Who Do I Lean On? (44 page)

By Dave Jackson

prologue

DaShawn Bentley was tall for a nine-year-old, but to rest his knees on the dash of his grandfather's SUV, he still had to slide way down in the front seat while he texted his friend Robbie. “R U g-o-i-n-g 2 c-a-m-p t-o-m-o-r-r-o-w-?” He hit Send. Except for that brief stay in a foster home in the suburbs, DaShawn had never been outside Chicago, especially not way out in the country, in the woods, by a lake with canoes and horses. So he was counting on some of the other guys from SouledOut Community Church going with him.

“You ever been to camp, Grandpa?”

When Harry Bentley didn't answer right away, DaShawn looked over to see his grandfather turning from side to side as if he were trying to read the address numbers on the passing storefronts. He kept closing one eye and then the other with exaggerated winks that contorted his face like a rubber mask.

“Grandpa?”

“Yeah, what?”

“I said, did you ever go to summer camp?”

“Uh . . .” The searching and winking continued. “No. We only had day camps down on the Southside. But they were pretty good.”

Realizing his grandfather wasn't watching where they were going very carefully, DaShawn sat up just in time to see them closing too fast on a stopped truck.

“Grandpa, LOOK OUT!”

Harry Bentley hit the brakes. Tires screeched, then
WHAM
! The little RAV4 slammed into the back of a huge red pickup.

There was a moment of silence, like dust settling, as DaShawn realized he'd just been in his first-ever car accident. He turned to look at the baldheaded black man next to him. “You okay, Grandpa?”

DaShawn's grandfather was staring straight ahead. “Yeah. You all right?”

“I think so. What happened?”

Grandpa shook his head. “I was just . . .”

His response was cut short by the cursing of two burly white men getting out of the pickup. They both wore sweat-stained T-shirts, yellow hardhats, and looked to DaShawn like twin construction workers.

“Wait here!” Grandpa said as he opened the door and went to meet the men inspecting the damage. But a few moments later DaShawn was surprised to hear the construction workers' cursing turn to laughter as they pointed to the back of their truck and then the front of the little SUV.

“So what happened?” one said as he threw up his hands. “Are you blind or something? Isn't this truck big enough for you to see it?”

“Yeah,” said the other man. “We were stopped at a red light, for Pete's sake! What's the matter with you?”

DaShawn relaxed a little. At first the men had seemed really angry at his grandpa, but now it was more like they were making fun of him.

In a few moments, the loud voices quieted as the drivers got down to the business of exchanging licenses and insurance cards. The other driver began shaking his head as if he didn't care about all of that, and DaShawn heard him say, “We can report this if you want, but my truck ain't even scratched. That big hitch can take a hit and keep on truckin', know what I mean?” He pointed at the RAV4. “You're the one with the messed-up bumper, and it was your fault, so reportin' it'll only raise your insurance rates. Do what you want. But if it were me . . .” He shrugged.

“You sure neither of you are hurt?” Grandpa asked.

The two men looked at one another. “Nah. We're good.” Then with a smirk, the driver added, “But run into me again, and I'll claim whiplash and sue ya dry.”

“Hey.” Grandpa held up both hands in surrender. “I'm really sorry, guys. Thanks.”

“No problem. Just watch where you're goin' next time.”

The men returned to their truck and drove off as DaShawn's grandfather came back to the car and got in. He sat there in a daze until a car behind them beeped its horn.

“You okay, Grandpa?”

“Yeah, yeah.” He blew out a lung full of air as he wiped a hand over his head and stepped gently on the gas to cross the intersection and pull to a stop behind some parked cars along the curb. He sat there staring out the front window, then glanced momentarily over at DaShawn. “Can you read that parking sign up ahead there?”

“Sure. Says, ‘No parking when snow is over two inches deep.

Tow zone.'”

“But . . . none of the letters are smeared or anything?”

“Uh, no. But you don't have to worry, Grandpa. It don't snow in July.”

“'Course not.” Harry laughed as he continued “winking” at the sign, then began rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands. “Musta got somethin' in my eye. Left one's all blurry. But . . . hey, it's probably nothin'.”

“That why you didn't see that truck, Grandpa?”

“No . . . well, maybe. I was distracted, I guess, tryin' to read signs.”

DaShawn grinned. “I know. I know what you were doin'. You lookin' to find some nice restaurant to take Miss Estelle to for dinner tonight, huh?”

“Hey, that's none of your business.” His grandfather grinned and put the car in Drive as he pulled away from the curb. Then he turned back to his grandson and arched his eyebrows while pursing his lips. “Actually, I already got plans for tonight.” He bobbled his head from side to side. “Big plans.”

“Oh yeah? What's up?”

“Promise you won't tell?”

“Promise.”

“I'm gonna ask her to marry me.” He slapped his breast. “Got a ring in a little box, right here in my pocket.”

“Really?” DaShawn's eyes got huge.

“Yep. After dinner I'm gonna take her sailing on the Tall Ship Windy. And right during the Chicago fireworks, when they're lighting up the whole sky, I'm gonna pop the question. Whaddaya thinka that?”

DaShawn didn't answer. He just sat there grinning like he'd witnessed Santa coming down his very own chimney.

“Harry, this place is too expensive,” Estelle Williams whispered as she scanned the menu for Riva's Restaurant on Chicago's Navy Pier. Their table looked out over the harbor as the sun's golden rays ricocheted off the glass and steel of the city's magnificent skyline.

“Don't worry 'bout it. Just order what you want.”

Estelle shrugged and returned to the menu. But there'd been an edge in Harry's voice. In fact, ever since he'd picked her up this evening, he'd seemed uptight. She glanced at him again. “Harry Bentley . . . you tryin' to wink at me?” She closed her menu and lowered her head to position herself more in his line of sight.

“No, I'm not trying to wink at you. Why would I be doin' that? Haven't we been seein' enough of each other to be beyond flirting?”

“Well, I should hope so. Harry . . .” She reached across the table and pushed his menu down, forcing him to look at her. “What's the matter with you?” The frown lines in his forehead were deeper than usual. “DaShawn told me you were in a car wreck this afternoon, but I didn't see any damage. You okay?”

Harry leaned back in his chair and stared out at the boats. Then he closed his eyes and rubbed them with the knuckles of both hands. “Yeah, I'm okay. It was nothin', Estelle. No one was hurt. Just messed up my bumper a little.”

“Hmm.” She studied the man she'd come to love. Something wasn't right. “Harry, what's the problem? Come on. Somethin's troubling you. Is it Mother Bentley again?”

“No, she's doin' fine. You know that. You take care of my mom more than I do. It's just . . .” He closed his eyes for a moment. “My eyes been bothering me a little. Think I'm getting allergies or something.”

“Your eyes?” The implications clicked through her mind like a calculator. “Is that why you had a wreck? Maybe you shouldn't be driving, Harry.”

“It wasn't a
wreck
, Estelle. Just a little fender-bender. And I can see quite well enough to drive. Besides, it's just my left eye. Probably got something in it.” He flipped open his menu and squinted at it. “Now, come on. Let's put that behind us and have a nice dinner.”

“Maybe you need glasses, Harry. You know most people our age do need glasses, at least to read. I should get some myself.”

“I already have a pair of reading glasses, Estelle.”

“Then why don't you use them? I've never seen you wear them.”

“Estelle . . . don't worry about it, okay? Just order.”

She stifled her next comment and opened her menu again.

The man was nothing if not stubborn. Well, if he insisted on paying for it, she'd enjoy her meal. “I think I want to start with some lobster bisque and one of these salads—baby greens with balsamic vinaigrette and sliced almonds.”

When the sun had finally set and they'd finished their dinner, Estelle was so full of scallop fettuccine and asparagus Parmigiano—not to mention the bites she'd snitched of Harry's double-cut pork chop with black current sauce and his garlic mashed potatoes—that she passed on the dessert, and they just lingered over coffee. But their conversation mostly involved brief answers from Harry every time Estelle tried to introduce a new topic. She noticed he'd actually turned his chair slightly away from her and spent most of his time looking out at the boats as they came and went across the lights of the city shimmering off the water. Occasionally, he checked his watch as it approached nine o'clock and then, resting an elbow on the table, he held his head in his hand for a moment, shaking it back and forth slightly as though he were deciding the course of the universe.

She had to do something to pull him out of this funk.

“Harry . . . Harry, let's top off the evening with a ride on the Ferris wheel. I've always wanted to do that, and it's such a beautiful night. I bet we could see the whole city from up there.”

He looked at her blankly for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, yeah. Why not?” He sat up in his chair as though relieved. “Let's do it. I'll call for the check.”

Harry felt bummed. His special evening with Estelle had crashed and burned . . . at least in terms of what he'd planned. Why hadn't he taken her for a sail on the Windy? Why hadn't he given her the ring?

It was that episode of
Grey's Anatomy
—the one where they discovered that a guy who was going blind in one eye had an inoperable brain tumor. Memory of it had popped into his mind just as he was turning into the Navy Pier parking garage with Estelle. He wished he'd never seen that show, but he had, and all evening he couldn't get it out of his mind.

What if that was happening to him?

It was nearly eleven by the time he'd taken Estelle home and picked up DaShawn from his mother's. He'd been tempted to let the boy spend the night at Great Grandma's, but tomorrow was Sunday, and Harry had to have him packed and over to SouledOut Community Church an hour early to catch a ride in the van with the other kids going to summer camp. If it was a church camp, why did it start on Sunday? It made no sense to Harry.

Harry dumped the boy onto the bed, pulled off his shoes, and let him fall back to sleep in his clothes. He could take a shower in the morning.

Harry knew he should go right to bed himself, but he couldn't . . . not yet. Not until he had more of an idea what he might be facing. He couldn't ask Estelle to marry him if he was going blind! Or what if he died of a brain tumor? The ring in his pocket nearly burned a hole in his chest. Passing up his plans for a romantic proposal on that sailing ship tore him up. He wanted so badly to declare his love for her, but he couldn't go through with it, not until he knew.

He sat down at the table in the living room where he and DaShawn shared a computer and turned it on. When the browser came up, he typed “blind spot in eye” into the search engine and clicked the Return key.

One Web site said everyone has two blind spots, one in each eye, but they were over to the side and corresponded to where the optic nerve connects to the eye. There was even an on-screen demonstration: “Close one eye and position your face close to the screen while focusing on the large ‘x.' Then move your head slowly back away from the screen.” When Harry tried it, the three large letters a few inches to the side disappeared and reappeared, one after the other as his natural blind spot passed over them.
Why haven't I noticed that before
? he thought. “Because the other eye compensates and fills in the missing image,” the Web page explained.

Cool, an interesting distraction . . . but it didn't account for the blind spot right in the center of his vision. He tried another Web site . . . and another . . . and another. Just as he feared, several mentioned the possibility of a brain tumor as the cause of a blind spot. And he couldn't find anything to rule it out in his case.

By the time he finally shut down the computer at one o'clock in the morning, his mind was spinning with other scary possibilities: a detached retina . . . macular degeneration . . . diabetes . . . a stroke. On the other hand, he found a few less frightening causes of temporary visual problems . . . stuff like migraine headaches or excessive fatigue and certain medications.

As he finally crawled between the sheets, he tried to relax. Maybe he was getting worked up over nothing. In fact, he'd probably feel better after a good night's sleep. Maybe something blew into his eye and scratched it without him noticing it. It had to be something like that . . . didn't it?

But sleep wouldn't come.
Please, God. I don't want to lose my sight. How would I take care of DaShawn? Didn't You give him to me? And Estelle . . . don't You know we've got a good thing going? I couldn't saddle her with me as an invalid. In fact, God, I don't think I could stand myself as an invalid. I'm too old to learn Braille. I couldn't adjust, not at this age
.

His heart pounded as he stared up into the gloom of his bedroom.

If it were a tumor, what other havoc would it wreck inside his skull before it killed him? How long would it take? Would he suffer? Would the doctors shoot him so full of morphine he'd be a zombie by the time he died? In his mind, he already had himself in the hospital, pin-cushioned with tubes and monitors.
Huh! At least they won't have to shave my head before operating!