The Tenth Song (40 page)

It all seemed so far away, Abigail thought, the voices, the visions of people scurrying to and fro. She didn’t feel part of it anymore. She felt detached, as if she were in an audience watching this on some giant screen.

She looked up at her daughter’s young, beautiful face, so drawn and pale, reaching up to caress her freckled cheeks. She beckoned her to come closer. “You were always my pride and joy, my precious, spoiled little Kayla,” she whispered into her ear. “I never worried about you. You were so smart, so successful. I just assumed you were all right. I should have taken more care to see that you were happy.”

“Mom, no one can make another person happy. You are a great mother. You did your best for me, for all of us. Please, don’t… !”

“I’m not going to die, God willing. I still have my Tenth Song left. I haven’t yet sung my Tenth Song,” she murmured, the preoperative sedatives beginning to make her words blur one into the other.

She felt them wheel her urgently down the corridor, Kayla on one side, Daniel on the other.

The massive operating-room lights hovered above her like UFOs. She closed her eyes. She felt frightened, murmuring a desperate prayer to God, asking Him to hold her hand. They put a mask over her face. “Breathe in and count to four,” she heard a voice say, “and that will be the last thing you feel until you wake up.”

She had a moment of deep understanding that surpassed anything she had ever experienced before. Whatever this “thing” was she had been involved in, this consciousness, these waking moments—sight, smell, thought, understanding, love, activity, desire, pain—the light that came at intervals, replaced by darkness and the overweening sense of space, objects—sky, moon, mountains,
sea, earth—whatever this was they called living, it was finite. It would come to an end. And all she had experienced and known would leave her. This certainty came to her as a dream, a nightmare, and a deep sense of peace. She was reconciled to it, to leaving all she had known behind. She felt quiet inside, ready, giving up her possession of body and mind, ready to forfeit it all if that was ordained, laying it at the feet of her faith. What would be would be. She could not fight it. She was small, finite. And her fate too was finite.

She did as she was told, breathing deeply, wondering if this was the last thing she would ever do on this earth; wondering if all this time she had been singing her Tenth Song.

32

Adam squirmed in the leather conference chair in his lawyer’s fancy conference room, his hands gripping the wooden armrests. He was in the place he least wanted to be in the world, except the courtroom. The whole legal team seemed to be there. For some reason, he thought of the words “gang rape.” Except that unlike most victims, he’d be paying each one of them four hundred dollars an hour for this experience.

“Adam, you are due back in court tomorrow. We, your legal team, really want to impress upon you the risks you are taking. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather reconsider now, and let us talk to the federal prosecutors and work out an advantageous deal for you? When we get to court, it will be too late.”

They sounded like an old record, Adam thought, furious, considering all the money he had spent on this case so far, nearly bankrupting him. He thought about all the horrible headlines and how unimaginably quickly a single article in the newspaper or on the Internet had turned longtime friends and clients into distant accusers. He had steeled himself to go through the horrors of the court trial by dreaming of the day when the newspapers would declare his innocence, bringing shame and chagrin to all those who had thought the worst of him. To do what they were now suggesting would mean the end of that dream forever; it would mean new headlines, ones which read
BOSTON ACCOUNTANT PLEA-BARGAINS ON TERRORIST FUNDING CHARGE
. It would be the same as being convicted.

He looked across the room at the expectant faces of the men he had hired to protect him. He saw pity and compassion in their eyes, along with doubt. Even they, he realized in despair, didn’t believe he was innocent. Not completely.

“Do you remember John Proctor, that character accused of witchcraft from
The Crucible
?” he said, and they looked at him, puzzled. “All John needed to do in order to go home to his wife and children was to confess to something he didn’t do. Imagining the terrible death awaiting him, his separation forever from all those he loved, he broke down at a certain point, ready to lie. But then they asked him to sign his name to his confession. And that he could not do. ‘
Because it is my name! Because I cannot have another in my life! Because I lie and sign myself to lies! . . . How may I live without my name? I have given you my soul; leave me my name!’ ”

They sighed, leaning back in their chairs.

“We understand,” Marvin said. He, among them all, seemed to look at him with a newfound respect. “But it is my duty as your lawyer to tell you that there is a more than even chance that you will lose.”

“But what about all the new information you’ve found? About Hurling’s terrorist connections? About Dorset’s gambling debts in Vegas that were suddenly paid off anonymously?”

“It is all conjecture, not facts. We don’t have any witness who proves that Hurling knew Gregory Van. And without that, we have no credible defense.”

Adam slumped, all his resolve rushing out of him like stale air from a punctured balloon, leaving him crumpled and weak.

“There are no leads at all on Van?“

Marvin shook his head. “He is obviously connected to terrorist regimes. He could be anywhere by now, in places that no one will be able to look.

“Adam, this is, of course, your choice. But I beg you to reconsider,” Marvin implored, while the others nodded in agreement.

Wasn’t that always the story? Adam thought. The criminals are always the ones who are smart enough to elude the law. Only innocent people are stupid enough and honorable enough to get caught and put through the legal wringer. “I will need to discuss this with my wife. She’s abroad right now.”

The lawyers shifted uncomfortably.

“That’s another thing, Adam. Your wife and daughter have both left the country. You remember what happened last time in court? I’m afraid this time the judge will be less charitable and easier for the prosecution to convince. You could be taken into custody immediately. Isn’t there some way you can get her and your daughter to return in the next few days?”

His lips twisted into a bitter smile. He shrugged.

“Well, please try!”

He nodded. “Can I go now?”

Marvin looked at the others inquiringly, but their faces were blank. “Yes, I guess so. But if you do reconsider about the plea bargain, I’ll need your answer before we go to court tomorrow.”

Adam stood up, offering his hand to his lawyer and to the others, who shook it solemnly, like people saying good-bye to someone about to begin a life-threatening journey.

At home, he sat down in the silent dark kitchen drinking a straight scotch, his throat already burning with vague regret as it poured into his stomach. He was steeling himself for the desperate conversation with his wife and daughter when suddenly the phone rang.

“Dad?”

“Kayla?” How strange that was, as if she had read his thoughts. “I was just about to call you. I wish I didn’t have to tell you this…”

“DAD!” she interrupted him fiercely. “Mom is in the hospital. It’s an emergency. Her appendix has burst… We were in the middle of the desert… Daniel called an army helicopter… She just went into surgery… Dad. I’m scared!” She sobbed.

He slid to the floor, the phone in his hand. This was the last straw.

“Dad, are you still there?”

“Yes. I’m here.”

“I will call you when she comes out of surgery. Dad? DAD!”

He cleared his throat. “Is she getting the best care? Kayla, make sure…” he said hoarsely, barely able to speak.

“Dad, it’s an emergency, so we can’t exactly shop around. But we’re in an
excellent, modern hospital. Daniel says he’s heard of the surgeon, and he’s very good. He just happened to be on duty.”

“Don’t leave her alone for a moment. I don’t want her to be alone.”

“I won’t, Dad. Daniel and I are both here. We aren’t going anywhere.”

“Tell her…” His throat knotted. “Tell her I love her,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“Dad? This connection is terrible. I can hardly hear you… What’s happening with you? With the case?”

“Tell your mother not to worry. It’s going to be fine. Fine. You’ll tell her that, won’t you? Don’t worry about me. This is nothing… It doesn’t matter.”

“Dad, my battery is about to die, tell me what’s going on!”

“We need to find Van. Nothing else will save me. But this is not your problem. Call me as soon as she’s out of surgery?”

“All right, Dad. Good-bye.” She hung up the phone, turning to Daniel. “It’s my dad. He says we have to find Van. Now.”

He had never expected a wonderful life. No one had a life with only good things. But to go from such a good life to one that stripped him of everything felt like a Divine blow. It couldn’t be a coincidence, all these things happening at the same time. He was being punished, he thought. But for what? For always wanting more? Was that a crime? For working hard and being clever and successful? Was that suddenly evil? He pounded the wall with his fist, then leaned his forehead against it, wracked by sobs. No. It was for sending her away. For making her do what I asked her to do. For not keeping her safe.

He walked through the silent house, taking inventory of his life. The lovely armoire, now full of dust. The beautiful dining-room chandelier that had not been lit for months. The silver-framed photos on the grand piano, outlining a life rich in family, friends, and good times all over the world. And now, as he was nearing the last stretch of his lifetime journey, when all his good deeds, all his blessings should have been there to cushion him against the ravages and losses of old age, there was nothing left but bare, cold planks.

He remembered something Abigail once told him years ago. Sometimes,
she said, you go to great trouble preparing a meal you are not destined to eat. She was referring to an actual dinner party she had planned her first year in college to celebrate the end of midterm exams. She’d detailed the way she’d carefully washed the mushrooms and sliced them; the way she’d sautéed the onions and garlic and tomatoes to a thick, delicious paste; and how, in the middle, she’d reached into the fridge to steal one of the éclairs she’d purchased from a famous New York bakery for dessert. One hour later, she’d moved permanently into the bathroom, vile odiferous fluids pouring out of all ends, experiencing the kind of stomach pains you’d expect during labor. An emergency room doctor diagnosed her with gastroenteritis. When she recovered, she found herself in the kitchen disposing of the lavish, never-consumed feast.

Sometimes, one was never destined to reap the rewards of one’s efforts. If you did, you should consider it a blessing, not a natural outcome, he realized.

The word “
be’shert
” went through his head, a word religious Jews turn to for comfort when faced with accepting such dismal outcomes. It was no one’s fault. It wasn’t a punishment. It just
wasn’t meant to be
in the vast, celestial plan, and thus must be accepted without undue rancor or hair-tearing disappointment. It was a word equally, if not more so, weighted to explain the happy chance accidents that befall us all, leading to wondrous matches with excellent life partners, lucrative business deals, and happy encounters with long-lost relatives, friends, and coworkers. Things we don’t deserve.

He sank into his down sofa, its marshmallow softness mocking the unforgiving, hard reality of his almost destroyed life. He was, he realized, helpless. Like the winds and tides that swirl and beat against each other, creating storms, typhoons, and hurricanes, a man’s fate was outside his hands. There was just so much you could do, and the rest was up to what some called fate, and others, more courageously, were willing to call God.

Why was it so hard for human beings to pray? Because no human being wishes to admit helplessness, he thought. Perhaps because to be human is so terrifyingly fragile to begin with, he thought, so we surround ourselves with illusions of power: money, friends, and shrewd knowledge about how the world works. And clothed in this brittle armor we march out into the world daring to face its uncertainties. It was only when the perfect storm enveloped you,
threatening all you had, that you were reduced to shedding all hubris and facing the true nature of being human.

Pressed down into the depths of despair, he felt himself drawn to the old remedy that had been the elixir of so many facing destruction, whether through inimical human opponents, or faceless acts of nature, conditions of want, or disease. When all human efforts had been expended—all expertise, all plans, all bribes—and only one thing was left.

He walked to his bookcase and took out a book of Psalms.

He will deliver you from the snare that is laid, from the deadly pestilence.

He will cover you with His pinions, and you will take refuge beneath His wings

. . . For He will instruct His angels on your behalf, to keep you in all your ways.

They will carry you upon their hands, lest you hurt your foot upon a stone…

He read and read, his soul raw with unhealed wounds, weak with helplessness.

The words poured into him like a salve. Alone, but not alone, he thought, wanting so much to believe in his faith, wanting to feel worthy of being listened to. He did not want God to be that far-off clockmaker who did not interfere with human beings, leaving them to their fate. He needed God to be near him, with him, controlling the universe.

Oh, God, oh God. Take everything I have if I deserve it; just don’t take her from me. Please, God, please.

He needed miracles. He prayed for miracles.

Exhausted, he slept.