In the Still
of the
Night
by
C. Norman Noble
In the Still of the Night
Copyright 2006, 2012, C.
Norman Noble.
All rights reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-0-9786971-1-2
ISBN 10: 0-9786971-1-1
Smashwords Edition – February, 2012
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Published by
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Dedication
To Debbie, Jeannie, and Cindy:
We are often judged by our greatest achievements.
You, my daughters, are mine.
Acknowledgments
With very special thanks and acknowledgments to my friends Captain Ron Hanna, American Airlines, and Captain Hessel Benedictus, KLM Royal Dutch Airlines, for their counsel and advice on the idiosyncratic behavior of jumbo jets and the honed deportment of flight deck personnel in response to that behavior. I owe them my sincerest gratitude. The aerodynamic expertise in the book belongs to them. Any errors are mine.
Chapter 1
Pre-Flight
1981.
Ronald Reagan was inaugurated President of the United States;
Michigan defeated Washington in the Rose Bowl;
the Iranian hostage crisis ended;
John Hinckley shot President Reagan;
Sissy Spacek won the Academy Award as Best Actress for “Coal Miner's Daughter”;
USC tailback Marcus Allen won the Heisman Trophy;
Sandra Day O'Connor became the first woman member of the Supreme Court;
Brian Fincher lived his life with gusto.
* * *
9:10 a.m. Despite the ordeal of the long flight, Brian Fincher looked forward to it. Why not? He'd never been to Hong Kong, although he'd heard stories. It sounded like the kind of place he'd enjoy exploring. Fabulous sunsets. Floating villages. Electronics bargains galore. Chinese food. Billions of people. Millions of women. Thousands of beautiful women. For a man like Brian—six-four, broad shoulders, muscular chest, Tom Selleck smile and wavy, brown hair—it sounded like a trip to paradise.
***
Brian was on InterContinental’s reserve for the whole month, which meant that he had to be available to fill in for any purser who called in sick. It just so happened that he got the call for Flight 499, non-stop from Seattle to Hong Kong. He was across the hall from his apartment visiting a friend when his pager went off. He called into Flight Operations, found out where he was headed and returned to his apartment to begin his preflight pattern: Pack. Water the plants. Take Sylvester the Cat downstairs to old Mrs. Arnuff. Hurry to the bank to exchange some U.S. money for Hong Kong dollars.
9:15 a.m. Jesse Hill pulled the shirt on, wishing that he didn't have to button it all the way, but noting that everyone who wore a suit wore a tie . . . and that the tie went around the neck tightly. Well, at least the pants went on the same as his work clothes. Except for the zipper in the fly, of course. He'd always had buttons. Not that he couldn't figure out how it worked. He pulled it up with a jerk and caught his shirttail in the teeth. It was quite a struggle to separate the two. He finally had to pull the pants off and cut the shirt from the inside. He started over, this time more cautiously, now knowing the dangers that lurked within the simplest of inventions. What would happen if he caught something more personal, tenderer, in those steel teeth? He shuddered to think about it.
At last, he was dressed. He looked at himself in the mirror. A boy in his late teens looked back at him. A boy from a farm who had never worn anything but dungarees and jeans looked back at him. A boy who was too tall and too big for his grandfather’s suit looked back at him. Right off, he could see the pants were too long. They covered part of his shoes. He was certain his socks were supposed to show, else why bother with socks? He put the jacket on next and reexamined his mirror image. He looked to see if his lack of a tie showed. It showed. Rats! He did not have the faintest idea how one tied a tie. He put it around his neck, and tied a half-knot, like the kind he tied for his shoelaces. The tie looked ridiculous.
His hair was out of control. It was obvious he had tried to comb it, but it refused to conform. It went straight up, depending upon the direction it was rooted, giving a look of disarray almost laughable. Shame, too. He had never been on an airplane. This was going to be his first experience and he wanted to look his best. Well, time was working against him. He was running out of time to catch his plane. And it was a long drive from his farm in Enumclaw.
1:10 p.m. Susan Cunningham was tired after her nonstop flight from New York, and to think that Seattle was just a way-stop. The next leg of the trip was supposed to take fourteen additional hours. I wasn't thinking too clearly when I booked this flight, she thought, as she gathered her purse and exited the aircraft. Tom told me it would be easiest to get it over all at once. “Ha!” she said aloud as she walked up the ramp into the Sea-Tac terminal. In a pig's eye, she muttered under her breath, avoiding the strange look from the passenger walking alongside her.
Counting the two-and-a-half-hour layover in Seattle, she would be at airports and on the airplane for twenty-three hours. Adding the five hours she had been up before arriving at Kennedy Airport, and the time she assumed it would take to gather her luggage, clear customs, and catch a taxi to her hotel once she arrived in Hong Kong, this was going to be a thirty-hour day. The only redeeming factor for all this was that she would be able to immediately climb into bed when she got to The Regent since it would be eleven o'clock the next night, Hong Kong time. Being a fashion model wasn’t all that it was touted to be, she confirmed to herself. In fact, at this exact moment, she thought the job sucked.
1:15 p.m. Brian checked into Flight Operations at Sea-Tac International Airport. He barely got there in time. In fact, he missed the official pre-flight briefing. If he hadn’t been the reserve chief purser, his tardiness might have cost him. As it was, he received a special briefing so he could pass on the information to the cabin crew.
On his way out of Operations, he saw an envelope in his mail slot. He studied it for a return address as he tore open a corner and extracted a note. Large, child-like letters spelled a message. It looked like a ransom note. It wasn’t. It was a threat.
I know who you
are. You owe me one.
And I will be paid.
It was unsigned, of course.
Brian shrugged his shoulders. What kind of nut would send a letter like that? A nut would, that's who. He wasn't going to worry about it. He crumpled the letter into a ball and tossed it at the wastepaper basket. “Three points!” he said as it rimmed the basket and fell onto the floor and under a desk. “Well, almost.”
He turned and headed to the North Concourse to board his plane. Life had to go on, Brian figured. Still, he wondered, searching the recesses of his mind for what he might have done to prompt this note. Then, suddenly he knew. It was the husband from whom he had escaped that night. Somehow, the man had found out who he was. But what was he likely to do about it? Nothing. It was just an idle threat. How had he gotten the note into his box at the airport? Now that was a puzzler. Still, as he had already concluded, life had to go on. And he had a plane to catch.
As he expected, all of the crew had been to Hong Kong before. He was the only neophyte aboard. Four members of his fourteen-member crew spoke one or more Chinese dialects while two others spoke Korean and Japanese. That was a blessing. He assigned Sharon Cheng to the First Class cabin along with Alex Kim and Anne McGiver. He gave to Molly Harmon, a seasoned veteran with whom he had flown over the years, the upper deck. Brian had flown with two of the other members of his crew, Chris Folk and Jeana Jensen only last week, and they were given Business Class, along with Stephanie Phillips. Gene Fitzpatrick asked for and received the below-decks galley. The rest, covering Economy, were Jackie Karpoe, Sandy Ponds, Linda Nakamura, Carrie Hunter, and Christina Yoo. Four were faces he recognized but people whose performance he didn't know. One, Sandy Ponds, was a close friend. They had shared an intimate dinner together a few months ago, and he had not gone home until the next afternoon. This was going to be a new experience. Brian had never flown with someone he'd dated, and he wasn't certain how well he was going to like it.
In all, the flight attendants covered the age spectrum from twenty-five to fifty-seven; an interesting collection of diverse personalities and travel experiences. Other than being a long flight, and one on which a girl he had dated was also flying, Brian figured this was going to be a good flight. He had a good sense for these things. He had long since dismissed the stupid threat from the anonymous letter writer.
As his good fortune would have it, his Asian debut began aboard InterContinental's first remodeled 747. The company had worked hard to overcome the stereotype image of an aircraft's interior. The new president of the airline reputedly had said when he took over the previous year, “An airplane is an airplane is not an airplane.” His point was that his airline was going to appear different from their competition where traveling by commercial jet was about as thrilling as riding on a New York subway at rush hour. His passengers were going to feel comfortable in their airborne environment. It wasn't going to be the same as home, but it was going to be as close as he could make it.
The world-famous decorating company, Jean-Pierre Armond, had been commissioned to revamp the interiors, giving the sidewalls, ceilings, aisles, and seats a feeling of comfort and warmth. Three times they had made lavish presentations at corporate headquarters in New York. Three times their designs had been rejected for falling short of InterContinental's expectations. The fourth time, they constructed a full-size mockup of the cabin interior, showing how the Business Class section would look. Lush green carpet, pastel hues on the walls, starlit ceilings and Corinthian leather upholstery won unanimous approval. Aside from the Sultan of Brunei and a few Middle East sheiks, no one had a more spectacular aircraft interior.
Refurbishment of the fleet was time consuming and expensive. Aircraft were rotated out of operation at their designated time for complete overhaul, not before. On this trip, Brian shared with the passengers the awe of the spectacle and the smell of soft leather. He marveled at the use of mahogany on trays behind each seat and as trim around each window, although he later discovered it to be high-impact, non-toxic, non-flammable lightweight plastic. Practical and effective, lavish and elegant. If it weren't for its tubular shape, the cabin could as easily have been the living room of Professor Henry Higgins in the Broadway production of “My Fair Lady.” Well, not really.
3:25 p.m. The passengers were starting to board and Brian moved to the main door to assist those needing help finding their seats. His self-assigned role was as backup to Sharon Cheng and Anne McGiver who were already stationed there. One more smiling face never hurt. Besides, this let him check out the passengers. “Yes, sir. Seat Sixty-Six B is all the way down this aisle in the rear section of the aircraft.” He pointed the elderly, bewildered-looking gentleman toward his seat. “Enjoy your flight.” The man shuffled off, trailed by an elderly lady toting a heavily laden overnight bag. She was short, maybe five feet tall; her gray-hair tied in a bun with a pillbox hat on top. She wore a flowered dress with darker flowers than he had ever seen in a flower shop. The bag was her burden, she explained as she passed Brian: “He's got a bad back.” Brian smiled as he watched her retreat down the aisle, then suddenly realized that he should help her.
“Ma'am,” he called out. “Hold on. Let me carry that bag for you.” She stopped and put down the bag.
“Thank you, young man. It's kind of you.” She looked up and smiled as Brian lifted the bag, noting that he was big and strong and quite handsome. Then, hurrying to catch up with her husband, she called, “Not so fast, Ed. We've got all night.”
***
Once back at the main entry, Brian resumed his study of passengers, one in particular. It seemed likely that she had been pretty once. That was probably a while ago, Brian thought. He looked at her short sleeve, jewel-necked, aqua sweater that buttoned down the front. He smiled to himself. She was clinging to her youth just like her sweater clung to her body. Things were sagging a bit on both counts. She carried a Gucci bag and wore a Rolex watch. From all appearances, she had been to Rome and Geneva to purchase them, when in fact, he was willing to bet anything she had obtained her counterfeits on New York's 42nd Street. But then, she probably would have cheapened anything she wore, real or counterfeit. Trailing behind her was a man whose hair was odd looking, like a paintbrush that had dried without being cleaned — thick gray streaks caked on top of black. It was combed, trim, and not dirty. But odd. They definitely go together, he decided, and smiled at Anne McGiver who was watching Brian with an amused expression. He winked at her.
***
As usual, the assortment of passengers was varied and colorful. An all-star baseball team, made up of high school standouts from Seattle's Central District, was on its way to Hong Kong and Taiwan for a series of exhibition games. They all wore matching jackets that proclaimed, “Seattle's Finest.” They were keyed up and rowdy. One of them had brought a baseball for a friendly catch. All had their gloves. Two of the women who boarded appeared to be in the final terms of pregnancy. They were Chinese and possibly on their way home for deliveries. There were four infants who, with their parents, were assigned bulkhead seats to which bassinets would be attached once in flight. In addition to the baseball team and the babies, Brian counted twenty-two children who appeared to be younger than ten. All filed into the Economy section. Probably one-quarter of the passengers were Asians heading home.
The passenger loading proceeded without a hitch. Five minutes before scheduled departure, the plane with 315 passengers aboard was ready. Well, everyone was aboard, but the aisles were still crowded with people making last minute decisions about blankets, pillows, magazines to read, and so on. Brian stepped to the passenger address system and removed the handset from the cradle. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I'm Brian Fincher, your Chief Purser for this flight. We are about ready for departure from Seattle-Tacoma International Airport, but FAA rules prohibit us from leaving the gate until every passenger is seated. If you'll look around, not every passenger is seated. So we request that you take your seats now, fasten your seat belts, place your seats and trays in upright and locked positions, and settle back. The captain tells me that with your cooperation, we'll be away from the terminal within five minutes.”
He paused as he watched the milling throng slowly move toward their seats. “By the way,” he added, “this is Flight 499, headed to Hong Kong nonstop. If you don't want to go to Hong Kong, now would be as good a time as any to deplane.” Those who were listening chuckled at his facetious remark.
3:45 p.m. In the cavernous freight payload area beneath the passenger deck, a team of cargo handlers hurried to finish loading and locking last minute checked baggage in place. Fifty tons of containers filled with suitcases, packages too big for carry-on, boxes, mail, exported goods and merchandise, live animals and two coffins were ready for transportation to Hong Kong and locations throughout Southeast Asia. Bill Watkins, seasoned freight handler and ramp supervisor only months from retirement, directed the crew. His intercom headset was clamped firmly over his bald head as he talked to the captain. “We're ready down here, sir. All cargo is fastened and secure. My crew is out; I'm about to disengage my intercom.
“Wait a minute. One of my guys is still in there.” He swung the head mike away from his mouth. “Hey, Collier. What’s going on?”
Roger Collier was adjusting one of the hinges on the cargo door. “Just making sure everything is as it should be, Bill.” He finished what he was doing, hopped onto the conveyor belt and rode it to the ground, giving Watkins the ‘thumbs up’ sign.
“Captain, we’re about to lower the forward cargo door. I’ll give you the Okay as soon as that’s accomplished.” He pulled the intercom plug from the jack box, walked out the door and down the ramp. He gave a signal to a smiling Collier standing near the fuselage to lower the door. Fifteen seconds later, the hefty door was down. Collier reached up and pushed in the handle that stuck out from the middle of the door. Satisfied that everything was as he wanted it, he twisted the handle, completing the locking operation. Watkins inserted his intercom plug into the jackbox near the nose wheel.
“Captain, we’re secure down here.”
“Thanks for the confirmation, Bill. We know. The cargo door warning light just extinguished.”
Chapter 2
In the Beginning
The day was typical of March in the forests of northern California—raw and drizzling, the earth exhaling vapor as if it were breathing its last. It got tiresome, par-ticularly for children whose entire sources for recreation came from the outdoors. Yet, there weren't many alternatives.
***
Brian Fincher remembered glancing at his only friend, plump, twelve-year old Rachael Rabinowicz as she walked beside him, her shoulders hunched and her arms pressed close to her body to ward off the cold. For the most part, he didn't have much use for girls. They were a bit too silly and a lot too frilly for his young tastes. But Rachael was different. She was sturdy. She was athletic. She could climb trees and skip rocks better than any of the boys in school. When it came to fishing, she could tie flies and cast better than anyone in the county, child or adult. And she could throw a baseball. Oh, how she could throw a baseball. More than anything in the world, Brian wanted to be a professional baseball player. Somehow, he felt that playing catch with Rachael would make him better.
Rachael wasn't pretty. That wasn't her attraction. Rachael wasn't smart, at least scholastically, so that wasn't her attraction either. But she liked Brian, in spite of his cauliflower ears and his funny nose, and treated him as a friend. That was her attraction. Brian didn't have any other friends. When he found one, he held on tightly.
And so it was the unattractive Rachael and the unpopular Brian walked home from school together each day. They rarely walked the road. It was boring, filled with sameness every step of the way. There was no adventure. But the walk through the woods promised variety each day, new flowers, new bird songs, new ant colonies, new animal trails, new snake holes. These were the things they held in common, and were the basis for their friendship. The path they followed meandered aimlessly through the forest, up hills and down. Occasional glimpses of sky filtered through the evergreens that towered overhead. The air always felt heavy, almost damp. Brian loved it.
“If you were in my family,” Rachael said, as she crouched to examine ant activity next to a large maple tree, “today would be a special day in your life.”
“Why?” Brian asked, dropping a green leaf in the path of a marching ant column.
“This is your twelfth birthday, isn't it?” She picked up the leaf and put it outside the perimeter of the path so the column could parade on.
“Yes.” He placed a stick along their route.
“If you were Jewish, you would be a man today. From the way you are acting right now,” she looked up at him and smiled, “I can tell you're not Jewish.” She tossed the stick aside.
He squatted next to her on the ground, staring at the ants. “I wish I was in your family.”
“Why, so you'd be a man?”
“No, so I wouldn't be in my family.”
She looked at him, her odd friend with the ill-fitting clothes and the holey sneakers. She knew of his abuse, the way his father beat him, his family poverty, his hunger. So Rachael understood his statement, and the pain that caused him to say it.
“Today will be a happy day for you, Brian. I just know it.”
She knew nothing of the kind. No one could have known that Brian's life would be changed forever on this, his twelfth birthday. No single event in his life would ever have a greater impact. It would be a day, as some statesman had said once, that would live in infamy . . . at least for Brian.
***
Somerset, California. Population five thousand, mostly Nordic stock. Somerset was a logging town with one main street, bracketed on both sides by elevated, wooden sidewalks. It was vintage turn-of-the-century. There were two churches in town, one Catholic, one Lutheran, located on opposing corners of a small side street. On summer Sundays with their doors wide open, the parishioners tried to out-sing each other. On Mondays through Fridays, they tried to out-proselytize each other. Saturdays, they rested in keeping with the old Law, which none of them followed except when it was convenient.
***
In support of its logging operations, Somerset had two sawmills. One would have been enough, but the Catholics had difficulties working with the Lutherans. The Lutherans wouldn't work with the Catholics. The resulting competition brought in logs from neighboring operations, permitting double shifts at both mills. Together, the mills churned out 100-million board feet a year of finished lumber, treated lumber for signposts and guardrails, and pelletized wood for fuel. The combined processes employed four hundred of Somerset's workers, including Brian's father and mother. These same processes also brought a permanent stench to the town as pungent smoke hung over the valley like a brown pallor.
Most of the houses on the outskirts of the small town were built in the 1920s. Brian's home, the stucco bungalow in the middle of the block, showed its age along with the rest of the neighborhood. It wasn't that the homes had depreciated. They had always been low-income housing. But coats of primer and paint, and yards with shrubbery, flowers and grass would have made them appear more presentable and a little less dilapidated.
The siren that wailed through the silent streets that night was atop the ambulance that rushed twelve-year old Brian Fincher to Somerset's modest hospital. No doctors were on duty. The northern California town of Somerset didn't have many medical emergencies in the evenings after the mills shut down. The nursing staff could normally handle what few it had. But Brian's injuries were severe, and those who rushed him through the corridor to the Emergency Room knew they needed outside help. His pajamas had caught fire first, igniting his skin. His mother had heard his screams and extinguished the flames quickly, but not before his chest and lower face had been burned horribly.
Brian slept on the old blue couch in the living room. Two springs had long ago broken and pushed up through the cheap fabric. He had learned to fit his frail body around the protruding metal, but his sleep was always fitful. His mother slept in the only bedroom. His father slept there too, when he was home. Usually he was elsewhere. Earlier that night, he had been at home sprawled on the couch, drinking beer, smoking and shouting at a Lakers' basketball game on television. He passed out before half time; his burly body hanged precariously close to the edge of the cushions but never fell off. An hour later, he staggered out the front door, leaving the house quiet. He never once said “Happy birthday, son.” Brian got off the floor where he had been studying, climbed on the couch his father had vacated, pulled a blanket over him and fell asleep. The fire from the discarded cigarette erupted a short while later.
Understandably, the doctors in his small town, with their limited resources and skills, had been unable to deal properly with the blisters and raw flesh that disfigured his face and body so horribly. Shortly after being brought in to the emergency room, the dead tissue was removed and the wounds were dressed with anti-biotic cream, a silver sulfadiazine. Twenty-five percent of his body was burned. For two days following the fire, he was not expected to live. The tiny medical staff at Somerset Memorial struggled desperately to prevent dehydration, pneumonia, kidney failure and infection from setting in — all the potential complications for burn victims. Brian's pain was controlled as best possible, with intravenous narcotics and high-protein nutritional supplements.
Once, during a brief time of consciousness, Brian heard his father arguing with the doctors outside his hospital room that he should be allowed to die. “Don't save him,” he shouted, his Irish-accent unmistakable. “He's a monster! Look at him!” His father was drunk again. Up to this moment, Brian had not seen himself in a mirror. Now, he was too frightened to look.
***
The hospital asked for a medivac helicopter to transport Brian to San Francisco, but a severe Pacific storm had grounded all light aircraft. Clearly, his burns were beyond the medical capabilities of Somerset Hospital and if he was to live, external intervention was mandatory. The medical staff had followed procedure. Dead tissue had been removed from his face, neck and chest. His wounds had been cleaned and disinfected. They had done all they could do to ease his pain. He had been sedated. But they knew he could die of infection. And they didn't want his death on their hands. “We haven't lost a patient in eight years!” Dr. Coney, Hospital Administrator exclaimed. He rolled his heavy shoulders forward and drew in his thick neck, giving the ridiculous impression of a turtle about to be assaulted.
“Don't be absurd, Dan. Jim Eldridge died last year.” Gary Mickelson, Chief of Staff, glared in exasperation at the fallacious claim.
“That doesn't count. He died at home.”
“You mean you discharged him so that he could die at home rather than inside these hallowed halls.”
“I had no idea he was going to die.”
“He died the same day you released him. There wasn't a person on staff who thought he would pull through.”
“The fact remains, no one has died at Somerset Hospital in eight years. It's an incredible accomplishment. For the sake of this boy's life, we must transfer him to a burn center that can treat him properly.”
“Or if they can't, to let him die somewhere else.”
“I'm not God. Only He knows the answer to that one.”
“Right, Dan.”
And so the transfer was made, by ambulance, through the two-lane, winding roads of northern California, almost three hundred miles. At one point in the journey, Brian's breathing became irregular and almost stopped, but the team that tended him was skilled enough to bring him back. Once in the new hospital, Brian was placed in isolation to minimize any onslaught of infection. His mother, Judy, was allowed unpaid leave of absence from work so that she could be with him, yet she was denied entrance into his room because of the medical threat she represented. “His system is too weak,” a nurse explained. “You may have a bug he can't handle.”
The hospital accommodated Judy's poverty during her vigil, allowing her to sleep on one of the unused beds in the ward. She had only brought one change of clothes, and no nightgown. Soon, her disheveled appearance was a familiar sight wandering slowly throughout the building as she waited the time she could visit her son. A thirty-two year old woman inside; a fifty-year old woman outside. When not walking the halls, she spent hours looking in at her son through the small window in the door to his room. His face was lost in bandages. One arm appeared atop the sheet that covered his body, the hand and forearm bandaged. He remained under sedation to overcome the pain, but as he was withdrawn from drugs over the ensuing days, and spent more time awake, he became aware of his surroundings and his loneliness.
One morning, as Brian moved his eyes around the room, he saw his mother's face in the window of the door, looking in. Hers was the first unmasked face he had seen since the fire. He was overwhelmed with emotion. “Mom,” he called out, pleading. “I need you.” She shook her head slowly. The door didn't open. “Mom, why don't you come in? I need you.” Pain and anguish permeated his voice. There were tears on his mother's face, tears Brian never saw because she disappeared from view. Judy Fincher collapsed in the chair that had been provided for her vigil in the hallway, and sobbed uncontrollably for almost an hour.
Later that afternoon, as she slumped in her chair, staring vacuously down the hall, she noticed Brian's doctor standing at the nurses' station. Her chair clattered to the floor as she bolted hysterically toward him. “He needs what only I can give him,” she shouted before even reaching him. “Don't you understand? He needs my love, my hand holding his, my comfort.” Tears streamed down her face, falling onto her wrinkled blouse.
Dr. Paterson scowled at the interruption and closed the patient file he was examining. He turned toward Judy, seeming to know what she was saying without her saying it. “I agree, Mrs. Fincher. And you'll be with him soon. But what he doesn't need right now are the germs and impurities that you would bring with you. Until he passes through this critical stage, until his body gets further along in the healing process, he must remain isolated. His system can't handle any new problems. It isn't strong enough.” Dr. Paterson looked down on her over his half-rim glasses. “Believe me. We want you with Brian every bit as much as you want to be with him. There are special healing powers that mothers have.” His strong hands encased her upper arms and squeezed firmly but gently. “And as soon as it's safe for you to invoke them, we'll let you in.”
Brian’s distress over his mother’s failure to come to him didn’t go without notice. Even as Dr. Paterson was explaining the need for a continued sterile environment for Brian, a nurse was explaining the same thing to the young twelve-year old. “Do you understand, Brian?” she asked. He nodded his head but said nothing. “Brian, your mother has been here every moment since you came into the hospital. She hasn’t left. She has been right outside that door. She’s even slept in a chair we’ve put there. She loves you. “
He had suffered second and third degree burns. His face had been singed from the nose down. The ravages of the fire had blackened his left ear, right arm and chest. He was given massive dosages of antibiotics, and gradually, he regained his strength as his body continued the recovery process. As soon as he was strong enough, the skin grafts began. The doctors had wanted to send Brian to the Shriner's Burn Institute in Galveston, Texas, but the funds to get him there were not available. So the surgeries were performed at Ward Memorial Hospital in San Francisco. The grafts, transplanted from his inner thigh, were as successful as could be hoped, but for Brian, the memory of the terror and the evidence of the scars lingered on.
Weeks later, Brian went home to Somerset, in his mind, confirming his father's assessment. He was a monster, the kind that needed no mask at Halloween. He was certain that people were looking at him strangely. He couldn't bear to look at himself in the mirror, in spite of his mother's encouragement to do so. “Brian, it isn't that bad,” she would say over and over, all the time pulling his lengthening hair over his scarred ear. “Really, you look all right.”
His father abandoned the family right after the fire. That didn't surprise Brian. His father was no good, a cruel drunk. Brian was glad he was gone. At least, now he didn't have to face the man he hated. That would have been awful.
Judy Fincher was only twenty years older than Brian and was considered quite attractive by the male population at the mill where she worked as a bookkeeper. She was in her early thirties, average height, with auburn hair and bright green eyes. She unwittingly charmed the men and unknowingly worried the women.
At first, when her husband left, she kept to herself, caring for Brian, seeing no one socially. Then, after six months or so, men started visiting the home. Since she couldn't afford to hire anyone to watch Brian, she entertained in her living room. They usually arrived after dinner. Brian was sent to her bedroom at 9:00 p.m., and normally fell asleep moments later. However, one night that remained indelibly etched in his memory, he awoke around ten o'clock and went across the hall to the bathroom.
“Ohhh,” he heard his mother in the living room, making moaning sounds. “So good,” she sighed, as he tiptoed toward the sound. His mother was lying on the couch with her visitor on top of her. She moaned louder as the stranger thrust his body up and down. “Don't stop,” she urged. Brian couldn't watch or listen any more. He knew what they were doing. The kids talked about it at school, but he couldn't believe his mother would ever do this. He hurried into the bathroom and stayed there until he heard the man leave the house. From then on, every time his mother entertained, he stayed awake to hear if she would do this again. She always did. And he labeled her as trash . . . no good. By then, he was thirteen. It was difficult to understand. And a rift formed between them, something neither one of them fully understood.
***
On Saturday afternoons, the town’s movie theater showed old black and white films. Brian liked movies because they were shown in places where he could go and not be seen. Rather than fantasies, they became his realities. That’s when he had seen “Phantom of the Opera.” When he first thought about what he might become when he was an adult, he considered the idea of finding a sewer in a big city, and living there like the disfigured man in the movie. Then, as he became more reclusive, he contemplated becoming a research scientist. That way, he would earn enough money to live in comfort, but be alone where people wouldn't harm him with their cruelty.
As far as enemies went, Brian considered every boy in school an adversary. He knew that none of them liked him. All they ever did was taunt him and make fun of his face. One time, when he had to take a shower after P.E., the ridicule from his tormentors was unbearable. “Hey, Scarface,” the designated bully in his class shouted at him, “You light my fire.” Laughter echoed off the tiled walls. Stumbling over his own feet, Brian had bolted from the misty shower room, pulled on his clothes without drying off, and raced home . . . clutching his shoes under his arm. He didn't notice the stones and rocks that pushed sharply into his tender feet. He only felt the shame and anger of his confrontation.
***
Through it all, Rachael's friendship remained steadfast, but as time went on, Brian shunned even her. “I don't want your pity,” he told her one day in the school yard, wrenching his arm away from her extended touch.
“It isn't pity, Brian.” Her chubby face drew pinched in annoyance. “You're my friend.”
“Not any more,” he said, turning abruptly and walking the opposite direction she was heading.
“Brian,” he heard behind him. “What have I done?” He could tell she wasn't following him, still, his pace quickened. If I was courageous, he thought, I'd end my life. But Brian wasn't brave, as he understood bravery. From that time on, until the day Rachael and her family moved from Somerset, Brian went out of his way to avoid her. Neither one of them ever knew why.
Brian's life changed when his mother went to Las Vegas with one of her “friends.” She hit a million dollar jackpot on a slot machine at the Sahara Hotel. It made the national news. Brian was fifteen. Judy had left him on his own at home for the weekend. That was fine with him. He liked it best when she was gone, anyway. When she returned, she declared that she was going to consult the finest burn specialists in the world to see what could be done for him. And so it was he was finally sent to the Shriner's Burn Institute in Galveston, Texas. And that's where the miracle took place. The doctor had reassured Judy Fincher that plastic surgery would not leave Brian looking plastic. “Even though portions of Brian's face were damaged,” he told her, “skin that matches in color, texture and hairiness has been found and will be successfully grafted in the areas surrounding the wounds. And,” he added as the coup d'état, “if you wish, Mrs. Fincher, while I'm at it, I can restructure Brian's larger-than-normal nose and his misshapen ears into real works of art.”
Dr. Bryce Hinchel, member of the American Board of Plastic and Reconstructive Surgery, and one of the most gifted skin graft surgeons in the United States, transformed Brian. It took several reconstruction surgeries and months of recovery time, but the result literally gave the boy a new face.
Following the first surgery, Dr. Hinchel explained the procedure and the prognosis to Judy Fincher. “I've applied a Vaseline gauze and pressure dressing to his wounds. We're going to leave them in position for seven to ten days. If we try to remove them too soon, there's a danger of dislodging the graft. However, after a week, it's usually obvious if the graft has taken.”
“How can you tell?”
“If it has taken, it appears as a healthy pink area. Otherwise, there is usually an accumulation of fluid under the graft which is floating around and not stuck to the defect.” Then, to make certain that all the possibilities of success and failure were understood, he explained there were two potential problems they had to be prepared to face: “Infection is our greatest worry, followed by poor blood supply. Most infections can be counteracted by meticulous attention to detail while performing the operation, together with the use of antibiotics afterward. I think we've got this base covered,” he said with confidence.
“What about the other problem, the one with the blood supply?” she asked.
“This one is a little more basic. It amounts to possessing a sound knowledge of the anatomy of the blood supply system and the various structures involved, as well as avoidance of tension on the body tissues.” He smiled the smile of a professional physician, the one taught in Patient/Doctor Relationships 101. “We've got this one covered, too. Don't you worry your pretty little head, Mrs. Fincher. Your son is going to come through this whole procedure just fine. By the time we're finished with him, he'll be ready for a Hollywood screen test.”
“Won't there be scars?”
“We can't avoid scars, but if we're clever . . . and we are . . . they'll be hidden in natural skin creases. I don't think anyone will know they're there. Not unless they go looking for them.”
Dr. Hinchel knew of what he spoke. Brian was given a handsome face, and although the boy initially saw no difference in the way he looked, he gradually came to accept the fact that he was unusually handsome.
At last, he had his first real, adult hero. Dr. Bryce Hinchel, plastic surgeon extraordinairé.
***
Something terrible happened while he was still at the hospital in Texas.
After her husband had left, Judy Fincher had never thought to change the lock on the front door. Neither she nor Brian had ever lost a key. So, she was first startled, then frightened, when she came home from work her first evening after leaving Brian in Galveston and saw the living room lights on. She thought about going next door and calling the police; then talked herself out of it. I must have left them on this morning, she thought. She remembered being late. She must have also been forgetful. Still, she opened the door and looked cautiously across the hall into the lighted room.
“Working late?” His voice boomed through the silent house. He was sitting on the couch where he always sat. “I've missed you, Lassie,” his special Gaelic term for her. The thick Irish accent of her husband was unmistakable. “Come give me a kiss.”
“Whaaa...t are you doing here? she stammered. “How did you get in?”
“With my key, of course. What did you think? I broke the door down?” Alan Fincher raised a Budweiser to his lips and sipped it slowly. His blue eyes never left hers.
Judy was angry. This man no longer had rights in her life. He had abandoned her and Brian and she wasn't about to accept him back. She stomped into the living room and stood rigidly, hands on her hips, directly across from where he sat. “Alan Fincher. I want you out of this house. Now!” Her eyes blazed.
He grinned at her. “Gotten a little spunk, have we?” Alan crushed his beer can easily in his right hand. “But haven't you forgotten whose house this is? This is our house. Not your house.” He rose from the couch and moved toward her before veering left and heading into the kitchen. “I need another beer.” He belched loudly.
“This is not your house. You left this house four years ago. You have not made one payment on the mortgage in all that time. Nor, for that matter, have you sent any money for my support or the support of your son.” She could hear him rummaging in the refrigerator. “I want you out of here, Alan.” The refrigerator door closed and he reappeared in the living room. “Damn it, Alan. Listen to me. I want you out of here now!”
“Look, Lassie. You're my darlin' wife. And I haven't the slightest intention of leaving my own home.” He reclaimed the couch. “I'm here to stay.”
“Wrong. I've gained some independence since you deserted us. I've toughened up. I know my rights. And I know what rights you don't have. You're no longer my husband.”
“The hell I ain't, lady! I'm your husband, and you're my wife. 'Til death do us part, remember.” He pivoted his feet up onto the couch and laid his head on the overstuffed armrest. “What's mine is yours.” He slurped his beer. “And what's yours is mine.” Alan raised his eyes to hers, and then lowered them to scan her lush figure. He smiled.
Suddenly, she knew why he had returned. He had learned about her jackpot in Las Vegas. Judy turned and bolted out the front door. Escape was her only hope. Please, God let the car start, she thought, as she turned the key in the ignition. Her Ford Pinto was old and unreliable. Sometimes it took three or four tries before the engine turned over. It started first try. Not looking to see if the street was clear, she backed recklessly out of the driveway. The odds were with her. This was Somerset, after all, and traffic was never heavy. The sound of tires peeling rubber was heard halfway down the street. She had never done that before. The Pinto had never done that before. She'd never been this scared for her life before.
***
Judy had not been inside the Lutheran church building in four years. When Brian had been burned and Alan had left home, she sought comfort from the church. The pastor had been kind and compassionate, but of little help. Neither seminary nor forty years in the ministry had prepared him to respond to such hardships as she faced. His name was Basingstoke. There was a town in England by the same name, he had told her. “It wasn't named after our family,” he added with amusement, “rather, our family was named after the town.”
Reverend Basingstoke had a large mustache, probably to draw attention away from his receding hairline and from what appeared to be the vestige of a cleft lip. Other than that, Judy decided, he was a towering, gentle man, who seemed to assess the world's incongruity with good-humor. As a young man, she had remembered thinking he obviously had to have been the center on his high school's basketball team. He must have been the tallest kid in school. Even among today's boys, with hormones run amok, there were few who measured up to his six-foot, five-inch stature. Judy encountered Pastor Bob, as he preferred to be called, periodically at Safeway, usually near the frozen dinner section. She didn't know, but presumed that he was unmarried. Perhaps he was a widower. He was old enough to have outlived a wife.
When she parked in front of the church this time, she worried that it might not even be open. It was almost seven o'clock, and she expected everything to be locked. She pushed against the large door. With squeaky hinge protesting, it opened. The old wooden church was musty inside. It felt damp, like it was going to rain. A dim light illuminated the altar, and in the distant background, she thought she heard music. She moved down the darkened center aisle and slid into a pew toward the front of the sanctuary. Would God accept her penance after such a prolonged absence from His presence? Would He even care that she was frightened? She wondered.
She bowed her head and closed her eyes for a moment. Then, she moved forward in the pew, pulled down the kneeling bench, and humbled herself as she would to a king. She prayed for several moments, sealing out the world that surrounded her, oblivious to all distractions. Maybe this is why people close their eyes, she thought. To be spiritually focused. After a time, she sensed someone nearby. Alan! What if it was Alan? Her body stiffened and she opened her eyes cautiously, moving them from side to side, not turning her head. She saw nothing. Still, she knew she was no longer alone. She twisted around warily, looking toward the back of the church.
“Good evening, Mrs. Fincher.” Bob Basingstoke was seated in the pew directly behind her. “I didn't mean to startle you,” he said in reaction to her sudden recoil, “but since you aren't a regular member of my flock, I knew your being here signified a special need.” He smoothed his mustache with his thumb and forefinger and watched her intently. “I decided to come find out if I can be of any assistance.”
Judy sighed heavily in an attempt to relieve the pressure she was feeling, while weighing the consequences of talking with this man she hardly knew. She interlaced her fingers and held them to her already pursed lips, knowing that if she couldn't talk with a minister, there probably was no one she could talk with. Sighing once again, she said, “Yes, you can help. God knows, I need to talk with someone.”
“God knows everything, just as He knows everybody, Mrs. Fincher.” He smiled gently at her. “Would you be more comfortable in my office, or would you like to stay here?” He moved as if to get up.
“Maybe it would be better in your office.”
“I think you're right,” he said, standing. “We'll be assured of privacy there.”
He had no sooner closed the door than she burst into tears. “There, there, Mrs. Fincher,” he said, placing an arm around her shoulder. “It can't be as bad as all that.”
This gentle giant of a man guided her toward an old blue chair that sat next to his even older oak desk. Judy dropped heavily into its cushions and fell silent. She shut her eyes, trying to collect her thoughts. Finally, she breathed deeply in an attempt to relieve the pressure that had built up, exhaled loudly and opened her eyes. She watched for a moment as aloofness personified in the form of Pastor Bob's cat, Mischief, strolled silently through the room.
“Cats act like they're incredibly wealthy,” he said matter-of-factly, interrupting her scrutiny.
She smiled in spite of herself, appreciative of his comic relief. “They are so pompous,” she said, watching the cat curl up near the heat register.
“Pontifical, I think,” he added. “Perhaps Mischief had a Catholic upbringing.”
Judy laughed. It felt good.
“Now, Mrs. Fincher, suppose you tell me why you sought out the church this evening.”
An hour later, Pastor Basingstoke picked up his telephone and called the widow Gunnells. “Martha, would you be willing to accept a house guest for the evening . . . perhaps longer?” The conversation was brief. Christian hospitality was extended, no questions asked. No answers offered. All Martha Gunnells needed to know was that a woman was in need.
The next morning, a caravan of four cars drove to Judy's home. Judy led Bob Basingstoke, Martha Gunnells and Sheriff Ed Arundel to the front door. She attempted to put her key in the lock. It didn't fit. “What the . . .?” She withdrew her key, stood back and looked at the house, as if to be certain she had come to the right one.
“What's the matter, Judy?” Sheriff Arundel moved onto the stoop beside her.
“My key won't fit in the lock,” she answered.
“Have you had problems with this door?”
“This is more than a problem with the door, Sheriff. The key won't even go in, much less turn the lock.”
Sheriff Arundel moved directly in front of the door and pounded loudly with his clenched fist. “Open up!” he commanded with obvious authority. The others moved behind the lawman, as if to be out of the line of fire. No one answered his order, and he pounded once more, this time with greater vigor. “This is the Sheriff,” his voice boomed. “Open this door immediately.” He stepped back off the stoop, drawing Judy with him, as an angry voice was heard from inside the house along with the thud of a deadbolt changing position.
The door opened a crack. “What the hell do you want?” The voice was gravelly and hoarse, but the accent was clearly Alan's.
“I want you to stand back and let us in.” Arundel spoke slowly and deliberately. Then, with added emphasis and volume, he added, “Now!” The Sheriff was showing a clear lack of patience.
“Who's us?” The words were slurred.
“The Sheriff of Somerset, Reverend Basingstoke, Mrs. Gunnells, and your wife.”
“Sure, and why didn't you say so?” The door opened wide as Alan Fincher retreated to an easy chair in the living room. The foursome followed him into the room, choosing to stand rather than sit.
“Mr. Fincher,” Sheriff Arundel's voice was deep and penetrating, his dark green police uniform imposing on his muscular body. “Your wife says that you are not welcome here. She says you forced your way in and that you threatened her.”
“Now, Sheriff, that's just so much blather.” Alan Fincher seemed to sober up by the second. “This is my home as much as it is hers. She is my wife. I used my own key to come into my own house. And I certainly didn't threaten her.”
Judy moved quickly to stand in front of her husband, hands on hips. Judy had never noticed before, but the combination of Alan's high forehead, bright blue eyes, long jaw, and thin, cruel mouth made him look both handsome and dangerous. “Not in so many words, Alan Fincher, but you threatened me.” She saw at last the evil within him. “You were the cause of the fire that horribly burned your son. Then, you abandoned Brian and me. You left us without support for four years. You were dead, as far as we were concerned. Suddenly you show up, unannounced, uninvited, and say: `What's yours in mine.' Well, Alan, nothing that was yours in this house will ever be yours again. You gave it up the night you walked out.” Her face contorted and her whole body shook. She stumbled backward as if in fear he would strike her.
“The lady has a point, Mr. Fincher.” Sheriff Arundel injected himself one more time. “Abandonment, in this state, is considered a crime. So is arson. Suspicious circumstances surround you. I think you have a choice to make. You can stick around Somerset while I check with the city attorney on what, if any, charges he wants to bring against you . . .” He paused, watching his quarry's reaction. Alan's eyes darted, first to the lawman, then to his wife, then to the other two people who had been silent throughout this encounter. “Or,” Sheriff Arundel continued, “you can leave the comfort of that chair right now, leave this house, leave town and never come back. It's your decision. No pressure from anyone.” He folded his arms across his chest and stared at Alan.
“Well,” Alan slowly stood up. “I'm not certain why I came back here anyway. There sure isn't anything appealing to me in this Podunk town. Can't figure out for the life of me what kept me here so long in the first place.” There was something about Alan that reminded Judy of a snake. He seemed to enjoy blending in with the surroundings and striking suddenly when his victims least expected it. What was he up to this time? She was certain he had returned to claim ‘his' share of her jackpot winnings. He couldn't be giving up so easily. “'OK with you, Darlin'“ he said to her, “if I grab a beer on the way out the door?”
“I'll get it for you.” She went to the kitchen and extracted two Budweisers from the refrigerator. She shook both cans violently for a few seconds. When she returned, she handed them to him. “Here's an extra, for good measure.” Judy wished she could be there when he opened the first can. “Drink them after you leave. Our social time together is a thing of the past.”
His look at her was chilling. “That's my girl. Generous and thoughtful, as always. I guess you're what kept me here so long.” He moved closer and gently ran the back of his hand down her cheek. “I'll miss this, Lassie.” His stare was still cold, menacing. “And I'll bet you will, too.” He jerked his hand away from her face. “Some day, maybe you'll be begging for it.”
Reverend Basingstoke stepped between the two combatants. “Mr. Fincher, it is past time for you to be leaving.” He gestured toward the door with his massive hand. “The Sheriff has given you two options. It isn't entirely clear to me which one you aim to exercise.”
“I'm leaving town. Sounds like you've got the deck stacked against me right now. If I fight, I'll lose. But I'm not giving up — just biding my time. I'm very possessive about my things. You folks won't be here forever. When you're gone, I'll be back.”
“To reiterate what's already been said, there's nothing here that is yours any longer. Whatever you once had, you've walked away from it, freely and without coercion.”
But it wasn't Pastor Bob's words that Judy heard. It was Alan's. Cold sweat broke out around her neck. It mingled with the sweat already on her back and dripped uncomfortably down until it caught at her waist. She tried to swallow. It was difficult, for she was certain she hadn't heard or seen the last of Alan Fincher, even as she watched him storm red-faced and grimacing from his former home; particularly as she heard the front door slam savagely behind him.
***
The Fincher's lifestyle improved from that point on, thanks to the residue of Judy's earlier Vegas luck. It was not dramatic, for the surgery and government taxes had taken a heavy toll. Still, a new maroon and white Chevrolet Impala for Judy, replacing her ten-year old, rusted Ford Pinto, a converted back porch into a bedroom for Brian, new clothes for both of them, and new living room furniture left enough for a modest savings account at the First National Bank of Somerset. The future was as secure Judy could provide for it.