Читать книгу Shattered Image - J.F. Margos - Страница 13

After my little campout on the patio, I decided I needed to get my rear into gear before I was going to be able to get my head together. One of the rooms in my house is set aside as a weight room with a bench and rack and a couple of machines for back and leg work, a roman chair for abs and low back and a pulley set up for more arm and chest work.

I suited up in my black cotton sweatpants and racerback top and did a fifteen-minute warm-up on the recumbent stationary bike. Thoroughly warmed up, I did a full set of stretches and hit the weights. I hadn’t been in the gym for days, so I went at it hard, doing a full-body workout, supersetting everything for maximum cardio benefit. When I was done with that, I got back on the recumbent bike and did another thirty minutes.

I was dripping in sweat when I was done, but I felt a hundred percent better—mentally and physically. I got into a steaming-hot shower and washed everything out of my system—at least temporarily.

Refreshed from my exercise and hot shower, I put on a clean pair of jeans and socks, a white cotton T-shirt and my favorite pointy-toed boots and went to the studio.

I sat on the stool in front of my drafting table and began to make a list of everything I would need to take with me to Hawaii. I would need a case in which to carry the cast I would make of the skull. I began to list other tools and supplies to pack.

I sat back and took a deep breath. Who was I kidding? What I would need most of all was the spiritual fortitude to face this task and all that it meant to me. I would need that to go back into the jungles of Vietnam in my mind.

I set my pen down on the drafting board and got the phone instead. It was time to call Reverend Iordani. I needed to walk and talk.

When Jack died from a sudden and unexpected heart attack six years ago, my world came apart like a house of cards. Reverend Iordani used to walk with me along the riverbank under the cypress trees. I don’t remember much of it. Life for me then existed in a fog, but I remembered the cypress trees and their peaceful effect.

I sat on a bench under the great spreading branches of one of those peaceful trees and waited. True to form and ten minutes late—they call it Greek time—Reverend Iordani came strolling down a grassy bank that led from the street to the trail along the river. He beamed at me and waved.

I got up and began to walk toward him. I kissed his hand and then we greeted in the traditional Greek way with the exchange of three kisses. As we began to walk, we talked about my two most recent cases: the woman under the cottonwoods and the one just discovered upriver on Red Bud Isle. Reverend Iordani listened carefully, complimented me on my hard work and efforts and asked me about Mike.

Then he stopped under a large tree and said, “Toni, this isn’t why you called me, so tell me what this is really about.”

“Irini called me the other day. They think they’ve found Ted’s remains in Vietnam.”

The reverend knew all about Ted. Irini lived just outside of town in Dripping Springs, and she came to our church. He knew Irini well.

“Wow,” he almost whispered. He said, “May his memory be eternal.”

He had a hushed sound to his voice—a peaceful, calm demeanor. All of this was part of his normal way, but now it was more pronounced.

“They can’t make a positive ID on his remains for a lot of reasons, but there’s enough of the skull for a reconstruct,” I told him.

“That’s the only way they’ll know for sure?”

I nodded and looked down at my feet, making curlicue shapes in the dirt with the tip of my boot.

The reverend raised his eyebrows, stroked his close-cut beard and said simply, “I see.”

We made our way to a bench a few feet down the trail. Reverend Iordani’s counsel had helped me heal many wounds—wounds from ’Nam, wounds from difficult cases and wounds from Jack’s death. The reverend was twenty years younger than me and still raising his children, but he had spiritual wisdom, and it was wisdom I needed right now. We sat and began to talk about what I had been told about Ted’s remains. When I had finished with all of it, the reverend took another deep breath.

“Well, of course you have to do it,” he said.

I nodded. “I know that, but I need help to get through it. To go to Vietnam again, so to speak.”

He nodded. “Toni, you’re a spiritual person. I know you read the scripture and keep a strict rule of meditative prayer. I also know that you read the works of the spiritual fathers and continue to expand your knowledge of our faith, but there’s one thing I notice about you lately.”

I waited a moment for him to gather his thoughts.

He spoke slowly and softly, “All the work you do is great work. Your work is bringing peace to a lot of people and their relatives who are still on this side of life, but you never interact with any of these people anymore.”

“What do you mean, Reverend?”

“Toni, you’ve become disconnected from the living in the results of your service. It seems now your only connection is what you do for the dead. You were able to deal with the things you experienced in Vietnam by focusing on your service there, on its results and by focusing on others. Many times you’ve told me the stories of the relatives of the soldiers and how much it meant to them that you had been there when their loved ones died.”

“I know.”

“With this work you do, I think you’ve found a way lately to anesthetize yourself from that a little.”

“I see what you mean,” I said. It was hard to hear, but I realized that what he said was true. It was easier to deal with the pain of what I had seen and done in Vietnam and in my work here by distancing myself from it.

“Now it’s hitting close to home again with Teddy,” Reverend Iordani continued. “It’s hitting close to home and your thoughts are about what it will mean to you and what you will go through. Focus needs to be redirected to Irini, Gregory and Eleni, and what it will mean to them to finally have this resolved. Your service to others is the focus—away from yourself and to the needs of those you serve. It is only through selflessness that we can heal our internal pain.”

“Yes,” I said, looking down at the crushed granite on the trail. I pushed some of it around with the toe of my boot. Easier to say and to understand than to do.

He placed his hand gently on mine.

“I want you to go with me this afternoon. I have a visit to make to a local seniors’ home. I want you to meet some people.”

Maria Pappas was seventy-eight and her husband, George, was eighty-two. They were both small, frail people. Maria was only about five-one and George was maybe five-four, tops. They both had thick, dark, coarse hair peppered lightly with gray. George didn’t know anybody anymore and couldn’t do anything for himself. He lived at Riverview Assisted Living. Maria lived there with him and waited on him hand and foot. She had to do everything for him.

Their little apartment was very nicely decorated. It consisted of a sitting room and a kitchenette with a small table and two chairs, a bedroom and a bath. It was small, but Maria had made it warm and cozy with her furniture. Many beautiful pictures hung on the walls around us. An old and well-used Bible rested on a table near the door.

Reverend Iordani said some special prayers and then we all sat down in the sitting room to visit. Unhampered by the kitchenette’s limited resources, Maria had made us a wonderful snack of koulouria—Greek butter cookies—served us Greek coffee, took care of all of George’s needs, and all of ours. I tried to help her, as did Reverend Iordani, but she wouldn’t have it. At seventy-eight, she had more energy then I did thirty years ago.

She spoke of the past, the good times with George. Her hands trembled when she lifted the coffee cup. She spent the entire visit reminiscing about those days. If George made a sound or moved, she attended to him immediately. I saw then that there was fatigue there, too, but she would not and could not give up. Something inside her gave her that energy—the energy to continue. Her energy came from love—selfless love.