On Every Side (25 page)

Jordan dismissed his earlier thoughts of Faith and pondered what Hawkins said. His eyes closed as he imagined what sort of deal might be hinging on this case. Bonus or not, he had to give everything to the battle now. The fight was more fierce than ever, and he was directly at the center of it. He nodded his head slowly, as though trying to convince himself of the words he was about to say.

“Yes, sir. Perfectly clear.”

“Very good. Then you won't let us down.” It wasn't a question.

Ten thousand dollars?
Jordan opened his eyes, a new determi-nation pulsing through him. “No, sir, I won't let you down.”

In the executive offices of HOUR, Hawkins hung up the phone and smiled at the others. “I think I've convinced him.”

One of the older men wrinkled his eyebrows together and shook his head. “Riley's nothing but a boy. We've got ourselves national interest in this case, and I think you men know what I'm talking about. It's time to hand it over to T J.”

T. J. uncrossed his legs and leaned forward in his seat. “Jordan's my friend…I could help him and not make him too suspicious.”

Hawkins sat on the edge of the desk and considered that. “Everyone in this room knows what we're talking about. A mil-lion dollars, gentlemen. That's a hundred thousand for each of the partners, twenty grand for T J.” He stared at his feet for a moment then back at the others. “The problem is Faith Evans. Without her, the people have no voice, no sense of organization.” He swore under his breath. “She's the one who bought the statue, after all.” His gaze shifted and he studied each of the men around him. “We need to silence her; it's that simple.”

T J. shifted in his seat and blinked. “Meaning?”

“Meaning I need you here. Let Jordan handle the matter in
Bethany. I have friends at the national network level. I'll put you in touch with them. See if there's any interest in bringing her up to the network, get someone to call her. Maybe we can lure her away from this ridiculous park situation.”

T. J.'s eyes were wide, but he nodded.” Yes, sir, first thing in the morning.”

“And if that doesn't work…well, there are other ways.” Hawkins reached for a pencil and tapped it rapidly on the desk. “Find out who the little girl was. Maybe she's the key to Evans's conscience.”

“The little girl?”

Hawkins felt his lips curl ever so slightly “It's time to do what-ever it takes.” He glared at the others. “I will not have another public display of sympathy like we saw today. That statue is ours, am I making myself clear?”

There was a chorus of “yes, sirs” and a round of head nods.

They'd do as he said, Hawkins was sure. There was too much money riding on their success this time. And something else that only the partners would ever know about, something all the money in the world couldn't buy.

A four-year commitment of support from a primary team of very influential advisors. Advisors to a politician with more politi-cal power than anyone at HOUR had ever dreamed of having.

There was no way one crusading woman was going to cost them that.

Jordan finished packing and set his suitcase out in the hallway. It was a cool night, bordering on cold, and Jordan found his old parka, the one he used to use when he and his college buddies would go camping in upstate New York. It felt good on his arms, lighter and less confining than the suit jackets. He took the stairs
down and welcomed the burst of fresh air as he strode out onto Twelfth Street and headed toward Second Avenue.

The air might not have been country fresh, but it was better than the boxy feeling he was getting in his apartment. The con-versation with Hawkins, his promises and implied threats, played over again and again in Jordan's head, but after five minutes of walking the images changed. In their place Faith's face returned to haunt him. It was a sure bet her nights weren't spent walking city streets… How had she been fortunate enough to land a career that kept her in Bethany?

Then like a brick it hit him: Because of him, she no longer had a job. The thought settled like week-old pizza in his stom-ach, and he quickened his pace.

All around him the city hummed with activity, and Jordan suddenly longed for the nights when he would ride his bike to Jericho Park. Nights when the only sound was the whirring of his spoked wheels and the wind in the giant maple trees. Sometimes it had been so quiet at the park he could have sworn he heard the moon rising in the sky above him.

If only his mother hadn't died.

He thought of her now, her gentle spirit and loving touch. The way she had imparted to him her sense of wonder over a waxing crescent moon or a singing blue jay in flight or the dis-tinctly vibrant colors in a monarch butterfly. It was no wonder there were times when Jordan thought he might suffocate if he lived another day in the city. With his mother, every day had a magical quality, a sort of expectancy that something small and ordinary would become a miracle. Jordan kept his pace steady and turned the corner, heading down another endless street, stepping over the occasional drunk passed out against the side of a building. The city air had a pungent smell to it, a mixture of rotten garbage, exhaust fumes, and air pollution that never went
away It made him miss the freshness of small-town air in a way he hadn't for years.

Jordan stared up at the sliver of sky between the converging buildings. When Faith's family had told them about Jesus, it had been as though everything in life finally made sense. Jesus had created everything, from the small wonders to the magnificent landscapes, all of it for their enjoyment. But there was more; He'd created them as well and best of all, He had a plan for them to spend eternity with Him. All of it had been so believable.

Jordan stuffed his hands in the pockets of the parka and con-tinued down the street. How blissfully peaceful those early days had been, back when it not only made sense to believe that way, but the Jesus rhetoric actually seemed true. A city park appeared in the distance, and Jordan headed for it. It wasn't grand like Central Park, or anything even close to resembling the quaint ambiance of Jericho Park. But it was a patch of grass with trees that might, for a few hours, help Jordan forget he was trapped in a city where butterflies and crescent moons didn't seem to exist.

He made his way across the street and found a bench. In the recesses of his mind he knew it wasn't the safest thing—hanging out in a park at this late hour in the heart of New York City—but he didn't care. Besides, the way he felt inside, his face was bound to scare away any unwanted company. He settled into the bench and stared straight ahead at a sickly tree struggling skyward. As gentle and loving as his mother had been, the end had been awful. A nightmare that no matter how many years passed Jordan couldn't forget.

Eventually the cancer moved to her lungs. As a thirteen-year-old boy he hadn't understood what was happening, but it made sense now. It started in her breast, moved into her lymph system, and wound up killing her when it took over her lungs. That was the only way he could explain her cough. Those last two weeks
before she died, his mother coughed in a way that still sickened him today.

He and Heidi would be doing their homework at the kitchen table and they'd hear their mother wake up in her bedroom upstairs. At first she'd cough lightly, a few times, then a few more. After a minute or so, she'd be hacking so hard Jordan remembered fearing for her life. He'd jump from his chair, grab a cup of water, and rush to her room.

“Mom, are you okay?”

There she'd be, perched on the edge of the bed, little more than a skeleton. Her hair gathered in one hand, the other over her mouth, she'd cough with a convulsing force that sent her nose almost crashing into her knees. “Yes, Jordan…I'm okay… don't… worry about me.”

He'd step from side to side, helpless, watching her, wanting to do something but knowing there was nothing he could do. Then she'd point to the floor. Her bowl. She wanted her bowl. He'd grab it as quickly as he could and hand it to her and although she'd eaten no dinner, although she'd probably eaten nothing all day, her coughing would turn to dry heaves.

“It's okay, Mom, I'm here.” He'd stand beside her, rubbing her back and hiding the tears that made their way down his face. Once in a while Heidi would appear at the door, her eyes wide with fear.

He'd hold his finger to his lips, knowing that their mother was unaware of Heidi's presence. “Shh…it's okay,” he'd mouth the words to his sister. “Go back downstairs.”

No matter how long the spasmodic episode lasted, Jordan would stay there, putting his fingers over hers, helping her hold the hair off her face. When it was over, when her body finally released her to lie back down, Jordan would hurry to the bath-room and get a cool cloth for her forehead. “It's okay, Mom. It's all over. You're going to be all right.”

How many times had he said those words? Every day every hour? Jordan knew now, much as he'd known then, that the words were more for himself than anyone else. His mother had known the truth from the beginning.
“God's calling me home, Jordan… He's calling me home.”

But Jordan and Heidi weren't ready for her to go. Hadn't God known that? Hadn't He cared?

He pulled the parka tighter, grateful he was the only person at the park that night. His mother's illness had gotten worse with each day until finally—the last day of her life—he hadn't both-ered to ride to Jericho Park. He no longer wanted to spend time talking to Jesus; he wanted to be with his mother. Wanted to cling to her and stay by her side, to will the life back into her and love the cancer out of her body.

Faith's family was with them every day, nearly all day long that last week. Faiths mother would bring dinner and her father would sit by Mom, praying for her, talking to her. Not until sometime around eight o'clock, when his mother seemed able to sleep, would the Moses family go home. After that Jordan often led Heidi to her room and prayed with her. When she was asleep he would spend an hour or so at Jericho Park, then come home and creep into his mother's room, taking her hand, kissing it as his tears fell onto the dirty knees of his jeans.

“Don't go, Mom. Stay with us. Please…”

A few times Faith had stayed with him, having been given a reprieve on her normal curfew T in light of Jordan's mother's condition.

“Can she hear you?” Faith whispered one night.

Jordan remembered feeling angry at her question. “Of course she can hear me. She's sick, but she's going to make it, Faith. God's going to heal her.”

Even after Faith had gone home, Jordan stayed at his mother's
side, finally falling asleep on the floor, his hand clinging tightly to hers. He and Heidi had skipped school every day that last week, and time lost all meaning.

The morning of his mother's last day, he got up early and had a feeling she was already awake. He sat straight up on her bed-room floor and rose to his knees, peering over the top of the bed, making sure she was still breathing. When he saw that she was, he gently took her thin, bruised hand in his and smoothed his fingers over the top.

Her eyes opened and moved slowly in his direction and the shadow of a smile crossed her face. “Jordan…”

Heidi must have felt something different that morning, too, because she appeared at the bedroom door, and Jordan motioned her inside. His sister knelt beside him and he put his free arm around her as she reached over and linked her fingers between those of Jordan's and their mother's. “Hi, Mom… how're you feeling?”

Jordan had no trouble remembering his mother's face that morning, but the image of Heidi was less clear. Had she been fearful or sad or unaware? Had she known, like him, that their mother's time was running short? Did he take the time to tell her, to explain to his sister what was happening?

Jordan thought about that for a moment and decided he hadn't. Why would he have? Until that last day, he'd thought for sure God would heal her. But that morning there was a different look in his mother's eyes, a sadness and joy that Jordan still couldn't explain. As though she was about to take a much-anticipated journey and her only regret was having to say good-bye.

“Heidi…” Their mother's voice was clearer that morning. For days she would cough violently every time she tried to speak, but this time she was comfortable, at peace. “Heidi, you're so beauti-ful…you must… put Jesus first… always.”

Heidi threw herself over her mother and hugged her, weeping and wailing over the prospect of what was happening. In that moment it must have been obvious to both Jordan and Heidi: They were saying good-bye to their mother. “Don't go, Mommy, please… I love you too much.”

Heidi carried on for a long while, and Jordan could do nothing but rub her back with one hand and their mother's hand with the other while quiet tears coursed down his face. After a while Heidi sat up again and leaned into Jordan. There was silence while their mother seemed to summon what little strength remained. Jordan pulled Heidi more tightly to himself as they watched, waiting for their mother's next words.

“I love you, Jordan… you're such a good boy… so… kind.”

The memory of the moment was more vivid now than it had been since that awful morning, and Jordan felt the sting of tears in his eyes. He had cried so much that year, the year he lost his mother and Heidi and Faith. But tears had not touched him once in the time since then. Not since his move to the New Jersey boys’ camp. He was a survivor, a loner, really A smart and lonely kid who'd found a way to make it on his own.

But here, now—the memory of that last day with his mother so real he could almost touch her again—tears filled his eyes and spilled onto his cheeks. His eyelids closed and he saw her as she'd looked that day so frail and weak her skin was practically translucent. She stayed very still in the bed, but her eyes darted between Heidi and Jordan. “Jesus…Jesus wants you to know…He loves you, Jordan. Keep praying, please. And one day… when you come home… I'll be waiting for you. Just like I used to wait for you here.”

When you come home… when you come home…
when you come home…

Why hadn't he remembered those words until now? The last
thing his mother had said to him, the last thing that made sense amid her frenetic coughing and drug-induced incoherency was an invitation. When it was his turn to go home, she'd be waiting for him. Just like she'd always waited for him when he was a boy.