The old man crouches down, puts his ear to the ground, his index finger to his lips with a “Shush,” and listens listens listens with the intensity of an athlete. “Buffalo,” he whispers. “Twenty miles away. Headed northwest.”
The nurses at Happy Trails used to humor him when he did this: “Let's go inside and wait for them” or “I'll get my hunting rifle and we'll have buffalo burgers for dinner. How about that, Sam?”
“Don't like it at all,” Sam would retort. “Besides, I told you they were heading northwest, not due east.”
Sam would drop to his knees and hold his ear to the ground once again. “Now what do you hear?” the nurse would ask.
“Shush. Someone's coming up the driveway. Visitor from the city.”
“How do you know he's from the city?” the nurse would ask.
“No snow tires. Only city folk don't bother with snow tires this time of year,” he'd answer.
Sam usually puts his ear to the ground at least 15 or 20 times a day. And even when the nurses get tired of asking him what he's hearing, he tells them anyway. Each story is a little more outlandish than the other, so no one has ever checked to see if he's telling the truth, if he has a gift, if he can understand the rhythms and drumbeats of Earth.
Sam puts his ear to the ground again and tells about rumblings far beneath the earth's surface. “Convection zone,” he whispers. “Earthquake on its way.” The nurse smiles as she usually does, but she decides to check with the head nurse to see if his medication needs a little boost.
People are going about their business as usual. The nurses wheel their charges along the brick path that winds softly through Memory Garden. Now and then they stop before a bench and look at a polished plaque that bears the donor's information. “In Memory of Hugh Wiles, 1889 – 1990.” “In Loving Memory: Clara Knight 1925 – 1954 and her father Stanley G. Knight 1900 – 1982.” Some of the plaques also contain photographs of the remembered. Some of them are inscribed with messages: “Amore”; “Until We Meet Again” “Always with Us.”
It's a beautiful peaceful day in the garden. The path is wide enough to allow two wheelchairs to pass without the danger of bumping into one another. There are geraniums and tiny pansies planted along the path, and azaleas and rhododendrons mark each curve. The tall oaks, planted well over a hundred years ago, tremble ever so slightly in the afternoon breeze. The art therapist has already noted that the sky is a rich, unusual shade of blue today, and the clouds are streaked with the subtlest hues of pink and violet. This will be a wonderful day to give her patients a nice thick piece of paper and a tin of watercolors. What fun they'll have painting such colors on such a perfect day.
Except for Sam. Sam is ruining it for everyone. He's no longer whispering. Instead, he is yelling, “Earthquake! Earthquake coming!” People are getting annoyed. His nurse has left him unaccompanied.
"Enough is enough," snaps a nursing' aide.
“Oh, crap. Someone get security to bring him back inside,” groans the art therapist.
The aide tries to calm Sam with the promise of a treat: “You stop scaring everyone and you'll get a nice icecream after dinner tonight.”
Sam's eyes are wide with fear. His chin quivers under a three-day growth of gray beard, and he begins to gasp for breath. One of the nurses signals security on her walkie-talkie. “Better bring a syringe,” she advises.
Sam is on a stretcher. He is quiet, almost sleeping, a smile on his lips now that the tranquilizer has done its drastic work. “Thank goodness for Thorazine,” notes the art therapist. She is content for now her pupils can work in peace. She smiles as security wheels Sam back toward the residence. “Convection zone, indeed. This is hardly earthquake country.”
A few people notice that the birds have shot en masse from the tall oaks. In the distance, they hear howling dogs, something that sounds like the snapping of metal, a siren that screeches through the air like a train whose breaks are locked. There is no mistaking the tremor under their feet or the angry blackening of the sky. A sudden explosion under the winding brick path rips a hole through the center of Memory Garden, swallowing its pretty flowers, polished plaques, promises of everlasting love, and all the people into its newly formed chasm of boiling rock. Sam, abandoned by security, sleeps the paralyzing sleep of the tranquilized. He will awaken and stretch tomorrow at dawn. Alone and still unheeded, he will put his ear to the ground and listen. “Shhhh,” he will say to no one at all. “Buffalo," he will whisper. "Twenty miles away; headed this way. Buffalo.”
0 comments:
Post a Comment