Gifts and Consequences (15 page)

Allen nodded and drank the last of the Gatorade.  "Thanks for the food, the mace, the supplies."  He opened the door.

"There’s one more option we haven’t discussed," said Jonathan, looking hopeful.  "You could hang out here in St. George for a while to recover.”

Allen shook his head.  "I thought about that, but if I sit around I’ll just think of more things I can’t prepare for.  If I’m going to fall behind schedule, I might as well do it walking."

They helped Allen retrieve his belongings then stood at the front of the SUV as he sauntered down the scorching highway.

The pants stayed in back of the Yukon.

*****

Marcus, Jonathan and Oscar stood in front of the Tahoe watching Allen shuffle into the desert.  It was obvious by the way Jonathan stared at Allen’s back that he was feeling something, but Marcus didn’t know how to get him to admit it.

“So you were saying?”  Marcus asked.

“Yes,” said Jonathan, not taking his eyes from Allen’s back.  “The law of gifts.  A true gift means at least as much to the person who receives it as it does to the person who gives it.  Otherwise it is a false gift, a poison.”

“How can anyone know how much a gift is valued?” asked Marcus.

“That’s exactly it.  I don’t possess telepathy.  I have no way of knowing how much an individual truly values what I have to offer.  So I test them.  They make an offer, no matter how insincere, and I take them up on it.  If they accept it, and fulfill their part of the bargain then I know they valued it enough to truly earn it.”

“So you’re saying people fail because they don’t value what you’re offering?” asked Marcus.

“That’s one reason,” said Jonathan. 

Marcus looked down the road to see Allen disappear around a bend.  He climbed into the driver’s seat, Jonathan the passenger’s, and Oscar the back seat.

“Okay,” said Jonathan.  “Most people who fail to keep their word do so for one of two reasons.  Either they did not value the gift or they are not a person of integrity.  Either way, it’s a reason to revoke the gift.  The individual learns there are consequences.  Even that lesson is a gift the person earns.”

“Gifts and consequences?” asked Marcus, wondering how the discrepancy couldn’t be obvious to Jonathan.  “Are you even listening to yourself?  Rewards are earned, Jonathan.  Gifts are given.”

Jonathan’s eyebrows lowered and moved closer together.  Maybe he was finally noticing a chink in his argument.

“If I don’t test people, how am I supposed to know how bad they want it?” snapped Jonathan.

The Tahoe passed Allen, who walked a hundred feet south of the interstate.  Jonathan turned his head to watch until Allen was out of his view. 

“I saw your doubts when you were talking to Allen,” said Marcus.

“I’m not saying it’s easy, but I’ll keep my word.”

“But why?  You could do so much more if you didn’t waste time mucking around in people’s lives.” 

Jonathan didn’t reply so Marcus went on.  “With your resources you could make a serious difference.  Oscar, help me out here.  You don’t see Spiderman using his powers to get items off the top shelf at the Home Depot, or the X-Men hiring out to do yard work when they’re not on missions, do you?”

Oscar chuckled from the back seat and said, “I’m staying out of this one.”

“I get it,” said Jonathan, “but there’s a lot you don’t understand.  That’s not Susan’s style and it’s not how I choose to do it.”

“I understand you promised Susan something, but I just don’t see her approving of what happened to Allen.  Or what almost happened to Lisa Knapp.”

“Just drive, alright?  Leave how I honor my wife’s memory to me.”

“If you say so,” said Marcus.  “But if you’re so concerned about keeping promises, don’t forget the most important one you made.”

He looked at his boss, but couldn’t tell anything from the back of his head.

Jonathan was tuned out, staring into the red desert landscape.

Creamed spinach again.  Sylvester Prime slid his tray down the line and said, “Keep the damned spinach and give me two rolls.”

The server smiled and dumped a pile of spinach onto his tray. 

“Convicts eat better than us,” he said as he moved to the next girl.  “I bet they send us the garbage they can’t feed to livestock.”  As Sylvester got older, less of his inner dialogue occurred inside his head.

The next server slapped a soggy chicken patty onto his plate.  “Would it kill you to serve something that didn’t taste like Styrofoam?”

The chicken-server said, “Move on down, Sylvester.  We’ve got more people to feed.”

“‘Move on down, Sylvester’ he says.  Has no idea where he’d be if me and a million other men didn’t risk our lives overseas.” 

The last server in line set a roll and pad of butter on his tray. 

“The greatest generation,” he said as he walked toward an empty table.  “None of you would last a day in the war.  I hope I’m dead and gone when the Commies invade because you people are useless.”

It didn’t take long to eat.  The roll was the only edible thing on his plate.  He swore again as he scraped the spinach and half the chicken patty into the garbage, and continued muttering as he hobbled down the hallway to his room.  He had free reign of the entire facility, as long as he didn’t attempt to enter the front lobby or beyond. 

The only place he wanted to go was miles from Golden Horizons, but the staff was too busy to entertain the thought of taking him on a ‘field trip’ as they called it.

“Damned kids just trying to get even with their parents for treating them like babies when they
were
babies,” he carped as he opened the door to his small quarters.  “They have to get even with us.”

His room was always tidy.  It had to be with the strict guidelines about how much furniture was allowed, how many pictures he could hang, and frequent cleanliness inspections.  He often felt like soiling the entire apartment just to see their reaction.  They treated him like a child and just once he would love to see how they liked it when he acted like a child.

As he reached for the light switch he realized the light was already on in his tiny living room.  “Must be getting forgetful.”  He always turned off the lights when he left.  But when he shuffled further into the small room he saw a man sitting on his couch.

Sylvester jumped, as much as an eighty-three year old can, and looked at the wall decorations to make sure he was in the right apartment.  The black and white picture of him and his World War II unit hung where it should.

The stranger spoke before Sylvester had a chance to consider other possibilities.  “Mr. Prime, I understand you would like to visit your wife’s grave.”

“Who in hell are you?  A man should start by introducing himself.  And what are you doing in my apartment?”

“That’s not really important, Mr. Prime.”  The man wore a black suit and had a tight haircut.  At least he had enough respect to address him properly.

“What do you want?”  Sylvester asked, not softening.  “You have no right to break into my rooms.”

“As I mentioned, I can arrange a visit to Vera, if you are interested.” 

Maybe the man was being smart.  With his fancy suit and manners he looked like he could be in the mob.  ‘Visit Vera’ was probably mobster slang for killing him.

“What are you talking about?” Sylvester demanded.

The cheeky man cracked a small smile and opened his mouth to answer but Sylvester interrupted him.  “And what in hell are you laughing at?”

“You are a delight to talk to, Mr. Prime.  That’s all.”  He was still smiling.  “My name is Jonathan.  I can take you to visit Vera’s grave.”

“Why would you do that?  You don’t know me from Adam, except that I’m much older.” 

Jonathan chuckled and Sylvester started feeling like he might be able to trust him.

“There’s just one condition,” said Jonathan.  “You must swear never to try to escape again.”

Sylvester looked at him with one raised eyebrow.  “Did Kristen put you up to this?  Is this some sort of hoax?”

“I assure you, I do not joke around when it comes to making promises.  And there are consequences if you break your oath.”

“I never break my oath.  And don’t come in here threatening me in my own living room.”

“I apologize,” said the young man.  “But if we enter into an agreement I need to make sure we understand one another.”

“Alright, suppose I went back on my word.  What would you do to me?  Couldn’t be worse than living here.”

“I could let them move you to the third floor.  They’re already talking about it because of your escape attempts.  You’d have much less luck escaping their tight security.”

“The third floor smells like piss and bleach.”  Sylvester crumpled his nose.  “And I accept your offer.”

“Just like that?” asked Jonathan. 

“I’m old.  I don’t have time to sit around considering all day.  Now here’s my idea.  You go to the lobby and pretend like you’re having a fit over on the far side of the desk.  When the girl comes around to see if you need help I’ll hurry out the front and meet you at your car.  What color is it and where is parked?”

Jonathan looked amused.  He stood and said, “Come on, Mr. Prime.  Let’s go.”

Sylvester went to the closet for his coat.  “I hope your epileptic fit is convincing.  Those girls at the front desk are shrewd.  It’s tough to fool them.  Shrewd and evil.”

When they approached the hallway before the front desk Sylvester said, “Okay, this is do or die.  Remember, the far side of the desk.”

“It’s okay, Mr. Prime.”  He took Sylvester’s arm and led him into the lobby.

“What are you doing?  We can’t walk in there together…”  But it was too late.  The freckled-faced girl at the desk spotted them. 

She smiled her deceptive grin and said, “Have a good time, Sylvester.” 

He couldn’t tell what it was, but it had to be some sort of trick.  The stranger still held his arm and led him toward the front door.  Sylvester glared at the smiling girl.

Before he knew it they were outside and another man in a suit was opening the door to a fancy, black car.  A mob car.  Sylvester took one last glance over his shoulder then climbed inside.

When Jonathan climbed in on the other side Sylvester asked, “Are you going to kill me?” 

“Of course not.  That wasn’t our arrangement.”

“You’re not in the mafia?”

Jonathan shook his head.

“And you’d tell me if you were?  See, I don’t mind getting killed by the mob, but I’d like to know it was coming.”

“Why would you go with me if you thought I was going to kill you?” asked Jonathan

“Well, on the off chance that you took me to the cemetery first.  After that I wouldn’t really care.”  He looked out the window trying to remember how long it had been.

With every minute they drove, Sylvester’s hope grew.  The city was unrecognizable.  “I must have been imprisoned a long time,” he said. 

“Five years,” said Jonathan as they pulled into Lake View Memorial Park, but Sylvester barely heard. 

Finally, a place he recognized.  Without being told, the driver drove straight to Vera’s gravesite. 

Sylvester forced the door open as soon as the car came to a stop.  The driver didn’t even have time to jump out and assist him. 

“If you don’t mind,” he told Jonathan, “I’d like just a moment alone.” For the first time in years he felt the stirrings of kindness and gratitude.

“Take all the time you need,” he answered.

“Well, okay.”  Sylvester took his jacket even though he wouldn’t need it in the Michigan summer sun.

He glanced behind him when he reached his wife’s resting place.  The two men waited in the car.  Sylvester reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out a miniature blue umbrella.  The kind people put into cocktail drinks.

He slowly bent and inserted it into the thick grass near the head of the grave.  No words were necessary between him and Vera.  After forty-eight years of marriage they understood each other without speaking.

For a few more minutes he sat staring at the headstone, the trees, the umbrella, the sky.

His bones creaked as he stood, but Sylvester didn’t have it in him to complain or curse his age.  He walked back to the car with a grin that he was unaccustomed to.

“Okay, Mr. Hit Man.  Do your worst.”  The smile on his face fought years of discontent that had molded his wrinkles into a permanent frown.

The man slapped Sylvester’s bony knee and laughed.  “It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Prime.  We may have to do it again next year.”

Sylvester still had no idea what it was all about.  Maybe the man would come back, maybe not.  Either way, he was too happy to let anything get to him. 

-shut up!  If you tell him i’ll never tlk 2 u again.