Over Yonder, page 28
And right now, as Woody Barker lay dying in the dirt, as federal agents lifted him from his filthy grave, he saw Lindsey. Her face was no longer dim and hazy. She was clearly visible. Young and lovely. Tall and lean. Vibrant, healthy, and whole. Aiming her electric joy at him. Except their roles had been reversed. This time Lindsey was the one cradling his body in her arms.
“You,” he said.
She gave a maternal smile. “You need to wake up, Woody.”
“I can’t,” he said lazily. “And I don’t want to.”
Lindsey touched his face. “You have to. It’s not your time.”
She rubbed his cheek. Her hand was warm. And soft. He could feel her love. Her joy. Her youthful energy, radiating from her entire being.
“Open your eyes, Woody. Open up.”
Chapter 68
Woody’s eyes would not open all the way. His lids were crusted shut and they were sore. Like he had sand in them. And he was thirsty. His throat felt as though it was filled with razor blades so that anytime he tried to speak or swallow he wished he hadn’t.
He finally managed to get his lids open, but all he could see were cloudy shapes in the room. He knew people were talking to him, but he couldn’t tell where their voices were coming from or who they were.
There was a broad plastic tube in his mouth. Taped to his lips. Breathing for him. He felt his chest expanding and contracting without any effort on his part. They told him he had vomited in his breathing tube twice. The doctors said the vomit had gone into his lungs, unbeknownst to medical staffers, and this had caused pneumonia. His oxygen was lingering at 83 percent. Not good. He was on a feeding tube and he could feel the plastic hose in his nostrils.
Elizabeth was beside his bed. She was touching his face.
“Open your eyes,” she was saying. “Open up, Woody.”
His weary eyes brought her into focus.
“There he is,” Elizabeth said as though playing peek-a-boo with an infant. “You’re going to be okay, Woody.”
He wasn’t sure who she was saying it for. For herself or for him. She kept repeating it. “You’re going to be okay.”
He had undergone three blood transfusions and was awaiting a fourth. The bullet had passed clean through him, leaving an exit wound near his shoulder blade the size of a tennis ball. He kept slipping into congestive heart failure. They were just trying to make him comfortable now.
“Mr. Barker,” a nurse said, speaking directly into his eyes, her voice loud and strong. “Do you hear me? Blink if you can hear me.”
He blinked.
Rachel held his hand. She was squeezing it tightly. Elizabeth was holding his other hand, pressing it against her face. He wondered where Caroline was. He prayed she was safe. He would have liked to see her just one more time. Then again, he couldn’t see anyone clearly; his eyes were too blurry. But he knew the way their hands felt. And he knew they were there. This was enough.
“She’s okay,” said Elizabeth. “Caroline is okay.” Elizabeth could read his mind. She always could. The woman knew what he was thinking. “She’s had her baby. And the baby is okay too.”
“We need to take him back now,” said a nurse. “They’re ready for him in the OR.”
“Woody, you’re going to be okay.”
“Ma’am, you’re going to have to let go of him.”
He tried to speak, but the only thing that came out was a garbled mumble.
They wheeled him away.
He could hear Elizabeth’s squeaky shoes on the floor beside him.
“You’re going to be okay. Do you hear me?”
You’re going to be okay.
* * *
When Amos was sixty-seven, he got his first cat. Marilyn was recently deceased, and he was drinking too much. The animal just showed up one afternoon after work, crouched in the corner of his truck bed, hissing at him. He used cat food to lure the cat from the truck, but the cat was not leaving. After an hour, Amos said the heck with it, slammed the tailgate, and went home. The cat came with him and never left. Within a few months, he had three cats. A year later he had nine. He had no idea where they came from.
Animals were just attracted to him. Kids and dogs always followed him around. He had never wanted children of his own. He and Marilyn tried not to have kids. But the universe had other plans. Woodrow Amos Barker came into the world one summer afternoon and changed the foundations of Amos’s world. Woody had softened him. Woody had given Amos purpose. The only real purpose he’d ever known in his life. And now that purpose was laid open on an operating room table.
A seventeen-year-old grandchild was in the room across the way, talking to a group of FBI agents. And he was holding his great-grandchild in his arms. Ironic for a guy who never wanted kids.
He could see Caroline behind the wire-glass windows, explaining things like a pantomime, as he rocked his great-grandchild and said, “Shhh,” even though the baby wasn’t crying. Why do adults always say this to babies?
Finally, Caroline came out of the room and made a beeline for the baby. The officials left the hospital in a whoosh of windbreakers.
“It’s over,” Caroline said quietly, falling into the seat beside him. It was as though she were saying this more to herself than to him.
“What’s over?”
“It’s all over,” she said, and then she started crying. She used the baby’s blanket to dab her face. “They’ve got them in custody. All of them.”
“Who’s all of them?”
“The guy who tried to kill me. Who tried to kill Woody. The man who blew up his truck. The whole terrorist group, they said. It’s over.”
Amos looked at the tightly closed eyes of the baby in his arms.
“And the computer thing?”
“What computer thing?”
He cut his eyes at Caroline. “The thing for which we almost expired.”
“Oh, that.”
“Yes. That. Did you give it to them?”
“They never asked about it.” She shook her head. “I don’t think they know about it.”
They were silent for a long time, considering what all this meant. They watched the dervish of nocturnal activity within an American ICU swirl around them. Lots of professionals half jogging. Lots of nurses half shouting. It was a terrible place to be.
Caroline placed a hand on the Major’s hand.
The old man looked at both hands. One young, supple, and warm. The other cold and knobby, with veins and spots.
“Do you think he’s going to be okay?” she asked, tears on her cheeks.
“Shhh,” he said to the baby.
* * *
It was night. The Major sat near his bed, staring out the window at the tops of the palm trees outside. The fronds were eye level with the window. So were the lit rooftops of the Gulf Beach skyline, all spread out like a topographical puzzle.
The Major hadn’t even noticed that Woody was looking at him, and Woody was too weak to get his attention.
Eventually, his father figured it out.
“Heaven’s sake,” said Amos. “It’s about time you woke up.”
“Dad,” came Woody’s raspy reply. “What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing? I’m getting sore from sitting here all ding-dang day, watching you drool on yourself. That’s what I’m doing.” Amos’s eyes were rimmed red, glassing over with tears.
“Dad.”
“You never move; you never open your eyes. You just lie there, and I can’t even tell if you’re breathing or not.” Amos used his sleeve to wipe his nose.
The old man reached out his liver-spotted hand and placed it atop Woody’s. His hand was meaty, twice the size of Woody’s. Cobby fingers and a beefy slab of a palm that swallowed Woody’s hand whole.
Woody’s dad had not been known for his affection. At least not toward other males. Masculinity did not permit the display of fatherly affection toward one’s son, save for the occasional Little League coach butt swat. The vision of their two hands touching was foreign to Woody, and so very humbling.
They were interrupted when someone cleared their throat.
Standing in the doorway was Elizabeth.
“Can I join the party, or is this a boys’ only club?”
Amos stood onto shaky legs. “I was just leaving, Colonel.”
He gave Woody’s hand one final squeeze and something passed between them. Something uniquely paternal. A feeling Woody had seldom experienced from the receiving end.
Elizabeth collapsed in the seat beside Woody’s bed. She wore jeans and a T-shirt. Her sable hair still wet, like she’d just gotten out of the shower. The lovely woman grasped his hand in both of hers.
His mouth opened, and he winced beneath the pain of speech. “How are you doing?”
“How am I?” She laughed. “You want to know how I am?” Whereupon she buried her head into her free hand. He could see her shoulders bobbing. When she raised her head to look at him, her face looked like it had been busted apart.
“I’m not well, if you must know.”
It took all the effort he had. He lifted his iron-heavy arm from the bed and moved himself closer to her. Woody placed the arm on her arm, then entwined his grip around her hand, interlocking their fingers.
“I’m not marrying Jason,” she said.
It hurt too badly to speak, so he just squeezed her hand.
“I’m not doing it for you,” she said. “I’m doing it because I will not get over you. And I don’t ever want to get over you. Not for as long as I live.”
Elizabeth wept into him, almost like a little girl. She moved his hand to her face, rubbing her salty tears against his smooth skin, kissing his knuckles.
“Liz.”
With that, Elizabeth stood, lowered the bed’s guardrail, and crawled into the bed beside him. Her body was warm and firm beside his, as close to him as she could get. The majestic woman kissed his face, clutching his head with both hands. She kissed vigorously, bathing his chin, his forehead, his eyelids, and his lips in her passion, chewing on his lower lip. He could taste the salt of her tears. And he was pleasantly unable to breathe.
She curled beside him and stayed that way until she fell asleep. With his hand, he petted her hair. Listened to her breathe.
“You were my big adventure,” he whispered.
Chapter 69
Father Le Roux stood at Woody’s bedside along with his family. The Major was holding Rachel’s hand. Elizabeth and Caroline were shoulder to shoulder. There was a baby in a carrier resting on the chair beside a nurse. They brought the baby to him so he could see him. There was nothing so remarkable as a shock of red hair on a baby’s head.
Next, Le Roux approached the bed. The man looked like a mountain. Clad in black. White clerical collar. His hands were the size of supermarket chickens. His shoulders were tight in his sport coat. He was looking down at Woody like a mythical figure from ancient lore.
“How much do you bench-press?” Woody asked. His voice was a muffled whisper. His voice felt stronger than it had before, but it still felt like he was talking around a throatful of razor blades.
Le Roux did not crack a smile. “Three fifty.”
Woody closed his eyes. “Show-off.”
The funny thing is, Woody thought he had only closed his eyes for a moment, but when he opened them, everyone in the room had shifted positions. He had been out longer than he realized. But Le Roux was still there, although no longer standing next to Elizabeth, Caroline, Rachel, and his dad. He was on the other side of the bed now. Sitting in a chair.
Woody closed his eyes again, then opened them. Now the room was empty and it was nighttime. He realized he’d been out for a full day.
He closed his eyes once more, then reopened them. This time it was daylight, and all he saw were doctors. They were having a tribal council of some sort.
Blink. This time all he saw was Elizabeth, lying in the bed with him. Curled beside him. Her face was pressed against his. He could feel her hot breath on his neck.
Blink. Woody opened his eyes and saw Father Le Roux was there again, with Woody’s whole family. They said it had been a week, and he’d been intubated twice during that time. Which would explain why he could hardly speak. His vocal cords were barely hanging on.
Father Le Roux was holding the sacraments.
The bread and the wine.
A feeling of total warmth washed over Woody. Almost like beach water in the middle of summer.
“Oh my God,” he said.
“Woody,” said Le Roux.
“Oh my God.”
Caroline was standing in the corner with the baby in her arms. She was huddled against Elizabeth and Rachel. The Major was standing by himself, looking at the floor. They were all standing there like something important was about to take place.
“Oh my God. It’s my turn.”
Nobody spoke for a whole minute or more.
The sacraments were sitting on a hospital roller table, atop a pink cafeteria tray. The bread. The wine.
Elizabeth came to the bedside. Her face was puffy. Her eyes were rimmed pink. She used her palm to wipe her cheeks before she spoke, and she could hardly get words out. “Woody, I’ve asked Father Le Roux to bring Communion.”
Woody nodded.
“Do you want to receive Communion?” Elizabeth asked.
He nodded again. But the movement of his head was too imperceptible for anyone to notice. They kept waiting for his answer.
“I do,” he finally grunted.
Woody had been on the other side of this ceremony so many times that he had never stopped to think about what it might feel like for the dying person. To see a clergyperson standing over you with the species of Holy Communion in their hands. To know that death is on the horizon before you can see it. To know there is no turning back.
Le Roux stepped forward with the tray of bread and the wine.
“Don’t worry about sitting up, Woody. We’ll do it lying down.”
“No,” said Woody.
“You have to lie down,” Le Roux said. “The doctors say you’re in no condition to sit up. Just stay like that.”
“No.”
Woody’s voice came out louder than he had intended.
“Woody. What do you mean by no?”
“I mean no, I don’t want you to do it.”
Le Roux stopped.
Everyone looked at each other.
Elizabeth seemed surprised. He could tell by the look on her face she was embarrassed.
“Woody, Father Le Roux has offered to be here for you. You don’t want him to do it? Who would you like? Do you want the hospital chaplain?”
Woody shook his head. “No.”
Elizabeth touched his face. “Woody, who then? There is nobody else.”
Woody used his eyes to speak.
His gaze landed on the tall, beautiful redheaded young woman in the corner.
Chapter 70
In ancient Rome, about a hundred years after Jesus, a local Roman governor wrote a letter to Emperor Trajan. It was an annual report kind of deal. He talked about the weather. About current events. And he also bragged about how many Christians he had killed. He bragged particularly about the torture of two slave girls who were deacons in their church. The governor imprisoned the women, who were then ravished by the guards and brutalized in their cells. The young women were interrogated to reveal the practices of the church. Their responses became the first documentation of what early churches actually did when they met.
Turns out it was simple. There were no smells and bells. No robes and funny hats. The girls said that everyone simply gathered in a home. They sang hymns. They promised to be moral. And they ate a lot of food. In fact, food was one of the most important parts of their meetings. The early Christians didn’t eat wafers and drink thimbles of Welch’s grape juice. They called the meals “love feasts.” Someone began by breaking bread and pouring wine.
Woody walked Caroline through the administration of last rites. Step-by-step. The remnant of an ancient ritual that ties all Christians to their forebearers. His voice was a weak whisper. And each vibration of his throat sent stinging pain through his body. But somehow he summoned the strength he had left to speak. After all, there was nothing left to save his energy for.
Caroline’s hands trembled. Her voice quavered.
“I can’t do this,” Caroline whispered.
Woody muttered words of encouragement.
She touched his arm with her warm hand. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
He used all the fortitude he had to touch her hand. “I love you.”
She began to weep. “Thank you for loving me.” Caroline mopped her face with her sleeve. “I love you back.”
She recited the Lord’s Prayer. Everyone “amened” in response. Then Caroline placed the bread into his mouth and Woody closed his eyes. He had said the words before, a million and one times before, but he said them now only in his mind.
The body of Christ. The bread of heaven, keep you until everlasting life.
Le Roux passed Caroline a chalice wrapped in white cloth.
Caroline lowered the cup and touched the rim to his mouth. Wine spilled onto his chin and gown. His daughter continued to weep, and her tears mingled with the wine.
The blood of Christ. The cup of his grace, his salvation, and his mercy unto all. Unto you. And unto me.
The alcohol burned his tongue and throat so badly he thought it was going to burn a hole through his throat.
Depart, O Christian soul, out of this world.
He faded in and out of consciousness. He felt as though he were getting lighter.
In the name of God the Father Almighty who created you.
Everything in the room seemed so vibrant. And filled with air. Like a mighty wind was purging the world.
