By My Hands (12 page)

“Well, it’s settled then,” she said, taking two
steps back in a restrained victory dance. “And someone will be by
each day to tidy up.

Adam started to object but it would be a useless
effort, and he had grown tired of standing. “I think I’ll sit down
now,” he said, and gingerly eased into an overstaffed chair.

“Very wise,” Mrs. Bachelder said. “I’ll just finish
straightening up the pantry.” As she turned to go to the kitchen,
she added, “You should take more care of your pantry, Pastor. If
you’re not careful, you’ll attract mice.”

“Just what you need, Adam,” Dick said in a hushed
tone. “Another pest.”

Chloe smacked her husband’s shoulder. “Dick, that
was horrible.” She looked at Adam and saw that he was biting his
lip. “Do you have a pain, Pastor?”

Adam glanced over his shoulder at the kitchen and
then looked at Dick. A moment later both men erupted in
laughter.

“Ow!” Adam said, holding his abdomen. “Oh, that
hurts.”

“It serves you right,” Chloe said smiling and with
mock outrage. “You two ought to be ashamed of yourselves.”

“I can’t be held accountable, Chloe,” Adam said,
still grimacing from the pain. “I’ve been sick.”

“Well, it is good to see you laugh,” Fannie piped
in. “I brought you a get-well present.” Walking to the television
she picked up a brown paper bag and handed it to Adam.

“What’s this?” Adam asked.

“Open it,” Fannie said.

Adam reached inside and pulled out an old,
leather-bound book. The book’s worn edges did not detract from its
beauty and craftsmanship. The front of the book bore an ornate
embossed border with the initials T.R. in each corner. A larger set
of the same raised initials was prominently displayed in the
center.

“This couldn’t be what I think it is,” Adam said
quietly. Holding the book reverently he turned it so he could read
the spine. At the top were gold-lettered words:
Theodore
Roosevelt, an Autobiography.
At the bottom of the spine was one
word, also in gold, Scribners.

“I found this in an old bookstore in Ojai,” Fannie
said, as she nervously chewed her lower lip. “I know how much you
like to read about Teddy Roosevelt.”

Gently Adam opened the book. Its pages were yellow
with age and brittle to the touch. He turned past the first few
blank pages and came to the reproduction of the Laszio painting of
Theodore Roosevelt when he was president.

“It was published in 1922,” Fannie said. “He wrote
it in 1913, but you probably know that. I know it’s not a first
edition, but it’s the first edition Scribners printed.”

“It’s magnificent,” Adam said in hushed tones. “This
is really too much. You shouldn’t have.”

“I couldn’t pass it up,” Fannie replied. “I was
going to save it for your birthday, but since you’re going to have
some time on your hands, I thought you might appreciate it
now.”

“Thank you,” Adam said sincerely. “I don’t know what
to say except I love it and will enjoy reading every word.”

“Well,” Dick said, “if you like that, then you’re
going to love this.” He handed him a glossy, multicolored piece of
paper.

“A baseball schedule?”

“Yup. I know how much you like baseball, so I took
the liberty of subscribing to all the cable telecasts. You can sit
here, watch the Padres play, and read your new book between
innings.”

“The season doesn’t start until next month,” Adam
said.

“I know that. This nifty package includes preseason
games—well, at least some of them.”

Adam chuckled, “If I had known I would get such
great treatment, I would have blown an appendix earlier. I might
just get used to this.”

“You can’t be serious,” a voice said behind him.
Turning he saw Mrs. Bachelder enter the room again.

“No, Mrs. Bachelder, I’m not.”

“We should be going,” she said authoritatively. “You
need to rest. Now promise me you’ll go right to bed after we
leave.”

“Soon, Mrs. Bachelder,” Adam said, starting to get
up from the easy chair. They each tried to object to his rising,
but he waved them off. “I have to get my strength back. Sitting in
a chair all day isn’t going to help. I need to move about.”

“But not too much,” Fannie said.

“I’ll be careful.”

They said their good-byes and filed out of the
apartment. The last to leave was Mrs. Bachelder. She paused at the
door, turned, and faced Adam: “It really is good to see you doing
so well.” Adam sensed her sincerity. For a moment, just a moment,
she was lowering her guard and letting a genuine emotion escape. He
walked to her, leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead.
“Thank you, Mrs. Bachelder. Thank you for everything. It means a
great deal to me.” Despite her apparent brusqueness, Adam had come
to treasure her as a unique member of the church. Without her, both
he and the church would be diminished.

Slowly she touched the spot where Adam had kissed
her. Her eyes moistened. “It is I who should thank you.”

A moment later, Adam was alone.

Monday, March 9, 1992; 2:00
P.M.

A LATE WINTER STORM SLOWLY moved overhead, pushing
its bruised and swollen clouds further south on its journey that
originated in the far reaches of Alaska and would end somewhere
south of Baja, California. The storm had dropped nearly two inches
of rain in Los Angeles and was supposed to do the same that evening
in San Diego. The water-gorged clouds seemed to consume the
normally vibrant colors of El Camino Memorial Park.

The weather matched Priscilla’s emotions; the ashen
clouds reflected her deep contrition. She did not feel the cool
March breeze or take notice of the mist. She was too filled with
anxiety to be bothered with physical sensations. In the turmoil of
competing thoughts and emotions, she struggled to not think or feel
at all, but there were too many reminders to snap her back to real
time and place.

Most of the people stood in clumps of three or four
making small talk and masking their discomfort. Some, however,
stood numbly watching, lost in their thoughts or wondering when the
graveside service would begin. Some of those gathered sat on brown
folding chairs positioned in rows under a beige canvas canopy. The
front row had been reserved for family, but only three people sat
there, none of whom Priscilla had met before.

He had a daughter and she had seen a picture of her
on Irwin’s desk. The young woman who sat gazing vacantly at the
cherry wood casket had the same straight blond hair and hazel eyes.
She had to be Irwin’s daughter. Seated to her right was a gaunt man
with hollow cheeks and a ruddy complexion. His thin brown hair
fluttered in the moist breeze. He wore a blue blazer that had
passed from fashion a decade before; his shoes were scuffed, and he
coughed frequently. He had an air of poverty and illness about him.
Priscilla felt sorry for him. The weather must be causing him great
discomfort. He coughed, pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket,
and wiped his mouth.

To the left of the daughter sat a man in an
expensive double-breasted pinstripe suit and red tie. He was as
dapper as the other man was tattered. He held her hand in his and
whispered in her ear. Priscilla knew who he was because he had
delivered the eulogy during the memorial service in the chapel.
George Jenkins was a close friend of Irwin’s and one of the
partners of the media group that owned KGOT-TV. She could only
wonder what he thought of her.

Priscilla wondered if she should approach the woman
and offer her condolences but was uncertain about the response she
would receive.
Will she blame me for her father’s death?
Priscilla didn’t know and didn’t want to find out in such an open
forum.

The breeze increased and Priscilla put a hand on her
broad-brimmed hat. She, like many people present, was wearing
black. In her case a medium-length black skirt, a powder-blue
blouse, and black coat. It was her desire to be as inconspicuous as
possible. She was uncomfortable, not just because of the funeral,
but because she believed that her coworkers credited her with
Irwin’s death. In more rational moments, she knew her fear was
fabricated from the emotional debris left over from the attack.
Still, she thought she saw them looking at her askance. No one had
said anything, but she couldn’t shake the belief that she was
responsible.

“How are you holding up?” a voice on her right
asked. Turning she saw Pham Ho, the assistant news director.

“Okay, I guess,” Priscilla said as she broke eye
contact.

“I’ve never been very good at funerals,” Pham said.
“It seems as though there’s something I’m supposed to say, but I
never know what it is. So I end up standing around saying
nothing.”

“I’ve been to only one other funeral; my grandmother
died about ten years ago.” Priscilla paused and looked at the crowd
of Irwin’s friends and coworkers. “This is different.”

“Yeah. A lot different.”

An uneasy silence settled between them; Priscilla
stared off into the distance, and Pham looked at the ground.

“Camera crew gone?” Priscilla asked a few moments
later. “Yeah. We didn’t think it was right to shoot this part of
the service, although Irwin would probably have insisted.” Pham had
assigned a crew to tape part of the memorial service. It was his
plan to play a portion of it at the end of the evening newscasts.
“We wanted to be sensitive to the family’s needs. Have you met
them?” He nodded at the three people in front row.

“No.”

“The woman is Irwin’s daughter, Irene. The man in
the sport coat is Irwin’s older brother. He lives on a farm in
central California— McFarland, I think. The other man is George
Jenkins, an old friend of Irwin’s. He’s also one of the owners of
the station. I hadn’t known that Irwin was so well connected.”

“How are things at the station?” Priscilla asked
quietly. “Different. It’s not the same without Irwin. He was one of
the great ones.” Pham turned and looked at Priscilla. “I might also
add that it’s not the same without you. We miss you.”

“It’s only been a few days, Pham.” Priscilla had not
gone to the studio since Irwin’s death but had spoken to Pham over
the phone, giving him the details needed to telecast the story.
Other than that she had isolated herself in her home, not even
returning phone calls from friends or other reporters. “I’ll be
back soon.”

“I’m not trying to rush you. You take as much time
as you need. We just miss you, that’s all.”

“I know,” Priscilla said softly. “I just need a
little time to sort things out.”

“There’s something you should know.” Pham turned to
face Priscilla and, after a moment of hesitation, put his hands on
her shoulders forcing her to face him. “No one blames you,
Priscilla. I mean no
one.
Irwin was an experienced newshound
and he knew the danger. I’m no psychologist, but I think you’re
afraid that we’re sitting around accusing you of killing Irwin.
We’re not. Irwin’s not the first to lose his life pursuing a story,
and he won’t be the last.”

“But it was
my
story, not his. He was killed
because I—”

“Absolutely not! Irwin was the news director. Every
story was his. You are not responsible for his death. The burglar
killed him, you didn’t.”

“But he died protecting me.”

“That’s the kind of man Irwin was. He reacted on
instinct. Sometimes his instinct got him in trouble, but most of
the time it served him well. What happened to Irwin was a tragic
accident. You’re not culpable. And no one blames you. Everyone
wants you to know that.”

The two stared at each other and then he embraced
her. Priscilla fought to bridle her tears but could not.

The minister, a short, bald man in a black suit and
gray tie, stepped to the head of the casket. He was from a local
church whose name Priscilla could not remember. He seemed pleasant,
friendly, and genuinely concerned for the grieving. He had
delivered the memorial service message, mixing words of comfort
with the promise of a future life. Priscilla heard little of his
message then and even less now. Her mind was flooded with images of
a dark night, the glimmer of a flashlight beam, a masked man, and
Irwin’s bloody chest.

DESPITE PHAM’S ASSURANCES THAT her coworkers held no
animosity, Priscilla felt uneasy as she walked into the studio. She
had unpleasant fantasies that people would avoid her or, worse yet,
accost her with a volcanic eruption of emotion. Nothing of the kind
occurred. The studio was emptier than normal because many of the
people who attended Irwin’s funeral had not returned. The few
people who were there greeted her more with sympathy than
antipathy.

Even though she had been off work only a few days,
the studio felt strange. It seemed years since she had walked its
carpeted floors, negotiated her way around the many desks of news
writers, producers, researchers, and other employees. She had come
to the studio because after the funeral Pham Ho said he needed to
speak with her about schedules and upcoming stories. Priscilla
wondered if she would ever feel comfortable in the studio
again.

“You made it,” said a cheerful voice. “I was hoping
you would stop by.” Pham was substantially more upbeat now that the
funeral was over.

“You said you wanted to see me.”

Pham nodded. “I do. I know I told you I wanted to
discuss schedules, but that was only part of the reason.”

“What’s the rest of it?”

“Let’s meet in here,” Pham said, motioning toward
the office next to his.

“Couldn’t we just meet in your office?” Priscilla
asked. If memories haunted these halls, then they would converge in
Irwin’s office.

“No,” Pham said simply and walked through the door.
Reluctantly, Priscilla followed after him.

Everything in the office was the same. She
remembered that last time, arguing with Irwin about her role as an
investigative journalist as well as news anchor. She was filled
with sorrow, for she had won the argument and lost Irwin.