| the two had kept few secrets as they drifted through their labors. Conversation was more important than progress. Phil was clergy. Nate was a lawyer. Everything said was covered by some manner of confidential privilege. “It’s a nice starting place,” Nate said. “But they’ll take a lot less.” “You expect it to be settled?” “Sure. We’ll meet on Wednesday with the Judge. He’ll apply more pressure. By then the lawyers and their clients will be counting the money.” “So when do you leave?” “Friday, I guess. You wanna come?” “I can’t afford it.” “Sure you can. My client will foot the bill. You can be my spiritual adviser for the trip. Money is no object.” “It wouldn’t be right.” “Come on, Phil. I’ll show you the Pantanal. You can meet my pals Jevy and Welly. We’ll go for a boat ride.” “You haven’t made it sound very appealing.” “It’s not dangerous. There’s quite a tourist business in the Pantanal. It’s a great ecological preserve. Seriously, Phil, if you’re interested I can make it happen.” “I don’t have a passport,” he said, and sipped his coffee. “Plus I have so much work to do here.” Nate would be gone for a week, and he somehow liked the fact that the basement would look the same when he returned. “Mrs. Sinclair is expected to die any day now,” Phil said quietly. “I can’t be gone.” The church had been waiting for Mrs. Sinclair to die for at least a month. Phil was |
left arm held the IV, so he began picking at the tape with the fingers of his right hand. He was aware of voices in another room, and steps on a hard floor. People were busy down the hall. Closer, someone was moaning in a low, steady, painful voice. He slowly worked the tape from his skin and hair, and cursed the person who’d stuck it there. He laid the bandage to one side; it hung over his left ear. His first image was peeling paint, a dull shade of faded yellow on the wall just above him. The lights were off, rays of sun drifted in from a window. The paint on the ceiling was cracked too, large black gaps shrouded with cobwebs and dust. A rickety fan dropped from the center and wobbled as it spun. Two feet caught his attention, two old, gnarled, scarred feet layered with wounds and calluses from toes to soles, sticking in the air, and when he lifted his head slightly he saw that they belonged to a shriveled little man whose bed almost touched his. He appeared dead. The moaning came from the wall near the window. This poor guy was just as small and just as shriveled. He sat in the middle of his bed, arms and legs folded and tucked into a ball, and suffered his affliction in a trance. The smell was of old urine, human waste, and heavy antiseptic all mixed into one thick odor. Nurses laughed down |
