Dexter Wilkinson stepped out of the shower dripping wet when Dru came into the bathroom and said, “You’ve been summoned.” She handed him his pager then looked at his bare chest and patted it, smiling. Five weeks of physical labor had already altered his physique.
Her admiration wasn’t enough to offset the sinking feeling in his gut. Usually he would relish the excuse to miss church, but the beeper was used only for work, and could mean only one thing. Another ditch. Thinking of himself as a ditch-digger rather than a gravedigger made it slightly easier to bear.
He had been called in on Saturday before, but this was the first Sunday summons. When Dru walked out of the bathroom, Dexter swore under his breath. She hated it when he used profanity on Sundays. No matter how slowly he dressed, he’d eventually have to bite the bullet and go in, though he continued hoping without hope to receive another page or phone call to say that he wasn’t needed.
As he sat on the edge of the bed putting his thick wool socks on, Dru came in. She bent to kiss his forehead and said, “I’m going early. I’m in charge of the nursery so I’ve got to get it set up.”
“I don’t know how long I’ll be,” he told her, standing to kiss her on the lips this time.
“See you when you get home,” she said, and left.
He pulled out of the garage just a few minutes after her, already nauseated. The first week working at Lake View Memorial Park had been even worse. He almost sought medical care for the pain in his stomach. Dru suggested antacids and the problem of the pain was solved, but after five weeks the nausea remained.
For seventeen years he had conditioned himself to avoid that place and he could only overcome the aversion by observing a short ritual. First he thought of Tracy, how she had hugged him when he told her they would pay for her to go to whatever college she chose.
Tracy had smiled and put her hands on his cheeks, just like she’d done since she was little. “Thank you, Daddy. I’ll make you proud. I promise.”
Next he thought of the night he had told Dru he was ready to give up. He was embarrassed to have uttered those words, and so far it had been enough to get him out of the driveway.
Lake View Memorial Park was mostly deserted on Sunday afternoon when Dexter pulled in. There were two cars parked outside the chapel, and a few more spread throughout the grounds. The first left turn onto the Cypress-lined paths would take Dexter in a straight shot to his equipment shed. It would also take him directly past little Camille’s gravesite.
It had been seventeen years since he’d been down that road.
He parked at the memorial house, and sat in his car for a minute before going inside. The main entry was empty, so he shuffled back to the office. Freddy Mineaux, the assistant director, sat at his desk with some paperwork.
Of the seven other employees, only two of them had been in the funeral business seventeen years before when Dexter brought in his family to deal with their own grief. So far none of them had put the two together. Dexter wasn’t about to remind anyone.
“How’s it goin’, Dexter?” asked Freddy, looking down at his paperwork.
Dexter didn’t answer, just sat in the padded, hard-backed chair across from Freddy’s desk.
“You see the box yet?” asked Freddy.
Dexter shook his head.
“It’s in the chapel. Go take a look.”
That piqued Dexter’s curiosity, but not in a good way. The employees of Lake View didn’t see death and dead bodies the same way normal people did. Dexter often had to ignore their insensitive comments, so he was understandably cautious as he peeked into the funeral chapel.
What he saw hit him like a shovel to the gut. At the front of the room was a tiny white casket draped with two small bouquets. It looked as small as a bread box.
There’s no way Camille was that small
, he thought, leaning on the back of a pew for support.
He didn’t know how much time passed, but he looked over to see Freddy standing at his side.
“Sad story,” said Freddy. “There are a few cases that even get to me after all these years. I don’t get how some parents can be so irresponsible. Kid’s mom left the upstairs window open right next to the bed. The kid was jumping on the bed with her brother. They bumped into each other and she was launched right out.”
Dexter didn’t answer. What could he say?
“It was only the second floor, but she landed wrong on the driveway.”
“How old?” asked Dexter.
Freddy glanced at Dexter and seemed surprised to hear him speak. “Four years old. Sad stuff. It happened yesterday and they aren’t wasting any time. Service is tomorrow just after sunrise. Section 10, Lot 21-A.”
Neither spoke for a while, but Freddy finally said, “I don’t know how that mom will live with herself.”
Dexter couldn’t listen to any more. He turned and walked outside.
Lake View Memorial Park was named for its view of Lake St. Clair. Dexter stood at the overlook and gazed at the calm water. He tried to focus on the Sunday afternoon fishers or the dog walkers, to think about anything except dead little girls. He found they were the only thing he could think about.
He tried to force his legs to carry him toward the shed.
One step
, he thought.
One step then another
. Time and again his legs refused.
“I’m done,” he said and walked back toward the office. “Freddy can dig his own damn ditch.”
He didn't feel the slightest guilt about swearing on Sunday.
#####
Jonathan heard the words as he sat in Control looking over Cheryl’s shoulder at the surveillance video. “Don’t do it, Dexter. Hang in there.”
In a disheartened voice, Cheryl said, “I think it’s over. We’ve seen that look before.”
As much as he wanted to argue, Jonathan knew she was right.
Five o’clock. Time to stop for dinner. Allen paused his iPod, angled to the treeline, dropped his backpack, and plopped down next to it in the shade. There were no restaurants or stores along this stretch of Interstate 80 through Illinois. The farther west he walked, the more civilization spread out.
The label of the MRE he pulled from his backpack read
Spaghetti with Meat Sauce
. He activated the heating element on the noodle packet and returned the hot cocoa mix to his backpack. The vegetable cracker and cheese spread went into the accessible pocket on one side of his pack and the peanut butter crackers and M&M’s filled the pocket on the other side. He could eat those foods along the way. He removed the fork from the accessory packet but the rest of it went into the garbage bag in his backpack.
He originally planned on eating all his meals on foot, but he spilled beef stew on himself the first time he tried it. Some of his clothes had to last him more than one day. Being a cross-country walker meant constant body odor. He didn’t want to top it with rotting food.
Though it killed him to alter his carefully laid out schedule, he decided to take twelve minutes to heat and eat the entrée each day, and work on the side dishes along the way. He’d arrive twelve minutes later to his destination every night, but once he put it into the schedule it was bearable.
The packages awaiting him when he checked into the various motels contained snacks such as nuts, granola, dried fruit, beef jerky and sundries like new socks and moleskin. Every detail meticulously planned before he took his first step.
After six minutes his spaghetti was warm, and six minutes after that he’d finished eating it. He loaded up his backpack, left his earbuds in his fanny pack and started walking. He was done with his daily Bible ration and already listened to three chapters of The Fountainhead. The rest of the day would be split between Blue Collar Comedy and music after he walked in silence for a while.
As he snacked on the peanut butter crackers he thought back to a Bible passage he heard earlier in the morning. “
When the Lord hath tried me, I shall come forth as gold
.” It came from the Book of Job.
“More like, when the Lord hath tried me, my nerves will be as frazzled as the halyard on a 50-year-old ladder.”
Though he had planned as thoroughly as possible, the details of the trek taxed him much more than he expected. If it was simply a matter of keeping his word of the contract with the stranger he would have taken a Greyhound back to Detroit weeks ago. His word wasn’t worth this much. But Yvonne’s life was.
A few months before, Allen and Yvonne had the perfect life, much like Job before his trial. One morning Yvonne couldn’t walk strait or recall the names of simple items. Two days later, results of a tonsil biopsy confirmed Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, a degenerative brain disorder. They explored every option, but were told there was no cure.
As Allen walked, the memory of that night in the hospital played back in his mind. For a long time he and Yvonne sat in the coldly clean scent of her hospital room. Constant irregular beeping played in the background as they talked, hand in hand, about anything but her condition until he couldn’t take it any longer.
He stood and paced. “There has to be something we can do. I’d do anything if there was just a sliver of hope. I’d climb Mt. Everest. I’d walk across the country. I’d swim the Atlantic Ocean. If only any of those would do any good.” He hadn’t cried in a decade, but his eyes were full of tears. He felt like swinging a hammer at the medical equipment, the hospital bed, the walls. Just to make everything go away.
He wiped his eyes and noticed a shadow in the doorway. He sat down and waited for a nurse to enter, but the shadow left and no one came in.
Yvonne took his hand again and squeezed. “God’s will is going to be done. If it’s my time to…” She closed her eyes and concentrated. “I can’t think of the words, Allen. I just, you’ll be all right.”
“But I don’t want to be all right without you.”
She squeezed his hand and said, “Go home, get some rest.”
He shook his head. “As long as you’re here, I’m here.”
“You’re not going to, you’re going to not to go to the,” she smiled and waited for him to answer. The confusion and silliness had come out of nowhere within just a few days.
Allen shook his head. “No, I’m not going to work tomorrow.”
Other than planned family vacations, Allen hadn’t missed one day of work before Yvonne’s illness. Every day at eight o’clock, he climbed in his truck and drove to a jobsite. One hour for lunch. He even planned tasks toward the end of the day that could be dropped as soon as the alarm on his watch sounded.
“Work’s not important,” he added.
Compared to this
.
She fell asleep fifteen minutes later, still clutching his hand. Allen didn’t use the cot on the other side of the bed. It didn’t slide as close to the bed as the chair did.
Hospital sounds awoke him just after sunrise the next morning. A nurse brought two trays of oatmeal, wet scrambled eggs, melon, and two, almost-cold milk cartons. She left and a black-haired man in a suit coat walked in. “May I have a moment of your time, Allen?”
Allen stood and straightened his slept-in clothes. “Yes, you’re one of the doctors?”
“No, I have no affiliation with the hospital, but I am in a position to provide your wife with a possible treatment.”
Allen looked at Yvonne, who was still sleeping, then back at the man. “You must be mistaken, there’s no cure for my wife’s condition.”
“You mean there is no cure for the average person with Creutzfeldt-Jakobs. It is extremely intensive and expensive, and a bit experimental, but there is a cure. If you have the means.”
Allen was confused. “Perhaps we should talk outside,” he said.
The stranger nodded and they walked into the hallway.
“I’m sorry,” said Allen. Who are you?”
“That’s not really important to your wife’s treatment,” said the stranger, continuing to fence the conversation.
“Who told you about us?”
“I overheard you talking last night.” He shrugged.
It still didn’t make sense. “If it’s so expensive how can we afford it?”
“I’m prepared to cover that aspect.”
“Are you some kind of philanthropist?” asked Allen, feeling a little bit like he held a winning lottery ticket in his hand.
“Some kind,” said the man, smiling. “But by no means am I offering a gift. You will earn another breath for her with every step you take. Your pace for the next few months will power the beating of her heart.”
Allen scowled at the stranger, but didn’t want to dismiss a chance to save Yvonne. “I’m not following you.”
“Walk to San Diego. Then walk back home.” He ended his sentence as if it were a perfectly normal request.
Allen waited for the man to continue, but realized he was done talking. “Why would I do that? And why San Diego?”