Cole Fire, page 7
“Please call me Cole. I appreciate this opportunity to get to know you a little better and meet some of your friends.”
“Thank you for not calling them disciples,” Jesse said warmly.
Skeeter indicated an empty seat between a well-dressed man and a blonde woman of about fifty, with thick glasses, dressed in a flowing multi-colored tent of a dress.
“Soup?” Miki said brightly as she entered the room with a large china tureen and started it around the table. Seconds later, Mini brought several baskets of bread to the table.
“I’m Katherine,” the woman began. “I hope you’ll see we are not some oddball bunch of misfits. I teach at the Art Institute, raised Catholic, frequent non-attender. Sid there,” indicating the man to Cole’s left, “is a podiatrist. Skeeter you’ve met. Lois is his, well, we’re never quite sure what their relationship is, makes things exciting. Rebecca and Oscar are married and own a furniture store in Hayward. Let’s see, the fellow next to them,” she paused. “Excuse me, what was your name again?”
“I’m Mike.”
“What do you do, Mike?” Cole asked.
“Bartender. No permanent gig. Kind of on-call at a couple different places.”
Cole nodded. Mike took a spoonful of soup.
“Next to him is Barb, she’s just Barb. Not sure what she does, and at the end of the table are Augie and Kyle. They are ministry support staff. And that, my new friend, is the lot of us.” Katherine reached for a bread basket.
The conversation was tepid. It could have been a dinner party in a million homes, with ten million ordinary, slightly dull people. The food was nothing special; vegetable soup, tossed greens with a vinaigrette dressing, roast chicken with herbs, baby red potatoes and green beans. For dessert, peach cobbler. Ice water and iced tea were served with dinner, coffee with dessert.
There was no talk of miracles or sermons. Kids, jobs, real estate and politics commanded most of the conversation. It wasn’t a case of the faithful sitting at the master’s feet, it was just dinner.
On the few occasions Jesse took the floor, nothing was said of any particular depth, and for the most part, Cole found him to be as dull as his guests.
Try as he may, Cole couldn’t get anything more than, “I was lost but now I’m found” out of the folks around him. Being the silent observer was easy in this company and there was no compulsion to move the conversation along. At one point, as Cole searched the faces of the dinner guests, his eyes met Jesse’s. The gaze was unblinking. The others continued to talk and laugh, but for a long moment Cole was locked in a sort of mental and emotional tug of war with Jesse Monday. It was as if Jesse knew the answer to a riddle. He knew Cole realized it, but to Jesse’s disappointment, Cole wasn’t asking.
There is something he’s not telling, Cole thought. Something he wants to tell.
“Tomorrow we have the day off!” Skeeter said loudly, distracting Jesse and breaking his gaze.
“Then I’m going to turn in early.” Jesse stood. “Thank you all for spending the evening with me. I draw so much energy from those I love. Mr. Sage, Cole, I hope you have seen that we are a manifestation of the blessings we have been given. No tricks, just the positive reflection of Truth’s presence.”
A smile and a nod was all Cole was allowed. In a heartbeat, Skeeter swept Jesse from the room. At the doorway Jesse turned and looked at Cole. It almost felt like a cry for help. Cole dismissed it as wishful thinking.
* * *
Cole tossed the notebook on the desk. He was still pondering the look in Jesse’s eyes, as real as that night at the dinner party, when Hanna tapped on the door frame.
“This is for you,” Hanna said, waving an envelope at Cole.
FIVE
“What is up with this Jesse Monday guy?” Hanna stood in the doorway, a look of utter disgust on her face.
“How do you mean?” Cole replied, turning his chair from his computer.
“OK, I don’t live under a rock. I may be Jewish but I get the whole Jesus thing. You think he’s God’s son, virgin birth, rose from the dead, all that stuff. You believe your sins are forgiven. That about right?”
“Yeah, in twenty-five words or less,” Cole said, smiling.
“OK, I’m fine with all that. Not what we were taught in Hebrew school, but whatever. This Monday character to me seems like a low budget re-hash of the Jesus story. Am I right? Wasn’t Jesus supposed to be the first, last and everything? Ha, I just channeled Barry White!”
“Step over here, my dear,” Cole tried his best Barry White impersonation and failed miserably.
Hanna took the seat across from Cole before speaking. “What is it about him that has got all these people so upset? I simply don’t get it.”
“To tell you the truth, I don’t either. It is the whole, the next JFK, MLK, Bobbie Kennedy, savior of the world thing. They’ve gotta have faith in something, or someone, but I reject traditional religion-and-values-hole-in-their-soul. You’re too young to remember the “Dream” of the Sixties. In your lifetime there hasn’t been a hero, or cause, that the mainstream can put their faith in. Let alone see them be killed, again, and again.”
“So Michael Jackson doesn’t count?” Hanna grinned broadly.
“Not what I had in mind.”
“Are people so weak they need that kind of a crutch?” All humor was gone from Hanna’s voice.
“You’re exceptionally strong. You’ve been through a lot in your life. You scratched and clawed your way to where you feel safe. Most people aren’t that strong.”
“You don’t seem to need a crutch. You’re smart, well read, on some days you actually have your act together.” Hanna paused for effect. “So is Jesus, or God, or whatever, your crutch?”
“Nope, not a crutch, the ground beneath my feet. I’ve found I can’t do things on my own. The sad thing is a lot of people turn to media gurus, cults, and rock stars to meet their spiritual needs, not the one who can really make a difference.”
“Then we’ll have to agree to disagree. I don’t need anyone or anything to rely on. Never have.”
“That, my dear, is your prerogative,” Cole said kindly. “I’ve got an idea. You eat lunch with a lot of the people on our floor. You told me you were good at research, can you listen and guide without letting them know you think they’re silly, weak, and being held up by a crutch?”
“I never said,” Hanna said, standing.
“Oooh, touchy,” Cole butted in.
“You’re yanking my chain.”
Cole just grinned.
“Yes! I can do this. Undercover, investigative reporter.”
“Research assistant,” Cole said, directing Hanna’s enthusiasm back to reality.
“I’ll try it today.”
“Nice and easy.”
“Yeah, I got it.” Hanna nodded, jumping up and running back to her desk.
Cole grinned and wondered what kind of monster he’d just released on the break room. The material Carter Washington sent on Jesse Monday was scattered across the desk in little stacks that Cole alone understood.
* * *
“Good morning, Don. Feeling better?” Terri asked with genuine concern.
“Yeah, better, thanks.”
“Busy day today. Eight-fifteen is Roger Marx. Nine is a new client, files on your desk. Ten is the budget meeting. After lunch...”
“I get it,” Wiltz snapped.
He went into his office and closed the door. Before he could cross the room to his desk he heard the voice of Charlie Baranski.
“That wasn’t very nice,” Charlie said mockingly.
“I am having an emotional break at seeing Charles Baranski dead. I know that.” Wiltz leaned his head back and spoke to the ceiling. “There is no voice. I have done something terrible, but I’m fine now.” Wiltz took a deep breath and sighed. “Do not respond. I’ll have a chat with Dr. Samuels. I just need some time to process the shock.”
The sound of Baranski’s laughter seemed to fill the room. “Are you kidding me? You went on a mission! You attacked the enemy,” Charlie said in amazement.
“No!” Wiltz bent, putting his hands on his knees. “You are not there!”
“You’re right. I’m not speaking. You’re not hearing me,” Charlie said sarcastically. “Get a grip! We are warriors. We don’t whimper. We fight. I am alive and in a new dimension. Follow me to a final victory.”
“Victory over what?” Wiltz pleaded.
“The never-ending stream of wounded, crippled warriors with their minds ripped in two. You, of all people, have to ask me that? We are sent out to fight wars the politicians have no intention of winning. We suffer, they get rich.”
“We? I am one man and you are...” Wiltz’s words faded as Charlie’s grew stronger.
“We’ll start with Vietnam. Our war. Then we will move forwards; Bosnia, Desert Storm one, two, three, whatever the hell number we’re on, Afghanistan. We will fight the wars to win. We will fight it here, where it should have been fought. We are not protecting America, we’re protecting oil. We will bring the war home and we will win here on our own streets.”
The few feet to his desk felt like miles. Wiltz collapsed in his chair and put his forehead on his desk. In the silence of his office Don Wiltz saw his life. The broken men that sat across his desk begging, pleading for a way to kill the demons in their heads. How many got better? Few, if any. Then they end up like Charles Baranski, or worse, they spiral into a world of depression, fear, and madness.
Could this war be won? Could I make a difference? Can I balance the scale for the grist mill of broken men and women spewed from the military grinder? The questions came rapid-fire and Wiltz physically jerked with the introduction of each new thought.
“The problem is,” Charlie whispered softly, “we bring the war home. Vietnamese, the very people we lost the war to, are here in San Francisco. Our streets are teeming with scarf-wearing Muslim women. The same women who made love to the men who planted roadside bombs that blew off legs and killed our brothers. We are being choked to death by our enemies right here at home, and no one lifts a finger.”
“I don’t care,” Wiltz said softly.
“Yes, you do, Donald, yes, you do.
“Tonight we will continue our offensive. We will...” Charles words were cut short by a tap at the door.
“Yes.”
The door opened about half-way and Terri said, “Mr. Reynolds is here.”
“All right. Can you hit the lights?”
A young man with a distinct limp crossed the room to Wiltz’s desk with a blue file folder in his hand.
“Good morning,” Wiltz offered.
“Good morning, sir,” Reynolds said, offering the folder to Wiltz.
“Please have a seat. I am Don Wiltz. I will be your benefits counselor.”
The parade of wounded warriors after Reynolds was non-stop. A half-hour break for lunch was Wiltz’s only escape from the pain, confusion and apprehension of the men and women assigned to him. He ate his ham and cheese sandwich from the cafeteria and tried to remember a face, one face he met with through the morning. What did he say to them? There was nothing he could bring up, nothing he remembered of their files, faces or conversations.
The last couple of Fritos dropped from the bag and hit his tray. Wiltz crumpled the bag and held it tight in his fist. The faces in the room made no sounds. Earbuds plugged in tight, phones in hand, they feverishly tapped out texts. There were no magazines, no newspapers, here and there people reviewed files as they grazed away at salads and fruit bowls.
“They’re not like us, are they?” Charlie’s voice was clear as if he sat across the table. “We have become a nation of bubbles, little self-contained units, unaware, and uncaring of the world around us.”
“They care.” Wiltz said.
“Really? Drop your fork, better yet, drop your tray. See what happens.”
“That’s silly.”
“Is it? Drop it.”
Without hesitation Wiltz put the last few Fritos in his mouth, moved the paper plate with the second half of his ham and cheese, and his milk onto the table. He slowly moved the tray to the edge of the table. Little by little, he pushed it over the edge. His movements were almost undetectable. The tray tilted, and with a little more encouragement, toppled over the edge onto the floor.
The heads in the cafeteria didn’t turn. The iPods played on, and heads bobbed in rhythm. The texters didn’t miss a stroke, and a couple of the file readers shifted in their seats but didn’t look up.
“Told ya,” Charlie said with a chuckle. “We don’t exist.”
Wiltz bent over and picked up the tray. He put the tray back on top of the table with a clang. He was alone in a room full of people. Silent, focused, oblivious people, unaware of his moments, or the noise he made. Is he the tree that fell in the forest? Did he really make any noise if no one heard him?
“They are slaves waiting to be captured by the strangers in our land. Muslims, Mexicans, Asians, and the criminal black armies of the ghettos. We must sound the alarm, Donald, you and I.”
Wiltz covered his mouth with his hand. “I’m not the one to help you. One man can’t change anything.”
“Edison brought the world out of darkness. Steve Jobs gave these sheep their distractions, Jesus changed the entire world. Just men, just an idea, just a willingness to try. You, Don Wiltz, can change this city. You can start a fire that will change the nation.”
“You must leave me alone, Charlie,” Wiltz said into the palm of his hand.
“Put your hand down. We already proved you are invisible.”
“I wish I believed what you’re saying.”
“Do you remember how good it felt to see that Viet Cong-infested nail shop go up? Imagine how it will feel to see whole sections of the enemy’s encampments aflame. We can do this.” Charlie’s fervor seemed to echo from the walls.
“I wish I believed you.” Wiltz said loudly, testing his non-existence.
“Tonight I will make you a believer. The warrior will rise, a movement will ignite, and we will begin the reclaiming of America. You’ll see.”
Without looking around, Wiltz stood and picked up his sandwich. He didn’t return his tray or throw away his trash. He walked out unnoticed. Charlie was right, he was invisible.
Appointment after appointment, Wiltz gave his presentation in a pre-programmed robotic stupor. The scheduling meeting went without him saying a word. At three o’clock Terri brought him a cup of coffee and a chocolate chip cookie.
“I made these last night. Thought you might like an afternoon pick-me-up.”
“Thanks.” Wiltz looked at the secretary and felt a wave of embarrassment come over him. “Sit down, Terri,” Wiltz motioned to the chair in front of him. He took a bite of the cookie and smiled. “How long have we worked together?”
“Almost two years,” Terri replied.
“Do you think we do any good?”
A frown took the joy from Terri’s face and there was hurt in her eyes.
“I’m sorry I snapped at you earlier. You’re a very nice person. You have to be, to put up with me.” Wiltz forced a smile.
“That’s never been a problem.” Terri blushed as she let the slightest hint of her feelings for her boss show. “I like my job, and you are great to work for.”
“But,” Wiltz sighed. “Are we doing any good? These young, and not-so-young men and women come in here and are in such desperate need of help. No, hope is a better word, and I just don’t think I have what they need.” He sat up a little straighter. “Are we just part of the machine that ground them up and spit them on our doorstep?”
“Oh, Mr. Wiltz, Don, you are so wonderful with our clients. I know it must be an emotional drain to deal with pain and suffering all day long, but you do make a difference. Truly.” Terri’s response was kind of a love letter to him coded in comforting words.
She really is lovely, Wiltz thought. “Sometimes, I just feel like we are putting a Band-Aid on cancer. I mean, what do we do to give them a sense of justice? How do we extract some revenge for their pain and suffering? They are torn and their lives ruined, and for what? What was their sacrifice for?”
“I’ve never heard you talk like this before.”
“I think I have come to an understanding of how futile it all is.” Wiltz stared at Terri but she couldn’t bear to look at him.
“You are the best counselor we have. Your clients appreciate you so much, they say so all the time.”
“I wish I believed I was helping.” Wiltz took another bite of cookie, but he didn’t look at Terri. “I think maybe Charlie Baranski was right.”
“No, Don, he killed himself! Don’t talk like that, you scare me,” Terri said with genuine concern.
“Not that. I meant about us losing. He was right.” Wiltz took another bite of cookie.
Terri stared at Wiltz, completely baffled by what he was saying. “Why don’t you let me cook you dinner tonight? You really seem like you need someone,” Terri cleared her throat softly, “Someone who cares about you.”
Wiltz was a bit taken aback by this declaration of feelings from his secretary. He was attracted to her; he would love a woman in his life. “That would be nice.” Wiltz replied with a gentle smile and a nod.
* * *
“Hanna Day, super sleuth reporting, sir!”
Cole turned to face a smiling Hanna who simply beamed with her own self-congratulations.
“This ought to be good.”
“Anybody here seen my good friend Jesse? Can you tell me where he’s gone? Up over the hill, with Abraham, Martin, and John.” Hanna laughed at her attempt at singing before continuing. “Most of the people in the break room making such a fuss over the death of Jesse Monday never heard him speak, never attended a rally, a meeting, or whatever you call it. As far as I could determine, they have no idea what he said, believed or preached.”
