The Court (11 page)

And he still might know a few people. He had gone to grade school and high school there. The nucleus of workers who served the giant university would still be there. The sons and daughters of the men and women who used to make the college complex run probably remained, at least some of them, to continue their inherited roles.

He wondered what have become of his old high school chums, although “chum” was really not the precise word to describe the past relationships. Still, it might be interesting. Where are they now? Like one of those newspaper features about faded celebrities, it would be fascinating to know.

Most of the members of his high school class would be forty-six years old, like himself. The realization that Regina Kelso, four years younger, would now be forty-two shocked him a bit. He always pictured her as she had been; young, soft, and with a prettiness that bordered on true beauty. He had held that memory for years, never considering that she would age. It would be crushing if Regina had changed too much.

Green suddenly faced the reality that most probably he would see many of them again. He would be like a ghost returning, a spirit sent to observe their fates. And these would not be the polished people of Washington or New York. They would be men and women quite different from those he customarily encountered in corporation boardrooms or in the marbled halls of federal government.

He was not particularly fond of any of them, with the exception of Regina. That they would have little in common seemed the thought of an intellectual snob. But, he reflected somberly, it was probably true enough.

None of them, he recalled, had ever sat beneath the evening stars and discussed the mysteries of life, at least not with him. There was no reason to think their ability to communicate with him would have been improved by the passage of time. The gulf between them could only have been widened by time and the difference in lifestyles.

To them he would always be Hank Green's younger brother. A pale shadow indeed. Hank Green was strong, breezy, and a local sports star. Jerry Green had been strong enough but lacked the coordination that insured excellence in athletic competition, and he had been painfully shy. The contrast between the two brothers had done nothing to enhance Jerry Green's popularity as a youth.

He sped past the Stadium Exit sign and was unsure whether he should take it. He passed the exit and then saw a big green highway sign proclaiming: Lansing, next 2 exits. He moved into the right-hand lane and prepared to leave the interstate.

The state highway skirted along the western border of the university's lands. Most of the experimental farms were gone. Michigan State had been a true agricultural school when his father had been on the faculty. It had offered a program of liberal arts, but the farming courses had been the core of its real function.

Now large multistoried buildings loomed where fields of crops had grown. He experienced no sense of being on a college campus when he looked at those buildings; no ivy covered their walls, no ancient trees shaded their walks. They looked like huge concrete and steel blocks set down in the middle of a flat farm field. And they were essentially just that.

The highway branched off in several directions and the signs were confusing. He made the wrong choice and headed west, away from the university.

He found himself in the city of Lansing. He ended up at Michigan Avenue. To his immediate right was the bridge over Grand River, the wide, shallow stream that wound through the town. To his left, at a distance, was the state capitol, with its familiar statue of Austin Blair, the Civil War governor, guarding its smooth lawns.

Green turned right and headed back toward East Lansing and the university. Everything was different, and yet nothing had really changed. There was development going on. The old railway station now was a restaurant. Sparrow Hospital still stood but it had been so enlarged and modernized that it was almost unrecognizable. The Church of the Resurrection and its school remained as always. Commerce flourished. The names and the businesses were different now, but they were bright, prosperous, and well maintained. He was at the campus almost before he realized it.

The big sign marked it—Michigan State University, Pioneer Land Grant College.

He tried to look at the familiar buildings, this was the old campus, the places he remembered, but clusters of students lined the roadside, dashing across when they had the chance. He was forced to keep his attention on the driving. The wide boulevard of Michigan Avenue became Grand River. As he approached the student union the students seemed almost suicidal in their urge to cross.

He passed the last grassy island and the boulevard merged into one wide street. He was surprised to find himself caught in a traffic jam.

In the old days, even the idea of traffic congestion at this point of the road would have been considered impossible. He saw the sign ahead and had to squeeze into the left turn lane and inch along with the other cars. Horns blared behind him as he waited for oncoming traffic to clear before swinging left into the driveway of the motel.

It was new, two stories high and rambling along the top of a ridge. Its architecture imitated a Swiss chalet. He registered, drove to his parking space, and unloaded his bags into the room.

The room was attractive and neat, somewhat larger than most hotel rooms. He checked the place over. The cable worked. He hung up his suits and unpacked.

He felt tired and sat down on the bed. Somehow things didn't seem complete. He felt he really should call someone and report that he had arrived safely. His wife would be busy at her office in Washington and would only wonder at such an unnecessary call. There was no one else. The White House people would be interested only in results. The fact that he had arrived held no interest for anyone but himself. He had never before realized just how unattached he really was. Jerry Green felt lonely.

The motel had a restaurant. He idly flipped through the room service menu. The desk drawer contained the usual postcards, stationery, and Bible.

He picked up the telephone book and opened it. It was there. He knew it would be.

Green, Henry J.… 201 Sunset Lake Lane, followed by the telephone number.

He would have to call his brother sometime. Even if rebuffed, he still felt obligated to make some civilized symbolic gesture. It wouldn't do if he just ran into his brother on the campus, although it was so large and there were so many people that it did seem unlikely. Still, the call was something he felt had to be done.

He took a notepad from his briefcase and jotted down the number and address. He would make the call, but not now. He presumed it would be unpleasant for them both. It could wait. He did not wish to mark the beginning of his task with something distasteful.

Jerry Green loosened his tie and lay back on the bed. He lit a cigarette and watched the smoke waft up toward the stucco ceiling. As always, he wondered what dramas had been played out in this particular motel room. Squalid love affairs, surely. That was an accepted fact. But what of the other human occurrences, the breakup of families, the failed student spending his last night before going home and facing disgrace. He always wondered the same thing in every motel or hotel room he occupied. Despite the discipline of his legal training, he liked to allow his imagination full rein now and then, to abandon the realities of the world and let his thoughts run free, the symptom, he realized, of a hopeless romantic.

The telephone book lay open on the bed. He rolled over and idly flicked through its pages.

There were a number of Kelsos listed. He presumed that Regina was married and wouldn't be listed. Richard Kelso, her father, was no longer listed. There was no Kelso listed as living at the big colonial on Faircrest Drive. Michael J. Kelso was listed. Green didn't recognize the street. It was in the nearby city of Okemos. But it had to be her brother.

He picked through the phone book. Some remembered names were there, although he knew they might not be the same people. Others had disappeared from the pages. He searched through the phone book as if it somehow held the key to the door into the past. Names, long forgotten, floated up through the mists of his memory. He continued the search through the pages, almost frantically.

Suddenly he tired of the phone book. He closed it and lay back. It had been a long trip. The flight and the long drive from Detroit to Lansing had succeeded in bringing on a feeling of exhaustion. He reached over and ground out his cigarette in an ashtray.

The drapes were already drawn, and the light from outside was fading around the edges. Night was coming on. He closed his eyes. He pictured the face of Regina Kelso. He decided she was indeed beautiful. He remembered her eyes. Soft, sympathetic eyes. He drifted off to sleep.

*   *   *

She knew something was different. She had been escorted down the long hospital hallway to a small private lounge. Dr. Kaufman, the leader of the medical team in charge of her husband's case, had walked along with her, guiding her from her husband's room with its bottles, tubes, and machines to this small, comfortable room which was tastefully decorated and, if a bit larger, could easily have served as a nice living room. Apparently it was a staff physicians' hideaway.

“You remember Dr. Gibson, of course,” Kaufman said.

Gibson slowly rose from his seat. He did not smile. His only greeting was a quick nod. He peered down at her from over the rim of his glasses.

“Yes, I remember Dr. Gibson,” she replied, adding, “the noted neurosurgeon.”

She was alone with the two physicians. She saw Kaufman every day and felt comfortable in his presence. A short, stocky man with a perpetual smile, Dr. Kaufman seemed to exude enthusiasm and cheer. But Dr. Gibson was different. There seemed to be an aura of funeral and graveside about him. Martha Howell felt a chill of foreboding as she looked up at the tall somber doctor.

“Please sit down, Mrs. Howell,” Dr. Kaufman said, his voice seemed to have lost much of its usual enthusiasm. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea perhaps?”

She sat down and shook her head. Dr. Gibson continued to regard her in silence. There was no expression in his long face. Only his eyes seemed to have any vitality, and they merely seemed to be coldly curious.

Both physicians took seats opposite her. Dr. Gibson hooked one long leg over the other and leaned forward, his elbow resting easily on the top of his knee. Kaufman sat back, his fingertips unconsciously drumming a silent staccato upon the arm rests of his chair.

Kaufman's smile seemed to be flickering out. His eyes looked sad. “Mrs. Howell, I think I know you well enough to know you are a lady who possesses a real strength of character, real courage.” He coughed nervously. “And I know you can accept what we must tell you.”

“What are you trying to say?” She was suddenly alarmed. She felt confused. She had just left her husband's bedside. He had looked the same as always, as if he were just peacefully sleeping.

“There's been a change in your husband's condition, I'm afraid, Mrs. Howell,” Kaufman said. “Dr. Gibson confirms the staff's assessment.”

She looked from Kaufman to the tall stranger. He hadn't changed position, his eyes were still fixed on her.

“What kind of change?” She asked. “He looks the same. I saw nothing different.”

“There's been a second stroke,” Dr. Gibson said, his voice surprisingly deep. “Another blood vessel has burst in your husband's brain. I'll spare you the medical jargon, Mrs. Howell. Basically, this time there has been much greater damage than that resulting from the first cerebrovascular accident.”

“But he looks the same.”

The tall physician nodded. “Yes, he does. But that's because of the machines. They are maintaining him now.”

“But that's always been true.”

The tall doctor shook his head. “Not really. All those gadgets you see attached to him just augmented his normal abilities. For instance, he was breathing on his own, the respirator was just helping him along.” He paused. “That's not true anymore.”

“And now?”

“The machine does the breathing for him.”

She looked over at Dr. Kaufman. His round face was solemn.

It seemed to her it was the first time she had ever seen him without a smile. He didn't look natural. Her face was now the same emotionless mask as that of Dr. Gibson's.

“The damage was extensive,” Kaufman said very quietly. “What Dr. Gibson says is correct.”

“But how do you know?” she protested. She looked again into the cold eyes of Dr. Gibson. He seemed so quietly sure of himself. She felt anger rise within her. “There's been no change. None at all!”

“The monitoring apparatus told us what was happening,” Dr. Kaufman said. “We took all available measures to attempt to stem the extent of the injury, as you can imagine. Unfortunately, they didn't work.”

“You didn't get me down here just to present an overview of my husband's case. This man,” she nodded at Dr. Gibson, “certainly isn't here just for the ride. For God's sake, what are you trying to tell me?”

Gibson leaned back, looking almost relaxed, his hands folded in his lap. “There has been brain death, Mrs. Howell. There's no other way to put it. I'm sorry.”

She was surprised at her own reaction. She felt no tears welling, no sorrow, just anger. “That's very nice for you to say, very pat, but I just left my husband, and I could detect no change whatsoever. I don't see how you can possibly say a thing like that!”

Gibson slowly shook his head, his features still expressionless. “I can understand your feelings,” he said evenly. “I have no wish to provoke you, Mrs. Howell. These things are devastating to the family of the patient. We know that, of course.”

Kaufman again coughed nervously. She looked over at him.

“As we all realize, Mrs. Howell,” Kaufman said, “your husband is a very special patient. He is a sitting member of the United States Supreme Court. We are very careful with all our patients, of course, but especially so with your husband. You can be assured that we used every method of treatment known to help your husband. As I say, they weren't successful.”