Requiem for the Bone Man (18 page)

His mind flashed back to that long-ago day when life ended for both the daughter of slaves and the mother of wealth and he wondered: How does genetics preordain our passing?

“Connie, what do you think? We’re both ready to quit work and go on with our lives. The boys are away now. I was thinking, how would it be if we picked up and moved up next to Bill and Peggy? We could help out at the mission, and we’d still be near the beach.”

Being a teacher, a doctor, and an insightful woman on top of it all, she knew what Dave was getting at. Treating “snowbirds” with more money than common sense had become the routine. They both needed to cap their careers with something more meaningful. At one time she had considered doing missionary work in Africa. But what Bill had established would offer everything they both needed in the realm of spiritual satisfaction.

“I was thinking about that, too, Dave.”

They sat down together, just as they had always done, Dave the planner, Connie the moderator, outlining their escape route. It wasn’t long before they called Bill and Peggy to discuss the feasibility of the move. And then it was settled.

Next came the daunting task of how to close one practice and reestablish it in another locale. They both were amazed at the paperwork nightmare and legal rigmarole involved, but somehow it seemed worth it. The boys were getting ready to move on to their own lives, both with serious steady girlfriends and careers ahead of them. Now it was time for the old timers to cut loose.

“Don’t forget, the party’s tonight. I’ve already tied up the loose ends. All you need to do is officially turn over the hospital patients to Sam. Then come on home.”

Dave felt the familiar queasy stomach of pre-exam jitters. Was today really an alpha and omega day? Were they really going to pull up stakes and work part time at a medical mission in another state? Why hadn’t he told Galen about the move?

Maybe this way, once it’s all accomplished, the four of us can convince him to do likewise and join us. Just like old times.

What a hoot that would be: five old farts facing their twilight years just as they did the dawn.

He stopped at the lowered gate at the railroad crossing. Must be a train coming. He began to drum his fingers on the steering wheel of the old Toyota then turned on the radio.
Maybe some classic rock for the rest of the drive home.

The construction truck driver was tired and hungry. It wasn’t easy piloting the dirt-hauling behemoth, even with power steering and brakes. But he was a careful man, going some twenty years without an accident or even a ticket. All he wanted was to get home to his wife and kids, put his feet up, and rest. What else would a man want?

Young David, Bone Man’s ready fer ye.

What the hell was on that station? He reached over to press another button.

Big David and Mary waitin’ fer ye.

The truck driver saw the crossing gates down and began the downshifting and braking necessary to overcome the massive momentum he was controlling. When his foot hit the pedal he immediately felt the sickening softness of no resistance. No brakes! He downshifted furiously, attempting to use the full resistance of the engine to slow the truck, but it wasn’t enough to overcome the overwhelming inertia. The barrier arms of the crossing gates splintered like matches as the truck sheared through and onto the little Toyota on the other side.

Dave watched as if in a dream as the massive truck hit his vehicle head-on and felt the crushing impact as it rode over the roof, shearing it off in the process. With the last electrical impulses of his neurons he cried out, “Why now?”

Come, young David. Ye have work to do.

And everything became clear.

“Dr. Galen, that’s the last patient for today. Anything else I can do?”

“No Virginia, go on home. I need to wrap up some stuff here, I …”

He felt the pain like a lightning strike run through him. His knees buckled and his head seemed to explode in a rainbow of light.

“Are you okay, Dr. G.?”

Virginia had gotten up when she saw her boss suddenly fall halfway across the desk, his face pale and covered with sweat.

“That was one helluva muscle spasm. Felt like my head was being ripped off. Guess I better get some extra rest tonight.”

“You haven’t fooled with that computer of yours for awhile. Why don’t you just do some playing with it tonight and leave the work till tomorrow?”

“That sounds like a good idea.”

He went back to his office planning on finishing some paperwork then tossed it down. Virginia’s right, he thought. He got up, turned off the light and headed downstairs. He flipped on the switch of what he called his fun computer. No business on this one. It was for keeping what one of his old professors called his “diary.”

He started with his e-mail and scanned the hundreds of spam messages, the majority of which offered to make him bigger and better than he was as a teenager. But there was one that tweaked his interest:

Find old friends and classmates, lost loves and experiences. Try us!

His lost loves were far beyond the reach of search engines. So, who in the world would he want to hear from again? The only friend he ever had before medical school was … Edison.

The way things are I wonder if he’s even alive. Okay, let’s give it a try.

Under the high-school category he entered the name Concepción, added the state and city then waited the microsecond before a list came up on the screen.

Too many, I need to hone it down
.

He entered the year Edison would have graduated and a shorter list appeared. Akins, Bradford, Chartais, Davis, Eason, Edison!

He quickly tapped the Enter key for information and was confronted by the reality of the Internet world.

Please enter your credit card number so that we may start your membership.He laughed. It reminded him of the old pay phones when the operator would come on and say, “Please deposit 20 cents to continue your call.”

What the hell! In for a penny, in for a pound!

He pulled out his old sharkskin wallet. Funny, he had been with Dave in the department store when his older billfold disintegrated and he needed to buy this one. It was one of the two extravagances of his medical school days.

Well, at least this one stayed with me
.

He opened the lower drawer in his desk and stared for a moment at the ring box sitting there.

Slowly he entered the credit card number. The screen went blank for several seconds and then … an address and a telephone number!

“Nancy, would you grab the phone? I’ve got grease all over my hands”

Normal state of affairs, she thought as she picked up the handset.

Bob, you’re still a little boy, even in retirement
.

She heard a man’s voice ask, “Is this the residence of Robert Edison who attended Concepción High School in Westfield, New Jersey?”

“Hold on,” she said then cupped her hand over the mouthpiece.

“Bob, do you owe anybody money?”

Not that he would. He never spent any to begin with. He wasn’t cheap. He just could do everything by himself. But he would spend his last dollar on her if she wanted it.

“Why?”

“There’s a man on the phone, wants to know if you’re the Bob Edison from Concepción High School.”

“What’s his name? It might be an old classmate of mine.”

She uncovered the phone and asked, “May I say who’s calling?”

The voice that replied still held a hint of New Jersey, but it was softened by a southern lilt.

“Your husband and I were friends in high school. My name is Galen, Bob Galen.”

She cupped the phone receiver once more.

“Bob, this guy sounds strange. Maybe I should hang up.”

“What’s his name?”

“Galen.”

He snatched the phone from his wife’s hands, grease smearing the handset.

“Is this who I think it is?”

He felt the excitement course through him.

“It’s been a long time, little brother.”

He was surprisingly happy that night when he finally decided to go to bed. The telephone call reconnecting him with his friend had picked up his spirits and brought back memories of the good times they shared in high school. He turned off the lights and lay there thinking of his life and wondering if maybe he should consider retiring and going to work at the mission with Bill and Peggy.

Then came that after-midnight call—that cursed, damnable call ordained by the Fates.

“Bob, it’s Connie.”

He could hear the strain in her voice immediately.

“Connie, what’s the matter? Are the boys okay?’

Is Old Aunt Hattie calling?

“Bob,” she choked out, “they took Dave to the hospital. They don’t think he’s going to make it. I’m here in the emergency room waiting for them to get done with him.”

“What happened?”

He almost yelled the question at her through the phone.

“There was an auto accident. He was coming back from hospital rounds. It was his last day there. He didn’t tell you but we were going to retire this week. We wanted to travel, maybe help Bill out at the clinic part time. Dave even talked about getting the old team together at Bill’s free clinic.”

Now as she continued, she was barely breathing in, unable to stop the torrent of words. She was in shock. He couldn’t get her to stop rambling.

“Connie, put the ER doctor on.”

He waited then heard the receiver being picked up. But he already knew. And now he knew the cause of that terrible pain earlier in the day. His mind heard the voice of his old friend.

City Boy, Aunt Hattie was right about this, too.

“Dr. Galen, this is Tom Eastman. I’m the ER doc here in Lakeland. Mrs. Nash tells me you and Dr. Nash were long-time friends.”

The word “were” rang in his ear. He felt his eyes filling.

“I’m afraid that Dr. Nash expired at the scene of the accident. We did what we could when they brought him in, but the brain damage was too massive. I’m sorry.”

He slowly put the telephone receiver down and began to weep.

The church was filled with friends, patients, colleagues, all those who had been in close contact.

The minister stepped to the dais, led the group in a short prayer then announced, “I have been asked to let another speak of the deceased. I, too, wish to learn more about him.”

He beckoned and Galen rose from his chair and approached the microphone. He looked at the large group, thinking how Country Boy would have found it amusing. Then he began.

“It was a strange Mutt and Jeff relationship between the City Boy and the Country Boy. The Fates had decreed that we would share a room in the grueling process of our education, and no more dissimilar young men had ever been thrown together.”

As he continued, he talked about Dave’s humble background as a farm boy, the first in his family even to finish high school, much less college and medical school. He watched as the audience nodded at the familiar information and expressed surprise at some of the exciting points in Dave’s life.

Galen paused and looked out over the crowd, seeing the capacity-filled church with standees. Connie and the boys were sitting next to Bill and Peggy, who was holding Connie’s hand tightly.

He saw the back doors open. Two African-American men, tall, middle-aged, in the uniforms of the U.S. Navy and Army, removed their hats and walked halfway up the aisle to stand. Galen apologized for the length of his eulogy. But he wanted to tell one more, final story, to demonstrate what kind of man Dave had been. And as he spoke, the years slipped away and he and Dave were back on Church Hill, students once again.

...

“Are you sure this is okay, Dave?”

They were at the very top of the hill that looked down on the southeast side of Richmond, Virginia. Here once stood the Confederate Army Hospital, Chimborazo. And like the great works of Ozymandias, it was now rubble and brick pieces.

But the hill held another monument, this one deep underground. At one time, the railway line had bored through the hill and run tracks from the old gas works and icehouse to the very top of Church Hill. Trains would enter that nether world and exit into the light at the summit.

One fateful day, the residents of lower Richmond felt a rumble. Some thought it was an earthquake, others a great storm. But it was neither. It was the death cry of a tunnel as countless tons of earth collapsed inside, entombing the unlucky train and its passengers inside forever. Rescue attempts proved futile, so the city fathers sealed the lower entrance with a giant concrete slab inscribed with the date of the tragedy. That was 1926.

Thirty seven years later, two young men in their prime stood at the top of the hill, looking at the partially boarded-up top exit of the tunnel as they picked up loose bricks to make student bookcases. They rationalized it was not really stealing. When they finished school, the bricks would be returned, as they had been by countless other students over the years, as the cycle repeated itself.

Then they heard a frantic cry.

“Mista, Mista, com hep us! Ma bruther, he in da tunnel!”

It was Marcus, one of the black youngsters in the same housing complex where Galen and Dave lived. Marcus’s little brother, Jeremiah, was always getting into things and needing a rescue. But this was the most dangerous so far.

The two medical students ran to the opening where Marcus stood and pointed inward. Collapsed crossbeams and warning signs had not been enough to stem the curiosity of a six-year-old boy. Now, he was partway inside, captured by the weight of a collapsed wood strut.

Dave looked at Galen.

“Come on, Bob, the two of us can get him.”

Galen remembered the old abandoned buildings in his neighborhood, deadly mousetraps for curious children. His hackles were rising as Dave picked up a discarded length of wood.

“We can use this to pry the beam off of him.”

He started to squeeze into the tunnel. Galen followed with more difficulty. He wasn’t the scarecrow that Dave was. But they both reached the boy soon enough. The light from the afternoon sun penetrating through the mouth of the tunnel was just enough to give faint illumination to the scene. The young men, scientists by nature and training, saw the natural fulcrum of a fallen piece of stone.