ll keep writing. I can do that much. What’s the worst that could happen? I’ll go as far as I can. But I’m stopping way short of Golgotha! Just so you know.”
And she posted a quote of her own:
Dear God,
I wish for everyone who visits my web site love and respect for your world and the life you’ve given to all of us - human, plant, and animal. May my readers, know peace and comfort. May they know you. May they find joy that drowns the need to acquire. May the seven deadly sins sleep with dinosaurs. May the weak and timid find strength and courage. May truth and justice rule our nation and the world.”
She looked up from the keyboard and said to the air, “Especially me - may I find strength and courage. It’s the only way I can keep on going with this. You said that anything we asked for in Jesus’ name would be granted. Lord, I ask this of you in your Son’s name. Amen.”
Then she posted “The Chicken Coop, Part II”.
The chickens began to get restless. The foxes were taking more and more eggs and giving the chickens less and less feed.
Meanwhile, the foxes were running low on oil, and they eyed the rabbit warren just down the way, which sat on top of a pool of oil. In fact, the rabbits had to be careful about where they dug, or they'd come out all black and slick.
“I have a plan,” said the King Fox. “We need something to rally the troops behind us. Let’s kill two birds with one stone. (Forgive the insensitive analogy.) We need more oil, and we need to get the heat off of us vis-a-vis our egg acquisitions. So here is what I propose…”
The next day, he called the chickens to gather around him. “My fellow chickens,” began the King Fox. “We have discovered a link between the rabbits and the coyotes. They’re in cahoots with each other. Furthermore, they plan to kill us all and take over the chicken coop. They have anthrax. They have plague and smallpox, and ricin and nerve agents. Such horrid, nasty chemicals! And, worst of all, they have nucular bombs!!!” The look on his face conveyed the horror of it all.
At first, the chickens were mystified. The only ones who had nuclear bombs any more were the foxes. And coyotes and rabbits had never gotten along, let alone plotted against anyone else. But the King Fox and all his advisors were so certain! “If we don’t stop the rabbits, the next cloud we see may be mushroom-shaped.”
Well, that scared the chickens. They chickened out, as it were. And, united against the rabbits, they forgot their quarrels with the foxes. After all, the rabbits were going to kill them in a ghastly fashion. The foxes said so, and they wouldn’t lie.
Dear Readers,
You write the ending. Do we kill the rabbits? Or do we act more humane, and more human?
Peace,
Jody
There were only two comments in her chat room:
Magnum: Kill the rabbits. And if you like Sadaam so much, why don’t you go live in Iraq?
Sandy Pumpkin: Thanks, Jody. It’s nice to know that not everyone wants to wage war.
The next day, Ivan called Johanna into his office, and this time he laughed and smacked both hands on his desk. “I found your web site – ‘Fairy Tales for the Rest of Us. Catchy. Nice graphics, too. So you had to have the last word.”
“Are you going to fire me?”
“No, I’m going to give you a raise. For your work on the paper, of course, not for the website. Way to go, Shrimp! Stand up. Get counted. Watch out for rotten rutabagas!”
Ernie Martinez was quick to find Johanna’s column, and he knew Alex wouldn’t be pleased with it.
Alex wasn’t. “How could she have known all this?” Alex asked Ernie, but he just shrugged.
“How could she have known?” Alex read and reread Johanna’s fairy tales. “There’s no way. There aren’t more than fifty people who know about Operations Quickdraw, Long Island, and Dirty Patriot, and they’re all trustworthy. Unless, maybe, Hendricks got drunk and loose with his tongue. I always wondered about him.”
“Wiretap her phone and bug her computer. Maybe someone’ll show up on her e-mail.” Ernie said.
“We can always throw her in jail until she divulges her sources.”
“But she’s not putting anything into the paper. Just that wimpy blog. If we get on her case for that and it gets into the news, people who haven’t seen her web site might go looking for it, and we’d end up with a really big mess.”
“If she works for a newspaper, Homeland Security should already have something on her,” said Alex.
A half hour later, a Homeland Security agent brought Alex a thirty-seven page dossier on Johanna. It included educational background, a list of credit cards, religious affiliation, favorite hobbies, stores, and restaurants, an exhaustive list of friends and acquaintances going back to college with background checks on many of them. He also brought copies of phone taps and computer taps.
Alex and Ernie spread the information out over a small maple table and poured through it. "Absolutely nothing. On either side, theirs or ours."
"There has to be something. A gigantic leak somewhere. Look harder." Alex furrowed his brow. “Maybe it’s nothing - or just coincidence. And there can’t be that many people reading her website. Still…” He scratched his chin. “It won’t hurt to keep an eye on her.”
Johanna used the name, Jody, in her web address, and she posted something new every Tuesday evening at seven o’clock. It was satisfying to take all the stories and poems that she hadn’t been able to print in the Gazette and to post them on her web site.
Johanna’s next piece was an ancient Buddhist story:
In a far away kingdom the holy men were fighting about the nature of God. So the king told them a story:
Once upon a time there was a certain raja who called to his servant and said, “come, good fellow, go and gather together in one place all the men of Savatthi who were born blind… and show them an elephant.”
“Very good, sire,” replied the servant, and he did as he was told. He said to the blind men assembled there, “here is an elephant,” and to one man he presented the head of the elephant, to another its ears, to another a tusk, to another the trunk, the foot, back tail, and tuft of the tail, saying to each one that that was the elephant.
When the blind men had felt the elephant, the raja went to each of them and said to each, “Well, blind man, have you seen the elephant? Tell me, what sort of thing is an elephant?”
Thereupon the men who were presented with the head answered, “Sire, an elephant is like a pot.” And the men who had observed the ear replied, “an elephant is like a winnowing basket.” Those who had been presented with a tusk said it was a ploughshare. Those who knew only the trunk said it was a plough; others said the body was a granary; the foot, a pillar; the back, a mortar, the tail, a pestle, the tuft of the tail, a brush.
Then they began to quarrel, shouting, “Yes it is!” “ No, it is not!” “An elephant is not that!” “Yes, it’s like that!” And so on, till they came to blows over the matter.
Brethren, the raja was delighted with the scene.
O how they cling and wrangle, some who claim
For preacher and monk the honored name!
For quarreling, each to his view they cling.
Such folk see only one side of a thing.
Jainism and Buddhism. Udana 68-69
Parable of the Blind Men and the Elephant
She got mail in her chat room almost immediately.
Sandy Pumpkin: I like it. Humans have different gifts and abilities. Why not religions? Like St. Paul’s letter - many gifts; one body.
Magnum: Now you’re talking heresy! Someone should rip out your tongue and saw off your typing fingers.
Jody: The Salem witch hunts ended years ago. This is still a free country, and I’ll say whatever I want, thank you.
Spiderman: You go, girl! Say what you have to say, shout to anyone who will listen, and don’t stop until everyone hears you. We have to take the risk. That’s what it means to have a soul. To tell everyone – friend and foe – this is what I believe, and I offer my name and my life for it. The hardest part is that it seems that we’re the only ones who think this way. It’s hard to be the first to weather criticism. But others will follow. We have to believe it.
Brat: U guys R way strA-A-A-A-nge!!!!
Magnum: Go to church if you want to know God. Listen to your pastor. He’ll tell you what to think.
Sandy Pumpkin: That’s dangerous – not to think for yourself. You can end of with a Kool-Aid ‘n cyanide cocktail.
Magnum: Any Christian will tell you that his path is the only true one.
Shadow: And Muslims will say the same.
Spiderman: But it’s hard to acknowledge the virtue of the ones whose faith is radically different from your own.
Shadow: Sometimes it’s even harder to accept someone who’s the same. Fundamental Moslems and Jews and Christians have so much in common. Guardians of their faith, they are like bloodhounds when it comes to uncovering sin, and they do not compromise. Keeping religion pure is their finest achievement, and their biggest moral danger is pride. In fundamental Islam, there are bans on so many things.
Jody: Maybe there’s virtue to that, but it’s the part of the elephant that I couldn’t accept.
Shadow: It is because you have never lived with death at your elbow. But when you walk through desert, carrying your life in your camel’s saddlebag, or when you hear rifles and soldiers, and know that only Allah can make safe your life – when you have lived this – then you understand. You dare not make a mistake; you dare not risk divine displeasure. Because you see in a rice bowl that your life lies in God’s hands, and as you tie on your sandals, you know that it is only with God’s pleasure that you do so. We believe in Allah’s mercy, but we who live with death on our shoulder, we dare not take it as already granted. We do as we are told. We pray as we are told. We love as we are told. We cannot take the same risks as the rich do. In matters concerning salvation, one cannot take chances. And the reward for obedience is divine ecstasy.
Brat: This is the stra-a-a-a-ngest chat room ever!!!!!
“Brother Walrus” could have gone into Johnanna’s column at the Gazette, but she decided she wanted it on her website instead:
Brother Walrus
Brother Walrus began the singing, a most unlikely leader since his voice croaked and grunted between the cracks of pianos (which were yet to be invented.) But he sang, propelled by an unknown force, until he found the sounds that blended into music. The canary chimed in, warbling a harmonic third. Then the mice one by one, the whales, the dolphins, Adam and Eve of course, and the dogs and donkeys added their spirit to the music. Giraffes beat time with their hoofs.
The chiming cradled the earth in a symphony and wafted up through the clouds to the angels. Last to join in were the peacocks, cats, and hyenas, the independent ones, the proud ones, their solitude a part of the masterpiece.
Sandy Pumpkin: You paint a picture of Heaven.
Shadow: Or life on earth, mirroring Heaven.
Brat: Can’t U just see it? God up there, or down here or wherever. Can’t U just imagine Him watching us & saying, “Here’s the kingdom! It’s at hand. Right here. Forget the castle in the clouds. This is Ur reward. This earth. Sing or shout at each other or kill each other. It’s Ur choice. & it’s up to U whether U make it Heaven or hell.”
Sandy Pumpkin: I see Heaven in the faces of those I love.
Shadow: But it is also in the face of the one you call your enemy.
Sandy Pumpkin: We are called to be stewards of the earth. And you and I will spend eternity in the Heaven or hell that we have created right here on earth.
Spiderman: Prepare! For the Kingdom of God is at hand. (I always wanted to say that.)
Shadow: What if we all prayed for each other, especially those whom we don’t like, the ones we don’t understand, the people we consider our enemies?
Brat: Does that include older bruthers.????
Johanna logged off and she felt squirmy, uncomfortable. She’d never prayed those prayers before. Mostly she’d just talked to God as if He were her friend or big brother. And she could carry a grudge with the best of them. “Hi, God,” she said. “Please bless the ones who started all this mess.” She said the words out loud, but there was no sense of being in the presence of love. And she noticed that “all this mess” was a touch too judgmental to make her words a prayer. She tried again: “The ones who caused all this pain and destruction - help them find peace.” It was the first time she’d felt heartburn. She picked up a book and threw it across the room. “Shit, shit, shit!!!” she yelled aloud and her throat grew sore. “No,” she thought, “sorry, God, but I’m not ready to do this.”
Magnum seemed to have quit the chat room. The five of them, Spiderman, Shadow, Brat, Sandy Pumpkin, and Johanna were on the net almost every Tuesday at seven P.M. They wrote about everything, feelings, beliefs, fears, and passions.
‘Funny,’ thought Johanna, ‘I’ve never met any of these people, and they’re just about my closest friends. I wonder what they’re like. Sandy’s probably a cross between a theology scholar and a pumpkin farmer. And Shadow’s like a wraith in robes and a turban. And Brat probably has braces - and blisters on her thumbs from typing.’
She’d saved the best for last. ‘Spiderman,’ she thought. ‘A Greenpeace warrior, strong, and young and angry – the type who’d take foolish risks for his convictions, the one in the demonstration standing up to the cops and catching the baton blows. I wonder if he’s as sexy in person as he sounds on the web. And is he married?’
Johanna couldn’t believe she’d dared to think like this. ‘Oh!! Stop it!!’ she said to herself. ‘The web site isn’t supposed to be a dating service. But…darn it…I can always dream…’
Chapter XXVIII
Her next web posting was a poem. And, although she’d never admit it, Spiderman inspired the poem.
A Time for Heroes
This is the time that needs heroes.
We need you all on our side -
Corporate criminals, highly placed hypocrites,
For it’s a turnin’ time.
And the water is threatening the dam.
It’s time to rebuild.
It’s time to join up with the masses, the rest of us
Unworthy just like you.
This is the time that needs heroes.
We need you all on our side -
Looters, and cutpurses,
Takers of money – the great and the petty,
For it’s a turnin’ time.
And the wind wants to scatter our souls.
Time to give; time to build.
Time to scatter some kindness for free.
This is the time that needs heroes.
We need you all on our side -
Politicians, and lawyers,
Twisters of truth.
For it’s a turnin’ time.
And the Hell fire knocks at the door.
Turn to honor and justice.
Turn your heart to the wind.
Tell the truth and see God.
For it’s a turnin’ time.
Tell the truth and see God.
We need every man, every woman and child -
The sinner, and righteous,
For it’s a turnin’ time.
We’re all sinners, all righteous.
For it’s a turnin’ time.
God almighty, all loving
Soul, Spirit, Wind, Lifeforce
Show us the way.
Men - strong, noble cowards
Divine, base and glorious.
Turn to the sun;
Turn to green growing greatness.
For it’s a turnin’ time.
Spin your hope, fragile spider webs
Spin, spin and dream,
Spin your hope, strong as spider webs,
Spin, spin and dream.
For this is the time that needs heroes,
And it’s a turnin’ time.
E-mails to the chat room came in almost at once.
Sandy Pumpkin: I liked it. It made me feel hopeful.
Brat: Now tell my bruthers that it’s a turning time.
Spiderman: Never mind Brat’s brothers. Tell the whole world. A turning time project. Imagine the impact we could make!
Jody: A peace project. Interesting! Okay, how do you propose to do it?
Spiderman: Is there any way we could meet? I want to see what you look like.
Johanna: You read my mind. I’d love it. But you probably live two continents away from me. At least our time zones must be close because we’re typing e-mails at the same time.
Spiderman: So where do you live?
Jody: Berkeley, California. How about you?
Spiderman: San Jose, about an hour south of you. What are the odds! That’s not too far away. How about this weekend? We could meet halfway between.
Jody: I guess it should be somewhere with lots of people.
Spiderman: You don’t trust the Spiderman! It’s a sad day when a Superhero has to show credentials.
Jody: Hey, for all you know, I’m an ax murderer, and you need protection from me. Some place with lots of people. That’s non-negotiable.
Spiderman: Okay. Skip the halfway part. How about on the Berkeley campus – twelve noon, at Sather Gate. It’s the only place in Berkeley I’ll be able to find. We can go get lunch, and then, if we can’t think of anything to say to each other, at least we’ll have eaten.
Jody: Okay. What’s your name, when you’re not being Spiderman?
Spiderman: Don’t laugh. It’s Homer Perlman. What’s yours?
Jody: I can see why you go by “Spiderman”. Mine’s Johanna Jacobson. Put a daisy in your lapel or somewhere, so I’ll recognize you. I’ll carry a daisy too. Hey, is anyone else reading this? Brat? Sandy? Shadow? Do you want to come to Berkeley this weekend?
Brat: Mom laid down 3 rules 4 the net – non-negotiable – no addresses & phone #s, no sex talk, & no meeting anybody.
Sandy Pumpkin: 247 Elm Street. If you’re ever in Vancouver, British Columbia, look me up, but California is too far.
Brat: Is Shadow around?
Sandy Pumpkin: Guess not.
Johanna: So, Spiderman, what do you look like?
Spiderman: Red cape, spandex body suit, classic web design – Armani collection.
Johanna: No, really.
Spiderman: Five eleven. Dark blond hair. Not married. Not dating anyone seriously. What about you?
Johanna: I pictured you tall and dark. I’m Forty-three. My hair’s almost black, and I have brown eyes. Same thing with relationships. And I know this isn’t a date or anything, but how old are you?
Spiderman: Forty-four. I can imagine your face, but don’t forget the daisy – just in case.
Johanna logged off, and sent a glance up into the air. “Thanks, God,” she said. “I know this isn’t a date, but thanks anyway.”
Spiderman was cute, not handsome. A spray of freckles covered his nose, making him look younger than forty-four. He had a daisy between his teeth, another in his lapel pocket, and a third behind his right ear, and he held up his Chinos with a Spiderman belt and belt buckle.
“Hi,” he said.
The smile was really something, thought Johanna, the shy smile of a small boy. Johanna warmed up to him immediately. And, by way of greeting, she ran up to him and wrapped his chest in a hug, as if they’d known each other all their lives.
“I was afraid this would be awkward,” said Johanna. “But I feel as if we’ve always been friends.”
“It’s because of the web site. I already know so much about you, Johanna. I know you’re passionate about truth and freedom. And I know you’re a prophet.”
“A prophet?”
“Someone compelled to shout truth to the world. You’re very lucky.”
“A prophet! No one in his or her right mind wants to be a prophet. They all die ghoulish deaths, like getting stoned or boiled in oil.” She flushed. There was something exciting about him, something almost magical that made her feel powerful. “And you,” she said. “You don’t look at all like what I expected, but you talk the way you write on the web.”
“Let’s get to know each other,” he said, taking her hand in his. “There’s a place a couple of blocks up the street where they serve really good coffee, and sandwiches too if you’re hungry. How does that sound?”
“Fabulous,” said Johanna. “I’m starving.”
First, Homer opened her door. Then he escorted Johanna to a table, and waved his arm towards the bench. “After you,” he said.
“Thanks,” said Johanna. “Formal manners, I love it.” And she scooted onto the bench.
There was a breathy catch in his voice. "You really are a beautiful woman." He looked intently into her face, tapping his finger against his chin.
She giggled. “And you need new glasses.”
“No, I need a ham sandwich and coffee,” he said as the waitress came by to take their order.
“Me, too,” Johanna said, “and chili cheese fries to share.
“Where did you get the idea to do the web site?” asked Homer.
“I felt I had to do something,” she said. “And when my boss wouldn’t let me print what I wanted, well, I decided that the web site was the best I could do. I just wish I could get more people to read it. Or understand what I’m trying to say. I’ll bet most people think I’m a crackpot.”
“You’d have more credibility if you’d let your readers know where you get your ideas. Do you have a source in the FBI or something?”
“No, nothing like that. It’s just common sense. But the truth is so ugly that no one wants to admit it, especially anyone who’s backed the president or the war. It’s too hard to admit that they made such a bad mistake.”
“But the details… How do you get access to the details? Do you have a bug in one if the White House computers?”
“I’m no hacker. I only learned how to set up the web site a few months ago. But I do know journalism, and I can recognize censorship. When an article appears on page seventeen that should have made the front page, I know we’re not getting the truth. And I know enough about oil and energy policy and politics and weapons of mass destruction to know that we’re being lied to.”
Once the conversation turned to politics, Johanna was set on fire. “I just get so angry and so…so... I just want to hang a sign over the freeway telling people, “listen!!! Just listen! Use the brains God gave you. Hear what they’re saying in Washington. The spin sounds good, and it’s warm and it’s comforting. But it’s not logical.”
“You have mustard on your chin,” said Homer.
“And then they play the God card. God says you’re holy if you bomb Baghdad. Allah says you’re holy if you crash the twin towers. Christians don’t annihilate people because they might have some bombs that no one was able find in the last ten years. And every time I see another American flag waving off of a freeway…well I just want to shout. ‘If you’re really a Christian, don’t vote for murder.’ All those flags really get to me.”
Homer put down his sandwich. “So let’s do it,” he said. “Let’s start hanging signs over the freeways. They have enough flag material waving around to wrap up a small country. Let’s show everyone what we think.”
“What would we do?” Johanna was just a little apprehensive.
“A sign. A new one every night. And we’ll hang them where commuters can see them, and we’ll put all of them next to the American flags that seem to be proliferating on their own.” Homer’s face suddenly became serious. He gave Johanna a piercing look deep into her eyes. “Are you with me?”
“I guess so.”
“It’s not illegal. No one can do anything to you for hanging a sign. It’s an act of patriotism – exercising your freedom of speech.”
“Do you think they’ll leave the signs up?”
“It’s still a free country. Last I heard. They’d better leave them up or their interfering with our First Amendment rights.”
“Okay. I’ll do it. Tonight. The Morello Street overpass to Highway Four. Then I’ll work my way west on Four – a different overpass every night till I get to Interstate 80.
“Me, I’ll tackle the Expressways. San Thomas Expressway, Lawrence Expressway. I’ll give new meaning to the phrase “Painting the town.” He leaned forward. “I know this isn’t supposed to be a date, but…”
It wasn’t a great kiss, but Johanna savored the taste and the sensation.
“Do you want to go somewhere more private?” he asked. He smiled a crooked, little-boy grin. “You’re very sexy when you talk about weapons of mass destruction.” He put his hand on her waist – just below her breast.
“Yes, but no. But maybe we could meet again like this.”
“No reason not to,” Homer promised. His hand lingered at her waist. You have Spidey’s word on it.” He dabbed his lips with his napkin, then picked up the bill and stood up. “We have a deal now, about the signs. You won’t back out on this, will you?”
“I’ll do it. - promise.”
Johanna drove home feeling complete and contented. She pulled out a bed sheet and began to block out the letters of her message, making sure that everything fit. In the background, a radio played songs from the seventies. Johanna sang and hummed along as the felt-tipped pen made shushing noises on the old cotton.
And while Johanna was writing her sign, Alex was busy with phone calls to his FBI contacts. "I want a 24-hour surveillance at the highway Four Morello Street overpass - priority one. A woman – Johanna Jacobson: Caucasian, height - approximately 5’ 2”, weight 110 lbs., dark hair and eyes, no obvious scars or other marks. She’s a suspected terrorist. She’ll be hanging a sign there, right below the American flag. When she hangs that sign, arrest her and hold her. I’ll make arrangements to have her transported for interrogation.”
Then he called his old-time partner Ernie. “Have her flown out to McLenco Texas. There's a doctor there who's done some research with mind drugs."
"You mean like sodium pentothal?"
"This is much better than sodium pentothal, much more precise, more scientific. You don't get the babbling and gibberish you do with sodium pentothal. This guy is a genius. Here's the address. I'll get a hold of Heckleweit and tell him to expect to Johanna."
Johanna turned off of Interstate 80 and onto Highway Four, fighting the steering wheel to keep the car steady. The wind whistled and howled. I should take it as a warning, thought Johanna, and she turned up the radio in the car to drown out the sound of the wind outside. Even as an adult, Johanna was spooked by storms, relating them to the horrible night some forty years ago when her daddy had flown to London.
She took the Morello St. exit and parked a block away from the overpass. Then, carrying scissors, twine, and her bed sheet, she walked over to where the American flag was displayed. “Make me a channel of your peace.” Those were the words on her sign - the prayer of St. Francis. She examined the wire fence for the best way to anchor her sign to it. A car pulled up, but Johanna paid no attention to it, concentrating instead on the sign and the protective fencing. Something struck her at the back of her knees, and she crumpled to the concrete. She looked up to see dark shapes, maybe four or five men with nightsticks. Instinctively, she curled up into a ball, ducking her head behind her arms. The blows came so fast, Johanna had no time to think or to understand what was happening. She felt the nightsticks glance off of her legs and shoulders and back. She felt arms pulling at her hair and her legs. She heard screams and dimly knew they were her own. “FBI. Stop struggling,” a voice from the dark commanded her. At the same time a burning shooting sensation bit into her hip – a hypodermic syringe. And then was nothing … nothing until she woke up strapped to a bed in a darkened room.
Chapter XXIX
Fairy Tales for the Rest of Us – the Chat Room
Brat: So what happened? It’s Tuesday; 7 o’clock has come & gone. Where’s Jody? Did she elope with Spiderman or something?
Spiderman: No such luck! And she’s gorgeous. And sweet and passionate, and with a little more time I could have fallen for her. But I think she loves a cause, especially a dying cause, more than she could ever love a man.
Shadow: But Jody is on the computer every Tuesday like a clock working. She would not let some small thing like preventing war stop her from writing her weekly message. In fact, her weekly message is her way of preventing war.
Spiderman: We started talking about the impending invasion. Then we got really depressed thinking that it was inevitable, and suddenly she got agitated. “I’ve got to act,” she kept saying. And finally, her eyes got real big and she looked at me. “I’m going to Iraq,” she said. “That’s crazy,” I told her. “What good can you possibly do over there?” “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t understand it, but I’ve got to get over there. Call me obsessed or crazy, but…this is going to sound really dumb…it’s like God is calling me. I’ll get the next flight into Baghdad’s airport.”
Shadow: But you cannot fly into Baghdad any more.
Spiderman: I told her, “You can’t fly into Baghdad anymore.” And she said, “Then I’ll fly into Iran – into Tehran or wherever, and I’ll figure out how to get to Iraq from there.” She just went on and on like that.
I thought of calling the cops but what could they do? So I just kept talking to her for as long as I could, hoping that she’d come to her senses. We talked until way late into the evening. And in the end, I told her to give it some time and to think about it, and then I just let her go and hoped for the best.
Brat: Let’s keep the chat room going anyway. Maybe Jody’ll come back on some day.
Sandy Pumpkin: And you should the check the American newspapers’ front pages in case Jody - or her dead body - is on it.
Spiderman: You keep it going if you want to, but I’m not logging on to Fairytalesfortherestofus anymore. To tell the truth, Jody was always the main attraction for me at the chat room.
Ivan was livid when Johanna didn’t show up for work. A week went by, and he began to suspect foul play. He checked hospitals, police stations, and morgues, but uncovered nothing.
Johanna’s mother just cried when she found out that her daughter was missing. She filed a report at the police station and was told that her daughter was last seen boarding a plane to Iran. She took out her rosary beads. “Please keep her safe,” she said out loud through tears.
` Newspapers throughout the country blasted the news across the front page:
We’ll Go Alone - Troops Begin Invasion of Iraq
Fairy Tales for the Rest of Us – the chat room
Sandy Pumpkin: Jody hasn’t posted anything tonight, so here is my thought: Too much evil is done in God’s name when people confuse faith with lack of thought. I see this and it frightens me.
Shadow: Jihad, Pogrom, the Inquisitions, the Ku Klux Klan. I see it too and am saddened. Also Hitler’s Germany.
Brat: Hey, Jody, R U back yet? Here’s my version of Ur poem. We’re all a mixture of venom & sparkle, of mean & divine. & it would be heaven 2 spend eternity with the divine sparkly part of the most disgusting creatures on earth. Except 4 brothers!!!
Shadow: Jody is not back on line yet. I worry for her.
Brat: I’ll bet we’re all worried about her, & meanwhile she’s going hot & heavy with Spiderman. Romance is way more likely than foul play.
Ivan: Ivan Buncheski here. I’m Johanna Jacobson’s editor.
Brat: U R not supposed 2 use Ur real name.
Ivan: Okay, call me Big Bad Wolf. I’m Johanna’s editor, and I’m worried about her. She hasn’t shown up for work in several weeks.
Brat: She’s Jody, not Johanna. & she had a date - I guess it was a date – with Spiderman.
Big Bad Wolf: While I was drinking tea with Peter Pan, no doubt.
Brat: No, Spiderman was his log on handle. His real name was Homer Perlman. & they wanted 2 meet. &, according 2 Spiderman, Jody decided 2 fly 2 Iran right after they talked.
Big Bad Wolf: Johanna’s dingy, but she’s not that dingy.
Brat: It’s Jody, not Johanna.
Big Bad Wolf: But people don’t just fly to Iran on a whim. The story seems fishy. I’ll have some of my staff check it out.
Shadow: Meanwhile, we must pray for our friend, Jody.
Sandy Pumpkin: And all the others whose lives are in danger. Jody is the one we know. Others with unknown faces are also in peril.
After they’d all logged off, Brat sat staring at her computer for a long time, rocking back and forth and absent-mindedly poking her mouse with a half-eaten Snickers bar. It sunk in slowly – Jody could be in serious trouble. The prayers for Jody, nirvana, the heavenly banquet, the best of all creatures on earth – these thoughts buzzed in her head the same way the white arrow zipped around her screen. If all this goodness existed, how could Jody have disappeared? She typed in United Religions, and found that such a website existed, and without a conscious thought, she clicked on “contact us”.
Brat: This sucks, sucks, sucks. Jody’s dead or kidnapped or God knows what, & no one’s doing 1 damn thing about it.
Brat stared at the screen with tears running down her cheeks as she typed: This sucks, this sucks this sucks this sucks. So what are U doing about this???? They’re doing all this in God’s name, U know. Great words, great idea, so what are U doing about all this?
‘I’ll contact you all right,’ she thought as her fingers kept on typing: So what the heck R U religious geeks doing? My friend Jody may B dead or kidnapped or in some freaky prison, & all she was trying 2 do was save some lives & make a difference, & she’s probably lying in a ditch somewhere, & no one in the whole freaking world cares about her. & it’s not just Jody. She’s my friend, & that hurts me. But there’s zillions of people like her in trouble & no one is doing squat for them. & if U think U’re so hot & religious, do something. Fix it. Make it right.
Chapter XXX
Operation McLenco
So grateful! It was nothing short of a miracle that Maria had gotten the job. She was quiet and shy, way too shy, and probably too young and inexperienced as well. Why, she’d only graduated from nursing school a month before. And she’d lived all but the last six years of her life in the Philippines. What did she know about American ways compared to someone who was born here? But she’d work hard, follow orders to the letter, and provide her patients with the best care she knew how to give. She’d live up to their trust in her.
McLenco Institute was located twelve miles outside of Waco Texas. Then it was set back from the main road about five miles down Farm Bureau Road Twenty-Three, and then three miles off of FB twenty-three down an unnamed dirt road with deep ruts, a road just barely wide enough for a car to drive over it. You had to really want to find the institute, or you’d just drive right on by.
But once you rounded the last turn, the ghost town impression ended, making way for metal and concrete. The institute gave the impression of a bomb shelter approximately the size of a shopping mall. Slabs of concrete ran the length of the building, their gray monotonous plane uninterrupted except by a small door, a handful of narrow slits criss-crossed by metal bars, and some Joshua trees and saguaro cacti stuck in the ground as landscaping. Inside, however, the institute was cutting edge, Maria learned later, with a security system second only to the Pentagon.
Dr. Heckleweit welcomed Maria personally on her first day. Satisfied with her credentials, he leaned forward across his desk, and looked directly into her face.
“This institute has the most up-to-date psychiatric techniques of any hospital in the world. We can provide basic medical procedures as well, but the main focus of our work is psychiatric. Much of our research deals with terrorism, and is, therefore, top secret. You’ll be required to follow orders without question. National security depends on this.” Maria merely nodded.
“You are not to receive visitors here at the institute. Personal phone calls should be limited to emergencies. No cameras, cell phones, or other recording devices are allowed on the premises.”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
“You will start immediately,” he said. “Your first patient is Johanna Jacobson. She’s under heavy sedation at the moment. You’re to assist our other nurses with her care, and as soon as she’s able to walk, bring her to my office.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
And with that, Maria began her work at McLenco Institute. There were few patients – they barely outnumbered the staff. Most were obviously Arab, and all were heavily sedated.
Most of Maria’s day consisted of tending these patients: bathing and dressing them, providing food and medication, as well as taking vital signs – temperature, blood pressure, pulse, and such - and escorting them to and from the bathroom, and escorting them to Dr. Heckleweit’s office.
For four weeks, she walked Johanna down to Dr. Heckleweit’s office and back. And, each day, walking down the hallways with Johanna leaning against her and stumbling along beside her, Maria wondered about Johanna. Why was she here? What was her story? What had she done? And, as she had promised Dr. Heckleweit, she never wondered the questions out loud.
Dr. Heckleweit worked with Johanna daily, and, as the weeks wore on, his smile grew rigid, and his voice tightened with unexpressed frustration. The questions were always the same. “Who are your sources? Do you have friends in the White House? The FBI? In the CIA? Where did you learn about Iraq?” And always, Johanna’s answers were disappointing.
"“I can't get any names from her, and she doesn't seem to be hiding anything.” Dr. Heckleweit was on the phone to the White House. “It’s pointless to continue. We should release her.”
But Alex wasn’t buying any of it. He couldn’t let Johanna go free and risk her talking. And her writing was too dangerous. Besides, Johanna had learned about his scheming somehow, and he had to plug the leak before his whole empire crumbled. She was a major flaw in a close-to-perfect plan. “There has to be some connection.” She’s got to know someone who has access to sensitive information. There's no way she could know these things on her own. Did you ask her about bugs or computer hacking?"
"I did. She’s been given just about every truth serum cocktail we have, and I’ve asked every question I could think of. I don’t think she’s sophisticated enough on the computer to do what you’re suggesting.”
“How about someone else at the paper?” Alex was frustrated and desperate for information.
“Not that I can tell.”
Alex wasn’t surprised. They’d bugged most of the computers at the Upstart Gazette, and hadn’t come up with anything useful. “I need to know where she’s getting her information.” His voice trailed off.
“Well, what do you want me to do about it?"
“Keep working on her. Up the dosage. Do something, anything. I've got to find out who she's talking to. Everything depends on this. I don't care what you do, or how you do it. Just find out how she's getting her information."
“It may kill her.”
“Just as long as she talks first.”
Maria showed the prescription to Sonia, one of the other nurses at the institute. “Two mg? I don’t understand it. She is not violent. Is the doctor worried that she will kill herself?”
“Did you check with Dr. Heckleweit?” asked Sonia.
“I asked about it. Dr. Heckleweit said two.”
“She is almost unconscious as it is. Getting her to swallow the pills will be difficult.” Sonia studied Johanna’s face for a minute. “Maybe we should mash them up in applesauce from now on.”
Sonia spoke softly, as if placating a young child. “Come on Johanna, wake up.” She stroked the sides of Johanna’s face. “Wake up. Wake up.” She patted Johanna’s cheeks.
She shook Johanna’s shoulders. “Come on. Wake up.” Now she was speaking forcefully right up against Johanna’s ear.
Johanna stirred. Her eyelids flickered. “That’s a good girl. Come on. Take this. Now swallow. Here, drink this down. Drink this.”
“Johanna began to cough and choke. The gagging sensation woke her and she coughed hard, shooting the pill out of her mouth. Maria picked it up from Johanna’s lap with gloved hands and put it back into her mouth. With some coaxing, Johanna swallowed and washed the chalky residue down with water, unaware of the bed, the bars on the window, or the restraining straps.
“I can’t believe this is really necessary” grumbled Sonia. She felt Johanna’s pulse. “Weak, forty-five beats per minute.” She took her pulse again and shook her head. “I just hope she’s still alive in the morning.”
“Shh. She might hear you,” said Maria.
“Small chance of that,” said Sonia.
Behind Johanna’s closed eyelids, there was peace and a kind of floating sensation. That was the nice thing about drugs. You really couldn’t be afraid. Am I dead, she wondered. She didn’t think so, but dying, maybe. She could feel her body still attached to her essence, limp, heavy, and immovable like a stone slab. She could still crack her eyelids open, experiencing the world through the twin peepholes that were her eyes, but it was too much effort, and she closed her eyes again.
And the world unfolded before her like a disjointed movie. The sensation wasn’t unpleasant. It was like being detached from everything, or like leaving the physical world behind. She felt as if there were only her spirit and the Almighty, the only two beings in the universe.
“Watch and remember, and whatever happens, do not be afraid. Your only job now, Johanna, is to pray. Pray for everyone you know. Pray for those you don’t know. Especially pray for those whose souls are in jeopardy, and for those who have wronged you. It is in pardoning others that you are pardoned.”
She began with Darren Connors. It felt like she was letting him off the hook by forgiving him, dropping the hook that held him captive to her. “Okay, you’re free. I release you from your debt to me.” She’d said the words before, but somehow, this time she meant it. With forgiveness came a feeling of light, of peace. I wish I’d done it years ago she thought. And with the words, ‘I forgive you’, a shot of love stabbed her through her chest, and, lying on her bed, all but comatose, she smiled because she’d dropped the load, and her eyes flickered.
Sonia returned to check on Johanna. She didn’t like any of this. The girl’s vitals were dangerously low. Inform the doctor and let him call the shots. They have far more training. They have information that nurses don’t, and sometimes they’ll explain why and sometimes they won’t. But the bottom line is, if you take it upon yourself to disobey an order and something happens, it’s you and the hospital that are liable, and the one who’s really going to hurt is you.
She took Johanna’s pulse again to make absolutely sure, and sent in a page to Dr. Heckleweit.
Alex found that he loved going to church. He liked watching the people around him, and he chuckled to himself as he realized what intellectual inferiors they were. During the readings and prayers, he mentally practiced his skill as a spin doctor, interpreting the Bible stories, twisting them to fit his reality. Oh, the sermons he would preach if he were the minister! Alex bowed his head humbly for the Lord’s Prayer. “Our Father, Who art in Heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name…”
United in spirit, the congregation concluded, “For Thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever and ever. Amen.” A stillness hung in the air.
And Alex smiled. They are talking to me, he thought. It’s all mine, he told himself. As sure as his heart would beat or that the sun would rise and set each day, the words referred to him, and he quivered, wanting to stand up and accept accolades.
They are talking to me, he thought. Mine – mine is the kingdom - Homeland Security, the Pentagon, the military – all mine. I run the United States, and, by America’s influence and power, I run the world. ‘Hell’, he thought, ‘I bloody well, own the whole fucking world.’ And he thought of his father. ‘How's that, Dad? Am I rich enough? Am I successful enough for you? Hey, Dad, guess what? I own the whole fucking world!’
Inside his head, the world awaited his bidding. Olympic athletes, potentates, tycoons, rabbis, and popes - all swore their allegiance to Alex.
Thoughts pulsed. I am Alexander Lidecker from Pascagoula Mississippi, and mine is the power. Mine! Alex felt it with each breath. The power, almost a birthright! No, more than a birthright, the right of a man more brilliant than other humans, one who could make all things happen.
Mine is the glory. Never again would he kneel, never would he humble himself, not to a professor, not to a ruler, not to his father, not even…not even to God. The thought was big, and Alex enveloped it. All the others - the Catholics, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindis - as they knelt in prayer, Alex knew that they were kneeling, not to God but to him.
Mine is the Glory. Every knee would bend before him; kings, nations, every being in the universe, all would bow down confessing him as their lord. Mine is the glory, the glory of a man who is a god.
He glanced around the church. Surely all those here could see, could feel, could taste his triumph. Surely they knew that they were praying to him, to Alex, and not to some broken soul, executed on a cross, in shame, two thousand years ago.
No, of course not. Only Alex understood. The rest were simple beings, non-sentients. But someday, someday he’d accept in public the glory that he’d accepted in secret on this day.
The kingdom and the power and the glory, forever and ever. Amen. So be it.
Johanna rarely woke up anymore. She was fed and medicated by I.V. and her waste eliminated through a catheter. Only her mind was alive, and obedient to God. During those times that Johanna regained some consciousness, she prayed. Not knowing why, she prayed for souls as they appeared in her mind – presented by an Almighty Power, or by a hallucination – the result of too much medication. Johanna had not the strength to know or care. President Bush, Colin Powel, Donald Rumsfeld, Condoleezza Rice, John Ashcroft, she prayed for them all with what strength remained in her heart. More faces flashed through her dreams, faces hardened in hate and carrying rifles, bombs and grenades; she prayed for them to. Dark skinned children crying and bleeding, and mothers and fathers gently rocking them, tears pouring down their faces, prayers mixed with curses falling from their lips. Young soldiers, driving mammoth tanks across the sand, caged within the monsters. “May they not kill nor be killed,” she prayed. May they come home safe and healthy in body and mind.
Then Alex Lidecker’s image appeared. The memory came back to her crashing through the calm like thrown bricks. The child in kindergarten who had beaten her up – the one who had first taught her cruelty, deception, and injustice. She saw his face – his smug lips turned up into a half smile, his freckles marching like soldiers beneath his squinting eyes. As vivid as if it were all happening now, she could feel his breath on her face, then his fingers tugging at her hair in stinging yanks.
She cried out in her sleep – so loudly that Maria happened to hear it and came with a start to check her vitals. Johanna’s pulse quickened and strengthened as she remembered the dirt and the spit and tears dribbling down her face. She remembered also the satisfaction of punching Alex, the thrill of his finger wriggling in her mouth as she bit down hard - hard enough to keep it wedged between her teeth. And she remembered Alex backing away and fending off her blows.
“I can’t do it, God,” said Johanna in her sleep. “It was silly, and I want to forgive him. It was just a dumb childhood squabble, but somehow when I saw his face, the feelings just took over. I wanted to kill him, and I wanted to hurt him while I was killing him. Forgive me, God, but that’s what I felt.”
Johanna’s hand tensed into a fist, and her foot dug into the sheets at the bottom of the bed.
“Does it really matter, God? It was just a childhood fight. Do you care when there are so many bigger hurts in the world?” She held firm. In her imagination, she pulled her lips down into a stubborn child’s pout. After all these years, surely she wasn’t still carrying a grudge! Just a childhood squabble – that’s all it was! She remembered the taste of the earth and grass mixed with shame, and anger and tears, all of it jammed down into her choking throat. Johanna didn’t know what tasted worse, the earth or the shame. All the anger washed away her oneness with God, and she dropped Alex’s soul as if it were a scorpion. “Rot in hell, you filthy bastard!” she thought.
Accept and forgive, accept and forgive. But she couldn’t forgive Alex for that fight in the play yard. So paltry compared with the other sorrows she’d been praying for, but this injustice was carved into her heart with the fire of childhood. She wanted to fight, hit, spit, and swear - to remove the offending earth and the offending feelings.
After that, the intensity of Johanna’s prayers subsided. The words were there, but not the power and determination. Johanna woke occasionally from her drugged stupor, nauseous and exhausted, her mind floated in unbidden images. Hallucinations took over Johanna’s mind, terrifying her because she couldn’t control them. Johanna tried to focus, her mind, swimming as in Jell-O all the while. “Thanks, God. Great job you’ve given me,” she told Him mentally in a rare, clear moment.
Chapter XXXI
Alex came home to find Vivian on their couch watching the television and sobbing. A commercial was on, and Vivian had the sound turned down. “What is it, honey?”
“Oh, Alex, it’s so awful. My friend Denise just called. Her kid was stationed in Baghdad, and…” Vivian cradled her head in her hands. “God, I can’t believe it. None of this stuff seems real.”
“It’s okay.” He leaned her head against his shoulder. “It’s okay. Now take a couple of deep breaths. You’ll be fine.”
“Of course I’ll be fine, but Harry won’t.” Vivian couldn’t keep still. She pulled away from him, then stood up and paced. “Oh my gosh! A car exploded, and he… God… he made it to the hospital, and then…they thought he was going to make it. And then he just…he just died.” Her breath came in gasps, and for awhile she couldn’t do anything but cry. “See, he’d lost a lot of blood, and they thought they’d stopped all the bleeding, but then something opened back up and ... Oh, God, I don’t know. I don’t know how it could have happened.” She wiped at the tears with the back of her hand. “It seems like a bad dream …and I keep expecting to wake up and have it all go away, and… instead it just goes on and on.”
Vivian turned back towards Alex and sobbed into his shoulder and, for a long while, she couldn’t stop. “Denise said he was badly cut up. I wonder what it was like. You know… How much pain… The medics said his chest had shrapnel - so much that he couldn’t take a breath without tearing flesh.”
“Calm down, Honey. It’s all okay. You’ll be okay. I’m here now.”
“Oh, Alex of course I’ll be fine. But what about Denise? She lost a son, and his death was brutal. What about Harry’s wife, Chris? She idolized Harry. And what about their kids? Todd’s just a baby, too young to remember any of this, but Ashley’s five and Harry had promised her that he’d be back. What on earth is Chris going to tell her? They’re the ones who aren’t going to be fine.”
Vivian pulled herself back from Alex’s arms and looked into his eyes. “The funeral will be held next weekend in Bar Harbor. We can stay at my parents’ house.”
She said it with certainty in her voice. Always the supportive wife, Vivian had never made plans for Alex before, especially plans that she knew Alex wasn’t going to like.
“We can?” he asked. A weekend at Vivian’s folks’ house and a funeral sounded uncomfortably dull.
“Oh, Alex, we have to go to the funeral. She was my best friend in high school. We only stayed in touch by Christmas cards and a few e-mails, but I’ve got to go. Alex, you’ll come with me won’t you? I’m so much stronger when you’re beside me.” Vivian sat back down next to him.
“Of course, Honey. We’ll do whatever you want. Don’t worry. It’ll all be fine.”
And holding her closely, he kissed her forehead as a father would a young child, and she clung to the soothing warmth of his chest against her, drawing strength and comfort from him.
But as Alex comforted Vivian, a funny, prickling, uneasy sensation nagged at the back of his mind. A warning maybe? He pushed Vivian away on the pretext of turning off the television. Why did he suddenly feel so jumpy? He tried to use logic, but nothing fit, and, as the warning sensation wasn’t all that strong or uncomfortable, Alex shrugged and dismissed it.
The plane landed in Bar Harbor Airport, and Alex and Vivian picked up a rented Ferrari for their trip into Bar Harbor. He hadn’t allowed any spare time for visiting. They’d attend the funeral and pay their respects; then Vivian would drive Alex back to the airport, and she’d stay on at Bar Harbor for a week and spend time with her family.
As they drove along the highway, songs from the seventies chimed through the speakers. Alex looked at Vivian and a sudden tenderness settled around him like a knitted blanket, and he wished that they could start over without the lying and infidelity. In some ways they’d shared so much. But then there was that stone wall protecting those things that Alex could never share – the secrets that could destroy everything.
The prickling, uncomfortable sensation came back much stronger now, and he knew for certain that it had been a mistake to come to Bar Harbor. His neck and shoulders ached. But how could he turn back now? Maybe he could fake a car accident, or claim sudden illness. No. Any of those ploys would have him staying at Vivian’s folks’ house. It wasn’t like Alex to be out of excuses.
Now they were fifteen minutes out of Bar Harbor, with the funeral due to start in less than an hour. Alex had scheduled the day tightly on purpose. No, he’d just have to suck it up, make it through the next few hours and hightail it back to the comforts of Washington as soon as he could. Just a couple more hours and he’d be back on a plane – with a highball in his hand, and a good movie on the screen.
Entering the mortuary, Alex felt transported into a world of old people. Walls, ceiling, carpet, furniture – everything was done in some shade of beige. Two columns, also beige, marked the entrance to each of the chapels.
“Here it is, Alex,” Vivian whispered. “Harry Donovan. It’s so sad, and yet it feels so good to be home. I can’t explain it, but it’s as if a part of me got left behind in Bar Harbor, and, all that time in Washington, I didn’t even know there was anything missing.”
Inside, the chapel was packed with white and beige flowers. ‘Who ever heard of beige flowers?’ thought Alex. An organ crooned softly, the melody old and inadequate by Alex’s standards.
“Let’s visit with my folks sometime soon – just for fun when there’s no holiday or anything else going on.” Suddenly Vivian was animated, passionate. She hadn’t felt this alive in years. “I can’t believe it’s been so long since I’ve been back home.”
Vivian didn’t wait for Alex to answer her. She found some old friends, and soon she was hugging and talking, and they were catching up on each other’s lives. Meanwhile, Alex battled a strong and unreasonable urge to turn around and bolt out of the funeral home. The organ music was burning a hole into his brain.
He tried making small talk with some of the people there, but they were simple and boring. Alex had nothing in common with any of them. He glanced at his watch. Time dragged. He walked over to Vivian and was introduced to Sharon and Oliver, and he nodded and smiled mechanically as Oliver talked about their dog Peggy’s agility trial performances.
“Cole is a sophomore,” said Sharon, “and he made honor student on each of his last seven report cards. He’s worked so hard, and we’re so proud of him we can hardly stand it.”
Alex nudged Vivian’s shoulder. “We’d better sit down,” he said, but she didn’t notice him.
Finally the organ music died down, and a minister stepped up to a podium. “Please be seated,” he said. At last, thought Alex. Another hour at the most, and then this whole thing would be over.
The organ began again with the strains of “Rock of Ages,” and everyone stood up to sing. The rhythm was slow. Alex yawned and looked around the room.
In the front of the chapel stood a closed rosewood casket, polished to a handsome glow, and draped with the American flag – the standard tribute for a soldier who had died in battle. Alex stared at the flag, grateful for the single spot of bright color in an otherwise drab and thoroughly depressing setting. The white stars shone crisp and clean against the blue. The stripes - alternating broad bands of red and white - reminded Alex of his life back in Washington.
Mesmerized, he stared at the flag, soaking in the brightness of the colors. Red evoked passion - the color of anger, the color of blood. Had Harry bled a lot before he died? Alex shivered knowing that a dead body lay inside the coffin – a spirit imprisoned by only a few planks of wood. What did Harry look like, sleeping inside the coffin? Alex’s stomach turned; bile rose into his throat. Mechanically he reached into his pocket for heartburn tablets.
“Stop thinking like that,” Alex said to himself. And he concentrated instead on Isabella, his new intern. Alex pictured her long, long legs and her tiny waist. Isabella was so beautiful. Her face always made Alex think of a doe – large deep brown eyes, and an expression that was both shy and alluring. What did Harry’s face look like inside there? What expression would Harry wear throughout eternity? Peaceful? Angry? Fearful? It was a closed casket. Did they bother making his face look good? Probably not. He probably looked exactly the way he did when he died. Alex closed his eyes, pulling his attention away from the coffin. He began a mental list of the things he had to do as soon as the funeral was over. A stiff brandy on the plane was item number one.
But as soon as Alex let his guard down, the coffin drew his gaze, again reminding him of the specter inside. Without warning, Alex’s conscious thoughts exploded into hallucinations, imprisoning him in a world of bizarre sensations. He smelled dank mold, as strong as if he were walking through a decaying marsh; and he remembered the mural of the eagle back in the Houston conference room, and the rabbit hanging in the eagle’s grasp – its eyes frozen in final defeat. Pain and death, death and pain - chilling fingers held him around the neck, choking off his breathing. All the while, he saw the image of the rabbit. And now Alex was the rabbit, hanging in the clawed grasp, helpless, bleeding, and consumed in pain. Alex was freezing and drenched in sweat, all at the same time. Where were these thoughts coming from?
He turned to Vivian for comfort, the first time in his life that he’d sought support from his wife. He reached for her hand. She squeezed it reassuringly, and he held it like a lifeline to his sanity.
“All yours for a price.” Was insanity the price that Alex had to pay? No, he was just a little spooked by the surroundings. Alex hadn’t been to many funerals. No wonder he was unnerved. But he was okay, and this whole thing was just some bad dream. He squeezed Vivian’s hand, drawing peace from her smooth skin and warm fingers. He’d just caught a touch of nerves. It could have happened to anyone who’d been working as hard as he had.
Then the organ music faded and died, and the minister stood up to speak. “We are gathered here to celebrate the life of Harold Donovan, a life cut short while Harry was defending our country.” The minister’s voice intruded into Alex’s nightmares. “Harry was twenty-one years old when he died, and he leaves behind a young wife and two children. Harry died a hero, fighting for the ideals he believed in – democracy, freedom, justice, and truth.”
Democracy, justice, truth – Alex recognized the drama that he scripted every day of his life. The struggle between good and evil, a life sacrificed for freedom - Americans ate this stuff up. And as Alex saw the funeral and all the hoopla for its dramatic impact, his hands steadied, and color returned to his face. The dead soldier was just a piece of this noble chapter in American history, a history that Alex was orchestrating.
“As Christians, we know that Harry is in peace, united with his Lord, and we rejoice for him. But, this does not ease the sorrow that we feel for the loss of a young man who was part of our lives.”
Alex imagined Harry, young and determined, with a crooked grin on his face, and a two-fingered salute. “Don’t worry about me,” he’d say. “I died defending my country.” Then he’d drop his eyes and whisper softly, “I guess I’m a hero.” Alex smiled at the mental image he’d created - a soldier in khaki standing in front of an American flag.
“You arrogant shit head! You spawn of Satan!” Alex jumped. It seemed so real! As if a living human voice had spoken. Alex tried to blink away the image but couldn’t.
But this wasn’t real. Alex tore his gaze away from the coffin, and looked at Vivian. There was a wrenching feeling as he struggled to maintain his focus on her, and he felt the imaginary soldier’s eyes following him. He struggled to keep his head turned, but it was like turning away from a cougar set to pounce. Alex’s essence lay in the soldier’s eyes, and, defeated, he turned his head back to meet the soldier’s stare. The image still stood before the flag, but now with jagged gashes along his face and neck.
Alex tried to wrench his gaze away from the apparition but couldn’t.
“We take comfort in knowing that Harry died a hero,” said the minister.
“Died a hero? It wasn’t time for me to die. A hero makes the choice to die. I didn’t sacrifice my life for something noble. I died just because I was in the wrong place – a terrible place in a terrible time. And two days before I died, I shot at a couple of teen-age boys – who were in another wrong place. And I think I hit one of them. They weren’t even as old as I was. I don’t think they did anything, but they startled me, and I spooked, and I pulled the trigger without thinking. Oh, and that’s what I was thinking about when I died. Otherwise, maybe I’d have been more careful. Maybe I’d have noticed something wrong with that car.”
“Are you okay, Alex? You look pale.” Vivian was worried.
Alex startled at the sound of her whisper beside him. “Fine,” he whispered back. And, like a madman, he turned back to the flag and the alternating stripes of white and blood. He saw the face, and with it came a bitter metallic taste filling his mouth. He began to retch and hurried out of the room grateful for the physical reason to leave the chapel.
The men’s room was old fashioned. The floor had marble tile, and the stalls were painted that strange pasty green that dentists used to like. He knelt in front of the toilet and heaved until his throat was raw and his strength was spent, but the metallic taste persisted. He started to rise and felt his stomach lurching one more time. Once more he leaned into the toilet, and his stomach convulsed long after it had emptied itself.
Finally the retching was over and Alex stood up to rinse out his mouth and clean himself off. He’d stained his suit and ended up with wet spots where he’d sponged the vomit off with paper towels. This was Vivian’s fault. She should have just sent a card with regrets. “Unfortunately, my husband’s work makes it impossible for us to attend Harry’s funeral…” Well, she’d pay.
Alex straightened his tie and checked his reflection in the mirror. He’d worn a red tie, and some water had splashed on it leaving a pattern of droplets on the silk. He wondered if the tie was ruined. He didn’t want to go back into the chapel. He stared at the tie some more, dabbing at it with a paper towel. The wet spots were a deep burgundy color – ‘the color of wine, not blood,’ he told himself. He rubbed at the spots some more, willing them to be gone. He was wearing Harry’s blood. No, damn it, water, not blood. Vivian was going to pay for all of this. On his chest, Alex wore Harry’s blood. No, not Harry’s blood, just water, damn it! The words, “Harry’s blood” filled his head along with the vision of a sucking wound. The metallic taste flooded Alex’s mouth – a taste so strong that it gagged him, and Alex turned back towards the toilet, dry heaving all the while.
When he walked back into the chapel, the organist was playing “Taps” and a young man in uniform presented a folded American flag to Harry’s wife. As she took the flag, her head dropped, and the sounds of her breath echoed throughout the room. Alex thought he would retch again. Instead, a burning spasm shot through him, and he had to grab the back of a pew to steady himself.
Following the funeral, they held a wake at the home of Harry’s Aunt Margaret. The house was a pale blue Cape Cod-style home built in the seventies, up high on a hill and it gave a good view of Bar Harbor. Through the living room window, if you looked over the rooftops and between the telephone wires, you could see the Atlantic Ocean.
The living room was set up for the wake with five folding metal tables, one of them covered with photo albums containing pictures of Harry, and the others packed with hors d’oevres. Greasy hors d’oevres, thought Alex, – his stomach hadn’t settled down completely -salami wrapped around gherkin pickles, chips and store-bought onion dip, some chicken wings soaked with orange stuff. Aunt Margaret had probably made the food herself or bought it at the supermarket. You’d think she could have at least hired a caterer!
Alex tried to eat a cracker, but his mouth was dry and he almost choked on the crumbs. He poured himself a glass of wine and sipped. What he really needed was a good brandy, but apparently Aunt Margaret was also too cheap to serve hard liquor.
Usually Alex was in the thick of any party, but this time he stood sidelined and watched stupid people hugging each other and talking about camera lenses, and soufflés, and sports fishing. The practice was obscene, thought Alex. A man had died, and his life was being celebrated with cheese balls and cabernet. It wasn’t even very good cabernet, thought Alex examining the bottle, but he poured himself a glass anyway. He watched his wife hugging and giggling like a high school sophomore, acting as though these people were more important than all the influential friends they’d made in Washington. For Pete’s sake, they’d eaten dinner with senators and cabinet members, and they’d played golf with President Bush himself. Back in Washington, Alex had succeeded in ways most people don’t even know to dream about. And here Vivian was acting like these little people were interesting.
Alex took a sip of the wine. His stomach was empty and the wine burned as though scratching his insides with sharp claws, but he didn’t care. For distraction, he looked around the room. Harry’s pictures stared at him from every wall and every corner: Harry, six years old and holding on to a string of fish and smiling like an idiot; Harry standing next to his bride Chris; Harry dressed up in a chicken suit, probably for some Halloween thing; Harry, holding baby Todd on his shoulder and the girl in a ballerina dress on his knee. What was her name? Vivian had told him, but he forgot. They had so many pictures of Harry, that they might as well have used him for wallpaper. Harry, Harry, Harry! At least this thing would be over soon and the dead bastard could be put to rest.
Alex held up the wineglass then averted his eyes. The color made him nauseous. He tried to drink another sip, but it tasted as if blood were mixed in with the wine. His hand shook and the room swam and he staggered some as he made his way to Vivian and grabbed her by the elbow. “We have to go now. I have a plane to catch.” He thought he would start retching again.
Vivian looked at her watch. “But we have plenty of time. Your plane doesn’t leave for…”
“I said it’s time to go now.” Alex grabbed Vivian’s arm hard, digging his nails into her skin, and propelled her toward the door with the strength of a football player tackling the ball carrier.
And Vivian didn’t say another word. Without a parting hug for Denise or a thank you to Aunt Margaret, the two walked to the front door and down the street to where the rented Ferrari was parked. Vivian checked her arm to see if Alex’s nails had left a mark.
They drove to the airport in silence. After parking the car, they proceeded to the security check area. “You don’t have to wait with me if you don’t want to,” said Alex. He gave her a mechanical kiss on the cheek and turned away towards the window staring intently at the runway.
“Fine. Good bye,” Vivian said to the air between them, and walked back towards the main terminal.
Alex turned once, saw her walk away, then looked around for a lounge that served brandy.
Back in his own home, Alex felt the strange effects from the funeral subside. He telephoned Isabella, his new intern, hoping for some diversion. He tried her landline, then her cell phone, but had to settle for leaving a voice-mail message. After a quick shower, he poured himself a neat Jack Daniels and flipped on the television.
Alex’s mind was too keyed up to sleep, so he surfed the channels looking for some news. The troops were invading Fallujah, and Alex wanted to see what the media was doing with it. The kind of coverage they gave was extremely important. Fallujah’s invasion was a great opportunity for P. R. What with war stories, explosions, heroes, and villains, Fallujah was the stuff that Americans craved, and it was Alex’s job to make sure that the media made the most of it.
Flying debris filled the TV screen, as a wall crumbled leaving piles of rubble and a small pit - dead as the moonscape. The scene shifted, and yet it looked almost the same. This time khaki-clad soldiers, ducked behind stone walls, their rifles at the ready, then darted into the open accompanied by rapid bursts of rifle shots, explosion sounds, and shattering rocks. And suddenly Alex’s hunting instinct took over and he was curious. What had they shot? Did they kill anyone, or did the Iraqis get away?
The camera moved on to a small cluster of houses, some lying in rubble. Every few seconds, a series popping noises sounded signifying distant explosions. Then, louder than the others, an explosion blasted one of the largest wall still standing, causing the camera to shake and the picture on the screen to tremble. Behind the wall, rockets of fire burst from inside a home, shooting towards heaven. Above the fire, a smoke cloud - thick, smothering, and greasy black plumed upward out of the growing flames.
Crying and screaming erupted, and three women, all thick-wasted, their heads draped in coarse brown headscarves, emerged from the remains of the house. They raised their eyes upward looking to their God to save them. One was limping; another held a bleeding hand. And they wailed, their voices high pitched, calling Allah’s name, again and again till the words blurred into a single chant - Allah, Allah, Allah - over and over.
Alex shook. He reached for the brandy, and upset the glass with his trembling fingers. It was a five-second scene at most. They shouldn’t be showing this – the women hurt and crying. They looked far too vulnerable, too human.
The scene shifted. Two men carried a screaming boy on a makeshift stretcher. Alex had missed the narrative. Was it the terrorists that caused this or was it American soldiers? They’d better not show a bleeding boy unless the enemy was responsible. He looked about eight years old. Blood drenched his clothes and covered most of his face. A thick scar cut through his right eye, and, as he wriggled and screamed, he reminded Alex of the picture of the rabbit held pierced in the eagle’s claws. As Alex tried in vain to distance himself from the suffering on television, the sensation of burning and torn flesh took hold of him, and his breath turned to panting.
He tried to reach for the remote, but his fingers wouldn’t work. He imagined the stink of burning flesh and tasted vomit and blood on his tongue. Once again Alex reached for the remote, but his hands were still shaking and he knocked it to the floor instead. Before this, he’d watched the fighting scenes, mesmerized, feeling strong and righteous and always wanting more. They reminded him of playing soldier as a boy, hiding behind trees shooting guns that were really sticks and making bam bam bam noises. But now, somehow, he felt sickened instead, and identified with the prey instead of the hunter.
Then they showed coffins, row after row, each draped by an American flag. Red, white, and blue - the colors of freedom, the colors of blood and death. Alex stared at the flags, the red and the white stripes pulsing like a strobe light. He watched the coffins roll by, still tasting blood in his mouth, and he shook and shivered, his skin goose-bumped, his soul cold as death and full of fear. “Turn it off.” Alex spoke the words out loud, shouting to the ceiling. He was losing his mind. On his hands and knees, he fumbled around the floor for the remote, but couldn’t see for the tears in his eyes.
Blood red, steel blue, death-pale white. Alex stared. The newscaster read on. “…one thousand two hundred and twenty one American and allied soldiers killed in Iraq. Most died after the war was officially over.” In a panic, he flipped over magazines and newspapers. He looked under the chair. It had to be somewhere. “…the president warns that hostilities will not be over any time soon.” Finally, Alex found the strength to walk over to the television set and turn it off.
