Jubilee's Journey (The Wyattsville Series) (13 page)

When Alfred Peters walked into the operating room, he felt a responsibility greater than any he’d ever before known. Life or death. A functioning human being or a forever comatose boy. It was up to him. Although the bullet had not penetrated the brain, the boy’s head was already starting to swell. 

When Paul was brought in, he had twelve dollars and a handful of change in his pocket. No driver’s license, no voter registration, no “in case of emergency contact” information, not even a wallet. He was listed as John Doe.

Sidney Klaussner had been in surgery for five hours, but to Carmella it seemed a lifetime. She paced back and forth across the waiting room, first sobbing softly, then wailing so loudly it could be heard at the far end of the fourth floor hallway. Twice nurses came in and suggested she go home and try to get some rest.

“We’ll call you the minute your husband is out of surgery,” they said, but Carmella would have none of it.

“Go home?!” she screeched. “Go home when my poor Sidney is in there fighting for his life?” Not only did she refuse to consider the idea, she also refused the sedative they offered. At that point there was little anyone could do other than sit beside Carmella and comfort her.

After what she could have sworn was a week of waiting, Doctor Kellerman walked into the waiting room looking worn and weary. He sat on the sofa alongside Carmella.

“Your husband’s out of surgery and doing as well as can be expected.”

“As well as can be expected?” Carmella repeated. Her left eye blinked furiously, and a look of panic grabbed hold of her face.

“There was quite a bit of damage,” Doctor Kellerman said. “One of the shots went clear through Sidney’s upper left lung. The other hit his colon and stomach. There was a lot of trauma and swelling, but I expect…”

Threaded throughout the words he spoke was the sound of Carmella’s sobbing. “Dear God,” she repeated over and over.

“Sidney will be out of the recovery room in two or three hours,” Kellerman said. “You’ll be able to spend a few minutes with him once he’s settled in intensive care.” At that point Carmella no longer acknowledged his words; she just sat there praying for divine intervention. After he’d told all he could tell, Kellerman sat there for several minutes saying nothing but nervously rubbing his hands together as Carmella rattled off three Hail Marys.

It was almost ten o’clock that evening before Carmella was ushered into Sidney’s room. In a husky whisper the nurse informed her that it would be best if she didn’t stay more than ten minutes. “Right now what your husband needs is rest,” she explained.

Carmella knew better. After thirty years of marriage, she knew what Sidney needed was her by his side. She quietly slipped to the far side of the room and sat in the darkest corner, the corner behind the ventilator. She remained there for a long while listening to the machine whoosh air into her husband’s injured lung. At first she counted the breaths, wondering how many it would take before Sidney again opened his eyes. And when she lost count of the breaths she counted heartbeats as they bleeped across the monitor. In between the heartbeats and breaths she prayed, sometimes silently, sometimes in a whisper so small only an angel hovering overhead could have heard.

No one noticed Carmella was there until well after midnight; then she was told to leave. “I know my Sidney,” she argued feebly. “He’d want me here.”

When the nurse flatly stated, “Rules are rules,” Carmella leaned over and kissed Sidney’s cheek. “I’ll be back first thing in the morning,” she said. Then she turned and walked down the long hallway that led to a bank of elevators. Tears rolled down her face, and the sound of her own heartbeat thundered in her ears.

Although Carmella, a woman who insisted she grew faint if she skipped a meal, hadn’t eaten all day she had wanted to stay. At least until Sidney opened his eyes.

Blinded by concern for her husband, Carmella walked past the room two doors down, the room where a uniformed policeman stood guard at the door. She left for home not knowing that inside that room was a teenage boy with a shaved head swaddled in bandages. The same sounds of breath and heartbeats could be heard in the boy’s room, but nobody cried. Nobody prayed. The policeman standing outside the door yawned and checked his watch.
Four more hours ‘til my shift is over,
he thought.

The Next Day

A
half-hour before the early morning news started, Olivia was fully dressed. By five-forty-five she’d downed three large cups of coffee. She sat on the sofa and snapped the television on. The test pattern flickered across the screen. For what seemed like a very long minute, she waited. Her right leg crossed over the left, and her right foot jiggled up and down. Three times she moved, crossing and uncrossing her legs, scooting an inch to the right and then to the left. Finally she clicked the television off, reached for the phone, and dialed Clara’s number.

A sleepy voice answered. “Who is this?” It was more of an accusation than question.

“I’m sorry,” Olivia said. “I know it’s early, but—”  

“Olivia?”

“You know it’s me,” she answered. “I realize you don’t usually get up this early, but—”

“Early?” Clara thundered. “Why, it’s the middle of the night!”

“It’s almost six. Besides, this is sort of an emergency. Ethan Allen—”

“Oh, no. Please don’t tell me the boy is in trouble again.”

“He’s not in trouble, but this girl he brought home—”

“He’s way too young for that. You’ve got to tell Ethan Allen—”

“She’s not that kind of girl.”

“Unh-huh,” Clara muttered dubiously. “That’s what they all say.”

Olivia started to explain the situation, but before she could get to where she was going the clock chimed six. “I’ve got to go. The news is coming on.” With that she hung up the phone and snapped on the television.

The weatherman was only partway through his forecast when the doorbell bonged. “Wait a minute,” Olivia called out, her eyes focused on the screen. When he finally said, “Now stay tuned for a word from our sponsor,” Olivia rose from the chair and opened the door.

“What’s going on here?” a puffed-up Clara asked.

“I’m trying to see if I can find out something about the girl.” Olivia motioned Clara toward the living room. “Hopefully it’ll be on the news. Watch.”

“Watch what?” Clara asked as she lowered herself onto the sofa.

“About the robbery,” Olivia said. Her voice turned to a whisper. “I think the girl’s brother may have been involved. At least that’s what Ethan Allen—”

“I knew it!” Clara exclaimed. “He’s in trouble, isn’t he?”

“No.” Olivia turned back toward Sara Jean Plott who was finishing up a traffic report. “It’ll be on now, so pay attention.”

Tom Horsham started with the local news.

“Well, folks, it seems that big-city crime is no longer content to plague the metropolitan areas. It has now shown its ugly face right here in Wyattsville.” As he spoke a camera panned across the large crowd gathered outside of Klaussner’s, then zoomed in on the flashing lights of police cars and ambulances. When the film ended the camera blinked back to Horsham, who shook his head sadly.

“This was the scene yesterday at Klaussner’s Grocery on West Main shortly after two armed gunmen held up the store. Store owner Sidney Klaussner was shot twice, once in the chest and again in the abdomen. Now in critical condition at Mercy General Hospital, Klaussner has been unable to identify either of the assailants. According to Sheriff’s Deputy Bob Willis, it is believed that before Klaussner was shot he wounded one of the alleged robbers. That suspect is also in critical condition and has not yet been identified.”

A sketchy rendering of a mature man flashed on the screen and Horsham continued. “If you know or can identify this man, please contact the sheriff’s office. A five-hundred-dollar reward has been offered by the Wyattsville Merchants Association for information leading to an arrest of the suspects.” After several other local stories, Sara Jean was back with a reminder for traffic headed south on Main Street to watch for the detour. When Sara Jean disappeared, an announcer said to stay tuned for the “Dave Garroway Morning Show.”