The Five Pearls (15 page)

A few days after Christmas, Big Bill Hogan showed up unexpectedly at Loomis House.
“Now is not a good time,” Mrs. Powell told him irritably. The man always seemed to rub her the wrong way.
“When you’re in his shape, there’s never a good time,” Hogan said flatly. “I can go to his room, if you like.”
“That won’t be necessary,” she said, hoping to sound standoffish. “Give us a few minutes.”
It took Mrs. Powell fifteen minutes to dress John and lead him down the stairs to meet with Big Bill in the study.
“I need some more signatures,” Hogan said. “A Living Will, a Revocable Living Trust and Power of Attorney are needed for the insurance deal to slip through. We can't have any questions asked.”
Mrs. Powell was brought in as a witness to John’s signing of the documents.
“What are these documents for?” she asked.
Big Bill helped himself to a pour of aged Scotch whisky from the cabinet bar. “The end game,” he burped.
Mrs. Powell turned to John. “
End game
? What is this all about?”
“You don’t wanna know,” Hogan said.
She growled at Big Bill, waving an angry finger at him. “Still up to no good! You haven’t changed since you were a boy, Billy Hogan!” She excused herself from the meeting. Something about something in the oven, she said.
“How well do you know Mrs. Powell?” Battle finally asked Hogan.
“Old family friends. We go generations back. The house I grew up in is across the street. She used to scold me for a whole armful of youthful offenses, none really all that serious. I knew her kids pretty good, but they left this town for higher ground.” Hogan laughed. “It’s funny, I always thought of her as
old lady Powell
, but looking back, she was about my current age when we first crossed swords. I don’t seem that old to you, do I?”
“Old enough. The reality is that our own adolescence seemed like yesterday,” Battle said.
“Where does the time go, huh? If you think about it, a human life is pretty darned short.”
Battle reached over and borrowed a pen from Hogan. “I want to make some amendments to my Will.”
After he was done, Hogan perused the papers. “That’s pretty generous,” Hogan whistled.
“It’s the least I can do,” Battle said as he escorted the unsavory insurance man to the door. “Just make sure the insurance money ends up in the right hands.”
Hogan paused and looked up at the Grandfather clock in the hallway. “Tick, tick, tick,” he said with a pointed finger.
“Don’t worry,” John said. “I’m only a step away.”
“Happy New Year, John,” Hogan breathed with sadness.
“Happy New Year, Hogie. Go home to your family.”
“I wish it were that easy for you.”
After Hogan left, John pulled himself up the stairs to the bedroom and collapsed on the bed. Everything hurt now, especially his legs. He tried to stand, but his rubber legs wouldn’t support him.
Twenty minutes later, Mrs. Powell arrived at the bedroom door to check on him. He was unconscious, his pants wet from defecation. She undressed him, cleaned him, and tucked him in bed, then carried his soiled clothes downstairs to the laundry room. As she rubbed out the stains she hummed;
“Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me....
I once was lost but now am found,
Was blind, but now, I see.
‘Twas Grace that taught my heart to fear.
And Grace, my fears relieved.
How precious did that Grace appear.
The hour I first believed.”
Tears filled the old lady’s eyes and she had to sit down in the kitchen.
Damned song
.
Mrs. Powell picked up the Polaroids she had taken of the mysterious John Battle since he had moved into the house.
“I’m going to miss you, John,” was all she could think to say.
Afterwards, she wandered through most of the rooms of the house, staring at pictures and paintings of related men and women long since dead and her own children that never called or wrote anymore.
What did I ever do to deserve this? She wondered. I’m not a bad person. I took care of my own when they were younger. Why did they abandon me? Why must I lean towards a dying man for comfort? And when he’s gone tomorrow or next week or the week after that - then what? Why does life have to be so hard and lonely? Why do we even bother?

SPLAT! It was a few minutes before midnight when Amber heard the snowball hit her bedroom window. “Jerks.” She yanked herself out from under the warm covers and slipped on her robe. WHAM! Another snowball hit the window. Amber hurried across the room, unlatched the window and flung it open.

Julio was standing just below the windowsill. No jacket, no beer or whisky apparent in either hand, just a stupid little boy grin on his face.

Happy New Year. It’s midnight in ten minutes, you know.” “Yeah? Well, I have to get some sleep,” she said. “Baby’s
starting to act up and my stomach’s killing me.”
“Oh. Okay,” he said. “Like I said, I just wanted to stop by
and wish you a Happy New Year.”
“Thanks. Now get out of here.”
“Okay,” he said. “Amber… are you mad at me?” He
shrugged his shoulders. “We never talk anymore.” “No, Julio. I’m not mad at you.”
The large young man trudged away towards the alley, his
feet making a crunching sound on the cold hard snow. “Hey, Julio!” Amber called out for the entire neighborhood
to hear.
He turned in his tracks, making a loud crunch of snow, and
faced her. “Yeah?”
“Happy New Year to you, too!”
He smiled and started to run towards the alley now.
“Happy New Year, Amber! Happy New Year, everybody!
Happy New Year, world!”

Mrs. Powell quietly slipped downstairs with a Louisville Slugger baseball bat in her hand. She noticed the time on the old hallway clock. 11:55.

Where in the world is that racket coming from
? She wondered. Mrs. Powell hadn’t celebrated the countdown towards midnight on New Year’s Eve in many years.

She found John in the kitchen. He was wearing a bathrobe. He stared into the refrigerator, a bottle of cold milk in his limp hand. Behind him on the counter was a small pile of food.

His voice sounded lost and confused.
“No sense your bringing in the New Year alone,” she
decided. “Can I make us a cocoa?”
He didn’t move. His eyes were glazed as if he didn’t hear
her. “There’s something important I’m supposed to do,” he
finally said with a clenched fist. “But I can’t remember what it
is. Something important.”
She took him by the arm and set him in a chair. “It will
come to you, John. Take your time.”
“Something I need to take care of now.” The clock struck
midnight and he still sat there, frozen in his thoughts. “I
promised the kids… Letters are in the dresser, I think…” She knelt before him and took his hands in hers. “Do you
know what year it is, John?”
John thought hard on the question but his mind drew a
blank. “No. I don't.” Tears welled in his eyes.
Mrs. Powell wrapped her arms around him and petted his
hair. He was perspiring. “That’s all right, John. It will come to
you.” She led him upstairs, one slow step at a time. “Something to do… I have to do something… urgent…” “Get some sleep, John. Whatever it is can wait until
morning.”

It was early morning, the first day of a new year, a holiday. Mrs. Powell carried a breakfast tray to his room. She found him on the floor, unconscious again. She set the tray down on the dresser and knelt beside him. John was bleeding from his ears, mouth and nose. She grabbed a wet washcloth from the bathroom and cleared away the visible blood.

“John!” she cried. “Can you hear me?”
There was no reaction at first.
“John?”
His eyes opened slowly. When he saw her face hovering

Mrs. Powell cradled him like a baby. “You’re hemorrhaging. I'll call an ambulance.”
“No,” he refused softly. “Please. Can you help me up?”
“John, there’s no time to waste. You’ll die…”
He put a finger to her lips. “When I came here, you said I might live an hour, a day or a week, Mrs. Powell. You said I could die with dignity.”
“Oh, John…”
“I need, I need – something to do… I have to do something… one last walk… Will you take me, Mrs. Powell? It’s in the mountains.”
“A walk? What is this madness…? A walk in your condition…”
“I have promises to keep.”
“Yes, but…”
“God kept me alive for only so long. But I really must be going now. Just a short walk. Please?”
“Yes, John,” she sighed. “I’ll take you there.”
Somehow, he managed to smile between the pinches of pain. “Thank you.” He pointed to sealed envelopes on the dresser. “There is unfinished business to attend to.”
“I’ll see to it.”

It took her half an hour to dress him and get him downstairs. He took one last dose of pain medication in the kitchen. It raised his spirits a little, helped him gain some strength. He slipped on his knee-length overcoat and pulled a long white scarf around his neck.

“I’d like to wear your husband’s fedora, if you don’t mind. I love the brim.” And don’t forget that hiking stick I found.”
Mrs. Powell remembered the hat on its peg by the front door and fled the room. She returned in a hurry with the hat and stick. He grasped the thick wood of the staff with both hands for support while she hurriedly adjusted his hat on his head.
“The snow is whistling outside,” Mrs. Powell warned.
“A happy tune for a new year.”
When they reached the back porch, a light snow was falling outside. Mrs. Powell helped him down the stairs and across the yard to the SUV parked in the garage. She lifted his legs up after him in the passenger seat and put on his seat belt. He was so weak now, frail, thin, breakable.
She started the car, brushed snow off it while the engine warmed. “Where to, John?” She climbed in behind the wheel and backed into the alley.
“I found a pretty perch above the city. If I had angel wings I could fly from there… It’s up…” He forced his mind to remember. “It’s up a canyon. Yes, Cheyenne… canyon. Past the waterfall.”
There were no other cars on the snow-slicked road. Mrs. Powell drove over the speed limit as the car raced up the foothills and entered Cheyenne Canyon.
John sat hunched against the passenger window, a strange sense of serenity and hope on his face as he watched the rocks and trees hurry past. Mrs. Powell had seen that expression hundreds of times in her days as a nurse. It was the look of an apologetic sinner knocking on heaven’s door.
“Snow, snow, beautiful snow,” he hummed. “Do you like snow, Mrs. Powell?”
“Sometimes,” she said.
“What is your first name, Mrs. Powell? You never told me.”
“My name is Dorothy,” she said.
“Dorothy is a pretty name,” he decided. “I like it.”
The vehicle followed up and up and up the slippery road until John saw the sign ahead:
CAPTAIN JACK’S TRAIL
“Pull over there.”
Mrs. Powell pulled the SUV over to the side of the road and helped him stand outside in the snow.
“Walking stick, please.”
She handed him the stick. “I’ll go with you.”
“Whatever for, Mrs. Powell?”
“In case you fall.”
With what little strength he had left he managed a small laugh. “I’m supposed to fall, Mrs. Powell.” He gently took her hands in his. “A man can get lost on all these trails. Do you understand me? When it snows, the frozen dirt path gets slippery. You wanted to walk with me, but your back was bothering you. I was only going to be gone a few minutes. Do you understand me, Mrs. Powell?”
“I think so. It’s that Bill Hogan business, isn’t it?”
“The less you know, the better…” then he remembered… “I told you about the envelopes on the dresser? My unfinished business?”
“I’ll attend to them,” she reminded.
“I went for a hike,” he suddenly said. Fear blazed in his eyes. “It started to snow. There was an accident...”
“Yes, John.”
“Goodbye, Mrs. Powell.” He steadied himself on the walking stick, wiped new blood from his nose. “You were a wonderful companion, Dorothy.”
“As were you.”
“Dorothy, did I do my best?”
She hugged him, afraid to let go. “Absolutely, John.”
He smiled absently, taking in the forest ahead. “Such a perfect day. No wind, a silent snow.” He sniffed the air. “Not too cold, not too hot. Everything is just right.”
Mrs. Powell released him and adjusted his coat.
He faced the trail, taking small unstable steps with the long stick.
“I’ll be going now.”
“John? For the record?”
“Yes, Mrs. Powell?”
“You are a pearl, too.”
He sadly smiled and tipped his hat with a gesture of goodbye. Several hobbles later, John disappeared down the winding trail into the thick forest shrouded in mist.
She heard his voice call out for the last time.
“Happy New Year, Mrs. Powell!”
“Happy New Year, John!”
The old woman crossed her arms across her chest to fight off the morning chill and prayed that he would call out to her one last time.
But he never did.

John Battle struggled through the fresh, wet snow covering uneven ground. Every step a devouring agony. His legs were starting to numb again.

“I have to hurry.” He breathed loudly. “Stay with the plan…”
He made it to the switchback where the trees thinned and the trail opened on to a small plain. Ahead was the rock outcropping, the cliff. John grunted a small approval. He had found his spot again. His legs barely carried him to the rock and the small sapling evergreen that grew out from it. He sat himself down and looked over the cliff. He raised his head to heaven.
“God? Are you sure you don't want to change your mind? Toss a miracle my way?”
He waited for an answer… But there was no answer.
“As I expected…”
John studied the flaky ground at the edge of the cliff, probing it with his stick.
“The best laid plans of mice and men...”
He reached for one of the branches of the small tree. His hand tightened on it and he pulled himself up to a standing position. His dead legs were gone from under him now. Nothing left. A shocking head-banging pain hit him. He sensed his eyes dimming, felt the river of blood shooting through his brain and out his nostrils like mush. As he fell, his hand raked away an abrasive string of pine needles along the branch.
“Oh God,” he cried. “Oh my God… I’m gone!”
In a sad, unstoppable ballet of jerking motion, his deadened body uncontrollably twisted to one side towards free fall.