J. Wachowski - In Plain View

I wandered the halls, people-watching and mulling. After twenty minutes or so, it appeared the cafeteria had lost itself. The hospital had some renovation project going on and all the maps were either wrong or led to dead-ends of orange mesh. I came out of an elevator, turned a corner and found myself in a hall facing a circle of women and men in Amish dress. Two medical types were talking with them in the waiting area.

I recognized one of the men. It was the guy who’d tromped through Jost’s kitchen in knee-high dairy boots ordering me to vamoose.

The nurse behind the counter saw me gawking. “They’re Amish,” she offered. “A friend of theirs was in a fire.”

It wasn’t easy to keep it to, “Really? That’s a bummer. Was he burned?”

“No,” she assured me with a kindly, vacant frown. “A little smoke inhalation is all. Can I help you find something?”

With an opening like that, how could I not ask? I gave her Jost’s name and she didn’t appear to make the connection. She checked a chart, directed me to his room and returned to her paperwork.

The sight line between Jost’s door and the waiting area where the other Amish were listening to the doctors was blocked by the privacy curtain surrounding the nurses’ station. He was under close observation. I knocked before I entered.

Old Mr. Jost was under the clear plastic covering of an oxygen tent. They had him in a hospital gown but the whiskers still set him apart.

I stood and watched him for a while, thinking of Jenny mostly. I had no plan to ask him questions. Nothing to say to the old fart, really. I think I just wanted to look at him one more time; like the accident off to the side of the road, reminding me to slow down, wear my seatbelt and quit flipping off the other drivers.

What happened here won’t happen to me.

I wished I had my camera between us, but I forced myself to stand there and look through my own eyes.

He blinked awake. That didn’t bother me. But when his fingers flicked against the plastic, I jumped. He wanted me to lift the curtain.

“What?” I asked. I leaned over so my ear was right above his mouth.

“-ay-chel?” The word was mostly exhale.

“She’s all right.”

“Wherrre?”

I thought about lying. “She’s with Grace Ott.”

His eyes closed. He looked dead. The color of his skin, the nearly imperceptible shallowness of his breathing, his eyes didn’t even flicker. It was impossible to perceive any part of what he was thinking or feeling.

That’s when my questions came. I couldn’t stop myself. “Why did he do it, Mr. Jost? Why did Tom ask you to watch? Did he want you to stop him?”

“No.” That word was soft but clear. His eyes stayed closed. With my ear hovering, he whispered, “…maybe, die a little bit…with him.”

“The phone-how did you end up with the phone?”

“Shame,” he whispered, “my shame.”

“You took the phone from Tom.”

His eyes barely opened. They were red with smoke irritation, the skin around them gray and sagging. “Tried. Run to him…too late. Too late.” His eyes pooled with tears.

A nurse pushed into the room. “Uh, uh. Don’t disturb the tent,” she scolded. “Out, out, out of there!”

“I’m going. Sorry.”

His fingers curled and tapped across my hand like the dance of a spider’s legs, calling my attention back.

“Yes?”

“Resist not evil.” They were the clearest words he’d spoken yet.

Miracle of miracle, I remembered that one. “Turn the other cheek. Overcome evil with good.”

He tapped the back of my hand three times. Yes, that’s it.

I nodded. I think he believed that taking the phone was a way to turn the other cheek. Perhaps he meant to confess to his community and explain what happened, or save Tom from the public shame of having acted in anger. But Rachel found the phone. And the protective, controlling father took over. Until now, the only scenarios I had been able to imagine were the ones motivated by a man’s self-preservation and guilt. A hundred questions formed in my head. The nurse glared at me.

“Please, one last question. My colleague thinks there was someone in the house with you last night. Before the fire started. Did you see anyone?”

“Thought boy come for Rachel,” he struggled to say. “Englischer.”

“Did you see him?”

His eyes closed. Exhaustion or the need to keep his own council ended that line of talk.

“That’s all,” Nursey scolded. “You’re disturbing the tent. He needs to rest.”

“I’m done. I’m gone,” I told her. I touched the back of his hand. “Thank you. Be well.”

Slipping out was more nerve-wracking than going in. Through the mesh at the top of the curtain, I could see Jost’s friends and family three feet away and closing. I ducked around the curtain partition and followed it toward the nurses’ station. Just ahead of me, I could hear men on the other side of the curtain. They were having a tight-throated discussion. I froze.

I’m pretty good with voices. To the careful ear, voices are as distinct as a walk, a form of handwriting, a style of dress. Still, it surprised me-was it really that small a town? There was something familiar in those voices.

Everyone has heard the research into pheromones that sync us up with mates. I sincerely doubt that’s all the lizard brain can detect. I think we smell all sorts of crap, like lies and wickedness and trouble ahead. Maybe that explains why a person might freeze and listen to a conversation that makes very little sense at first.

Or maybe I’m just nosey.

“…tired of it, do you hear me?”

“I hear you. I’m trying-”

“I don’t want to hear how hard you are trying. You’ve turned something very simple into something complicated. Am I going to have to find someone else to help me?”

“No. No.”

“I hope not. I’ll call you.”

“Um, yeah, listen I have a new number. Old phone’s gone.”

Hello! The light went on. That was Pat talking. Fireman Pat, Tom Jost’s partner, a.k.a. Mr. Vegas. Couldn’t place the other voice. I slipped back two steps as a nurse came barging full-steam around my curtain wall.

“Whoops-sorry,” she said automatically. She followed it with a more hostile, “What are you doing here?”

“Lost.” I grimaced and backed through the curtain into the open hall area. “Cafeteria?”

“That way.” She pointed with a finger-gun toward the far end of the hall.

“Thanks.”

I caught a glimpse of someone rounding the corner at a good clip, the reflectors on his uniform jacket flashing as he passed beneath the yellow-green light of each fluorescent ceiling fixture. I looked back the other way, no sign of the second man. The only door nearby that didn’t seem to lead to a patient’s room read Restricted.

“Hey Pat!” I hollered, taking a chance that he was the man disappearing around the corner. “Wait up!” On four hours sleep, subtle Miss Nancy Drew I’m not.

Lucky for me, Mr. Vegas had a lot of friends in the hospital.

“Looking for something?” a guy in scrubs asked.

“EMS guy named Pat?” I tried.

That brought an eye roll. “Figures. Never the ugly ones. Toward the cafeteria.”

“Thanks.”

Couple of nurses pointed me, “That way.”

“Right. Thanks.”

I turned a corner into an empty hall. Quiet. No sign of anyone. My heart was pumping with adrenaline and the sudden change of pace. I’d been race-walking the halls, trying to catch up. Mounted on the wall near a frosted glass door was a small, brass plaque.

Chapel. Open 24 Hours.

It felt like a trick. I pulled the door and peeked inside.