Deadline (25 page)

Ah, the hope and faith of parents. These were not modern people. If they were they would have held no hope for what lies beyond. The God they believed in was obsolete. He’d been replaced by…by what, Jake wondered.

Elizabeth’s monument was larger. Did Robert lay her body in the grave himself? Jake suspected he did. Back then people were not insulated from death by the middlemen, the funeral homes and undertakers, the brokers of death hired to keep the family at arm’s length from the stark realities of the final end.

Jake imagined Robert, dressed in his best suit, worn only on Sundays to the house of God, riding in the buckboard, his family in tow to the church that probably stood on this very spot. Did Robert believe what the country preacher said? Did he read the black book quoted from on his infant son’s grave? Or was the caretaker of the family faith really Elizabeth, the woman who taught the children virtue while the man plowed the fields and drank the whiskey and went to town to visit the saloon girls? Somehow he felt this assessment was wrong, that Robert was a man of faith, a man who believed and lived by a truth that shaped and guided a family he deeply loved. Still, did Robert manage to hold on to that faith after losing mother, son, and wife that cruel bitter summer?

Jake pulled out his pocketknife to scrape off the moss that had crept into the grooved letters on the gravestone of Elizabeth Rothman. Now the words, before obscured, became clear.

“Here lies the body of Elizabeth Rothman, beloved wife of Robert, mother of David. Until the resurrection.” The smaller print below read, “All that are in the graves shall hear his voice, and shall come forth; they that have done good, unto the resurrection of life; and they that have done evil, unto the resurrection of damnation.”

Robert must have written these words, this man who lived a hard life and trod his way through it in anticipation of a better life to come. Robert’s own tombstone had no inscription beyond his name and the dates. Perhaps because he was the end of the family line, and no loved one was left to give tribute on his tombstone. Jake could only guess about this man’s life. The only certainty was, it was a life now done. There was no revisionist history, no air brushing away the man and his warts and virtues. Whoever he had been, and wherever he had gone, his life here had been what it had been, no more and no less and no different.

Another tombstone caught his eye, this one all by itself, away from the Rothman cluster. It was dark and it looked newer and different than the rest. Jake read it, his eyes suddenly large and his heart pounding.

“Oh, my God,” he cried aloud. It said, “Jake Woods.”

Wait, no, “Jake Weads.” He heaved a sigh of relief. But why? His name would one day be on such a stone. He knew the first date it would say, the date of his birth. But what would the second date say? Would it be thirty years from now, or ten, or five, or next year? Next week? Tomorrow? Today, before he left this place?

And what would his tombstone say? Who would care enough to write something? Who would know what to write? Would he want the words of some song like Frank Sinatra’s “I Did It My Way”? Or John Lennon’s “Imagine”? No, he was drawn to songs of greatness, songs with lasting meaning, songs such as those sung at Finney’s funeral. But as he searched his memory, he could not remember the words of those songs, or even their names. He could, however, remember many songs of Lennon and Sinatra. Could one live his life by one set of songs and expect to be associated with another in his death?

Was there really a God? Was there really a book of life, with some names written in it and others not? Where were the Rothmans now? Were they right there, beneath his feet? Or were they somewhere else? Jake did not know. It saddened him to think he would never know.

An old friend watched with great interest Jake standing in the graveyard. He saw every move, read each inscription, felt as if he was right there with him. He was unable to read Jake’s exact thoughts, yet he somehow sensed most of what was going through his mind. Zyor stood next to Finney, also intensely interested.

As Jake got in his car and drove back toward the city, the clear vision of the scene faded, as it often did when the strategic moments, the eternal hinges that demanded the attention and prayer of heaven’s inhabitants, faded into the routine and normalcy of earthly life. Finney had been seeing Jake with greater frequency and hoped this indicated something significant.

Finney prayed aloud for Jake, then Zyor followed his lead. They prayed at length, sensing that Jake’s next hours that evening would be hours of great warfare, with strategic and eternal importance.

After they had prayed, Zyor showed a slight smile and said to Finney, “Come with me.”

“Gladly, my friend. Where are we going?”

“To meet some people whose company you will very much enjoy.”

“Who?”

Zyor thought for a moment, as if trying to decide whether to tell him now or wait. He looked at Finney, not wanting to miss the first eruption of that ear-to-ear smile.

“Their names are the Rothmans—Sarah, Robert, Elizabeth, and David.”

Jake arrived at Anthony’s thirty minutes early. He went to spruce himself up in the elegant men’s room since there was no time to go home and change. Jake paid more attention than he had in a long time to the face looking back at him from the mirror. It was an older face, the hair graying on the edges, receding in a way that made him look more like his father. Grooves cut across it like furrowed land. He looked weathered, like a lonely sea captain whose face had long borne the brunt of furious winds and pounding surf. Who was the man in the mirror? It troubled Jake that he didn’t know the answer, and might find it only too late.

He bent over close to the mirror to inspect a discoloration on his skin. His warm breath fogged the mirror a moment, then he watched the fog shrink and disappear as quickly as it had come. Someone, he didn’t remember who, had compared life to the warm breath that is here for a moment, then leaves. Life was moving quickly, too quickly. Fifty years old. He was already older than his father had been when Jake trudged off to boot camp. His dad had seemed so very old to him then. He’d died only five years later, at fifty. Fifty. Robert Rothman’s age. His age.

Those who liked to spend money for lots of drinks and little food loved to spend their evenings at Anthony’s. The
Trib’s
restaurant critic raved about the food, but after the one time he’d taken Janet to Anthony’s, Jake concluded he’d rather have a burger and onion rings at Lou’s Diner anytime. Jake asked for a table with a view of the front door.

When his date came in, he caught his breath. Mary Ann glided into the room. Her ruby red silk dress, matching fingernails, and red spiked heels took over, as if the restaurant and its other patrons were merely black and white background existing to accentuate her presence, as if only she had been colorized. Her diamond necklace sparkled even in the low light. Jake didn’t know much about clothes and jewelry, but he knew these had to cost a bundle.

In the hospital environment Mary Ann was a professional. Here she was all woman. Her desire for attention seemed strikingly evident, and the attention was well earned. She captured lots of eyes, not least of all Jake’s. He rose to walk toward her, but she caught his eye and eagerly swept up to him, putting her right arm around him in a teasing squeeze and kissing him on the cheek. Jake knew he was now identified to everyone as the fortuitous companion of this stunning woman. Much as he normally eschewed public displays, he very much enjoyed the feeling.

“Hi, Jake. I’m famished. Hope you’re ready for some fun tonight.” Mary Ann clearly was. Jake pulled out her chair for her, and before he could sit she was effervescing.

“This is one of my favorite places. I just love the scallops here. Have you ever had them? No? Well, you just have to. They’re wonderful.”

After a few minutes of soaking in Mary Ann’s appearance and imbibing her delicious scent, Jake found himself losing interest in the long string of small talk bubbling from her. His mind slipped into cruise control. Soon he was operating on instinct, saying “uh-huh,” laughing and responding briefly at what he trusted were the right times.

His mind withdrew, thinking about Mary Ann and what she represented from his past. Her stylish clothes, her low neckline, her suggestive comments, and the way she carried herself was all too familiar. Twenty-five years ago he and Doc used to joke about what was then called “women’s liberation,” and later feminism. Women were “liberated” to sleep around like men, which was the liberation of every man’s dream. Men didn’t have to think of a woman’s honor and purity anymore. Guys didn’t have to feel responsible for seducing a girl because now she played the game too.

He remembered what they used to call sexually liberated women. “Easy chicks.” “Whores.” “Sluts.” They called them by parts of their anatomy. They were things, not people. The women he’d always respected most were those who hadn’t got swept away in the revolution. When he met her as a college freshman, Janet had been one of those. But the music and climate of the day, along with their free-thinking professors, with Jake’s eager help, wore down Janet along with what seemed like a whole generation of young women. They became “free”—free to be ogled and used by men, cheap characters in their bragging tales of conquest.

Janet and Jake had started having sex five months after they met and were living together by their junior year of college. Jake thought it was great. The privileges of marriage with none of the responsibilities. That was when he first learned to take Janet for granted. Now, after three years of divorce, he recalled how much he’d respected her their first date—a respect he’d lost the night she became one more easy girl. It surprised Jake to find himself thinking about such things when his mind and hormones should have been focused on the obvious.

“And she was wearing the most gorgeous dress. And you know who the man with her turned out to be?” Mary Ann continued at high speed, Jake still smiling and nodding and pretending he was interested, while following his own inner rabbit trail.

I’ve made a career of being a feminist
, Jake recently confessed to his journal, the closest thing he had to a priest. Over the years he’d gone to the feminist marches, the prochoice rallies. He’d been hailed as one of those sensitive modern men. He loved the attention, the affirmation, the respect they gave him, and yes, the sex. He could play the role—the macho man, to get one kind of woman in bed, and the egalitarian man, to get another kind of woman in bed. For years he never admitted this hypocrisy. It was Finney who pointed it out to him, and when he did Jake steamed and fumed and even tried to commiserate with Doc, who only said, “So what? Who cares how you get ’em in the sack, as long as you do?”

“Jake? Jake! Earth to Jake! Are you ready to order?” Mary Ann laughed and the waiter gave a confused “do you need more time” look at Jake.

“Uh, I’m sorry. Guess my mind was wandering.” After promising he’d eat a few of her scallops, Jake ordered prime rib, acting as if he came to places like Anthony’s a lot, and trying hard but unsuccessfully to remember protocol at an establishment that boasted live musicians rather than a juke box.

“What’s on your mind, Jake? Dreaming? Hope I’m in the dream.” Mary Ann gave him a warm smile, squeezed his hand, then excused herself to use the ladies’ room, leaving his mind to resume its wandering. It did, like a rushing stream, changing directions slightly with each rock.

In his sixteen years of marriage Jake had a number of one night stands and two affairs, and now he couldn’t even put faces to some of the bodies he’d been in bed with. Janet had been hurt deeply by his indiscretions, from the
Playboys
and
Penthouses
he’d stopped hiding to the trysts with women on out of town “investigative journalism” excursions. He knew she knew about those escapades as certainly as if he’d told her, which he hadn’t.

Janet had protected herself the only way she knew how—telling herself it was somehow okay or she didn’t care, then compensating or retaliating through indiscretions of her own that proved to herself she was still desirable. Always, of course, with “sensitive men,” the kind the women who slept with Jake thought he was. These men were just like Jake, sensitive to the woman they wanted now, insensitive to the one they’d vowed before man and God to always love and cherish.

Why should a man marry a woman if she would give him all she was now and he was free to move on when he wished, harvesting women like a field of corn? Why take on the “in sickness” and “for worse” parts of the marriage vow when he could have her “in health” and “for better” and just take a walk if it became too much for him to handle?

Mary Ann returned, full-bodied hair bouncing and shining, a magnet attracting every man in the restaurant. Jake was disgusted with himself, sitting there ruminating and philosophizing, when he was with such a beautiful woman. He could have her tonight if he wanted her, and what sane man wouldn’t? But despite himself, Jake kept thinking about where it would go, and especially where it wouldn’t. He seemed to tire of women easily. He had tired of Janet, tired of her little annoying quirks that had once been cute and endearing. Tired of her habit of telling him in detail her dreams from the night before, as if such things should interest him. He had written a column once saying it should be illegal for spouses to tell their dreams, that there should be an 800 number to call for this kind of spousal abuse. He knew he’d hurt Janet’s feelings, and she’d not mentioned her dreams for months afterward.

“You look great tonight, Jake.”

Jake knew what he was supposed to say now. “Not as great as you, Mary Ann. You look…well, stunning.”

Mary Ann blushed. There, they’d said it. They both looked great. Now, what was inside them? Doc would tell him he was crazy for even thinking this. If you could get a woman like Mary Ann in bed, what did it matter what was inside her? Suddenly Jake realized Doc and Mary Ann must have slept together. He knew Doc. And if he was reading Mary Ann right, the two of them couldn’t have worked together long before their chemistry did the inevitable. Inevitable, that is, when there were no moral restraints to hold them back. Thinking of Betsy and the children, Janet and Carly, Finney and Sue and their family cast a dark shadow over what, Jake told himself, should have been a spine-tingling evening of fantasy and anticipation.