A SONG IN THE PARK
A Novel by
Martin Brant
* * * * *
A SONG IN THE PARK
Copyright 2008 by Martin Brant
Smashwords Edition
All right reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Certain parts of Big Bend National Park, though based on fact, have been altered for purposes of this story, including the operating procedures, etc. of the park rangers. Lajitas, Texas has changed radically since the setting as it is described in this novel. Civilization has moved in and converted a rustic border town into an upscale resort.
Cover design by:
Chris Esler
Chapter 1
Michael Anderson’s tormented gaze shifted from his bloody hands to the small lifeless body on the operating table. The doctors and nurses standing around the operating table looked on in disbelief. Gloom fell quietly over the room that felt like foul oil on their skin. Dr. Anderson had repaired her heart valve with his well known, some say incredible skill. This time he had overlooked a small ruptured vein. A little girl. Eight years old. Her breath stopped a few moments after he had closed her small chest.
During the frenzied half-hour they fought to repair the damage, Michael suffered anxiety he had not known in his entire ten-year career. He had tried desperately. He could not bring her back. Now, as he stared at his dead patient, laboring for reason, his mind reeled with blind thought. He felt empty, used up. Inside him there was nothing left.
While the assisting staff milled about, the reality of this tragedy accepted, Shannon Mason, the head nurse, still had not taken her eyes off of him. She watched him with heart-wrenching concern. He had pushed back his surgeon’s cap with the back of his hand. Sweat plastered his sandy blond hair to his forehead. She ached for him, his face twisted in angst, his blue eyes, always warm and disarming, now distant with fear. His shoulders were drawn and small.
Shannon didn’t know what to say or do. She had been a nurse at the hospital for nearly a year and had worked with Michael much of that time. Though she had not shared her feelings with anyone, least of all Michael, she had fallen in love with him.
A twenty-nine-year-old transplant from the Midwest, she had found a small apartment in San Diego and waited, it seemed forever, to be accepted for her current position. Having worked side-by-side with Michael for several months, she had finally gathered the courage to ask him to dinner. When he accepted, he didn’t realize it had set her heart sailing. She had taken off early that day, got a sharp new haircut that gave her that carefree California look. She had bought a sexy, short black skirt. As radiant as she had ever been when he picked her up, she wondered if her efforts might prompt a suggestive invitation. It never happened. He had been charming and attentive; and how time flied that night as they sipped coffee and talked until three o’clock in the morning.
There had been a few more dinners and a couple of evenings at the theater since then. He was her anchor. If it weren’t for her friendship with Michael, she knew she would eventually leave San Diego. After learning she wasn’t meant to be a city girl, her feelings for Michael kept her in Southern California. She had debated the daring idea for weeks, but still had not found the courage to invite him to her apartment, nor did it appear he planned to suggest it.
Now this. She had never seen such grief possess a man’s face. She stepped forward, quietly, and stood beside him. He glanced at her as if he didn’t know her, lost in the responsibility of ending a young life. She wanted to take his arm, comfort him in some way, though nothing she might say seemed appropriate. Her voice soft and filled with compassion, she finally said: “Michael, we can take care of things here. Why don’t you wash up?”
“I killed her. I killed a little girl,” he muttered, wanting to take hold of the body and shake her back to life.
“Michael,” Shannon pleaded, “it was a mistake we all made together. Just go and wash up. Let me finish up here and then I’ll join you. We can sort it out. We can ...” She averted her eyes when a tear run down his cheek.
He turned and walked aimlessly out of the operating room. Then Shannon watched an intern wheel the gurney through the bleak stainless steel doors. The small body had been covered with a sheet.
Doctor Jacobs approached. “Anderson’s gonna have a hard time with this,” he said. “First time I’ve seen him leave an operating room without everyone slapping him on the back.”
Shannon looked at the doctor, concern etched on her face.
“I’ll do the report,” he said. “He won’t be worth a damn any time soon. Let’s hope his malpractice premiums are current.”
Shannon’s expression took on an edge of contempt. “That’s an awful thing to say.”
“A fact of life, my dear. You think that girl’s parents will sit still for this? Not with every discriminating detail recorded.”
“What are you talking about?” Shannon asked.
“You know what I’m talking about. You saw him yawning. He hasn’t had enough sleep, and there’s no way I’m taking part in a cover-up.”
“No one said anything about a cover-up,” she said hotly. “It was an innocent mistake. An oversight. The kind of thing that can happen in any procedure. That doesn’t mean it has to lead to a lawsuit!”
Jacobs laughed mockingly. “Maybe not in Kansas, honey, but consider it a foregone conclusion in California.”
Shannon turned her head in exasperation. She didn’t like Doctor Jacobs from the moment she met him. In fact she didn’t care for most of the hospital staff. It seemed like a world of back stabbing and unbridled ambition, and long tedious hours spent with self-possessed complainers.
Shannon found Michael in his office staring out the window, unaware he had already drawn a conclusion as to why the mistake had been made. Instead of a good night’s rest the night before, he had recklessly stayed out most of the night, responding again to the call of those never-ending escapades found in the local bathhouses. He had not gotten enough rest. The shock of losing the little girl had already turned into self-loathing.
Shannon took a few tentative steps into the office. He had changed into his street clothes, jeans and a pullover shirt. Though Michael had a wonderful sense of style—he wore Armani when they went to dinner—he had acquired a rather eccentric reputation with his affinity for casual dress. She was looking at him from behind, the fairly long sandy hair, the shoulders of a man that lifted weights. At five-eleven, he stood an inch or two taller than her. Every time she looked at him, she thought about how proud she was to be seen with him: his sense of style, his perpetual optimism, his wonderful blend of casual sophistication and boyish charm. And she loved to look at his face: his sensual lips, thin and straight across, his nose rather narrow, his eyes crystal blue.
He stood trance-like, staring out a window. He had rolled up his sleeve and had tied a rubber tube around his arm. It looked like he had just drawn a sample of his own blood. It seemed odd to her that he would do this just now, noting the vile on his desk when she stepped up behind him.
“Michael ...”
He seemed on the verge of panic. “I’ve gotta get away from here,” he interrupted.
“Michael ...”
He turned suddenly, his blue eyes red and puffy.
She swallowed hard, groping for the right words. “You shouldn’t be alone. We both need a little fresh air. Maybe you should eat something. Let me drive you to the beach. We could go to Sonny’s Grill.”
“You could eat?” he said angrily.
“Well, maybe a cup of coffee then. We could talk for a while. You shouldn’t be alone right now.”
He looked at the floor in thought. Why am I snapping at her? It wasn’t her fault. …God! I need help! He looked back up. “Forgive me, Shannon.” He closed his eyes, drew a breath and nodded.
* * *
When Shannon returned to the picnic table with two cups of coffee, Michael was staring across the beach. A cool breeze came off the Pacific and fluttered his fine sandy brown hair. His anger had melted back into a state of despair. Placing the coffee on the table, she sat down opposite him, her back to the ocean, and watched his eyes fix on the coffee.
She took a deep breath and said: “We were all there. None of us saw the ruptured vein. You can’t take all the responsibility yourself.”
His forearms rested on the table, his hands knotted in tight fists. “Why do you think they call me the head surgeon? That title doesn’t come with the luxury of blaming others for your own mistakes.” He looked at her for a long moment before adding: “Shannon, if you wanted to be with me to help invent excuses, forget it. I killed that little girl and nothing will change that.”
“She was dying before we put her on the table,” Shannon said in his defense.
“She was dying because she needed a routine operation. Any competent surgeon could have saved her.”
“Competent surgeon! Who’s more competent than you? You’ve worked miracles with your beautiful hands. I don’t deny it was tragic, but no one operates on as many people as you do without eventually making a mistake.”
“She was a child. There was no excuse. It’s hard enough to lose an older patient—at least then you have the consolation of knowing perhaps no one could have saved them. Not this time. Not an otherwise healthy eight-year-old girl.”
“Michael, perhaps ...”
“It was my fault, Shannon,” he insisted, closing his eyes, swamped with an overwhelming sense of guilt. The pain of confessing roiled in his stomach, yet he felt compelled to get it out. “I got maybe two hours sleep last night,” he whispered, then opened his eyes, glancing at her attentive brown eyes. “Two hours sleep the night before a heart surgery!” He saw a look of bewilderment. “You heard me. I stayed out all night before a complicated heart surgery. Guess I’ve gotten just that damned cocky.”
She was perplexed by his confession. It had indeed been bad judgment to stay out all night. And though she couldn’t presume the right to know the private aspects of his social life, she did wonder what had kept him out all night. Dr. Jacobs’ words echoed in her mind. She sat for a moment in a fog of confusion, now concerned on a different level. “Michael, don’t ever tell anyone else you only had two hours sleep before that operation,” she said with the tone of a conspirator.
“Why not? It’s the truth.”
“Doctor Jacobs said you’re facing a malpractice lawsuit.”
He looked down at the table, then back up. “Of course I am. Wouldn’t you sue the incompetent sonofabitch that killed your daughter?”
“Oh, Michael. I’m worried. If that happens, they’ll make me testify against you.” A nervous tension came into her hands. There had been more than a few nights she had lain awake, allowing herself to imagine a number of paths their lives might take if Michael ever fell in love with her; but testifying against him in court was surely not one of them.
Michael stared at her, her short blonde hair sparkling from the glare off the ocean behind her. They had become very good friends during the last few weeks, but the concern he saw in her eyes went beyond what might be considered a simple friendship. Suddenly he feared he may have misled her somehow—this on top of his wretched failure as a doctor. His sister had warned him. Her words rang in his ears.
Jody, his sister, his confidant and best friend, lived in the apartment next door to his on the sixth floor of a high-rise. Jody had accompanied Michael and Shannon one night for dinner the week before. She had stopped by his apartment that night, after he had taken Shannon home. Though he simply discounted the possibility, Jody had tried to convince him that Shannon was falling in love with him. “Women know these things,” she had said, and he laughed it off. In his thirty-six years, he never imagined any woman could fall in love with him, until now. The concern and emotion in Shannon’s eyes felt like a slap.
“Shannon, I ...”
As she watched him, his demeanor changed. He seemed as vulnerable as he made her feel. She interrupted him. “You figured it out, didn’t you? You know how I feel about you, that I’ve fallen in love.”
“Oh, God!” he moaned. Overwhelmed with grief, he couldn’t bear the weight of more guilt on this most tragic day of his life. The responsibility of breaking this delightful woman’s heart swelled in his chest like a physical ache. Throughout his life, he had suffered occasional depression, but he had never felt so utterly worthless; made worse by her staring at him, waiting for his response. Why must his existence come at the expense of others? Yes, Jody had been right about Shannon, this lovely lady, so warm-hearted, so sensitive—he felt like a man about to punch her in the chest. If suicide at that moment had been a viable alternative to facing her, he would have chosen it.
Shannon had wondered for many years if she would ever meet the right man; what it would be like to tell him that she loved him, certain the moment would sit on top of a lifetime of joyous memories. This wasn’t the reaction she had hoped for. Now, beyond vulnerable, she also felt embarrassed. She sat fidgeting, unable to find the right words to ease the sudden tension.
Michael had no idea of how to undo the damage he had caused, but the burden was upon him now to hurt her. She had become a true friend, he loved her, only in a different way. Oblivious to the sea breeze, the endless stream of joggers and skateboarders, the volleyball game nearby, he said: “Shannon … guess I’ve always assumed my colleagues knew about my private life. I’ve heard the rumors. But I never talked about it openly; I suppose to avoid complications.” He paused, looking at her soberly. “Obviously you don’t know.”
He cringed at the sudden turmoil in Shannon’s eyes. Years before, he had resolved to talk to no one in his profession about his sexual orientation. Now he had no choice. He had been secretive because it would have caused gossip and concern; but today the effect would be heartbreak. He loathed himself all the more.
“I’m gay.” He said it quickly, to get it out, when instead he felt like getting up and walking away. The confession continued to pour out as if the words might poison him if they stayed inside a moment longer. “That’s what I was doing last night ... all night. I went to a bathhouse. Had sex with three men I never saw before.” His eyes shifted away from her. “I suppose a man who lives like I do doesn’t realize a woman could fall in love with him.”
Finding it difficult to face her, he fixed his eyes on the table as he continued and spoke as if he were talking to himself. “I love you, too, Shannon. Your friendship has been one of the few normal things in my life. Our conversations, our time together—you’ve been a source of nourishment for me.” He glanced at her sadly. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t know. I’m not fit to be a doctor, and I don’t deserve your friendship.”
She hardly knew how to respond. Her first instinct had been to get up and leave and think this through, but something kept her from standing. He might have told her sooner, but evidently he had assumed she knew. Beyond that she understood his reason for secrecy. She had fallen in love with him by her own accord; she couldn’t justify holding him responsible for a broken heart. Sex with three men he didn’t know? Her mind couldn’t go there, but his confession did eliminate further misunderstanding.
“Wow,” she simply said.
He looked at her. “Do you to hate me.”
“You’re not the kind of man that’s easy to hate, no matter how stupid you are.”
A pained smile formed on his lips.
“At least it explains why you never kissed me good night.”
“I suppose it does. While you were puzzled about that, I saw myself as your guardian angel; a big brother intent on keeping you from getting mixed up with the wrong guy. But then I let you to get mixed up with the worst guy imaginable ... me.”
She wiped away a tear. “I wanted to spend the night with you. I was plotting a way to suggest it.”
He let out a sigh, momentarily possessed by a need to soothe her emotions. “That’s flattering, especially from such a beautiful lady. But you’ll eventually meet the man who deserves to spend the night with you. He won’t be patient enough to wait for you to suggest it.”
She tried to smile. “Can we still be friends?”
“I’m quitting.” Saying it brought Michael an unexpected sense of relief; though the guilt remained, tempered only by the fact that no one’s life would ever be in his hands again.
“What do you mean, quitting? Quitting what?”
“The medical profession. It’s the only way to keep my sanity. I’ll never kill anyone again.”
Shannon stared at him, dumbfounded.
“I’m leaving San Diego ... for a while anyway.”
“But, Michael, why?”
“Look at the way I live. You have to have character to be a surgeon and I don’t. My whole life is dysfunctional. I need to get away for a while, figure out what’s wrong with me.”
Just like that, Shannon’s life had changed again. Everything she had hoped for was nothing more than a dream. Not only was Michael out of reach, he intended to leave her alone in a world she despised. Distraught, she looked down at the table, rubbing her temple with her fingertips. The conviction in his voice rang in her ears with alarming clarity, and there seemed nothing she could say to change it.
Chapter 2
Jody looked over the railing and saw her brother’s Cherokee pulling into the parking garage. She looked at her watch. Just past noon. Michael rarely came home this time of day. She stood and slipped into her housecoat. She had come out on the balcony to enjoy the sun on this uncommonly warm day for late February.
She stepped into the hallway to find out why he came home. Watching the light above the elevator door, it popped on and the door opened. Michael stepped out and she could see at once he was in an unpleasant mood. He didn’t make eye contact until he stopped in front of her. Now pressed for time since she had stayed on the balcony longer than she intended, she wasn’t sure about getting into a long conversation about whatever might be bothering him.
“Why did you come home in the middle of the day?” she asked, her curiosity heightened by his solemn expression.
“To pack a few things,” he stated flatly. “I’m leaving for a few days.”
His colleagues knew Michael as a slightly eccentric, but brilliant surgeon. The gay community knew him as fun loving and hot. Jody knew him as the older brother that often needed to be looked after. He would never have a wife to do that job, and apparently not even a permanent male companion that might console him in an hour of need. And since he had shown up in the middle of the day to pack and go off for some reason, this clearly appeared to be an hour of need.
She watched him pull his keys from his pocket, aware he was distraught, thinking she had never seen this level of sadness in his eyes. With his life a series of emotional highs and lows, she often found him sullen, but it had been a long time since she had seen a tear roll down his cheek. Jody’s need to hurry evolved into concern for her brother. “What’s wrong, Michael?”
“I killed a little girl today.” He turned toward the door and pushed the key into the lock.
She stared at the back of his head as the door swung open. Then he disappeared inside, leaving the door open behind him. Jody reached for her cell phone and dialed her associate’s number to cancel their afternoon appointment. Concern for her brother superseded a meeting to discuss graphic designs for a department store promotion, even if it meant a disgruntled client. She then trailed into his apartment and heard him rummaging in the bedroom closet. From the bedroom doorframe, she saw a canvas duffel bag fly out of the closet and land on the bed, followed by a suitcase. She waited for her brother to re-emerge. He looked lost in thought, and determined.
“Michael, would you please calm down and explain what you’re talking about?”
“It’s simple. I hung out in a bathhouse until four o’clock last night, knowing I had a surgery scheduled for seven this morning. I cut open an eight year old girl with less than two hours sleep. She’s dead because of me.” He flopped on the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands.
Jody closed her eyes, well aware this was the inevitable day she had dreaded from the moment he became a surgeon. She knew what something like this would do to him; and the bad judgment that apparently caused it made it even more unfortunate.
“I’m not sure what to say,” she said, staring dumbly across the room. Normally one of his moods would simply prompt a sisterly lecture. He might pout or carry-on for a while; but in the end, she always found the right words to redirect his perspective. This wasn’t the time for a lecture, even if he had been wrong, even if he deserved the consequences of such bad choices.
Jody approached the bed and sat down beside him, then put her arm around his waist.
“Eight years old. All she needed for a long life full of promise was a competent doctor. I wasn’t alert enough to head that procedure. Now she’s dead. She’s dead because her pathetic doctor wanted to get himself fucked one more fucking time.”
“Michael, please. You can’t let this destroy you. You’re far too good a surgeon to let one tragic mistake overshadow the hundreds of successes you’ve had. It was a learning experience. You won’t let it happen again.”
“That’s right, I won’t! I’m quitting.”
Jody’s jaw tightened. His statement came with the kind of conviction she knew to not take lightly. She had helped him suffer his problems in the past, but never anything like this. Now she was alarmed. In his present state, she feared he might easily lapse into a spiral of self-destruction. She would choose her words carefully, make him realize he could get past this; but before she could think of anything to say, she heard his voice again.
“You were right about Shannon. After the operation, she wanted to be helpful, to make me feel better. We went to the beach to talk. That’s when I realized what I’ve done. She told me she’s fallen in love with me. Can you imagine what it feels like to hurt someone like her?” He looked at her. “You have all the answers. How can I reconcile that?”
“Dear God!” Jody murmured. This alone would have upset him, but it came on top of the worst tragedy he had ever faced. “Michael, you have to give yourself time to deal with this. I’m so nervous right now I can’t stand it. Please don’t compound this problem by doing something irrational.”
“You don’t have to worry, Sis.” He took a small vial from his shirt pocket and handed it to her.
“What’s this?”
“My blood. I drew it in the office after the operation. I want you to take it to that clinic I use to get tested for HIV. I’ll contact you in a few days for the results.”
“What!” She looked at him, incredulous. “You’re scaring me, Michael. What do you mean contact me in a few days?”
“I’m quitting the medical profession and I’m quitting the insane lifestyle I’ve been living,” he stated matter-of-factly. “If I ever have sex with another man, he’ll be the one I want to spend the rest of my life with.”
At a loss, Jody looked down at her lap. If it weren’t for the little girl’s death, she would feel relieved he might actually be serious about quitting his insane lifestyle, even if that was hard to believe. Worried about the way he lived for so long, she had almost grown numb, resigned to the fact that she could lose her brother to AIDS or violence long before his time. But this delusion about quitting the medical profession; that frightened her. He was certainly capable of making irrational statements when facing this kind of stress, but could he actually follow through with something like this? Apparently so, judging by the tone of his voice and the fact that he seemed convinced his patients could no longer trust him. He was indeed hardheaded enough to quit.
Staring at the floor, despondent, he spoke absently. “I’ve known all along how shallow my life is. It makes me sick I couldn’t face it.” He closed his eyes and shook his head sadly. “A lifetime of wrong choices. The bad judgment and insane chances. Why’d I have to kill a little girl to realize it?”
“Would you stop saying that? You didn’t kill anyone.”
“I’m too incompetent to be a surgeon. And I’m so out of touch with real human emotion, look at what I did to Shannon. I’m incompetent and I’m a jerk.”
She stared at the side of his head for a moment, suffered a sinking feeling. “You’re not a jerk, Michael. And you can’t quit just because you made a mistake. Put your suitcase away. Take a few days off and think it through.”
“You know what it’s like realizing you’re incompetent, realizing you’re a jerk?” He looked at her. “I have to change, Sis. If I’m to go on, I have to figure out how to become someone I don’t loathe. I’m gonna travel for a while, be alone while I work it out.”
She sat gaping at him, at a complete loss. Then half a dozen questions formed in her mind, all with an urge to leap off her tongue at the same time. “Travel? Where to?”
“I don’t know.” He turned and looked at the duffel bag. “Might just drive around the country for a few weeks.”
“What makes you think you can just give up your lifestyle?”
“I’m revolted by it!” He lowered his head, then looked up with another tear in his eye. “It’s like an addiction. An endless cycle that always leaves you feeling empty. Maybe it keeps my mind off hospital politics, who knows? But that doesn’t matter anymore. I’m not going back. That little girl should be in a room eating ice cream. She should’ve lived. She’s dead because I’m addicted to men.”
“You can’t simply quit your practice at the hospital!”
“Yes, I can.”
“Michael, your office, your patients. Too many people depend on you.”
“I need your help, Sis. I honestly can’t walk back into that building. I want you to go over there and talk to Dr. Whitlow. Soon as possible. Explain it to him. He can transfer my patients to other doctors and terminate my relationship with the hospital. Clean out my office. Ask Shannon to help.” He looked at the floor for a moment in thought. “There’s one more thing. The girl’s parents will sue me. Contact my lawyer and explain what happened. Tell him I have no intention to testify in my own defense. Tell him I’ll state the truth if I’m put on the stand. That family deserves a settlement, but I don’t want my testimony to inflate the amount.” He studied her bewilderment for a moment. “Will you do these things for me, Sis?”
“I’ll talk to your lawyer. And I’ll go to the hospital, but not to tell them you’re quitting. I’ll tell Dr. Whitlow you need some time off. He’ll understand after this morning. I’ll arrange for a leave-of-absence. But you’re not quitting, at least until you’ve have time to think it through.”
“Fair enough,” he said.
“You’re breaking my heart.” Jody wasn’t the type that cried easily, but now she was fighting back tears. “I don’t know why you can’t deal with this right here. Watch a few movies. Catch up on your reading. Heal, Michael; all you need is time to heal.”
“Won’t work. I have to get away.”
“So when do you plan to leave?”
“Soon as I pack.”
“Shit!” She noted his odd demeanor; it had changed to sort of a tight state of calm. She feared the underlying turmoil behind it.
Michael stood and walked to his chest of drawers. He opened a drawer and slipped off his jeans, confirming his complete lack of modesty. She noticed the absence of tan-lines before directing her eyes to the floor, reminded of her many female acquaintances that have expressed regrets about his sexual orientation. She remembered what her friend Vikki once said: “Michael’s ass has set my standard by which all male asses are judged.” Another of her friends had spotted him at Black’s Beach, where he sometimes went to spend an afternoon in the sun. She mentioned later that he was one of the few men she had ever seen that actually looked as good naked as dressed. Such a waste.
Jody knew her brother was a beautiful man, his chest patterned with sun-bleached hair, his well-shaped arms and legs. She knew her friends doted over him, but his good looks were also the source of her deepest anxiety—he was just as attractive to men. It was hard enough to accept the fact that she would never be an aunt, and all but impossible to accept those sordid haunts that he couldn’t resist, though he almost always came home depressed.
“Sis, I also need you to pay my bills. There’s a checkbook in the desk drawer,” he said, inspecting a pair of wrinkled shorts he had taken from the drawer.
She looked up and watched him dig through the drawer. At least he doesn’t have to worry about money. He had invested most of his income in mutual funds, which could provide for him the rest of his life whenever he chose to quit working. “So you’re leaving immediately, and you don’t know where you’re going or how long you’ll be gone?”
“Yes, immediately, and no, I don’t know how long.”
“Then keep your cell phone turned on. I wanna hear your voice everyday.”
He strode back across the room, carrying the shorts, oblivious to the bobble and sway. Jody averted her eyes again. He sat on the bed beside her. “Sis ... I’m scared.”
“You’re also naked, big brother.”
“Oh ... sorry.” He pulled the shorts up his legs and lifted himself to get them over his hips.
She took his hand after he buttoned them. “I’m scared, too, Michael. I don’t want you to go, not in this state-of-mind. After what you went through today, I want you nearby so I can look after you.”
He ignored her plea, adding: “And I’m lonely.”
She stared across the room for a moment. This was something she understood. They had counted on each other all of their lives, quite alone in the world. “Guess we both are,” she muttered regretfully. “But we’ve always had each other.”
“And we will forever. But will we ever have the other? Someone to share dreams with? Someone to grow old with and hold while we sleep?”
“Michael, please wait a few days before you leave.”
“I’ll be fine. I’ll call everyday.” He paused before adding: “It’s like there’s another man inside me, waiting to get out, waiting to change my life to what it should be. I wanna set him free, but I can’t do that here in San Diego. Too much bad history.” He leaned forward and pulled on his sandals, then stood and zipped the fly, looking down at her. “I wanna see what’s out there. Be around regular people and see how they live. Just observe and think about what life should be. I want to free that guy inside me. I can’t keep living this way.”
An hour later, the Cherokee’s engine labored as he drove up the steep western slopes of the Rockies, heading east on Interstate eight. Though his heart still beat with the weight of lead, a calm began to settle in his hands as he steered through the winding mountain curves. Left behind—a life of stress, that relentless phantom whispering in his ear, reminding him of unending obligations, prodding inhuman performances and longer hours. Ahead—countless miles of highway and country he had never seen, giving rise to discovery that offered nothing short of a fresh new perspective.
Michael, after eating a half dozen fast-food tacos, spent the first night in a small motel room in Yuma. The room smelled musty with a hint of air freshener. He laid on the bed, contemplating how long it would take to drive all the way to Key West, Florida. But then, was that really a good idea? Key West? A city known for its gay population, crowded, and probably much like San Diego. Perhaps he should choose a destination that would provide therapeutic solitude, someplace where he could think, find inspiration for what he should do with his life.
He stared at the ceiling and smiled. Why not decide tomorrow?
Back behind the wheel by dawn, Michael had filled the gas tank and was turning onto an eastbound entrance ramp. He had planned linger in bed and have that second cup of coffee, but woke up anxious to see the desert sun and feel the warm breeze toss his hair.
He had driven through the desert before, but this time he was actually seeing it. The window down, the air-conditioner off, he drove with the wind on his face, the feel of dry air on his skin. Long miles melted away behind him like an endless stream of fading memories, as the wonders of timeless creation unfolded ahead. He drove on, through panoramas so vast his imagination could not comprehend their limits, a ribbon of highway stretching beyond what the eye could see, so few cars and trucks the solitude lay over the land like quiet, invisible weight. Miles turned into lost hours as the sun journeyed across the sky; and it was alright with Michael if this drive through the desert went on forever.
In the late afternoon, growing weary, he pulled onto the shoulder at an exit near Fort Stockton, Texas and got out to stretch. Staring back over the unending stretch of concrete that disappeared beyond the western horizon, he had never felt more alone or so utterly useless in his life.
It had come over him again. Why? Why had an intense and long career come down to this? He had won countless accolades for his accomplishments over the years—which now seemed to belong to someone else. Rewards with no real value, no more meaningful than that age-old quest for glory. Why had there never been a sense of simply helping someone, simply rejoicing in the ability to do so? Had politics and compromises and the clutter of rules led to his shallow choices: those countless, faceless men? Was he now paying the price? He wanted to live, to learn what it felt like to look forward to a new day. But to go on meant change. It meant finding a reason to exist, a meaning, but how? How does a man who has wasted half his life point himself in another direction?
He turned and found himself staring at a large brown sign. Big Bend National Park, 80 miles. A deep breath filled his lungs with warm dry air as he pondered leaving the Interstate for a drive on the back roads through this vast land. Back inside the car, he unfolded a Texas map and ran his finger over the western part of the state until it landed on Big Bend.
Jesus, looks big. He looked back at the sign, deep in thought. I know I’ve heard of it. He thought about the vast barren stretches of land he had driven through all day, the blissful solitude. Must be wilderness down there, too. He looked back at the map, wondering what it might be like to camp out in the open air, miles from anything or anyone, to lay back at night and count stars, and make coffee on the coals of a campfire.
Staring at the map, he rubbed his lower lip with his index finger. He had never done anything like that before, and it unfolded in his mind as a grand adventure. Camping in the wilderness, a challenge of self-reliance, something he had not experienced since college. He could exit here at Fort Stockton, stop and buy supplies and a small tent, and then head south toward Big Bend. Folding the map, he looked back at the brown sign.
Why not?
A few blocks from the exit, Michael spotted a Wal-Mart. He parked, went inside and began filling a cart: a small tent, a bedroll, a variety of utensils, a couple of paperback novels, snacks and dried fruit. He felt invigorated loading it all in the back of the Cherokee.
After another night in a motel room, he found himself on a lonely asphalt two lane road that led across the desert like a country song. He had never contemplated territory so vast, and he wondered about the pioneers that had settled such a barren landscape with its lonely horizon so many miles away. The effect, at least for the moment, erased his memory of the problems he had left behind and opened the door to adventures untold. He liked the solitary feel and the fact that time had no meaning; for here, it seemed, a man really could get in touch with his soul.
On he drove, up a long gradual incline which led into the park, and eventually came to a modern visitor’s center situated in the middle of nowhere. Inside, Michael looked over a few brochures, ignoring the half dozen tourists milling about.
A park ranger emerged from a hallway behind the counter. Michael looked up as he walked through the lobby, struck by the man’s stature and rugged beauty. A man of African descent, a confident stride, his skin a rich honey black. A gleam of boyish innocence shown from within his dark brown eyes, which happened to belong to the kind of man that often caught Michael’s attention. Despite his desire to be alone, Michael couldn’t deny the long lashes and full lips were most alluring, a thought lost to mental clutter because such men were so rarely like-minded. Michael watched him cross the room, his lean body well defined and masculine in the brown uniform, a small cocker spaniel trotting happily ahead of him.
The ranger glanced Michael’s way, his mind apparently elsewhere, and then he paused and turned once again at the door. He looked at Michael with a meaningless sweep of the eyes, and then nodded before walking out. Michael’s attention shifted back to the display of brochures. He picked up a map of the park and then used the men’s room before going back outside.
He stood staring at the vista he had just driven through, across endless miles of arroyos and the hues and thorny textures of sparse desert flora. He had never seen the sun’s glare so bright, or the sky quite that shade of pastel blue, and the moment lingered. A peaceful tranquility lay over the land like a silent poem heard only through one’s eyes. Clean dry air passed through his nostrils as he watched the broad circle of a soaring hawk, and all at once he couldn’t imagine anywhere else he would rather be. It all came together in one timeless image, vibrant by way of all five senses, soundlessly offering the promise of centuries past and a future without end, country so vast it had the power to make a man feel small, yet so alive.
Back in the Cherokee, Michael opened a bottle of water and took a few drinks as he studied the map of Big Bend. Tracing an errant line with his finger along the southern perimeter of the park sparked his imagination. Hmm ... the River Road. Looks like a good bet. He had chosen a primitive road to explore, one of the longest and most remote roads on the map.
Chapter 3
Justin Brooks woke up thinking about Christie—again. Though the early dawn filled his bedroom with crisp desert air, he was sweating. It had been more than three years since he lived through the worst day of his life, and it still haunted him with the certainty of another sunrise. The dream was the same every time. As always, he would awake thinking about her, that last image of her stunned face fixed in his mind, a memory that felt like something pricking at his skin.
He had never figured out what possessed him that day, their wedding day. He and Christie had been engaged for over a year. He remembered standing in that desperate trance at the alter, watching her proud father escort her down the aisle, how each step they took plunged him deeper into unexplained panic. It must have been written all over his face. She had approached with a broad grin that slowly melted as she took notice of his dire expression. Then he glanced at her father, who had also noticed and was watching him with incredulous concern. Gripped by unrecognizable fear, he took one last desperate look at her.
“I can’t do this!” he had muttered, lightheaded with panic. His first steps toward the door seemed like a world in slow motion, faces in the congregation looking on aghast, gasps and spontaneous murmurs of disbelief. Then he broke into a run. Now, even his own mother shunned him.
No wonder. Everyone that knew Christie loved her, including himself. A gorgeous prospective bride, she came from a prominent family in Jasper, respected by both the white and black community, her father a banker in their small east Texas community. That day, as far as his friends and relatives were concerned, he had become a pariah. A month later he was still wandering around Texas, living in his van, trying to figure out what was wrong with him.
Now on the federal payroll, he had been persistent with his application to the park service and he finally made it. It was a perfect job; a park ranger at Big Bend National Park. He patrolled a sixty mile stretch of primitive ruts and rocks known as the River Road, a road through desert so rugged and isolated, so mysteriously beautiful, he still found himself awed. And best of all, the job provided long days of solitude in terrain that fired his imagination and nourished his peace-of-mind. He sometimes wondered if it had something to do with his ancestral roots, if perhaps the generations before him had lived on land like this in Africa. He didn’t know if being black had helped him or hurt him, but when all was said and done, he was glad he got the position whether politics had helped or not.
The wind-up alarm clock ran out of steam, its annoying clatter sputtered to a stop. It was after six o’clock and the small stone house had warmed a bit with the sun’s first light. Justin threw back the sheet and sat up on the edge of the bed, stretching his arms with a broad yawn. Perk, his cocker spaniel, jumped up on the mattress beside him, looking at him with anticipation. Justin smiled and gave the dog a good head rub. “You’re right, boy. I dreamed about her again. I’m gettin’ pretty tired of runnin’ out of that church.” The dog’s front paws resting on his leg, he stretched his neck to lick Justin’s chin. “Well Perk, guess it’s time to get up. Seems like I just got to sleep.”
He stood and walked barefoot across the ancient tile floor, into the front room, where the squeaky hand pump was mounted on the counter next to the old porcelain sink. Part of the only room other than the bedroom, the kitchen wasn’t much more than a counter along the south wall. He plugged in the percolator and then pumped a glass of water, squinting into the bright new day through the dingy window over the sink. There wasn’t another house or structure for miles in any direction. Holding the glass up to the light, he inspected the water and then poured it down the drain.
“Perk, looks like we have a little sand in the water today.”
He pumped more water into the drain before filling the next glass. The water was clear this time. He gulped it down in two or three swallows, then filled Perk’s water bowl before pulling open the rough-hewn cabinet door under the counter. The little dog watched him take out a bag of dog food, their same comfortable routine that took place every morning.
Pushing open the heavy wooden back door, Justin walked some twenty paces into the desert, watching for rattlers. Warm enough for them to migrate from their dens, it wasn’t hot enough yet to keep them out of the sun. Lowering the waistband of his faded boxer shorts, he splattered the sand as he stared out toward the horizon. He never bothered to walk all the way up to the outhouse just to pee. Perk had followed him and was sniffing for the lizard that had scurried into a clump of dagger plants.
Justin had rigged a five-gallon water jug between two poles, an outdoor, makeshift shower. Mounted about seven feet off the ground, the jug tilted by way of a dangling rope, high enough to accommodate his six foot one inch frame. He preferred showering in the open air under the jug to pumping a cramped washtub full of water. Plus the runoff provided his pepper plants with plenty of water. In the winter it wasn’t often so cold as to make a quick shower unbearable, but when it was he usually postponed a bath.
He pulled off the boxer shorts and hung them on a creosote bush. Stepping under the jug, he pulled the rope. As he stood naked in the morning sun, the water cascaded over his head and he lathered up quickly before the soap dried on his skin. After rinsing off, he tilted the jug again to fill a small washbasin and then placed it on a weathered table next to the poles, where he brushed his teeth and shaved. He then pitched the water across the crusty earth and stepped back into the boxer shorts. The color of slightly lightened coffee, his skin had dried by the time he pulled his uniform off the clothesline. Perk eagerly watched him zip up the fly, then button the shirt. The little dog knew the uniform meant a long day in the Jeep.
Justin went back into the house, filled his coffee mug, then locked the rusty deadbolt when he stepped back outside. It was Friday. Another sunny day lay ahead, a long meandering patrol of the River Road. He got behind the wheel of his official Jeep and gazed across the barren land, always aware of his good fortune to live in paradise. The desert had become part of him, and he a part of it; but there were times, even with Perk’s companionship, when he would stare across the endless terrain and feel lonely.
By ten o’clock, he had bounced over the rutted road for nearly three hours. Earlier, he had stopped to give a couple of back-packers directions. Before that he had helped two middle-aged women change a flat tire. Like tourists often do, they had driven their SUV over a thorn. It had been the only vehicle he had seen all morning. Driving on, where the road veered close to the Rio Grande, from the corner of his eye, he caught a glint of sun on metal. Justin pulled off what amounted to little more than a goat path and switched off the ignition. Perk jumped out and followed him through the brush in the direction of a nearly hidden vehicle. A white Jeep Cherokee came into view.
He approached cautiously. Stepping around the Cherokee he came upon a small camp, nothing more than a two-man tent and a campfire, though here it was an illegal campfire. Beyond the camp, he saw a man sitting atop a rock formation, gazing out over the fast moving Rio Grande, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. Perhaps in his mid thirties, the man sat perfectly still, his sandy brown hair in disarray, his bare shoulders tanned and athletic. Apparently alone, it appeared he had chosen this spot for its peaceful solitude. Justin stepped forward, stopping some twenty feet away, the sound of his boots on the hard desert crust lost on the noisy swirl of fast water.
“Howdy, Mister,” Justin called out to announce his presence.
Michael turned with a start. Other than an occasional rafter, he hadn’t seen another human being for four days. His heart settled quickly when he saw the brown uniform. He got to his feet and took a few steps toward the ranger’s rather stoic presence, nodding as he approached.
“Guess you startled me,” said Michael. “Wasn’t expecting someone to walk up behind me out here.”
Justin studied him a moment. He remembered seeing him at the visitor’s center a few days before. Strikingly handsome, he stood bare-chested in a pair of faded blue jeans. Staring into the icy blue eyes, Justin sensed a city air about him. Wind blown sandy brown hair, a distinct jaw line peppered with three or four days of stubble, his disarming smile revealed perfectly straight white teeth. Justin’s eyes fell over a well-tanned torso, a muscular chest scattered with fine blond hairs, and a stomach uncommonly hard for a man this age. Then a subtle and fleeting glimpse of a distinctly masculine contour near the fly of the jeans before his eyes shifted back to the man’s face.
There seemed something distant behind the man’s smile, a weight of some kind, and Justin found himself regretting the responsibility of telling him move on.
“Didn’t I see you at the visitor’s center the other day?” he said.
“Believe you did. The day I got here. You walked through with your dog when I went in for a map.”
“Have you been camping here since then?” Justin asked straightforwardly.
Michael glanced at his motley campsite. “That’s what I’ve been calling it.”
“You get a camping permit while you were at the visitor’s center?”
“Didn’t know I was supposed to.”
“You should have. They would’ve told you where to camp. You’ve put this tent right in the middle of an arroyo. If there’d been a cloudburst last night, you and everything here would’ve ended up in the river.”
Michael glanced over the terrain, suddenly feeling a little stupid.
“That’s one of the reasons this isn’t a designated camp site.”
“Oh,” said Michael, “I didn’t know.” He fidgeted a bit and brushed his hand back over his hair. Dealing with the pain still stabbing his heart, he wasn’t prepared for a complication to crop up.
“I’m afraid that campfire is illegal,” Justin said matter-of-factly, pulling a citation book from his back pocket. “Sorry, it’s a hundred dollar fine.”
Michael’s eyes dropped to the small leather binder. His smile turned to a look of bewilderment. “You have to write me a ticket?” he muttered, drawn from the harmony of this dry paradise back to the nettlesome thorns of civilization. It drew his mind for the first time in four days to his pending lawsuit. Guess if I’m gonna get sued for a few million dollars, another hundred bucks doesn’t matter much.
Justin paused and glanced back over the camp. A perfect circle of stones ringed the small fire. A feather of steam rose from the spout of a coffee pot resting on the coals. Perk was sniffing out the area. This wasn’t a part of his job Justin relished; in fact he would have preferred a splinter under his fingernail to disturbing this man’s retreat. As one of the park’s caretakers, he now felt more like an intruder, aware the man before him had likely chosen this site for its proximity to the river. He wondered if he had compounded the sadness in those blue eyes.
Michael’s gaze shifted to the untold miles of desert beyond the tall ranger. His hair fluttered slightly with a fleeting breeze that came whispering out of the mountains. He had spent four days at this spot, soothed by the unending song of the rapids in a river that had the power to ignite dreams. He had breathed dry desert air, and he had lain awake at night gazing at a black sky filled with countless stars such as he had never seen, savoring every minute of quiet and solitude in such an inspiring land of wonders. It all came together right here: the river, the sky, the timeless mystery of the desert. And as the hours drifted away, he had begun to think of this ravine as his own.
His gaze remained locked on the distant mountains. “You know, I didn’t realize a place like this existed.”
Justin looked off in the direction of Michael’s gaze, and then he glanced at the citation book still unopened in his hand.
“That coffee’s fresh,” Michael said, nodding at the pot. “Got a few minutes to have a cup?”
Their eyes met for a moment, then Justin looked at the citation book before he pushed it back into his pocket. He sighed, his sense of benevolence at odds with his position of responsibility. “I’m afraid you can’t stay here. You can’t camp anywhere in the park without a permit, and then you have to use a designated area.”
“Can you give me a permit?”
“No. They’re issued at the tourist center. Hate to tell you this, but all the campsites are taken. Most people make reservations in advance.”
Watching the cocker spaniel, Michael sat down on a large rock near the small fire. A hint of melancholy washed over his face. His four days in the desert had brought him peace, the solitude had been a blissful therapy. He had not contemplated leaving the park anytime soon. He turned his head and stared at the river, his voice sounding distant: “I crossed this river coming through New Mexico. There wasn’t this much water in it back there.”
Justin looked at the river. “It gets a trickle from the Pecos upstream. Most of what you see here comes out of the Conchos in Mexico.” He looked back at Michael.
It wasn’t the first time Justin had come upon someone that had come to Big Bend to resolve private issues. Not at all comfortable with the intrusion he had imposed, he sensed the weight on this man’s shoulders and wished he not noticed the Cherokee.
Justin’s sense of responsibility was losing the battle with his heart. “I’m sorry about this,” he said. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
Michael’s eyes swept over him. He was instinctively attracted to his lean masculine beauty, but these were among the thoughts this sojourn was meant to dispel. Besides, as attractive as the ranger might be, his stoic face hardly displayed any signs of mutual thinking. But there was something. Michael detected a certain mystery behind the no nonsense lines of his expression, something behind those boyish but solemn dark eyes. And though he had stopped to instruct Michael to move on, he had done so with obvious regret. Michael had no desire to leave; yet, after four days of solitude, he would not have minded someone to talk to for a while.
“Is that your drug-sniffing dog?” he asked.
Justin finally allowed a hint of a smile to form on his full lips. “That’s Perk. Even if he knew how to sniff out drugs, it wouldn’t occur to him to do anything about it. He’s just my buddy.”
“I like his name,” said Michael, clapping his hands to draw the dog’s attention. “Here boy, come here.” The dog approached eagerly and Michael gave him a frisky head rub.
“I called him Perky when he was a pup, but that didn’t seem appropriate when he grew up.”
Michael glanced at the coffee pot. “How about that cup of coffee?”
Justin nodded. Michael got back to his feet and extended his hand. “I’m Michael Anderson.”
“Justin Brooks,” he said, taking a hold of his hand.
Michael kneeled near the pot, remembering he had bought just one tin coffee cup. He had not planned for visitors. “Afraid I only have one cup.”