The White Knight (16 page)

“Are you a family member?”

“Not exactly.”

“You'll have to wait. He can only have visitors every four hours and then only for fifteen minutes. The waiting room is right down there.”

“Can you tell me how he is?”

“You'll have to ask his doctor about that, I'm afraid.”

“I talked with a Dr. Sanderson. Can you get him on the phone?”

“Dr. Sanderson is due to make his rounds in another hour. I'll make sure he sees you then.”

Luke walked down to the waiting room and sat in one of the chrome chairs covered with pale green Leatherette fabric. Several other people were in the room as well, reading magazines or dozing. A very fat man had fallen asleep, his head tipped to one side, his mouth open. A young woman was reading a story to two young children. She glanced up at Luke and nodded. Luke nodded back and then looked through the magazines on the table. He didn't find much of interest in the old issues of
Good Housekeeping
and
Ladies' Home Journal.

He leaned back against the wall, staring blankly at the pictures on the opposite wall. He felt numb, his mind fragmented. He kept thinking that if he had stayed away from Lettie, refrained from drinking, and made the flight as he was supposed to, Streak wouldn't be lying in a hospital bed.

The hour seemed to drag by. From time to time Luke would glance at the clock high on the wall, and it seemed at times not to have moved at all. When the fat man woke up, he stood up and stretched.

“Hello,” he said to Luke. “My name's Aldridge.”

“Winslow.”

“You got folks here?”

“Friend.”

“My daughter-in-law's here. She had a bad accident.”

“Hope she'll be all right.”

“She's not going to make it. My son's in the army. He's trying to get back, but the doc says she's not going to last until he gets here.”

Luke had no idea how to respond to this. “I'm very sorry,” he said finally.

“It was just bad luck. Just plain bad luck.” He shook his
head and wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. “There's coffee over there. Do you want some?”

“Yeah. Coffee would be good.”

Luke got up, and Aldridge poured two cups of coffee and handed him one. “It ain't the best coffee in the world, but it's hot and it's black. Sugar's there if you want some.”

“Black is fine.” He stood there sipping at his coffee while Aldridge told him all about his daughter-in-law. Luke was sorry for the man but could listen with only half of his mind. When Aldridge paused, Luke left the waiting room. He found the rest room and washed his face. When he straightened up, he saw that his hands were trembling. He needed a drink badly, but he knew that would not do. He did not want to go back into the waiting room, but there was no place else to go.

When he left the rest room, he saw a tall, sandy-haired man wearing a white coat talking with one of the nurses at the nurses' station.

The nurse saw Luke and said, “Mr. Winslow . . .”

He went over to the desk. “This is Dr. Sanderson,” she told him.

The two stepped away from the desk and Luke asked, “How is Roscoe Garrison, Dr. Sanderson? Is he going to make it?”

“I wish I had better news.”

“What is it exactly?”

“Too many internal injuries, and he's lost far too much blood. By the time the crew got him here, he was almost gone. We're keeping him alive as best we can. I spoke with his sister over the phone. She'll be coming in. You know any more relatives we could get in touch with?”

“No. I don't know of any others. Can I see him?”

Sanderson shrugged. “You can sit by him. The rules say you can stay only fifteen minutes, but I'm leveling with you, Mr. Winslow. He probably won't wake up, and he's not going to make it through the night. I'm sorry.”

Luke stood there numbly, wanting to beg the doctor to do
something, but he saw the finality in Sanderson's dim face and couldn't say a word. He followed Sanderson down the hall, and they entered another nursing area. Sanderson led Luke to one of the beds and then turned and said, “I'll be around for a while if you have any questions, but there's really nothing I can do.” He started to say something else, but he only shook his head, quickly turned, and left the room.

Luke simply stood there unable to move. Streak lay on the bed with tubes running from his body to various pieces of equipment and bags full of colorless liquids. Luke finally made himself speak to his friend. He leaned close and whispered, “Streak, can you hear me?” He saw that his words made no impression at all and knew that death lurked in the room just as it had in Spain. It struck him as ironic that Streak could survive aerial combat and come home to the safety of this country only to go down in a pointless accident.

Luke sat down in the chair by Streak's bed and tried to pray, but it was hopeless.
Why should God hear me?
he thought bitterly. A slow movement caught Luke's attention. Streak's head was turning slightly from one side to the other.

Luke cleared his throat. It was so dry he wasn't sure he'd be able to make a sound. “Streak . . . can you hear me?”

Slowly the man's eyes opened, and when recognition came, his lips moved slightly. Luke had to lean over to hear him.

“Hey . . . Luke.”

“How are you, Streak?”

“Not . . . so good.”

A long silence, and Luke said, “Don't try to talk.”

“I think . . . I better,” Streak whispered. He struggled to lift his arm, but it was covered with bandages. “I'm not . . . gonna make it.”

“Sure you will.”

“Come closer,” he whispered. Luke bent over, and Streak's voice was a thin, reedy sound in the quietness of the room. It made a counterpoint to the humming of the machines that
surrounded him. “Don't let this . . . get you down, buddy. Not . . . your fault.”

“Yes it is,” Luke said, his voice harsh and brittle. “I'm ready . . . to meet the Lord. . . . It's my time.”

Luke reached out and put his hand on his friend's shoulder. “Hang on, Streak.”

But Streak was fading. Luke took the man's hand in his own. He squeezed it and Streak returned the pressure. “Got . . . a favor to ask.”

“What is it, Streak? Anything.”

“I can't . . . help Joelle. She's gonna lose the place. Didn't tell you that.” His eyes closed for a moment before reopening. “Took everything . . . to pay for Dad's medical expenses.” The words came slowly and with great effort. “I won't be around to help . . . so I need you . . . to take my place. Will ya, old buddy?”

Luke's eyes filled with tears. It was the first thing Streak Garrison had ever asked of him, and he owed this man his life. “I'll take care of her, Streak. I promise.”

Streak's eyes began to close again, but he was smiling. “I feel better. . . . It'll be all right. . . . Thanks, partner.”

Those were the last words Roscoe Garrison ever spoke. His life slowly drained away, and Luke knew as the battered body relaxed that he had lost the best friend he'd ever had.

****

Luke was walking the streets of Dalton, Georgia, soaked to the skin from the warm rain, agonized with grief and guilt. He had never felt so helpless in all of his life.

I've got to meet his sister. I've got to help her, but how am I going to do that?
He didn't want to go back to the hospital and face the reality that Streak was never going to take another breath. He paced down street after street and finally convinced himself to go back and begin to do what he could to keep his promise to a dead man. He passed a couple of liquor stores, and they drew him like a magnet. In desperation
he broke into the fastest walk he could bear, simply to get off the street and away from temptation. He returned to the hospital, his nerves crying out for a drink.

He tried to brace himself for meeting Streak's sister as he rode the elevator. He was at a loss as to how he could help the woman. He thought of trying to keep the business going, but one plane was gone and he knew it had not been insured. There was only one plane left, and he saw no way to make a go of the business with one plane.

He stepped off the elevator and saw a tall woman speaking with Dr. Sanderson. He could see her face clearly, and he recognized her as Joelle Garrison. She looked a little older than she had in the picture, but she was unmistakably Streak's sister. Her features were drawn and filled with grief.

Time seemed to stand still, and Luke struggled with weakness. He had known nothing but failure for such a long time, and now the weight of responsibility, his promise to Streak, and the impossibility in his mind of doing anything to help the woman who stood there kept him immobile.

I've got to keep my promise to Streak!

Luke tried to move forward but found that he could not face the woman.

He abruptly whirled and walked swiftly back toward the elevator.
I'll just get one drink,
he told himself.
That'll steady my nerves and give me time to think.
He rode the elevator down and stepped outside into the rain once more. He retraced his steps until he was standing in front of the liquor store he had so quickly passed not fifteen minutes earlier.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Haven

Opening the door to the wood stove, Joelle checked on the fire burning cheerily there, added a chunk of white oak firewood, then slammed the door shut. Straightening up, she smiled at the five girls who were gathered around watching her. “If you're going to cook, you've got to have a fire, I always say.”

“When did you learn to cook, Joelle?” The speaker was the smallest of the five girls. Sunny was twelve and had a mop of blond hair and a pair of blue-gray eyes. She looked angelic but was known to throw temper tantrums from time to time. She was in a good humor now, however, and waited for Joelle's answer.

“When I was younger than you, my mama taught me how to cook, and I'm going to teach all of you.”

“I don't wanna learn how to cook.” The speaker was Phyllis, who at age fifteen was the oldest of the girls who were currently living with Joelle. She had hair as black as the darkest thing in nature and large dark eyes, and there was a sensuous and bold air about her. She had developed a womanly figure and had a sultry look of rebellion on her face. “What do I want to learn to cook for? I'm gonna hire somebody to do all my cooking,” Phyllis declared, tossing her head.

Fourteen-year-old Shirley ran her hand through her mop of auburn hair. She had large blue eyes and was in an argumentative mood, as usual. “You're never gonna be rich enough to hire a cook,” she said. “You'll have to learn just like the rest of us.”

Phyllis snapped back, “You'll have to learn to cook, Shirley, ‘cause you're gonna be in prison. You steal things all the time, and sooner or later you're gonna be put in jail for it. You're lucky they let you off the hook this time, but one of these times they're gonna send you to jail instead of lettin' you come here.”

“I'm never gonna go to jail!” Shirley answered and would have flown at the older girl, except Gladys, her best friend, also age fourteen, put her hand on Shirley's shoulder. She had a wealth of brown hair, brown eyes, and was usually quite withdrawn.

“Don't fight,” Gladys said. “You two fight all the time.” She was the mildest of all the girls, a peacemaker and a delight to Joelle.

“It's her fault,” Shirley said.

June leaned over and whispered something in Phyllis's ear. She was one year younger than Phyllis, and the two girls were much alike in temperament. June had flaming red hair and blue eyes, and it was she and Phyllis who gave Joelle the most problems.

“What are you whispering, June?” Joelle asked.

“Nothing,” June answered sharply. “Can't I whisper a little bit, for cryin' out loud?”

“It's usually better for everyone if no one whispers when they're with a group,” Joelle said. “Everybody pay attention now. I'm going to teach you how to make corn-bread dressing. If we make it today, it's one less thing we have to do tomorrow. We'll have enough to do on Thanksgiving to keep all of us busy.”

The girls gathered around the island in the middle of the large old-fashioned kitchen. Joelle's father had made the walnut island, as well as a lot of the other furniture in the house.

Sunny moved closer. “I want to help.”

“All right, Sunny. We start with some day-old corn bread.”

“Why does it have to be a day old?” Sunny demanded.

“Because that's the way Mama made it, and we're using her
secret recipe . . . only it won't be too secret anymore because I'm going to share it with all of you.”

“What if the corn bread's three days old?”

“That would probably be fine too, but since we have this corn bread I made yesterday, we'll use it.” Joelle went through the process of making corn-bread dressing, having the girls take turns measuring and stirring, and got fairly good cooperation from everyone except Shirley.