Full Spectrum 3 Part 15

"You have a strange way of showing it," I said. I got up, nearly hitting my head on the slanting ceiling. "You insult me, you test me and you try to invade my privacy. I'm amazed Sandusky even talks to you after the way you treated him."

"I didn't do anything wrong." Martina had to tilt her head back to see me. She looked like a child. A confused, frightened child.

"Yes, you did. You have an ability to see people's strongest memories and you view them without even asking permission. Then you judge people based on that past event and act as if that event defines their life."

"It does." Martina pushed herself onto the couch so that she didn't have to look at me from such an odd angle.

"No," I said. I didn't move. I enjoyed her disadvantage. "It doesn't. It seems to me that your grandmother has done a lot since she left Argentina. She had children, she raised you. And you probably weren't the easiest child to be with. Your grandmother is a spectacular woman-and it wasn't just because she danced for Eva Peron."

"I've been doing this for a long time-"

"And you see what you want to see." I walked to the back of the room, stared at the pictures on the wall, of Martina at various ages, Rosaura in her tutu, and Martina's sister standing in front of a dock. "You accused me and Sandusky of being closed mirrored, when you had a special gift that allowed you to see parts of a person's life. And you let that gift blind you. You let what you see define the person as much as some people let the word 'n.i.g.g.e.r' define a black man."

"I do not!" Martina was on her feet.

"You do." I shoved my hands in my pockets. "And the really sad thing is that if you used that gift right, you would have been able to help people instead of hurt them."

I pushed my way past her, and hurried down the stairs. My car looked like home-a place to retreat to, a place to be silent in. I had never said things before like I said to Martina. But then, I had never met a person with such a unique gift before-and such a desire to waste it.

Two weeks went by. Rosaura showed up for the talk show and was a huge hit. People loved her stories about Argentina, the ballet, and about raising children in a strange country. Sandusky and I switched restaurants, and Martina avoided me. Sometimes I saw her working in the newsroom, but every time I smiled, she turned away.

One morning, I was checking my mail in the employees' lounge when she rounded the corner. She stopped in the doorway. I stared at the station newsletter, waiting for her to go away.

"You got a minute, Linameyer?" she asked.

I tucked the newsletter back into the slot with the rest of my mail. Other rolled newsletters stuck out of the remaining boxes like hundreds of cardboard tubes. "I suppose."

She came in and closed the door. "I've been thinking about what you said and I was wondering what you thought I could do to help people."

I looked her over, trying to see if she was serious. Her face was paler than usual, and she had deep circles under her eyes. Little lines had formed beneath her lips, as if she hadn't smiled for days. "You really want to know?"

She nodded.

I went over to the ratty pink couch and sat down, then patted the cushion beside me. Martina sat on the arm. "You said to me when I saw Rosaura for the first time," I said, "that people get stuck in time. Sandusky's stuck at fifteen, trying to make up to a dad who will never forgive him. You can see that, but you don't reach out. You don't help people move forward again."

"How could I do that?"

"By asking if they want your help and then telling them what you see, how they're stuck, if they're stuck. Then they're free to get counseling or to resolve the problem on their own. But you've helped them. You've given them vision."

Martina had hunched over, as if my words were physical blows instead of sound. I watched her for a moment, then said softly, "You're stuck too. You're still a three-year-old whose parents thought she was possessed. That's why you use your gift as a weapon, to make sure you get other people before they get you."

She raised her head, eyes shiny. "You can see too?"

"No." I ran a hand through my hair. "Sometimes I don't need to. Sometimes it's real obvious." I stood up. "I've got a cat to feed. I'm going home."

I grabbed my mail out of the box and opened the door.

"Linameyer?" she said.

I turned. She was still hunched over, her eyes sunken into her face. "I've been a real b.i.t.c.h."

That was the closest thing to an apology that I would get. "I know," I said. "But I like you, Martina, even when I'm mad at you."

She smiled, and her face lit up. I loved it when Martina smiled. "That mean we're friends?" she asked.

"I think so." I grinned. "Tomorrow-breakfast with me and Sandusky?"

"I wouldn't miss it," she said. And then, almost a whisper: "Thanks, Linameyer."

"You're welcome." I closed the door, giving her a moment of privacy, and walked down the hall. My mood had lightened. She had asked. She wanted to change. And I had changed. I had finally spoken up for something I believed in and it had made a difference. An ever-so-small, ever-so-important difference.

Lethe.

PEG KERR.

M.

ATTHEW SLEPT LATE; he had been called out in the middle of the night to deliver a baby. Arriving back at the clinic at dawn, he had immediately fallen into bed. Now, an urgent knocking jolted him awake two hours past his usual rising time. He dragged himself out from underneath the blankets and stumbled groggily to the dispensary door, opening it to admit a boy.

"Hev'rae-Gremekke?" the boy asked, panting, peering up uncertainly at the wooden placard above the door frame.

Matthew glanced at the shelf, saw that Gremekke's kit was gone, and shook his head. "No, he's out. Will I serve? I'm his a.s.sistant, Hev'rae Mateo."

"Oh!" the boy exclaimed, relieved. "If you're a healer too, can you come with me? An accident-a man's hurt very bad, blood coming from his mouth."

"Yes, I'll come. Let me get my kit." Matthew picked up his satchel of medical tools and supplies, which was emblazoned on the side with the symbol for the Peace Corps. "What happened?" he asked as he ushered the boy out.

"My father, Pietro the stonecutter, sent me. His crew was working raising blocks, and the scaffolding collapsed..." the boy grimaced.

"How far?"

"It's the nearest part of the city wall-but please hurry, Hev'rae." The boy led the way, weaving nimbly through pa.s.sersby and ducking quickly around corners, kicking up little puffs of dust as he ran. Matthew jogged in his wake, his kit banging against his hip with every step. He still was not accustomed to Calypso's gravity, which was slightly higher than Earth's, but before he had a chance to become winded they came into the plaza before the second eastern gate. More dust lingered in the air there, as well as the smell of freshly split wood. A latticework of ropes and boards hung, twisted and broken, from the upper walkway, and a group of workmen was crouched around a still form lying on the ground underneath.

One remained standing, anxiously scanning the alley entrance. When he saw them, he hurried forward, a burly man with large, dusty hands.

"My father, Pietro," said the boy, pointing.

"This way, this way!" The stonecutter beckoned, gesturing for the others to step aside. "Jokko can move his toes, barely, but we didn't want to hurt him any more, so we haven't tried moving him." He lowered his voice. "He says his chest hurts him real bad inside. I'm afraid some of his ribs are broken and are piercing his lungs. Maybe even grazing his heart"

Matthew nodded and knelt beside the injured man. He was young, Matthew judged, barely in his twenties by Earth reckoning. He had fallen on his side on a heap of stones and lay draped over a large boulder, twisted like a broken rag doll.

"I'm the hev'rae, Jokko. I'm here to patch you up since you've decided to try walking on air. Are you able to get deep enough breaths?"

The man drew a ragged sobbing gasp and coughed as a trickle of blood ran from one corner of his mouth. "Hurts," he croaked.

"Don't try to talk, then." Jokko's pupils were dilated, his skin clammy and alarmingly gray, and his pulse rapid and thready from shock. Parting his shirt revealed a distended belly; he was hemorrhaging internally. "Somebody get me a board we can use as a stretcher."

They brought a plank and placed it on the ground beside the injured man. "We're going to lift him onto it. The first thing to do is to slowly untwist his legs, and then we all lift at once, sliding hands underneath to support all parts of his back and keep it level. Don't jiggle him."

The men gathered around as Matthew gave his instructions. "You there, at the left shoulder-yes, you change places with that man. I want people on either side who are about the same height. Now, turn that top leg and straighten it-slowly, slowly, that's it. Keep it up a little. All right, on the count of three, we'll pick him up: one, two, three. Get-get that right hip higher, keep it level. Careful now, watch your footing-"

They carefully placed Jokko on the makeshift stretcher, and Matthew covered him with the cloak of one of the workers. He was rigging a strap to tie Jokko onto it when Pietro's heavy hand fell on his shoulder. "Don't trouble yourself further, Hev'rae." Pietro pointed with his chin at an approaching figure.

"What?" Distracted, Matthew followed the stonecutter's gaze to the woman who joined the small circle of helpers opposite Matthew, her shadow falling over Jokko's face.

"She's the only one he needs now," Pietro said sadly.

She was a slight woman, in a loose reddish-brown dress belted with a black sash tied in a complex knot. Her age was difficult to judge: although her dark hair was streaked with gray, her face was unlined.

"I've come for Jokko," she said. Her close-set gray eyes flicked around the circle, meeting Matthew's look, and then her gaze rested on the still form at their feet.

Matthew eyed her with some confusion and then busied himself at his kit, readying a unit of saline as he threw another glance at the patient. Blood pressure had probably fallen so low that finding a vein was going to be difficult.

Pietro stared at the woman a moment, his lips clamped tightly together, and then stooped down. "Jokko. The rhyena'v'rae is here."

The injured man made a sound, half gasp of surprise and half whimper.

"Jokko," said the woman gently.

Tears began to roll down his cheeks. "No-no, I'm not ready," he whispered.

"Jokko, let me help."

"My wife." He coughed up more blood. "My little boy."

"Jokko, I can do nothing unless you let me." Her voice was heavy with pity. "Please."

He stared at her, his chest heaving. "Rhyena'v'rae, please t... take me in your arms."

The woman knelt swiftly beside him like a mother hurrying to comfort a hurt child, and to Matthew's horror, she gathered his head and shoulders and laid them in her lap.

Matthew immediately dropped the saline unit and plunged forward to yank the woman aside. Pietro hissed an order, and before Matthew could touch her, three bystanders had seized him and held him fast.

"What are you doing?" Matthew gasped. "You'll injure him further, you'll-"

Pietro stood up fast. "Don't interfere, Hev'rae. This is no business of yours." He glared at the three workmen. "Hold him until it's over."

"Let go of me!" Matthew cried, enraged. "Don't you understand, she'll kill him!" He furiously began struggling in earnest, twisting until his shirt tore, flailing his arms, trying to kick out backwards. "You sons of b.i.t.c.hes, let go-uunghh!"

Pietro's hard blow to his gut knocked the wind out of him. Gasping, Matthew fell to his knees, his captors barely managing to hold him upright. Between wheezes, he looked up painfully at the glowering stonecutter. The woman took no notice of them.

She pressed her hand gently on Jokko's forehead and smoothed his hair back. "What do you need to say before you go?"

"Brother Sevett and I-we quarrelled... old debt. Tell him... sorry. P... pay him."

The woman nodded gravely. "I will make it right with him. What is the amount?"

"F... five hundred."

"You give me the authority to make the change in your estate?"

"Yes." His eyes looked around the circle. "Witnesses."

The woman nodded again. "Is there anything else, Jokko?"

He was growing weaker. "F... family," he whispered.

Matthew cursed despairingly and began struggling again, more weakly this time. One of the men holding him twisted his arm behind his back and another got his head in a hammerhold, covering his mouth. Breathing hard, Matthew stopped, glaring at Pietro.

"You have provided for them," the woman said, still ignoring the others. "Remember, you gave me your testament."

Jokko shook his head faintly. "No, I mean... how will they go on? What... what will happen to them?"

She shook her head sadly. "I am not allowed to tell you that. But perhaps 1 can put your heart at rest for them." She raised her head and looked at Pietro.

The stoneworker knelt down again and took the dying man's hand. "Lad, I'll look after the boy as if he were my own, and I'll see that he learns a trade. And your woman-" the big man paused, tears trickling through his beard. "She'll miss you sore, but I'll do what I can to help her."

"I act as witness to this promise," the woman said. "Know that you are held by your word, because it is bound by Death. Are you willing to accept this responsibility?"

"Yes," Pietro whispered, and he squeezed his journeyman's hand. "I swear."

Jokko nodded slightly. "That is all..." He closed his eyes, spent.

The woman pressed her hand to his forehead. "I am taking the pain away now, Jokko. Soon, all weariness will cease." She smoothed back his hair. "Your life is completed. Don't be afraid to lay it down. I will be with you." Her voice dropped to a whisper, and Matthew had to strain to hear. "Here is Death now, Jokko. Do you see it? It waits for you as a friend, and you only have to reach out for it." Her arms tightened on him briefly, and she bent to kiss his brow. As she straightened, Matthew saw Jokko exhale his last ragged breath. The onlookers sighed softly and stirred.

"He is gone," said the woman gently. She carefully laid his head back on the plank and stood to face Pietro. "Will you have your men bring his body to his home? I will go ahead with you to inform his widow."

Matthew jerked his head violently and the hand over his mouth was removed. "Wait!" He shook off the remaining hands that held him and got stiffly to his feet. "What do you think you-why did you interfere? If I could have gotten him to the clinic, he would have had a chance!"

"I warned you," Pietro began threateningly.

She stopped him with a peremptory gesture, saying, "No, the hev'rae came to do his job." She turned back to Matthew. "Do not blame yourself-or me, if I was called to do mine."

"Who are you?" he demanded.

"My name is Teah. I'm a lethe."

He stared at her, perplexed.

"It's my profession," she added patiently. She glanced at Pietro. "I must go; I'm needed elsewhere." And with that, she left with the stonecutter. The work crew hoisted the plank to their shoulders and followed, bringing Jokko home for the last time.

Gremekke was leaning against the dispensary counter eating bread and sausage when Matthew arrived back at the clinic. The older healer was a portly man, with a rumpled fringe of gray hair around his tonsure, and fleshy cheeks that almost enveloped his eyes when he smiled. "That baby took its own sweet time," he greeted Matthew.