Diane Davidson - Dying for Chocolate

When we got to the end of Sam Snead Lane, lights from police cars flashed importantly at the top of the driveway. The place looked like a carnival. I drove up to the police line and asked for Schulz.

After some conferring between officers, Schulz came walking slowly down the driveway.

“Where did you go?” he demanded. His color was still awful, but his eyes were furious.

“To the school,” I said. “To get Arch.”

His face softened. “Thank God. Where is he?”

“In the van. He’s still pretty cold, and he has an awful cough. Did you find Adele?”

He rubbed his forehead. His tone was weary. “Yes and no. She got out on 1-70, turned off her lights, made a U-turn on the median. Hightailed it back here. She’s in that damn storage area screaming about a detonator. They’re trying to talk to her.”

My heart quaked with fear for Bo. “What about the general—”

“He’s okay, on his way to Denver in an ambulance. Soon as he recovers we’re going to book him.”

“Oh, that’s nice. For what?”

“For breaking every explosives-storage law on the books, thank you very much.”

There was some shouting from the top of the driveway. A wave of police officers came running out toward their vehicles, shouting about clearing the area.

Suddenly there was a flash and a boom. We were all thrown to the cement. Booms, hisses, more booms. I covered my head and hoped that the van had not been hit by a rocket-propelled grenade. Light erupted and then abruptly went out. The booms wouldn’t stop.

There was a great roar. The garage was on fire. Debris showered around us: the remains of the magazine. There was one final, terrible explosion, then a silence, broken only by the crackle of the fire and my ragged breathing.

“Arch!” I cried. Schulz grabbed for me, but missed. I ran back to the van. It had survived the explosion. As I was about to open the door I heard a loud meow and felt a wad of fur dash between my legs. I looked down at Scout. I scooped up the cat and climbed into the van.

Sissy looked at me wide-eyed. Her wet hair was disheveled, her face white with fear. “Adele?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. I handed her the cat. Wordlessly, she opened the van door and climbed out holding Scout.

Arch was coughing, choking. His chest heaved. He was having trouble breathing. Why, why, why? I asked myself.

“Breathe for me, Arch. Take deep breaths,” I ordered. He wheezed and coughed. His history of virally induced asthma made this doubly frightening. He must have aspirated pool water. I gave myself a mental kick. This happened all the time to river rafters. The raft would capsize in rapids and rafters would aspirate river water. After initial coughing and gagging, they would appear to be fine. But water could get trapped in the air side of the lung wall, and an hour after being pulled out of the water, they drowned.

Arch wheezed and could not get his breath. He gasped wildly before he went unconscious. I catapulted backward out of the van and went shrieking up to Schulz for help.

After some initial confusion, a medic pulled Arch out and began to work on him in the driveway. He cleared out the airway while a second medic put in a call to Lutheran Hospital for permission to intubate. Once the medic got the permission, he checked with a laryngoscope and put down an endotracheal tube. Breathe, breathe, I prayed. The EMS team hooked Arch up to oxygen from their truck, then shooed me away.

I told somebody to call Dr. John Richard Korman. I knelt down on the side of the driveway, aware for the first time in the last hour that cold wet clothes clung to my skin. There were people all around; I ignored them. All of them except for Schulz, who sat down heavily beside me and put two clean sweat suits in my hands.

I said, “I’m a terrible mother.”

Schulz said, “You are a wonderful mother. Now I risked my life getting these dry clothes for you and Arch, why don’t you find some place to put them on?”

My arms reached for Schulz’s large body. While my head was buried in his shoulder he murmured, “Well, look who’s here.”

I jerked back and whirled to face a very disheveled Julian Teller dressed in camouflage gear. He flopped down beside us. After a moment he said, “I was on my way back here when I saw the explosions.”

I could think of nothing to say. I was aware that I was shivering. At that moment a member of the EMS team trotted up. He looked very serious. I braced myself.

He said, “Your son has gained consciousness. He pulled the tube out! He’s breathing okay now, but we’ve got to take him down to Lutheran for twenty-four hours’ observation.” I nodded and handed him the kid-size sweat suit.

Schulz said, “Let’s go.”

I pulled myself together enough to ask the cop in charge to call Marla Korman with the bad news about her sister. Then I asked Schulz if he was feeling well enough to drive. He smiled and muttered a macho response I was glad not to catch. I climbed into the back to change. With Sissy gone, Julian sat in the passenger seat, and the three of us took off in the van behind the EMS ambulance.

There was the usual flurry at the hospital. Despite the dry clothes, Arch kept shivering, so I asked for heated blankets from the warming cabinet and got them. The EMS guys had started him on an IV, in case the hospital needed to give him antibiotics, antiwheezing meds, or vasoconstrictors if he dropped into shock. I knew I had to call John Richard, but I couldn’t leave Arch’s side just yet. After chest X-rays and blood-gas tests, they finally settled him into a private room in the Pediatric Observation area. I would let John Richard pick up the tab.

Despite much protestation from Arch, Julian and I tucked a cocoon of blankets around him. Tom Schulz moved chairs in for us all and then went in search of a vending machine. Within ten minutes he was back with a cardboard tray with four cups: one filled with water and three with steaming hot chocolate. Schulz mumbled an apology to Arch that the nurse had said clear liquids only. Arch smiled and said Schulz could buy him a milkshake when he got out of this place. Then he tossed off the pile of blankets and sat up to receive the water from Schulz’s big hands.

“You should be down in the ER being treated with activated charcoal to get out the rest of that cantharidin,” I chided Schulz.

He raised those wonderful tentlike bushy eyebrows at me, reached into his pocket, and pulled out some aspirin-shaped tablets. “Speaking of which,” he said, “a nurse in the ER gave me some when I identified myself and told her what happened. We can take it together.”

I groaned, but took my medicine. Anything tastes good when you wash it down with chocolate.

Then Schulz handed Julian a cup and demanded, “What happened to you?”

Julian sipped. He said, “When I was doing some filing for the general, I found that letter from the Utah Bureau of Vital Records. It was a shock. I ran away. . . to think.” He told us briefly that he had seen the magazine erupt on his way back from Flicker Ridge, where he was going to practice camping skills the general had taught him the night he was supposed to have a date with Sissy. “I didn’t want anybody to know I might take off,” he said. “But I decided to come back. When I saw the explosions I knew there was only one place . . .”

I told him Adele was gone. I said, “I’m sorry about Adele and Brian. Your . . . parents—”

He said, “My parents are in Utah.” He paused. Dirt crusted along his hairline; he looked haggard. Arch gave Julian his adoring attention. Julian said, “Where’s Bo?”

I told him. He sighed wearily. He said, “I really liked the general. I’d like to help him. You know, like be his support person when he’s going through his trial. That’s what Dr. Miller was always telling me. Everybody needs support.”