had decided to adopt them, he’d bought some Apple and Atari stock at the right time; not much, just enough to edge the family’s income up a couple of notches. They’d bought a larger house, on West Paces Ferry Road; it had a huge backyard, with a shallow fishpond and three big oak trees. Perfect for the children.
The rafts got underway again, breached another, larger set of rapids a mile or so downriver. The current was moving much more swiftly now, even in the blue-water segments of the journey; but Jeff could see that his wife had lost her fear of the river, was caught up in the beauty and the thrill of it. She held his hand tightly as they shot through the torrent of Bull Sluice Falls, and then it was over, the water calm again and the sun retreating behind the pines.
April and Dwayne were manifestly sad to see the bus that stood waiting to take them back to Atlanta, but Jeff knew their adventures, like the summer, had scarcely begun. He’d soon be taking his family on an unhurried, two-month drive through France and Italy; next year he planned a trip for them to Japan and the newly accessible vastness of China.
Jeff wanted them to see it all, experience every bit of glory and wonder the world had to offer. Still, he had a secret fear that all these memories, along with all the love he had given them, would soon be obliterated by a force he could understand no better than they.
After three days his chest had begun to itch something fierce where the electrodes were taped, but he wouldn’t allow the EKG to be unhooked, not for a minute.
The nurses were full of contempt for him; Jeff knew that. They laughed about him when they thought they were out of earshot, resented having to cater to a perfectly healthy hypochondriac who was taking up valuable bed space.
His physician felt more or less the same way, had said so openly. Still, Jeff had demanded, had been vehement. Finally, after making a sizable donation to the hospital’s building fund, he’d gotten himself admitted for the week.
The third week of October 1988. If it was going to happen, this would be the time.
'Hi, honey; how you feeling?' Judy wore a rust-colored fall outfit; her hair was piled loosely atop her head.
'Itching. Otherwise fine.'
She smiled with a slyness uncharacteristic of her still-innocent face. 'Anything I can scratch?'
Jeff laughed. 'I wish. Think we’re gonna have to wait another few days, though, till I get unwired.'
'Well,' she said, holding up a pair of shopping bags, one from the Oxford Book Store and another from Turtle Records. 'Here’s some stuff to keep you occupied in the meantime.'
She’d brought him the latest Travis McGee and Dick Francis mysteries (tastes he had acquired this time around), plus a new biography of Andre Malraux and a history of the Cunard shipping line. For all she’d never learned about him, Judy certainly understood the eclectic nature of his interests. The other bag contained a dozen jewel-boxed compact discs, ranging from Bach and Vivaldi to a digital transfer of 'Sergeant Pepper.' She slid one of the shiny discs into the portable CD player at his bedside, and the exquisite strains of Pachelbel’s 'Canon in D' filled the hospital room.
'Judy—' His voice broke. He cleared his throat and started again. 'I just want you to know … how very much I have always loved you.'
She answered in measured tones, but couldn’t hide the look of alarm in her eyes. 'We’ll always love each other, I hope. For a long, long time to come.'
'As long as possible.'
Judy frowned, started to speak, but he shushed her. She leaned over the bed to kiss him, and her hand was trembling as it found his.
'Come home soon,' she whispered against his face. 'We haven’t even started yet.'
It happened a little over an hour after Judy had left the room to get lunch in the hospital cafeteria. Jeff was glad she wasn’t there to see it.
Even through his pain he could see the astonishment on the nurse’s face as the EKG went berserk; but she behaved with complete professionalism, didn’t delay calling the Code Blue for an instant. Within seconds Jeff was surrounded by a full medical team, shouting instructions and status reports as they worked over him:
'Epi, one cc!'
'Bicarb two amps? Gimme three-sixty joules!'
'Stand back…' WHUMP!
'V-tach! Blood pressure eighty palpable; two hundred watt seconds, lidocaine seventy-five milligrams IV, stat!'
'Take a look—V-Fib.'
'Repeat epi and bicarb, defib at three-sixty; stand back…' WHUMP!
On and on, their voices fading with the light. Jeff tried to scream in anger because it wasn’t fair; he’d been totally prepared this time. But he couldn’t scream, he couldn’t even cry, he couldn’t do a goddamned thing but die again.
And wake again, in the back seat of Martin Bailey’s Corvair with Judy beside him. Judy at eighteen, Judy in 1963 before they ever fell in love and married and built their lives together.
'Stop the car!'
'Hang on, buddy,' Martin said. 'We’re almost back to the girls' dorm. We’ll—'
'I said stop the car! Stop it now!'
Shaking his head in bewilderment, Martin pulled the car to a halt on Kilgo Circle, behind the history building. Judy put her hand on Jeff’s arm, trying to calm him, but he jerked away from her and shoved the car door open.
'Jesus, what the hell are you doing?' Martin yelled, but Jeff was out of the car and running, running hard in whatever direction it was; it didn’t matter.
Nothing mattered.
He raced through the quadrangle, past the chemistry and psych buildings, his strong young heart pounding in his chest as if it had not betrayed him minutes ago and twenty-five years in the future. His legs carried him past the biology building, across the corner of Pierce and Arkwright drives. He finally stumbled and fell to his knees in the middle of the soccer field, looking up at the stars through blurry eyes.
'Fuck you!' He screamed at the impassive sky, screamed with all the force and despair he’d been unable to express from that terminal hospital bed. 'Fuck you! Why … are … you … DOING THIS TO ME!'
EIGHT
Jeff just didn’t much give a shit after that. He’d done all he could, achieved everything a man could ever hope to—materially, romantically, paternally—and still it came to nothing, still he was left alone and powerless, with empty hands and heart. Back to the beginning; yet why begin at all, if his best efforts would inevitably prove futile?
He couldn’t bring himself to see Judy again. This sweet-faced adolescent girl was not the woman he had loved, but merely a blank slate with the potential to become that woman. It would be pointless, even masochistic, to repeat by rote that process of mutual becoming, when he knew too well the emotional and spiritual death to which it all would lead.
He went back to that anonymous bar he’d found so long ago on North Druid Hills Road, and started drinking. When the time came, he again went through the charade of convincing Frank Maddock to place the bet on the Kentucky Derby. As soon as the money came in he flew to Las Vegas, alone.
