The Shadow Portrait (28 page)

“No, it’s more than just that,” Jolie said quietly.

She turned her gaze on him and there was a strength in her voice and an assurance in her eyes that he had never seen. Determination was written in the tight line of her lips and in the set of her jaw.

“I think you need more of God in your life.”

Peter was startled and his speech was uncertain as he finally nodded. “I think that’s right, Jolie. I never told you how I got saved, did I?”

“No, you never did.”

“Well, it’s not an exciting story. I’ve always sort of envied those people who have dramatic testimonies—you may have heard some of them.”

“You mean seventeen car wrecks and an invitation?”

Peter smiled despite his agitation. “Something like that, I guess. I was only twelve years old and hadn’t really been a bad kid. An evangelist came to our church to hold a revival. I was there on the last night of the meeting, but I wasn’t paying much attention to the sermon. Can’t even remember what it was about. I was thinking about going fishing the next day with my dad. All of a sudden I heard the preacher say, “ ‘Except ye repent, ye shall all likewise perish.’ ” Peter looked directly at Jolie, strain on his face. “I was only twelve, but I knew about hell and about being saved. I’d heard it every Sunday of my life!”

Jolie waited for Peter to continue, but he dropped his head and said nothing. Finally she asked, “What happened then, Peter?” Lifting his eyes, Jolie saw that he was weeping again.

“I got saved, Jolie. When the invitation came, I almost ran down the aisle. The pastor met me and sat me down. Then my father came. They were so gentle! They prayed for me and I asked Jesus into my life—and He came!”

“I think that’s a marvelous testimony, Peter!”

“Not very dramatic.”

“I guess it would have been more dramatic if you’d grown up lost and chased women and become a drunk—and gotten saved when you were sixty and your life was gone!” Jolie’s words were stern, but her lips were as soft as the look of understanding in her eyes. “But you didn’t have to go through all that. I wish I’d been saved when I was twelve years old.”

Peter stared at the young woman, then shook his head. “You’re right, Jolie, but I haven’t followed the ways of God—not really. I’ve been so caught up with cars that I haven’t given myself to God as I did back when I was a boy.”

“Then it’s time for you to begin again,” Jolie said firmly. She took his hand and bowed her head, then began to pray,
“Lord, I ask you to help Peter be the man that you want him to be. Take him back to the time when he first was saved—and let him begin all over. . . .”

As Jolie prayed, Peter felt very strange. He was miserable about Avis, but even more than that, the conversation had taken him back to the first days of his Christian life, and he realized that he’d lost something along the way. He began to pray silently, then spoke aloud, “Oh, Lord, forgive my wandering! I’ve lost the love I had for you—but I want to find it again . . . !”

Neither of them ever knew how long they prayed together, but finally Peter lifted his head, and Jolie saw something in his expression that had not been there earlier. His eyes widened and he grasped her hands firmly.

“Jolie, I . . . don’t know what’s happened, but I feel like I did that night when I got saved!”

“Oh, Peter! I’m so glad!”

Tears of joy filled Jolie’s eyes. And as she stood there, she prayed for herself,
Lord, I know he doesn’t love me, but I love him!
Aloud she said, “Now we’ll just have to wait and see what God is going to do, won’t we, Peter?”

Jolie had finally gone home at Peter’s insistence. Now as dawn broke, Peter still stood staring out the window. The street outside was beginning to be more visible in the lightening gray of the morning. A single tree, no more than seven or eight feet tall, spread its spindly arms with a few undernourished leaves. No one apparently thought to water it or care for it, and now it seemed almost as though it were praying as it lifted its shriveled leaves high toward the heavens.

“Mr. Winslow—?”

At the sound of his name, Peter wheeled instantly, his senses becoming alert. He saw a doctor standing there, a new one he had not seen before. “Yes, Doctor. How is she?”

“I’m Doctor Smith. I’ve just been examining Mrs. Warwick.”

“Well, how is she?”

“About the same, I think.” Smith was a gangling man with traces of Boston in his speech. He had pale blond hair and hazel eyes, wide-set and bulging. His lips were pursed, small and drawn up into a bow, and there was a carefulness in his expression that disturbed Peter.

“She is going to walk again, isn’t she? She’s not going to be paralyzed?”

“It’s too soon to say. It would be good if you could get her family here. Does she have any in the area?”

“I don’t think so. Her parents are dead. She has one sister out on the West Coast, somewhere in Oregon, I think. They’re not very close.”

Dr. Smith teetered back and forth on his toes and weariness drew fine lines in his face. “I’m not happy with her condition. She seems to have absolutely no feeling whatsoever in her lower extremities.”

“Well, what kind of treatment is there?”

Dr. Smith seemed angered by the question but only said in his terse manner, “Right now, to be frank, there is no treatment. We’ll continue to try to find out what caused the damage—where it lies. Then, perhaps, we can do something. Until then we can only wait . . . and pray,” he added almost lamely.

Peter stared at the physician, an angry reply almost leaping to his lips. Somehow, however, he understood that the doctor could do nothing at this time, and he swallowed hard. “Thank you, Doctor. Can I go in and see her?”

“Yes. You may stay as long as you like.”

“What if she asks me what you said? Have you told her she won’t walk?”

“No. I’ve just said we’re going to do more tests, and I think that’s what you should tell her. Be as optimistic as you can.” Smith suddenly raised his pale eyebrows. “Are you a praying man, Mr. Winslow?”

“Not as much as I should be, I guess. Why?”

“I think it might be a good time if you are a praying man to exercise that particular virtue.” Dr. Smith turned without a word and walked away, and Peter followed him down the hall, through the door and down a long corridor. They made several turns and finally the doctor paused before the door, and said, “Go on in. She’s awake.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

Peter walked inside and saw Avis lying on a tall hospital bed, propped up by several pillows. She was wearing a white hospital gown. As he walked up to the bed, her green eyes fastened on him instantly.

“Well, I suppose you’ve come to view the corpse.”

“Avis, don’t talk like that!” Peter protested. He went over at once but did not know what to do. Awkwardly he pulled up a chair, then reached out to touch her shoulder, but she shrugged it away with an angry gesture.

“Don’t touch me! I always hated it!” she said coldly. She normally had a pale complexion, but now the pallor of her skin seemed more pronounced. Dark shadows under her eyes and lines at the corner of her lips made her appear much older. She looked terrible and knew it. “My hair’s a mess!” she said. “And look at this gown! How do they expect you to do anything wearing a thing like this? Look, it doesn’t have any back in it.” Leaning forward slightly, she plucked it with her hand, revealing the ivory contours of her back.

Peter wanted to say something encouraging, but Dr. Smith’s words were ringing in his mind, and he could not think of anything to say. He felt helpless at his inability to say or do anything that could lift her from her sullen mood. Finally he said, “How do you feel? Are you in pain?”

“I wish I were.” Avis bit off the words and turned to stare at him. Reaching out, she struck her upper thigh and said, “I’d give anything if I could feel pain when I do that, but I don’t. Not a thing!”

“You don’t feel anything at all?”

“It’s like hitting a block of wood.”

“It’ll be all right, Avis,” Peter said with more confidence than he felt. He tried to assume an encouraging look and smiled, knowing it was one of the most artificial expressions that could have come to him. “These things happen. It’s some kind of nerve damage. It takes time to heal up, but you’ll be all right. You’ll see.”

“Don’t be a fool, Peter! How do you know I’ll be all right? The doctors don’t even know for sure. I can see it in their eyes—all of them.” Avis’s voice rose and there was a trace of hysteria in it. Then suddenly her hands began to tremble. She knew that Peter had seen them, and she cried, “Look at that! I’m shaking like a leaf and, Peter—I’m scared!”

Peter rose and leaned over the bed. He put his arm around her and she reached up and grabbed at him convulsively. “I’m scared, Peter! What if I never walk again? I’d rather be dead!”

“It won’t be that way, Avis.” Peter held her tightly and smoothed her hair with his right hand. She held to him as if she were a child, and he wished she would cry. Perhaps that would help, but she did not. Finally she pushed him away and took several deep breaths. She seemed to gain control of herself as she looked at him.

“It’s like looking down a dark tunnel with no light at the end of it. I wish I had died in that wreck!”

“Don’t say that!” Peter cried. “Don’t ever say that!”

“Why not? It’s true!” And then she uncontrollably struck out at him. “Why did you let me get in that car? Why didn’t you stop me, Peter?”

Struck by the injustice of it, Peter could say nothing. He knew she was not herself and thought,
I’d probably be saying worse if I were in her condition.
She began to beat at him with her hands, and he pinioned them, saying as quietly as he could, “There, Avis, don’t fight.”

Slowly she stopped struggling and lowered her head, staring bitterly at her legs. “I wish I were dead, and I will be if I can never walk again,” she said barely above a whisper.

Peter was frightened as he caught the implication of what Avis had just said. He did not know how to answer her, and he simply stood there for a time. Then he sat down and began to speak as encouragingly as he could. He knew what he said must have seemed foolish and inane to Avis, but at least she sat quietly, even though she was not looking at him. Finally after a time he stopped speaking, and the two simply sat there in silence.

“How is she, Peter?”

Peter was standing in the waiting room and turned to see Phil and George Camrose coming toward him, concern etching their features.

“She’s paralyzed from the waist down,” he said bluntly and his words hit them with a force.

“What are they doing for her?” Camrose asked. “Nothing.”

“Nothing!” Phil exclaimed. “What do you mean
nothing?
”

“I mean—nothing! The doctors say there’s some kind of nerve damage, but they haven’t found it yet. Until they do there’s nothing to do but wait.”

“How’s she taking it, Peter?” Camrose asked, his eyes alert. “I mean emotionally and spiritually?”

“Not good. She’s given up and doesn’t have any hope of recovery left.” Peter shook his head. “She’s not a godly woman, Reverend Camrose.” He hesitated, then looked at his two friends. “When I was with her a while ago she said that if she stayed paralyzed she would—”

When Peter broke off his words, both men instantly understood what Avis Warwick had said. “Let me go talk to her,” Camrose said gently.

“You can try, but you might get insulted. She only got angry when I tried to encourage her.”

“One of the first prerequisites of a preacher is to have a hide like a rhinoceros.” Camrose grinned faintly, then turned
and left the room. He moved down the hall and asked a nurse where Avis Warwick was and knocked on the door. When he heard a voice bidding him to come in he stepped inside and stopped. “Mrs. Warwick?”

“Yes. Who are you?”

“George Camrose. I’m pastor of the Calvary Baptist Church down on the Lower East Side.”

“Didn’t take you long to get here. Are you like a lawyer who chases ambulances?”

“Not exactly.” Camrose sensed the hardness in Avis’s tone and let nothing show in his face. “I’m a friend of Peter Winslow’s.”

Avis did not answer. She stared at him with a hard look in her eyes. As though something were rising in her memory, she said evenly, “I don’t need any sermons.”