More Stories from the Twilight Zone (22 page)

She laughed gently. “No. You're not the first. Which one was it? The little girl?”

“No. She was sweet. It was easy because she understood we were ending her pain. And she knew she was loved. No, it was the boy last night.”

“The drug overdose?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You gave him a pass.”

“Yes.”

“The paramedics talked you out of it?”

“And his mother was watching.”

“Yes, I heard. In fact, that's why I expected you this morning. Everybody gets one of those warrants, sooner or later.” She added, “You did the right thing. You erred on the side of caution. Maybe the boy will learn, maybe he won't. Probably he won't. But if there's even the slightest chance that he will, you were right to do what you did. It doesn't hurt you to be merciful. It doesn't hurt us.”

She took a deep breath. “But sometimes, it does hurt the client. Sometimes in our eagerness to be the nice guy, sometimes all we do is extend the pain, stretch it out a little longer than it needs to be. It's a judgment call, and I promise you, I'll always stand behind you, no matter what you decide in such a case. As far as I'm concerned, you're a deathman, you don't make mistakes. But just be aware—sometimes, in some cases, it happens that being merciful isn't the most merciful thing you can do. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

Justin nodded. “I was thinking about his mother. I didn't sleep very well last night. If I had . . . exercised the transition warrant, the boy would be out of his pain. And so would the mom. I mean, yes, she'd have to deal with her grief for a while, but the warrant would have released her from the trap she was in. This way, he
goes to the hospital, the clinic, the rehab center, he begins the cycle all over again, one more time—and the mom, she has to go through the whole cycle again, too. Until the next time she finds him on the floor choking on his vomit. I could have spared her that pain. How many weeks or months or even years?”

Justin's supervisor nodded. “What you just said—that's true compassion.”

“It's in the training. I paid attention.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I get it now. It's not just about the client. It's about the client's family—releasing them from their burdens, too. That's what I'm upset about. I'm not sure I did that woman any favor.”

“No, you probably didn't. Oh, if you were to ask her, she'd say you did, and she'd be enormously grateful. But in actuality, no. Her quality of life will not improve as long as she is carrying the burden of that boy and his addiction. No, Justin, you didn't do anything wrong last night. It's a lesson we all have to learn. Mercy isn't always nice. Sometimes mercy is ruthless.”

She sighed, not in exhaustion but in sympathy. “Do you need to take some personal time?”

Justin shook his head. “I'm fine. I think.”

“If you want to take the rest of the day, or even a couple of days, go ahead.”

“Thank you,” Justin said, rising. “I, uh—I think maybe I should. Thank you.”

On the way out, Justin ran into the dispatch officer. He was holding a fresh warrant.

“Um, no, I probably shouldn't. I'm supposed to take a personal day.”

“Sure, okay. No problem. I was just thinking convenience.”

Justin rubbed his nose. “Okay.” He took the transition warrant and shoved it into his coat pocket without looking at it. “I can take care of it tonight.”

“Or tomorrow,” said the officer. “Whenever it's convenient. The client isn't going anywhere.”

 

In the morning, Justin helped his father out of bed and into the bathroom. He sat him down on the plastic chair in the shower and helped him bathe, using a showerhead on a flexible hose so the old man wouldn't have to twist or turn more than necessary.

After he dressed his father, he lifted him into the wheelchair and rolled him into the kitchen. “Would you like some bacon and eggs this morning, Dad?”

“Too expensive. Why are you spending all this money? Oatmeal.”

“We can afford it now. Remember, I have a job.”

“Eggs and bacon. Cholesterol and fat. Trying to kill me, are you?”

“No, Dad. I'm trying to make you happy. Sunny-side up? Or scrambled?”

“Scrambled. Hmpf.”

“And what channel would you like today? History or Animals or National Geographic?”

“Doesn't matter, they're all the same. And don't get so uppity. I know how to use the remote.”

“Yes, you do know. It's right there for you.”

“Don't you have to go to work already?”

“Not today. I'm taking a personal day.”

“They fired you already?”

“No, Dad. They said I did good. They just want me to have some time to—to think about some things. It's part of the job.”

“Hmpf. I know what happens when you start thinking. You tie yourself in a knot. You get all stuck. Well, don't you do that now. You have a good job. It keeps us in bacon and eggs. Don't you give up now. What? No toast?”

“It's in the toaster, just a minute more. And no, I'm not giving up my job. I'm just—sorting some things out.”

“Sorting? Hah. Nothing to sort. Just do it. Don't be a damn wussy.”

While his father sorted through his breakfast, complaining his way through the meal, Justin busied himself with little things. Washing the pan, putting away the bread, pouring himself a cup of coffee. His gray coat was on the back of his chair. He picked it up and started for the closet, then remembered the unfulfilled warrant in the pocket.

The warrant had a blue stripe across the top. He'd never gotten one of those before. It meant “Optional.” To be exercised at the discretion of the server. Another judgment call.

Actually, it was an acknowledgment. This is how much we trust you now.

He didn't open it, he just tapped it against his fist for a moment, thinking. Remembering his orientation, remembering his training. Remembering what his supervisor had said. “You're not just releasing the client, you're releasing the family as well.”

Maybe she'd said it to make this kind of decision easier, but in Justin's mind, no—it only complicated the matter. Who was he really serving?

But he already knew the answer to that one, too. Again, from his training. Step back from the immediate circumstances. You're serving everyone. Figure out where the real service is and you'll know what to do.

He shook away the thought. In theory, it was an easy conversation. In practice, it wasn't about conversation. He unfolded the warrant without looking at it. Okay. If nothing else, it would get him out of the apartment for a bit. Maybe some fresh air, a walk through the park, a chance to sit and not think.

The old man wheeled himself into the living room. “You're doing it, boy, aren't you? Thinking yourself into a corner.”

“No, Dad. I'm not thinking at all.”

“Well then, why don't you do something useful? Go to work. Make some more money.”

“Yes, that's probably a good idea.” He glanced down at the paper in his hand. He wasn't surprised. He'd been expecting it. All the myriad little conversations fluttered around him for a moment, then evaporated. He understood.

He understood everything.

He reached into his inside coat pocket.

He began pulling on his gloves.

“Dad? Have I told you today how much I love you?”

 

 

“To everything, there is a season and a time for every purpose under Heaven. A time to be born, and a time to die.” To which we might add, “Especially in the Twilight Zone.”

 

Words written in purple ink. Words speaking of destiny, warning of death. Marj tries hard to deny that these words are written to her, but eventually she must accept that someone is speaking to her from . . . the Twilight Zone.

The words were pursuing her.

Aghast, Marj stared at what was written on the right side of the bathroom stall. Amid the names of rock bands, recitations of undying love, mild obscenities, and even a fairly good limerick was the Palmer-method perfect handwriting she'd already seen twice that day. The words, written in what looked like dark purple marker, were simple.

Why do you wait? Neither destiny nor death can be denied.

Shivering, Marj tore off a length of toilet paper but, as she finished her business, she couldn't rip her attention from the words.

“Neither destiny nor death can be denied,” she murmured.

Then the chiming of the clock on the campus green reminded her that other, more immediate (at least she hoped more immediate) responsibilities also could not be denied.

Tucking herself back into order, Marj quickly washed her hands. She studied her reflection in the mirror as she touched up her makeup and hair. Neat brown locks professionally cut in a professional style. Green eyes that contact lenses made just a little brighter. A trim figure set off well by a stylish suit. Expression, just a little worried . . .

Marj schooled her features to project order and confidence, then, half-running, hurried to the second floor lecture hall.

As Marj moved to take her place behind the podium on the raised dais that dominated the hall, the other words in purple ink she had read that day echoed counterpoint to the tap of her low-heeled pumps against the floor.

Why do you wait? Surrender to fate.

That one had been written across a birthday card stacked on top of her mail in the Psych Department main office when she'd come in that morning. She'd thought the inscription was a department prank—in rather bad taste—but when she'd gone to show the envelope to the secretary, she couldn't find it.

Why do you wait? Open your heart.

That had been written on the reverse of a lawn service flyer stuffed into the mailbox for her small house. She'd found the note when she'd stopped home on her way to a birthday lunch with her mom.

Although these two ominous warnings had shaken her, Marj had eventually concluded that they must be student pranks. Although she did not precisely advertise where she lived, the information could be found easily enough. The note defacing her birthday card would have been easier still to pull off, but this last one?

Who would have known she was going to stop in that particular ladies' room? She certainly hadn't intended to do so. She'd been on her way back to her office from lunch when one of her students had stopped her with a question. By the time they had finished their impromptu conference, Marj had realized she didn't have time to go all the way back to the Psych Department and had raced for the faculty lounge.

That was another puzzling element. Normally, students—except for a few privileged graduate assistants—did not have access to the faculty lounge. How did the graffiti artist get into the private bathroom?

Of course, if it was a faculty member . . .

A slight rise in the hum of student chatter alerted Marj that her failure to hook up her laptop and begin her lecture on schedule had been noticed.