Joseph Caldwell - Lazarus Rising

Again she surveyed her work, Johnny splendid before her. Too lean perhaps, but then Lazarus was supposed to have been desperately ill. Then, too, she had, after all, reduced him to ashes. Considering the completeness of his disintegration and the abruptness of the command to get up and come out, it was no small achievement that he’d managed to be as well-muscled and sinewy as he was.

Dempsey reached out her hand. She wanted to touch the painting, to touch Johnny. She wanted to brush her hand across the hair on his chest, to feel again the light scratch, the hair springing up against the skin of her palm, a tickling that could make her body shudder. She could, perhaps, let the hand move across the body, along the shoulders. She could let her fingertips touch the lips, the eyes, cold and enraged as they might be. All would be paid tribute by her tender touch.

How pleasing it was to die. No pleasure was being denied her. She had only to seek and what she sought would be given. Her every want was being fulfilled. But then, her wants were simple and what she sought was there in front of her. But she must not wait too long for her fulfillments. The beeper would beep again and she would have to obey.

Bracing both hands against the seat of the chair, Dempsey began to raise herself. It was an effort, but she could do it. How heavy she had become. How fortunate that her head, still light, still buoyant, was helping to lift her up and allow her to stand. There was not even the need to steady herself.

But before she could advance toward the painting, she realized there was no need for her to move. Johnny was coming toward her. His hand was still outstretched, but she could tell by the moving shadows, by the flickering changes of light, that he was coming closer, that he was making his way through the patches of light and dark, past the tips of flame that sparked against his side, his thigh. There was no need for her to move from the chair. Soon he would be there, with her.

He was coming to tell her something, some message, foolish or wise, that he himself had newly heard. There, on the hand, was the message inscribed. Soon she would be able to read what it said. It had not been tic-tac-toe. Words that she must know were written there. And he was bringing them to her now. But she mustn’t move. She must be where she was so she’d be there when Johnny arrived, when he will have reached her. He was advancing still. He must not tire. She was there, waiting. But he must hurry. The words, the message was for her, for her, for her.

She could wait no longer. She would go to meet him. One foot must be placed in front of the other, and she must move forward. And she must do it now.

But before she could take the first step, some chickens were hatched nearby. They had just pecked their way out of their shells and were chirping. They were hungry. They must be fed. Dempsey would feed the chicks, then she could be with Johnny. Or perhaps he would have arrived by then. The shadows were washing more quickly away from his thigh, faster the sparks flickered against the russet hair and the tawny flesh. He was almost there, the message still emblazoned on the upheld hand.

Knowing with a knowledge she’d always had, she was fully aware of how to feed the chicks. More pills were placed on her tongue. The taste was blunt and dry. So the chicks would have no trouble swallowing, she was miraculously given a glass already filled with water. Where it had come from, she had no idea; it had just appeared as if she herself had willed it. But then she remembered: she was to be given everything she sought. The water in the glass was but a small part of a grand design of which she was the center. For the chicks’ sake, she swallowed the pills.

She looked toward Johnny. But it wasn’t Johnny. It hadn’t been Johnny all along. It was someone else. It was not Johnny. It was not Lazarus. She raised her hand, not sure if it was to fend off the stranger or to greet him. Then she saw who it was, who it was coming toward her. It was Jesus Himself, erupted from His tomb. Fierce was His love, desperate in His longing to greet her. Had Father Dunphy sent Him? No.

She, taking the priest at his word, had summoned Him. After all, it was Jesus who had actually cured her. Her quarrel was with Him, not with Johnny. She was with Him now, face to face.

Higher she raised her hand to welcome Him. She moved her lips. She had something she must say. She must say it now. More quickly she moved her lips, struggling to bring the words up from her throat. They were rising. The words. They were in her mouth, on her tongue. The tongue was swollen with the words she now must speak. “Cure them! Cure them all!” she cried out, not a plaintive plea but a defiant demand. “Not just me! All of them—all!” The words slipped back into her throat, gagging her. But she had spoken. She had been heard. She would say no more. Forever.

Still the chicks were chirping. She lowered her hand. She surrendered. But Jesus was advancing, coming closer, the moving shadows sliding along His body, brushing His flesh, falling away into the dark. Jesus would know what to do. There! Look there! Inscribed on His hand, the message. It would surely tell her whether or not that all, everyone, had been cured. All! All! At last. To her He was coming, heedless and terrible in His love. Closer. He was coming closer. And still the chicks, newly hatched and hungry, chirped on. But she knew she had nothing more to give.

If the air itself wasn’t cool, it at least carried the scent of a breeze. It smelled of water, of the harbor, the upper bay, and this by itself evoked a clearer air and a cooler night. Johnny caught the scent of salt and oil that reminded him that he was an island dweller, the sea was near. Rotting seaweed was, to him, a cleansing odor and he could breathe in the stench of the most stagnant cove and feel himself renewed.

As he approached the loft, he slowed his walk, not just because he was weary, but to give himself a chance to take in the brackish welcome that gave sustenance to his spirit.

He had come because he was desperate to see Dempsey. The desperation had begun that afternoon with his rescue of a woman in the Lunch Room, the shooting gallery where Dempsey had gone for her drugs during the time of her addiction. At one point during the rescue, he’d had a fleeting thought that the woman might be Dempsey herself. This was, of course, ridiculous. The woman, after all, had been unidentifiable in the smoke and darkness, but being where he was, Dempsey was very much on his mind.

Helpless against it, the thought developed into an obsession that demanded that he see her, not in his mind’s eye, but in the flesh. A part of him knew that this was not a rational determination. But because it was an obsession, it was not being responsive to intelligent consideration. No matter how absurd his need, no matter how resistant Dempsey might be, she had to respect his implacable demand.

The hospital had wanted to keep him overnight, but he’d signed himself out. He was experienced enough to know that his lungs had been as cleared as they were ever going to be. The gray snot had finally stopped streaming from his nose.

Reporters and TV cameras had been waiting outside the hospital to harass the fire’s hero, but they had been forbidden entrance to the emergency room and told that John Donegan would not be released until the next day at the earliest. The cameras had left, but one reporter— dogged was the word inevitably used—remained, making jolly conversation with the triage nurse.

Johnny’s cuts had been scrubbed and disinfected and scrubbed again, mercilessly, pitilessly. They were irrigated; they were soaked through with a searing solution. That would surely cause any surviving microbe, bacteria, or virus to die not from defeat in equal combat but from the sheer pain being inflicted. No organism could survive the treatment given Johnny’s hands. Injections, too, were administered. These, he was assured, would neutralize any foreign substances that might find their way into his blood through the cuts and gashes made by the discarded paraphernalia littering the Lunch Room floor.