He found his way to the appropriate floor and through the rabbit warren of corridors to Newt’s room. Several people stood outside. He recognized Newt’s daughter Gloria and her husband, and greeted them before he shook hands with some of Newt’s more distant relatives. Newt’s youngest daughter and only son were inside with their father.
Gloria, whose thin face was streaked with tears, looked shaken but resolute. “Last week he refused further treatment. He says he’s ready to die.”
Sam took her hand. “How do you feel about this?”
“He knows what he wants. It would be different if the doctors could really help him. But he’s in pain, and anything else they can do will just prolong it. It’s only...it’s hard to let him go.”
“Newt’s always had good judgment. I think he must have passed that on to you.”
Gloria reached for a tissue in her pocket. She was a striking brunette, but the past months had added worry lines where none had been before. “I know letting him go is the right thing, but it’s good to hear it from an impartial observer.”
“I’m not impartial. I count him among my friends.”
“He feels the same way. I’m so glad you could get here. The hospital chaplain prayed with him, but I know Daddy wanted to see you one more time.”
“He wants to be buried in the church cemetery. Did he tell you?”
She wiped her eyes. “We’ll do the funeral there.”
The door opened, and Newt’s other children came into the hallway. Both were obviously exhausted.
Newt’s son looked much as his father probably had at the same age, tall and scholarly. He shook Sam’s hand. “He’s resting, but you go in and wait until he opens his eyes. He asked if you were here.”
“What does the doctor say?”
“That we should say our goodbyes while we can.”
“Has everyone had a chance to see him?”
“A few old friends are on their way.”
“Then I’ll wait inside.” Sam gave Newt’s youngest daughter a quick hug. Of all his children, she looked the most upset.
Inside, Sam saw that Newt’s bed was one of two, but the other was empty. He hoped it remained that way until Newt was gone. He was relieved to see there were no machines regulating the last hours of his friend’s life. Newt had an IV in his right arm and nothing more. He was not thrashing or moaning. Sam thought he was probably deeply sedated.
He perched on the chair at Newt’s bedside and took his hand. Then he prayed silently that Newt’s death would be easy and his family comforted by the knowledge he was a good man who had led a good life.
Ten minutes passed before Newt opened his eyes. At first he seemed confused, but after Sam spoke to him a while, he focused.
“Sam?”
“I’m here. I’ve been praying for you.”
“You’re putting in a good word...or two?”
Sam managed a little laugh. “Not much need for it, but every little bit helps.”
“I had...a good run.”
“So you did. A very good one. Fine man, fine family, upstanding member of the church and community. I guess your work is finished.”
“You’ll check on my kids? Give them a call down the road...a piece?”
“I’ll tell them you insisted.”
“I’m not dying right yet. Not quite.”
“You’ve got it planned?”
“I...” Newt was silent for a little while, and Sam thought he might have drifted off again, but when he tried to release Newt’s hand, the old man opened his eyes.
“Jenkins...causing trouble.”
Sam couldn’t have been more surprised if Newt had just come back with eyewitness reports of heavenly hosts. “George? Why are you thinking about him?”
“Called last week. Calling all over.” Newt licked his lips. “Wants you fired. Trying his darnedest.”
“This is not something you should be worried about now.”
“You’ll watch out?”
“I promise.” Sam was deeply touched that in the last hours of his life, Newt was concerned for him. “It’s a good church with good people, Newt. You helped make it that way. That doesn’t mean there’s not an occasional snake in the grass, but I promise I’ll be careful where I step. Maybe I can sit down with George and have a real dialogue.”
“I didn’t know you believed...in miracles.”
Sam squeezed Newt’s hand. “What can I do for you, friend?”
“Will you say a prayer while I’m awake? I want to hear this one.”
* * *
On the way back to Adoncia’s house, Elisa took several detours. Having a car again was a heady experience. She hadn’t been able to fully explore the area where she lived and worked, but now that the opportunity had presented itself, she took full advantage. Like one of the many sightseers who came through on their way to and from Skyline Drive, she turned down unfamiliar roads, examining farms and the occasional family business that lay off the beaten path. Kennels and country veterinarians, eggs and handicrafts for sale, vineyards and nurseries.
The vineyards and nurseries interested her most. She knew men from Ella Lane often did day work in the surrounding area. They lined up early in the morning at certain locations, where they were chosen for assignments based on previous work they’d done, the breadth of their shoulders or simply their place in line. Sometimes they were paid under the table; sometimes checks were cut. Some employers paid fairly; some took advantage of the slow economy. Although the system was flawed and sometimes illegal, men who would not work otherwise were in no position to complain.
Near Woodstock, on a scenic side road, she slowed at the sign for Jenkins Landscaping. Diego had mentioned this as one of the places men often went to be hired by the hour. Now she realized the business belonged to George Jenkins, the man she had poured into the front seat of a pickup with this same logo so his son could take him home.
Diego himself had often worked here until he found a steadier job waterproofing basements. In the winter, Jenkins Landscaping employees plowed and removed snow and took down or pruned trees; in the summer, they mowed lawns and planted trees and shrubs. The amount of temporary help Jenkins needed each day depended on the weather and the demand for his services.
Since it was Sunday, no one was working or waiting outside, although several small dump trucks piled high with mulch waited in the driveway. She wondered how badly Jenkins’s head had ached Thursday morning, and if Leon had been forced to bear the brunt of his father’s bad temper.
She stopped once at a service station just outside Woodstock and parked beside a telephone booth she had used before. No one was nearby, exactly the condition she’d hoped for. She inserted the coins she’d gathered for the phone call and dialed a familiar number. When a woman answered, she spoke without preamble.
“It’s Elisa.”
She waited, swallowed disappointment, nodded as if the woman at the other end could see her. “Okay. I’ll talk to you again.” She hung up and stood a while staring across the street at a cow in a field who seemed to feel the phone booth needed to be watched.
She hoped only the cow found it so promising.
By the time she got to Adoncia’s, she was ready to rest, although with Fernando and Maria at home, that was probably not an