Childless: A Novel (26 page)

“Hello, Mr.
Matthew,” little Pete said, extending his hand forcefully.

Reverend Grandpa beamed as he smiled at Matthew, who accepted the gesture with delighted shock.

“Hello, Mr. Peter,” Matthew said, shaking the boy’s hand. “Great to see you again.”

It must have been the longest conversation Peter Gale had had with anyone besides Reverend Grandpa since his father’s death. For sure the only words Matthew had actually seen coming out of the kid’s mouth. And the happiest he’d ever seen the old man appear.

Little Pete looked toward his grandpa like a private waiting for the sergeant to say, “Dismissed.” A congratulatory wink released the boy to flee the room in embarrassed gratification.

“I’m impressed,” Matthew said.

“I told you he’s a smart kid,” the old man bragged.

Matthew didn’t recall being told any such thing. He nodded in agreement anyway.

The reverend continued. “All he needed was a little time. Next stop, the pulpit.”

“The what?”

“The pulpit. You know, a preacher’s podium.”

“You call it a pulpit? Why?”

Reverend Grandpa rolled his eyes and waved a hand to bat away Matthew’s ignorance. “Never mind.”

“So you want Peter to be a preacher when he grows up?”

“Not really.”

The answer surprised Matthew. “But I thought—”

“Little Pete is the one who wants to be a preacher like his granddad. I figured I could use his goal to help him start talking again.”

Matthew remembered overhearing his client’s earlier conversation with Peter. “He’s been secretly talking to you for a while, hasn’t he?”

Reverend Grandpa nodded. “Welcome to a very exclusive club, my boy.”

“I’m honored.”

“You should be,” he said matter-of-factly. “It took an hour of coaching to get him to say those three words to you today.”

Matthew smiled at the accomplishment. He tried to imagine how the death of a father might traumatize a little boy. What kind of pain had forced the child into such a self-imposed cone of silence? Having never known his own father, Matthew couldn’t relate to the loss. But he had occasionally sensed himself grieving the absence.

Reverend Grandpa inhaled deeply as if accepting well-deserved congratulations. Then he inhaled again, unnaturally. The third attempt alarmed Matthew, prompting him to bend down and check the gauge on the old man’s oxygen tank. The usually green light was bright red. He had seen yellow before, but never red. Wasn’t there supposed to be an audible tone when the tank fell below the minimum safe level? No matter now; Matthew had to move fast.

The old man continued gasping for air as if suffering a heart attack while running a marathon in the summer heat. Matthew hurried toward the closet to retrieve a replacement tank. He panicked at the sight of one already depleted container, then darted out of the room toward the kitchen pantry, where they kept an emergency backup tank.

By the time he returned Peter and Isabelle were on either side of their grandpa, each holding a hand while frantically patting the old man’s back in a useless effort to help.

Thirteen seconds later Matthew turned a knob to release the life-sustaining gas into Reverend Grandpa’s lungs. A few replenishing breaths later the old man appeared to calm. The children, however, remained visibly shaken.

“What the—” Matthew stopped short, remembering the presence of children. “What on earth happened? I never heard the caution tone. This tank shouldn’t have dropped into the red zone that fast!”

“My fault,” Reverend Grandpa confessed after relishing a few more oxygen-rich breaths. “I hit the silence button to stop the racket while coaching Pete. We were so close to a breakthrough I didn’t want the interruption.”

“Dropping dead would have been a whole lot more of an interruption than asking me to change tanks!” Matthew scolded.

“Drop dead?” Isabelle shouted. “You mean he could have died?”

Matthew hesitated as post-panic anger arrived. “Yes, he could have died. Stupid old man!”

Peter jerked his head toward the mouth that had dared utter such an offense.

“He’s not stupid!” the boy said. “You are!” Peter ran out of the room.

Isabelle’s jaw dropped. “Grandpa,” she said while her eyes fixed on the spot where she’d last seen Peter. “Peter said a whole sentence. Out loud!”

“Actually, two sentences,” the old man said with a chuckle that quickly escalated into a roar of amused relief.

Isabelle ran after her brother.

“You’ve been honored again, my boy!” Reverend Grandpa said between guffaws.

“Great,” Matthew replied, still irritated by the old man’s carelessness.

He spent the next fifteen minutes rounding up every oxygen tank in the house. Four empty containers went into a box next to the front door to be put in Marissa’s car as soon as she returned from her errands to get the kids. He found one additional full tank in a corner of the garage and placed it in his client’s closet where it belonged for easy retrieval during the next stupidity-induced incident.

An hour later Marissa drove away with the box and the kids. Isabelle remained true to her pledge not to mention the little scare to Mom who, Grandpa had insisted, would make a big fuss over nothing. Matthew had calmed himself enough to speak to the old man, determined to say things he needed to hear whether he liked them or not.

“Did you see the look on Peter’s and Isabelle’s faces today?” Matthew began. “You nearly scared them to death when you were wheezing for air.”

“It was a silly mistake. I’m still alive, and the kids are fine.”

“What if I hadn’t been nearby? What if you had died?”

The question seemed to anger the old man. And bother him.

“It wasn’t my time to go yet.”

“Thanks to me,” Matthew said.

“Thanks to God,” the old man countered. “You were just his instrument. If he wanted me home, I’d be there.”

Matthew didn’t follow. “What are you talking about? You are home.”

Another look of exasperation. “I mean my home beyond the clouds.”

A continued blank stare.

“Heaven!”

“Oh,” Matthew said, finally understanding. The comment prompted an idea. “Speaking of heaven, I need to talk to you about something.”

The reverend motioned Matthew in his direction. “Well, if we’re going to chat about something important, let’s do it in the living room. Help me up, will you, son?”

Matthew loaned the old man his arm as he stood to position himself in front of his walker. Then Reverend Grandpa firmly squeezed Matthew’s shoulder as if acknowledging a debt of gratitude.

“Thanks, my boy,” he said with what sounded like sincere affection.

A few minutes later the two sat side by side in the living room, Reverend Grandpa in his favorite chair and Matthew on the sofa. No eye contact, just as Matthew preferred for this particular conversation.

“I think God wants me to tell you something.”

The old man seemed pleasantly surprised by the comment. “He does, does he?”

“Yes.”

“Which God?”

Matthew turned toward the question. “What?”

“Which God told you to say something to me? The one I believe in or the one you believe in?”

Matthew didn’t know how to respond, prompting the old man’s playful sigh.

“Look, son, my God speaks through the Bible, not through a college boy.” The sting of offense quickly dissipated as Reverend Grandpa added, “Even a college boy I’ve grown fond of.”

“I still need to say something to you. Promise me you’ll listen and at least consider what I’ve got to say. I think I’ve earned that.”

A deferential nod. “OK. Take the pulpit.”

Matthew tried to remember the reference.

“I’m all ears,” the old man added.

Matthew swallowed hard before diving into his hastily planned speech. “I think Marissa wants you to volunteer.”

He paused to let the words sink in.

“And I think that you want what’s best for her and the kids, so I think you need to consider the option.”

There, he’d said it.

“Marissa told you that?” Reverend Grandpa asked with injury in his voice.

“No. She didn’t say she wants you to transition. But I can tell.”

“How?”

“By the look in her eyes when I suggested it. I can tell she feels the same way I felt when facing a similar situation with my mom.”

“You lost your mom?”

“Long before she died.” Matthew sensed the old man looking at him as he kept his own eyes fixed on the wall.

“What happened?” Reverend Grandpa asked gently.

“We decay.”

“Excuse me?”

Matthew looked at his client. “It’s something my religious studies professor told me. It was certainly true of my mom. She had been deteriorating for years before she finally volunteered.”

“She killed herself?”

Matthew turned back toward the wall. “No. She didn’t kill herself. She sacrificed herself. For me.” He felt the admission moisten his eyes. He swallowed back the growing lump in his throat. “She wanted me to go to college in order to become a teacher. But her medical expenses were burning through our savings.” He looked at his client. “Just like you’re burning through yours.”

Reverend Grandpa looked away. He was either ashamed of himself or angry at Matthew. Probably both.

“So she decided to escape.”

“Escape?”

“Escape the decay. Transcend the limitations of physical existence to follow in Jesus’s footsteps.”

“Jesus’s footsteps?”

“That’s what I wanted to tell you. I think God wants you to know you’ve misunderstood. You see Jesus as someone who rose from the dead like a death-conquering hero. But he was actually showing us the path to our true destiny.”

“Which is?”

“Which is to transcend the limitations of a decaying body by becoming a death-embracing mystic. To escape the body.”

Matthew noticed Reverend Grandpa reaching at an awkward angle as he twisted his torso while shoving a hand deep into his pocket.

“What are you doing?” Matthew asked. “Do you need some help?”

“No need for help. I’ll have it in just a…ah…here it is.”

The old man held up a small pocketknife. Matthew wondered why on earth he had been carrying a tool used by campers and hunters. Perhaps a keepsake preserving bygone memories?

“I had planned to wrap this as a gift for little Pete,” Reverend Grandpa began, “to celebrate today’s big accomplishment.”

What did a celebration gift have to do with Matthew’s speech? Was the old man even listening?

“But I think you need it more.” Reverend Grandpa pulled open what appeared to be a dangerously sharp tip. He flipped the knife around to hold it by the blade. “Here you go.”

Matthew accepted the gift with a confused gaze. “Thanks, I guess. But why do you think I need this more than Peter?”

“So you can slit your own throat.”

“What?” Matthew asked, covering his Adam’s apple protectively with his other hand. “Slit my throat?”

“Or should I say, set yourself free?” A scathing laugh.

Matthew handed the knife back, rejecting the ridiculous notion.

“What’s the matter, my boy? Don’t believe your own philosophy? Or is it just something you believe when it applies to old debits like me?”

Matthew stood to leave the room. “I was trying to be serious,” he said with disgust. “My mom’s death isn’t something to joke about.”

“No, it isn’t,” Reverend Grandpa agreed. “Nor is it something to compare to Jesus’s sacrifice on a cross!”

Matthew sensed his client’s rising indignation.

“Death-embracing mystic? Nonsense! You have no clue what you’re talking about, boy. Jesus Christ was not showing us the way to some harebrained enlightenment. He was giving his life as a payment for sin. My sin. Your sin. Even your mom’s sin.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Your mom committed suicide, Matthew. No matter how much you try to dress it up as a heroic act, it was taking the most precious gift God gives us. Not to mention adding another coffin to the bonfire of human dignity.”

The words made Matthew too furious to speak. How dare the old man call his mom’s transition a sin! Even if it had been wrong, she hadn’t done it. Matthew had. He was the one who had convinced her frail mind to volunteer. He was the one who had put the sword of guilt into her back as she walked the plank of “heroic sacrifice.” He was the one who had chosen to heed the advice of Dr. Vincent rather than the warnings of Father Richard.

It wasn’t a sin
! Matthew tried to believe.
It was the right decision
.

“You’re the one who has no idea what you’re talking about!” Matthew finally retorted. “My mother was a good woman. She did what you’re too selfish and cowardly to do. She’s better off today because of it. And so am I!”

Matthew stormed out of the room, ignoring Reverend Grandpa’s effort to coax him back.

“Sit down, my boy…” The bedroom door slammed to shield Matthew from noisy words he had no interest in hearing.

He spent the next few minutes trying to quell an irrational desire to grab the old man’s knife and silence him for good. He instead grabbed his tablet from the top of the dresser and searched the
PICTURES
folder to find a portrait of his mother. He found one taken in her better days, when she still retained an echo of girlish beauty, a reminder of what she had been before dementia started stealing her away.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” he heard himself whisper. “I thought it was for the best. But now I can’t even get to the college money you left me.”

He closed his eyes. Then he cursed.

When he opened his eyes he noticed a bouncing icon at the bottom of his digital screen. An unopened message from Maria Davidson! His mood lifted immediately as he tapped.