Not in the Heart (3 page)

C
HAPTER
3

I wish I could say Murrow was the only thing I thought about at that moment, but I will not lie. My laptop came to mind a split second or ten before her. I grabbed my sandals from the entryway and ran into the street. I had the sinking feeling that I wouldn't retrieve the car. Ever.

Oleta sat in her aging Lincoln Town Car. I headed down the sidewalk, trying to remember any of our neighbors' names. There was Todd with the immaculate lawn, who pulled crabgrass with tweezers and put out his USC flag every weekend. I could remember a handful of others but the prospect of knocking on a door and trying to explain the situation overwhelmed me.

Hi, it's Truman from down the street. Remember me? I'm the guy who abandoned his wife and kids after my job fell through and went to live like a hermit. Can you help me?
There are some things you can't spin.

The Town Car pulled forward and stopped. Oleta leaned over in the front seat and opened the passenger door. The car sounded like it had arthritis and lumbago and maybe ulcerative colitis. But I had to remind myself that Oleta still had a car and I didn't.

“Are you going to stand there or are you going to get in?”

She moved the paper bag to the backseat and I swallowed my pride.

The interior of the car didn't look much better than the outside. There was the requisite number of Burger King and McDonald's bags smashed into the floorboards. Two empty Diet Coke cans in cup holders. Yard signs wedged between the seats made things cozy.

“Did you have car problems?” she said with a certain knowing, smarmy tone. “Is that why they towed it?”

“It's a repossession. Been dodging that bullet.”

She fell silent and I noticed Christian music crackling through the speaker that still worked. It just happened to be on my side. Something about blessing God in the desert and wilderness and blah, blah, blah. Had Oleta preprogrammed her songs to reach me? No, a deep-voiced announcer gave the time and temperature.

She told me the location of the closest impound lot. “That's the direction I saw him go, but if he went someplace else, I might have to drop you off and let you find it on your own. I can't be late for work.”

“Where do you work?”

She told me the street.

“No, I mean, what type of work do you do?”

“Real estate company. But back in the day I worked at the impound lot, so I know the drill. I've had just about every job you can think of the past few years, trying to hold the family together.” She laughed and it sounded like exercise for her lungs.

“You and Terrelle have kids?”

“We had two little ones when he was arrested. It was because of them that I told him to get out. His drinking took over. I wanted a big family, you know. Lots of kids coming over for Christmas dinner and . . .” Her voice trailed as we pulled to a stop sign. “Two kids grown and flown now. Didn't raise them the way I wanted, but they seem to be doing pretty well, all things considered.”

“That's an accomplishment.”

She sped up to make it through a light and looked at her watch. I spotted a tow truck ahead, but it wasn't pulling my car.

I stared out the window and felt her eyes on me, hate and pity. I'm not accustomed to that. I'm more into the adulation of people who say, “Aren't you the guy on TV?”

Her voice sounded soft enough to be a prayer, and it cut through the music and air conditioner rattle. “I want to apologize for coming down on you so hard. I had no right. Part of it is probably how angry I still feel about Terrelle. All the crazy choices he made that put him where he is. I put that on you.”

“What choices?”

“You know, the people he ran with. The dependence on alcohol and drugs and the womanizing. People around me told me to just let him go, divorce him, but I couldn't do it. And in a lot of ways my life is better because of all we went through. I don't know that I would have ever found the Lord if we hadn't gone through that. And I know he wouldn't have.”

Asphalt and palm trees and the climbing sun. These were the visuals as I endured her onslaught of faith.

“I don't know your side of the story and I shouldn't have jumped on you. It wasn't the best way to hire somebody.”

“I appreciate you saying that.”

But like every Christian I have ever known, she didn't know when to stop. “I identify a lot with that wife of yours. I see her pain. I see her on the edge of collapse with Aiden. To be honest, when you opened the door, I half expected to meet a monster. I've seen you on TV, but I figured I'd see the Mr. Hyde side, if you know what I mean.”

“I can be a monster.”

Her laugh was a gurgling, clucking chuckle that sounded like it emanated from somewhere deep. “I'll just bet you can be.”

“I wasn't exactly civil to you, either,” I said.

She turned left and we headed toward a part of town I tried to avoid, with storefronts boarded up and bars on the windows. People made a vain effort to stay in the shade as the sun rose higher and the streets below heated to blistering.

“Ever had a car repossessed before?” she said.

“Happy to say this is my first time.”

“Well, the bad news is, you've lost those four wheels, but the stuff inside is still your property. They can't take that away. Surprises me that they'd tow it if they saw an animal inside.”

“They probably didn't see it. I left her cage behind the front seat and draped my shirt over the top to keep the sun from being directly on her. If I happened to sleep in.”

She pursed her lips. “You should have set your alarm.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

“Well, if we can find it, they'll probably let you take—look there. We're in business.”

My BMW was making a wide left turn into a chain-linked lot that looked like something out of a postapocalyptic movie. It made the term
junkyard
seem upscale. Oleta did a U-turn and parked on the street in front of the office and accompanied me inside.

The girl behind the desk didn't recognize her, but someone from deep inside the building let out a screech. “Oleeeeeta! What are you doing here, girl?”

The two made small talk and I stood behind her, watching out the window as a bearded man in dirty coveralls unhooked the car. When I pulled out my keys, Oleta snapped her fingers and gave me a mama bear look. “You stay right where you are.”

It is not in my nature to wait. Making things happen is a specialty, whether it's tracking down a news source or getting past people whose job it is to keep me away from the interview. But I watched the man loosen the chains from the flatbed trailer and open my front door. Seconds later he came toward the office with the shirt-draped cat carrier.

“Get me some water—I think I got a dehydrated cat,” he said with a thick drawl.

“What kind of fool would leave a cat shut up in a car like that?” the woman behind the desk said.

Oleta pointed at me. “That's him. But don't judge him too quick. We spent the last thirty minutes trying to catch up with you.”

The man looked at me. “I never take a vehicle with an animal in it. I didn't know.”

I nodded. “I believe you. Does that mean I get the car back?”

He smiled through yellowing teeth, some darkened, some gone. “Sorry, not my call.”

Oleta ran interference and I took Murrow, the laptop, and my big suitcase. We got back in the Town Car and drove away. Instead of taking me to her real estate office, she made a turn and we wound up in front of Tallahassee General.

“I can't go here,” I said.

“Sure you can. Your son's up there.”

“You don't understand.”

“Well, I understand that I'm late for work and I can't loan you my car. Go see your wife and son.”

I opened the door and grabbed Murrow's cage.

“Leave her with me,” she said. “There's a PetSmart near the office. I'll get her some food and water and a litter box. You don't need to carry cat dander into the ICU.”

Murrow seemed more irritated than anything. For some reason letting her go with a stranger felt cruel, but maybe it was just me trying to hang on to what I couldn't keep.

“All right. That would help a lot. I'll be around to pick her up when I get a car.”

“Take this.” She handed me the Piggly Wiggly bag and wrote her phone number and address on the side. “You could look through some of the material in the meantime.”

Like airports, hospital drop-offs are busy places that don't allow long chats. With my back to her and the door open, my feet on the hot pavement, laptop in my arms, I mulled the decision.

“Ellen said something about payment. That you're prepared to put some money up front.”

She rummaged in her purse and pulled out an envelope. “It's made out to you. Probably not what you're used to, but it's a start.”

I took the envelope, but she held on until I was forced to look her in the eyes.

“It's taken a long time to get that money.”

I opened the flap and looked at the check. She was right—it wasn't even a third of the advance for my last book, but that had been a couple years ago. It was enough to pay some debt. When you have no income and you're wading through a swamp of bills, anything green is gold. I didn't have the heart to tell her this is not how it works. You don't just pay somebody to write your book; there are agents, there are contracts, there are publishers, etc. And it takes at least a year or maybe two from the time you begin. I've fast-tracked a few projects, but those are exceptions.

“If you saved all this, why didn't you get a writer sooner?”

“This'll be hard for you to believe, but God brought this money to me. He impressed it on my heart to save some, but with all the bills and how tight things were, I just couldn't. But he had a plan. It just kind of dropped on me, and I knew it was supposed to be for a writer to tell the story. And if I had come to you back when you were flying high, I doubt you would have given me the time of day.”

She let go of the envelope. “I believe we're prepared for the hard times in ways we don't even know. ‘For just such a time as this.' You were meant to be here, Mr. Wiley. You were meant to do this. And I have enough faith in the Almighty to put this in your hands and let it go.”

That's a lot of faith.

“If I decide to do this, when can I meet with him? I have to be on a visitors' list, approved by the prison. Right?”

She smiled. “You're already on it. I'd say we could get you in within the week. The warden isn't too happy about reporters, though.”

“I'm not a reporter. I'm a friend of the family.”

“That's good. And you're father of the boy Terrelle wants to help.”

A security guard waved a hand at Oleta to pull forward.

“You think I'm going to uncover his innocence.”

“There's no doubt you're going to find he's innocent because that's the truth. But deliverance doesn't always look like the prison bars flinging wide open. I'm not expecting a last-minute miracle. I'm trusting in the Lord to do what he does best.”

“Which is?”

“Work everything for our good.”

I'd heard it before, but I'd lived something wildly different. God, if he was even up there, had never worked everything for my good. Or for my wife, son, and daughter.

“Mr. Wiley, God has a plan. He has a purpose for bringing you here. He brought you low and to the end of yourself so he could start something new.”

Whoopee. God sure is good. It was all I could do to keep from raising my hands and dancing in the spirit and shouting, “Hallelujah.”

I stuffed the envelope in the bag, climbed out of the car, then leaned down to the window. “Get a message to your husband. Tell him to write as much as he can remember about the case. Details. Stuff he wants people to know about his life. Last words. Ten life lessons from death row. Anything.”

Tuesdays with Morrie's Electric Chair.

“So you'll do this?” she said.

I nodded. “We should put a contract together.”

The security guard approached with a stride that said he would move us, and he looked big enough to pick up the Town Car and fling it to Georgia. The one near Ukraine.

“We don't need a contract,” she said. “You give me your word right now that you'll get this done before Terrelle . . .” She couldn't finish.

“I'll do it,” I said. “It's not going to change what will happen, but at least you'll have his story down the way he wanted in his own voice. I can't promise you it'll be published. But I'll write it with everything in me. I'll make it readable and compelling.”

She wiped away a tear and nodded. “I believe you. Thank you.”

Sometimes the hardest questions come at the least opportune moments. Shouted questions at a president walking toward a helicopter or at a shackled convict heading for a squad car.

“Why is he doing this for my son?” I said to her.

She looked at me through tired eyes, brimming with tears. A middle-aged black woman who had been through hell and a half. “He's not doing this for your son. He's doing something good from the heart, making sense out of the bad. Your son is just the recipient of the grace of God.”

I nodded, then said good-bye to Murrow and hello to Tallahassee General.

C
HAPTER
4

Ellen Wiley sat by her son's bed feeling helpless. Again. She had spent so much time in hospitals, doctors' offices, and examination rooms, waiting for test results and praying God would simply stop the insanity. But he had not. He had left her in this garden of doctors and nurses and orderlies where medication flowed like water. And the end result was the drawn face of her son, listless and colorless.

This was not how she had written their story. In the inverted pyramid of their lives, she and Truman would have four children, a nice house, lots of money, and they would live to a ripe old age. Their favorite pastime would be watching grandchildren on weekends. They would take long walks on the beach and die in each other's arms.

The only long walks she took now were alone around the nurses' station or to the cafeteria for food she couldn't stomach. And it had been so long since she held Truman in her arms. It had been so long since she wanted to hold him.

The heart monitor had been muted by one of the nurses, but Ellen could still hear it. She heard it in her sleep. She heard it even when they weren't in the hospital. Her days were dictated by a constant flurry of pills, medication, and monitors—and it was all totally and irrevocably out of her control.

It was in a hospital ICU like this one that she'd encountered a mother of a child with similar cardiac maladies as Aiden's. Though Ellen was filled with constant worry and fear, this woman seemed to have quiet peace. Over the next few weeks as the faces of doctors became more grim, Ellen sat with this woman, drank copious amounts of coffee, and watched the family walk through the death of their daughter with unwavering faith.

Ellen wept bitterly for the loss, more than this mother, and she marveled at their response. When the woman returned after the funeral to check on Aiden, Ellen asked her to explain how she had achieved such peace in the midst of her loss.

That day Ellen knew she wanted what that woman had. Before, she had only wanted to be on the other side of all the problems, to be “past it all,” looking back at some bad storm season, sailing into calmer waters. She had been raised by parents whose faith was best described as “God helps those who help themselves.” God takes care of your life as long as you manage your own details. Her father's political career had been legendary in old Virginia and their spiritual life as a family had the veneer of religiosity, but as soon as Ellen had the chance to spread her wings and attend UVA, she left the church and all the imposed rules, regulations, and conventions. She didn't rebel against it as much as live the logical conclusions of her parents' unbelief. If God was the god of self-sufficiency, then she would simply take the throne and hold the scepter.

She met her true companion, Tru, after several relationships that didn't work, and her life felt complete. Whole. She'd never experienced the euphoria of another like she experienced with him. Their lives together, as she could conceive it, would be spent working up the journalistic ladder, her in print, him in electronic news gathering, and they would wind up with a cushy existence in DC. She would write a column and he would anchor a Sunday morning talk show, and they would live in Georgetown or outside the Beltway, in two- and four-year cycles like everyone else.

Then Abigail came along, unexpectedly, in 1989. Sweet Abby, their child of love, child of hope, and child of crisis. Ellen never considered abortion, though Truman did. But four years later, when Ellen walked the aisle of the church she had grown up in, Abby spread rose petals before them and Ellen knew her decision had been right.

What no one in the congregation knew at the time was that Aiden was already growing in her womb. And this heartbroken child would eventually help lead her to something much greater than her own plan.

Now, when things seemed at their worst, she sometimes prayed not for God to heal Aiden but to just take him. To end his suffering. Not hers, but his. She knew where he would be, totally healed, totally happy on the other side of the veil. This selfless prayer lasted a moment or two, and then she returned to pleading with God for just one more day, one more hour.

She felt even more conflicted, if that was possible, about Abigail and Truman. And therein lay the irony. Her son had been knocking—no, leaning against the bell at death's door countless times, and her inner life alarm pegged when she thought of her daughter and husband.

Aiden gasped and suddenly opened his eyes. He looked at her and ran his tongue over cracked lips. Before he could speak, she had the cup over his chest and the straw to his mouth. He lifted his head slightly and took a sip, then lay back and closed his eyes. He put a hand to the railing and she took it in her own, feeling the cold, clammy skin and wishing there were something she could do. If she could crawl inside his skin and take his own heart, she would do it. If she could place her heart in his chest and go without, she would do it, even if it meant only a moment of health for him.

“I had a dream,” he said. It was nothing more than a whisper, but she had become fluent in the subtleties of Aiden's speech.

“Was it about Melody Swanson?” Ellen said, smiling.

Aiden's eyes remained closed, but the corners of his mouth inched upward. “Not that kind of dream, Mother.”

“What was it about?”

A pause. Intake of air. “Dad and I were on a trip.” Wait for the next breath. “Some news story he was doing. And he took me along.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Yeah. We talked. A lot. Didn't just read a newspaper or look at his laptop. It was cool.”

Ellen put her chin on the railing.

“Then something happened,” Aiden said. He opened his eyes again and lifted his head an inch from the pillow. “Something happened to Dad and there were all these people. And I got scared.”

“Shh, it's okay. It was only a dream. Your father loves you a lot, Aiden; he just does a really bad job of showing it.”

Her son shook his head weakly. “You always say that. If he doesn't know how to show it, why can't he figure it out?”

“He will. One day he will.”

“I don't think so. If he can't even come see me, how's he going to figure it out?”

She patted him on the arm. This was something she couldn't fix. Truman had built a chasm between himself and the children she knew he loved. He just wasn't able to get the drawbridge of his heart down far enough to get across.

Aiden motioned for another drink and she held the cup close. His eyelids fluttered. “You think I'm going to get out of here this time?”

“I'm sure of it. Melody needs a date for the prom.”

He smiled, and that effort was all she needed. The slightest glimmer of life from him was like an electrical impulse. The trailer of a coming attraction.

“Tell me the story again,” Aiden said.

“What story is that?”

“Come on. You know. How you met.”

He was like a little kid, thirsting for drops of the father he didn't know. So she told him. Not all the gory details, but with enough flair to satisfy. How she was coming off a relational plane crash and she saw him in the newsroom. Tall and handsome and that smile that could melt polar ice caps. Aiden had to know what songs she listened to and what movies they saw, details that gave him an anchor to their past.

She never held back from him that they had moved in together in college. Or how her parents felt about Truman. The truth was better.

But there were things about the present she did not reveal. For example, that the mounting medical bills had put them so far behind they would probably never recover. Or the fact that even with the medical insurance, the transplant cost would be astronomical. Or the truth that financial rescue was only a court procedure away. Her parents had told her they would assume responsibility for all her debts and work to pay for the transplant if she would simply divorce Truman and end the debacle. It seemed cruel at first. They had dug in their heels as deeply as she had and now it was a test of wills. Who would cave first?

She couldn't divorce him. Not now. She understood her parents' perspective and at times agreed with their assessment. She had threatened divorce a number of times. But something deep inside said, “Hang on. Don't give up.” Embracing faith also meant she had embraced possibility. God raised the dead to life. Like Lazarus, Truman could one day have his own come-to-Jesus moment. She held on to that hope like a child holds the string of a leaking balloon. Shrunken, shriveled, and dragging on the ground behind her.

“Why did you choose that song at your wedding?” Aiden whispered.

“‘True Companion'?” The words echoed through her mind. “I don't know; it was probably our favorite album that year. Everybody loved the song ‘Walking in Memphis.' I almost took a job at a newspaper in Memphis and I wouldn't have even considered it except I loved that song. I wanted to walk on Beale Street and report Elvis sightings. It seems frivolous now, but that's how my mind worked.”

“Back to ‘True Companion.'”

“Sorry. I called your father Tru, and once we were an item on campus, we spent every waking moment together.”

“Did you text all the time?”

“We didn't even have e-mail, as I recall. Cell phones were a luxury and even if I had one, he wouldn't have. Our dinner dates were the salad bar at Wendy's. Your father was the poor church mouse.”

“Without the church.”

“Right.”

Her cell phone vibrated and she ignored it, staring into Aiden's fading eyes. One thing she had learned early was that any waking moment was Aiden's time. She would focus on him until exhaustion or the medication overtook him. Or both. And each time he fell asleep, she feared it might be the last time she would ever see those eyes.

Aiden looked out the window and the morning light reflected on his face. Teeth grinding now. Jaw set. “He doesn't care.”

“Sure he does.”

“Then why doesn't he come see me?”

She took a deep breath. “Well, what do you think?” Questions were always better. Hearing what was going on inside him was best.

“Could be because he just cares more about his work. But it doesn't make sense that he wouldn't come around. Maybe he's allergic to hospitals.”

She put a hand on his head. He always responded to her touch. Truman hadn't given him that. Couldn't give him a hand on the shoulder with all the miles of separation.

“I don't think he's allergic to hospitals. Or you. But I do think it's unusually hard for him to come into these places.” The phone beeped. A new voice mail. “He does love you. I know that. It's just that his love is imperfect.”

“Like his love for you?”

She smiled. “Both of us are imperfect. And I never want you to feel that he's the bad one. I've made my share of mistakes.”

“But you stayed. You've been here through everything. You're a rock, Mom.”

She took his hand, a pale, small thing now, just skin and bones, and squeezed it. “I've been the lucky one. He's missed out. But I think part of his absence is because he can't stand to see you in so much pain.”

Aiden closed his eyes and opened them, turtle-like. “There wouldn't be as much pain if he were here. I mean, that would help me forget it a little.”

A tear coursed down his cheek and Aiden shut his eyes. Her heart melted. He always said something that did that. Something that pointed toward the truth and the ache of life, the ache of love, of eternity, or some mundane desire, like buying his own car.

She leaned forward. “There's a quotation by Longfellow I read years ago that I cling to about your father. It's a popular quote about men I've seen in a lot of books. Other writers agree with old Henry.”

Aiden stared at her, his eyes focused, and she closed hers to get the words right. “‘Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.'”

She opened her eyes and saw another tear making its way down Aiden's cheek. For a moment she couldn't speak, the pain of her own voice echoing the heartbreak.

“That pretty much sums it up, doesn't it?” Aiden said.

She nodded. “That your dad hasn't been around doesn't have much to do with you, I don't think. He's just tired and angry and at odds with himself. Which doesn't make it any easier. It still feels bad. But to know he's in pain helps me. And to know the wounded always wound those they love the most. They don't mean to; it just happens.”

She stroked his head, parting his hair the way she had when he was a child.

“Is that why he goes to casinos?”

“I suppose.”

“Did he do that when he was in college?”

She took a deep breath, remembering the excitement in Truman's voice when he would call from some gambling triumph. “I knew he was drawn to gambling. It actually paid for some of his schooling. I encouraged it for a while. But I had no idea how destructive it would become.”

“That sounds like something a psychologist would say.”

She laughed quietly and stared at the acne around his face. Aiden was much older than his years, but his body didn't know it.

“He's searching. And it's been a long search I hope will end soon.”

“Me too.” His breathing became more shallow and for a moment, when his chest seemed to hover and stop, she thought he had slipped away. Instead, he squeezed her hand and said, without moving his lips, “I'm tired. Gonna get some sleep.”

She kissed his forehead. “I'll be here when you wake up.”

“I know.”

She quietly left the room and stood in the hall, leaning against the wall and staring through the glass at him. She checked her phone and saw the missed call was from Truman.

“Hey, it's me. I'm in the main lobby here. Had a problem with my car. Can you come down when you get this? I assume you're upstairs.”