Final Paradox

Chapter 32

As Harry opened his front door, the telephone rang. Pushing aside newspapers and the remains of dinner, he snatched up the receiver. It was Natasha.

He sank into the arm chair. “When can I see you?” he asked. His eyes roved around the room. Beside the television sat a basket of laundry. At least it was clean. “How about tomorrow?” she said. The brilliant, winter sun revealed a coating of dust on the coffee and side tables. One of his slippers was stuck under the couch. The home of a fusty old bachelor, he thought.

“Why don’t you come over here for dinner?” he asked. Although he had not made an actual meal for weeks, he wasn’t bad in the kitchen. “You cook, Harry?” “You bet. I was a short-order cook, as a summer student.” He could get the place tidied up for tomorrow. After she agreed, he hung up and stretched out on the couch. The events of the last few days spun in his head. He saw Norma’s wizened face twisted in hatred as she raised the cane against the man she mistook for Pappas. And then Peter’s salute, before he dropped over the railing. In his exhaustion, too many questions swirled in his mind. Roger and Bronwyn were victims of Peter’s malicious manipulations. Just as he and Katrina were. Where was Katrina now? For a moment, he toyed with the notion of finding her. He snapped on the evening news and, in minutes, was asleep. At ten thirty, the telephone rang. He rose swiftly to the surface of his dream of Katrina and answered. “Your father is in surgery, Mr. Jenkins.” Harry swung his feet to the floor and sat up. “What happened?” “There was evidence of a brain aneurysm. The surgeon is trying to prevent damage.” Harry was at the hospital within half an hour. He paced the hallway outside the surgery until a nurse insisted he wait down the hall. For a moment he sat upright on a creaking plastic chair molded for a body entirely different from his own. Jumping up, he returned to the desk and asked, “Is it a very long operation?” They did not know. He paced the gray tiled hallway under the florescent lights until he came to an empty waiting room. Magazines were scattered about, along with coffee cups and chocolate bar wrappings. Waiting for news, he thought. Hundreds of people had sat in this desolate room trapped in an eerie, fearful suspension between despair and joy. Some won a reprieve; others did not. The ice in the drink machine began clunking and spluttering. The spout of the coffee machine drizzled. At the far end of the hall, he saw a red-lit sign. Quiet Room, it read. Harry approached, and, after only a moment’s hesitation, opened the door. The room resembled a chapel except that only a podium stood at the front. No vestige of any religion was in evidence. He sank onto the red, padded bench. A huge metal box, which Harry assumed was an air-conditioning unit, was built into the wall behind the podium. Mysteriously, it began to gurgle and sigh as if coming to life in the dead of winter. For years, he had simmered with resentment at his father. Sometimes he had been all but consumed by the restless, angry energy swirling within him. Only now was their relationship beginning to mend. His father’s words, so plainly spoken, had been filled with the hope of his forgiveness. Because I’m still alive, so maybe it’s not too late. Why could he, a middle-aged man, not escape his childhood? Dumbly, he stared at the gray steel air conditioner as if it could provide an answer. Suddenly, he wished he knew how to pray. Dad’s reaction to Anna’s death might have been a mental illness. People talked these days of post-traumatic shock, but there had been no such words back then. He tried to remember whether mother had sought help. Harry, to his shame, certainly had not. But he had been quick enough to cast blame and wallow in his hurt. Although he was the child, he did eventually become an adult—or so he thought. Without children of his own, he had trouble comprehending his father’s reaction, which he thought extreme. The enormity of such loss escaped him. His wife, Laura, had always been too busy for children. He heard her voice: Sure you’d help with a baby, Harry, but that means the responsibility would fall mostly on my shoulders. If there were no love, why bother with children? It was simple. He equated his father’s silence with a lack of love. There could have been a hundred other reasons. Perhaps if someone had reached out, it might have been different. Harry caught his breath. An unearthly wailing came from the hallway. The door to the Quiet Room flew open. A tall, bony woman, wearing a mauve dress and yellow shawl, clung desperately to the arms of two men. One was old and hunched and the other, muscular and attentive. The florescent lighting illuminated the woman’s face raw with agony. “No! No!” As if possessed, she shook violently and her voice slid up octaves. “By the blood of Christ, no!” Clasping her hands to her ears, she began to moan, her eyes ricocheting about the room. She screamed at the ceiling. “Why have you cursed me?  He cannot be taken so soon.” She flung herself to her knees before the podium. “He is too young! Why?” Hugging herself, she rocked back and forth. The young man, his face stained with tears, encircled her shoulders and tried to raise her up, but she refused all comfort. The old man sank to the red padded seat behind them and buried his face in his hands. He groaned, “My son, my only son!” Throwing her arms heavenward, the woman shrieked, “Take me! He is too young!” Babbling, she beat upon her breast and tore at the buttons of her dress. She screamed. “Why have you cursed me, Jesus?” Spent, she fell prostrate before the podium, her entire body heaving. The old man was silent. Then his shoulders convulsed, and he muttered, “My son. Dear Jesus. Not my only son.” He leaned on the young man, and, through gentle sobbing, he whispered, “It is too great a price. I cannot bear it. Why did they beat him, so … savagely?” A priest, black robes flowing, came in clutching a Bible and a Rosary. He spoke to the old man. “What has happened, my son?” The man struggled to control himself. Through broken sobbing he managed to say, “They took him by car to a side road, north of the city. And there they beat him with a tire iron and a shovel.” The old man’s shoulders convulsed. “God forgive them. They do know what they’ve done.” The priest touched the man’s shoulder. “But why, my son?” “Because he was different from others. God have mercy, but he loved a man.” Weeping, he asked the priest, “Why is any love a sin, Father? Harry saw the priest’s lips tighten for an instant as he turned away. Then shoring himself up, he intoned, “The Bible says it is so, my son.” Harry was sickened. Where can love, forgiveness, and compassion be? If it is not found in this rabid priest does it exist anywhere? Sinking to his knees, the priest reached out to the woman. She twisted away in agony. Shrieking, she rose to her knees. Blindly, she scuttered across the floor to huddle in a corner. A doctor, her white coat flapping, grasped the woman’s arm. With a nurse’s help, she stilled her and expertly injected a drug. A swift and deep slumber engulfed her. Orderlies gently lifted her onto a stretcher, and the doctor stopped to smooth down the stiff fabric of her dress. The priest had gone. Harry pressed his hands against his face. With all his heart, he wanted to pray. He had just witnessed the unholy wrenching of the spirit at the loss of a child, caused by blind hatred. As he touched the tears on his face, he thought of Peter, years back. Then he began to understand. “God forgive me,” he whispered. “I have known nothing! My father died along with Anna. I did nothing to help. And the world twisted and destroyed Peter.” At last, he rose and slowly made his way down the now silent hallway to the desk. “Mr. Jenkins, we’ve been looking for you. The surgeon would like to speak with you.” A tall man, a mask covering his mouth and nose, approached Harry and gestured him into a waiting room. Harry sank, in body and spirit. The doctor closed the door and removed his mask. Harry sat down. “Your father has come through the operation better than we expected.” “He’s alive?” Harry said in wonder. “Yes, of course. Although we can’t be sure it won’t happen again, there are medications …” Harry was on his feet, grinning. “Thank you, doctor.” He pumped his hand. “Thank you so much. That’s wonderful. May I see him?” The doctor shook his head. “He’ll be in intensive care for a few days so we can keep an eye on him. You can come in the morning.” Harry shook the doctor’s hand once more, then hurried from the room. So stunned was he that he marched past his car twice in the darkened parking lot. As he stared out at the damp fog rising from the pavement, his mind raced with possibilities. At the very moment of his asking, he had received the answer. The agony written on the woman’s face blinded him with flashes of understanding of his father’s silence and his own emptiness. The priest’s turning away told him everything about Peter’s life, and much about his own. His rational mind told him that those who found special significance in synchronous events were desperately seeking solace. But how had it happened? For once, his mind grew still. Finally, he spotted his car. Sitting behind the wheel, he caught his grinning face in the mirror. Never before had he experienced the sensation of warmth and stillness now flooding his entire being. His brain no longer tormented him with questions. His heart understood. The world took on unknown dimensions. And his father was alive. At home, Harry took a hot shower and climbed into bed. He realized he was still grinning. In the morning, he awoke exhausted. His sleep had been a continuous riot of dark shadow and bright light. But no remembrance of his dreams remained. He drank a cup of coffee at his kitchen table. His brain labored to put the woman’s face into a safe and rational context. By the time he had shaved and dressed, she had begun to fade from his consciousness. No doubt, it was a singular event. He could not dissect it, categorize it, or explain it. Nor could he dismiss it. At 7:00 am, Harry gowned to enter the ICU. Heart monitors bleeped in feeble and  unconvincing rhythms. Occasionally soft weeping came from behind the curtains of  cubicles. Harry sat for two hours at his father’s bedside. Suddenly, long-forgotten bits and pieces of his father’s stories floated up to him and set him to reminiscing aloud. Softly he sang tag ends of rhymes and songs learned from his father. When he forgot parts, he simply hummed. Sometimes he thought his eyelids fluttered, but he could not be sure. At last, Stanley’s eyes blinked open, then filled with recognition. “Son,” he whispered. Harry grasped his hand. “Dad, I’m so sorry!” Stanley tried to shake his head. “No … no,” he mouthed. “I shouldn’t have left you alone,” Harry whispered. There was no response for several moments. Stanley’s hand tapped his. “I love you, son.” Harry’s eyes stung with tears. Almost choking, he said, “Dad, I love you too. I’m so sorry we’ve missed so much together.” Stanley struggled to take a breath. The words came slowly, one by one. “I wanted you to go and see your lady friend ….” The doctor appeared from behind the curtain. “You’re his son?” Without taking his eyes from his father, Harry nodded. “Yes. I’m Harry, his son.” “Your Dad’s come through the operation better than we hoped. He was talking during the night, but his speech is impaired. Lots of word salad.” “Pardon?” The doctor smiled. “His speech is garbled. The words sound all right, but usually they don’t mean much together.”

In silence, Harry stared at the doctor. His father had just said the most important, meaningful words he had ever heard from him.