Slow Dance in Purgatory

The first man to reach the back hoe operator was a young police officer, unburdened by heavy coveralls or gear. What he saw was beyond belief. Lying on the exposed tiles of the destroyed rotunda, surrounded by blackened debris and fallen beams, was a young man. He was clearly unconscious, and his once white t-shirt was soaked in blood. The officer maneuvered himself as close as he could, trying to gauge the man’s injuries.

“That’s a gunshot wound!” He felt for a pulse just as the driver of the back hoe had done minutes before. The pulse was weak and thready, and from the looks of it, the kid had lost a lot of blood.

“We gotta get this beam out of the way so that we can get the gurney down here and keep him as flat as possible.” One EMT scrabbled down beside the victim and pulled an oxygen mask over his head and then immediately began an investigation of his wound. The rest of the men tugged and heaved the largest beams out of the way, clearing a path for the gurney to be dropped down. Within seconds, the firemen and emergency medical workers had the gravely injured young man loaded up and were racing toward the ambulance praying that they had found him in time to save his life.

“Principal Bailey!” The young policeman gestured to her wildly. She came at a run, followed by the mayor, who at 75 years old was still insatiably curious and quite spry. It had been all he could do to remain back as the emergency workers had pulled the wounded man from the rubble.

“None of us recognize this kid – is he one of yours?” The policeman indicated the young man on the gurney, wondering if the principal could identify him as a Honeyville High student. One of the EMTs pulled the mask from the young man’s face, giving her a better look before he snapped it back into place.

Jillian Bailey felt the blood drain from her head and the world spin around her as if she were caught in a vortex that defied time and space. Yes, he was hers. But not in the way the EMT meant. She knew him. She knew him intimately. How could she not? She had seen his picture every day of her life. He had haunted her mother’s dreams and darkened her every waking moment with the never-ending questions – Where is my son? What happened to my son? Jillian Bailey shook her head, and managed to choke out a response, the only response she could give.

“No, he isn’t a student.”

Mayor Parley Pratt, his face pursed in concentration, watched as they loaded the gunshot victim into the ambulance and pulled away, sirens blaring.

“That kid sure looked familiar. I know I’ve seen his face. He almost looked like that kid that disappeared all those years ago when I was just a young police officer. What was his name?”

“Johnny Kinross,” Principal Bailey whispered.

“That’s right…Johnny. Your daddy never stopped looking for him, did he? Strange, huh? This kid found in the very place Johnny Kinross was last seen.”

***

Maggie should have woken up by now. The doctors scratched their heads, and the nurses clucked their tongues and pursed their lips. But Maggie stayed locked in a coma, unmoving and unresponsive. Tubes ran in and out of her, machines beeped, Irene pled, but still she slept.

Gus had been released from the hospital after 24 hours of observation. Shad, who had suffered from heat stroke and some minor smoke inhalation, was released the day after that. The three of them, Shad, Irene and Gus, had kept vigil in the Intensive Care Unit’s waiting room for the last four days. Principal Bailey had found them there.

Gus was shocked by her drawn, colorless face. She wasn’t a pretty woman, but she kept herself neat and trim, and her face was intelligent and kind. Today she bore the look of someone who had suffered a terrible loss – or a terrible shock. Gus wondered if it was the destruction of the school that had so adversely affected her. Principal Bailey inquired after Maggie. Her sincerity and genuine concern for her student was evident, and Irene thanked her warmly.

Then Principal Bailey asked Gus if she could have a word with him privately. Gus nodded his consent and followed her from the waiting room. He was confused when she led him to a hospital room not far from Maggie’s. She got permission for them to enter, and when they did she closed the door firmly behind them. The curtain was partially pulled around the bed, and Gus couldn’t see who occupied it.

Jillian Bailey approached the patient and bid Gus to follow her. Gus did so hesitantly, uncomfortable about intruding into the sick room of someone he didn’t know. But that was where he was wrong, for he did know the person in the bed. He stared down at the flesh and blood body of a ghost he had seen off and on for fifty-three years. He had no doubt it was him. Johnny’s hair was brushed off his face and slightly mussed by his convalescence. He had more tubes and machines connected to his inert form then Maggie did. It looked as if he’d sustained some kind of wound to his chest though he seemed to be recovering well and breathing on his own.

“Do you know who he is, Mr. Jasper?” Jillian Bailey asked, her eyes locked on Johnny’s face. “You were the only one I thought might know.”

“What happened to him?” Gus whispered, stalling, unwilling to give her a response.

“He was shot.” Principal Bailey’s tone was brisk and harsh.