But it was a love-hate kind of thing. Refusing to look at the screen that revealed more information than Lonna had ever had or ever would have, she grabbed the sheet she’d printed out before going to bed the night before.
The phone rang.
She was late already, and even if she didn’t get Grace’s dishes done, she couldn’t just make breakfast and leave the woman to eat it alone. Grace looked forward to their morning chats.
And Lonna did, too.
The machine could get the phone. She slid the paper into the leather zip folder Becca Parsons had given her for her last birthday, stiffening as the phone rang again.
Someone needed to talk to her.
And who was Lonna to determine that whatever he or she had to say wasn’t important?
With an exasperated sigh she picked up the phone.
And three hours later, sitting beside Dorothy’s hospital bed, she assured her friend of seventy years that she would not have to go into a Phoenix nursing home. She would not have to leave Shelter Valley or the home she’d lived in all of her adult life. Dorothy’s heart and soul were her essence, and they were still in one-hundred-percent working order.
Lonna would help her while her broken hip healed.
She’d find the time.
And the energy.
She always had.
THE FILM WAS EVOCATIVE. Intense. Full of energy. Keith just wasn’t sure that what it evoked had anything to say to their audience. Or to anyone except maybe the people involved. Or people like them.
Of course he’d been preoccupied with the conversation he’d had with his grandmother earlier that day. He’d been trying to talk her out of a trip to Phoenix by herself. Friday-afternoon traffic was hell. He’d told her Dorothy would be just fine until later that day when he could take Lonna Nielson to the hospital to see her friend.
Had his grandmother listened?
Of course not.
She’d climbed into her Buick and sped to her friend’s side.
This seemed to be a pattern in his life. His word apparently had little value to the women he cared about.
“You don’t like it.”
Keith glanced at his new program director and smiled. Martha Moore, at least, respected his opinion.
“I didn’t say that,” he said, smiling at her before turning his attention to the monitor.
“You don’t have to say it.” Her words were soft as she, too, focused on the film they were previewing. It was a work a student had found and suggested for the following week’s Fine Art feature on MUTV.
The piece was a dance performance. Sort of. It was a depiction of a human condition, one that every human being eventually faced.
An excellent depiction as far as Keith could tell.
He just had no idea why people would choose to watch other people act out the process of dying. It wasn’t something he wanted to put himself through.
But Martha was riveted. Her whole body leaned toward the monitor, almost as though she was going to jump on that stage with those writhing, painfully weak bodies. Eyes drawn to the slim neck exposed by her short black hair, Keith wondered why Martha was still single. Her husband had left more than two years before, and other than a few dates with the architect who’d done some work at Montford, Martha’s love life had been nonexistent.
As far as Keith knew, anyway.
And he couldn’t understand that. Not only was she slim and sexy and down-to-earth, the woman had a way of making a guy feel she honestly enjoyed his company. He wondered if she had anything planned for the weekend ahead; if so, he hoped it would involve something for her and not just for the four kids she was raising alone.
“What?”
She’d caught him staring.
“Nothing.” Jaw set, Keith turned back to the screen.
Keith made it a priority to support student initiatives as often as he could. Part of the MUTV mission was to give the students running the new digital cable station opportunities to recommend and even develop programming. His television motion-picture students had been the driving force behind Keith’s initial idea for the Montford University television station. Unlike many college and university stations, MUTV was not an education-access station.
They were in control of their own programming.
But this particular piece…
Bodies in nude-colored body things, showing the most godawful suffering…
“I think we’re going to have to give this one a miss,” he said.
“No!” Martha’s head spun toward him. “This is what we’re all about, Keith! We have to do it! This is absolutely the best thing we’ve seen in the six months we’ve been here!”
“We’re about positive educational experiences,” he reminded her. “Our programming enriches peoples’ lives in positive ways.”
It didn’t matter if they were showing actual college classes, university sports or a full-length feature film, the goal was the same.
“And it doesn’t get any more uplifting than this,” she insisted. Her brown eyes were turned to the screen again.
Keith stared at her. “It’s the most depressing thing I’ve ever seen! Those people are dying of AIDS!”
The depictions were real—performed by people suffering from the deadly virus.
“They’re alive, Keith.” Martha’s tone was low, but carried so much conviction Keith had to take another look at the screen.
“Think of the hours of rehearsal they put in here. Listen to the documentary. Hear the laughter. The love these people have grown to share. That’s what living is all about. No matter what,” she continued softly, slowly, “life isn’t over until it’s over.”
Okay. He supposed that was true.
So how come all he’d seen was dying people writhing on the floor?
“You can’t just watch something like this with your analytical mind, Keith. You have to see it, feel it, with your heart.”
A young bald man was making motions, as though he was grooming himself, but kept getting interrupted by an imaginary sore on his hand that wouldn’t stop bleeding.
“It’s horrible,” Keith said, wishing he had the guts to get up and leave.
“Look at the expression on his face.” Martha’s voice was soothing. A balm amidst the tragedy seeming to engulf the small room they used for viewing.
Keith looked.
“He’s alive. That sore or whatever it is isn’t stopping him. He’s still doing what he set out to do. Still accomplishing things.”
“Still living,” Keith said slowly, relaxing slightly as his focus changed, seeing, instead of the tragedy, the determination in the performer’s eyes.
And the deep-seated satisfaction as he completed his task.
“Victory,” Martha said.
Her eyes were filled with tears.
Keith had the most bizarre urge to hug her.
HUGGING HERSELF, Bonnie stared at the water at her feet, remembering Mike Diamond’s letter. Still, the flood seeping into her tennis shoes could easily pass for nothing more than bad luck. Toilets