Mission of Mercy Chapter 2 On the Road Again

The chapter is titled "On the Road, Again." The mate inspects the car and wakes up the captain and the old man. The crew is on a journey to Tampa to see the old man's dying son. The wife is struggling with her husband's condition and has called the old man to come. The crew debates whether to tell the old man. They continue their journey, stopping at a truck stop in Arizona. The old man gets hungry and impatient, causing a delay. They eventually continue their journey, but progress is slow. Okay, this is Chapter 2, and Chapter 2 is called, On the Road, Again. The mate rose early and thoroughly inspected the vehicle to ensure they were properly provisioned, repacking the non-human cargo for maximum space and comfort. Make no mistake, a Honda CR-V is not a limousine, it's not even a nice sedan, it is a stiff and compact ride. The old man had never liked it. He preferred the captain's van with its sliding doors, temperature control, and fully reclining individual seats. It required less exertion to enter and exit, and the van carried more. Convinced the car contained everything necessary for a crossing, including the forgotten lithium, the mate went back inside to rouse the captain. They had already lost one precious day, and could ill afford another. Time to rise and shine, said the mate cheerfully, yet with sufficient force to accomplish its purpose. The captain acknowledged, and satisfied toes would hit floor, the mate went to wake the old man. This was never an effortless task, and made more difficult with the residue of pharmaceutical fantasy in his system. He was shaken, but did not stir. Were they too late? Had the modest strain placed on him yesterday been too much? The mate was confused, terrified, but somehow oddly relieved. The idea of this trip was both ill-conceived and ill-advised. The more intelligent course would have been to connect via some sort of video link, but the old man was stubborn, and who could argue with his motives? He wanted to see his boy. The mate exerted more force, and heard a small grunt. Uh-oh, he was not dead after all, just deep in a state that he had not been able to experience since he learned the terrible fate. How long it had been, the mate wondered, days, perhaps. Slowly he became more alert, not exactly lively, but ready to face the day. The mate was less sure than the old man of this, as he wore boxer shorts and nothing else. Some days he never added anything more. The passengers got used to seeing unwelcome parts of him. They were not carting him across the country in his underwear. He needed a comb and toothbrush at minimum. It made perfect sense to the crew that he wash his face and put on clean clothes, for while no one can look handsome with a hose under their nose, snot running at all the wrong times, at least they felt he could make an effort. He rose and made his toilet. The captain appeared and took over, and together they dressed the old man and, with no further thought or conversation, loaded him into the car and relaunched the journey. Tampa was still a long way away. The sun, afflicted with an aggressive form of brain cancer, had taken a turn, and an operation to relieve the pressure failed. Life was ebbing, and the son knew it, had made peace with it, but had not accepted all would end so quickly. His wife, a trained nurse, was making a vainglorious effort to appear in control, but she was not. Headaches are not cancer. Her husband was not dying. He was merely sick, she told herself. Her medical mind could not be so easily tricked. It knew the perverse truth. She prayed for more time so that they could share thoughts, since dreams were now impossible. Say all those things that married couples should say, but rarely do, and never with the full force of honest emotion. Tell him how empty life was going to be without him, how his life and hers were intertwined. Share once again the plans made for their time in the fading light. It was against her best instincts that she had contacted his father. She knew he would want to come, to see his only son and try to comfort him, as he had always done. Selfishly, she did not care to abdicate her prime position, but saw no other choice. It was the right thing to do. She craved what little time was left for herself. Sharing him now felt like a violation. And so, after the operation failed and the pain became intense, the wife called again and was told the merry voyagers were on the road. How far away, she asked. Very, came the response. Hurry, she replied, and hung up the phone. The crew debated the wisdom of communicating the news to the old man. What could they do about it? The captain pressed down on the pedal a bit harder, but the mile markers still came too slowly. Thousands of these markers would need to be checked off before they made the Florida coast. In the back, the old man appeared lost in thought. Give me another one of those pills, would you? It was more of a command than a question, and the crew instantly complied. This was the solution they required. More sedation. Soon, he was a drooling mess, a welcome sight to the crew. Asleep, he was less of a burden. He began mumbling in his sleep. Where was he? A boy in Philadelphia, chasing about with his pack of hounds? A young husband with a pretty wife, acting the responsible businessman? Playing host for friends and family at an Indianapolis 500 party? A proud father watching children grow? They didn't know, but it seemed an appropriate time to discuss the elephant in the room, his dying son, and their relationship and history with him. The old man was not the only one on this journey personally impacted by the pending loss. The thought buckled their knees and brought tears. Preparing for the trip had consumed them. No one, no time, had been spent in shared grief, and although the mate wanted to broach the subject, the captain was not ready. It will crush and destroy me, the captain turned and said. I can't talk to you about this yet. The mate respected the captain's feelings and instead adjusted the radio. Devastated and blocked from emotional release, the mate was stymied, and the car fell silent. Finally, the captain spoke. I'm sorry I lost it. I've just been feeling sorry for myself, guilty for how I resented him, and angry that I feel that way. I can't process this, it is surreal, impossible, an appalling joke. And then I know it is not, and the pit of grief is just so deep and jagged, that my heart hurts. This is pain I can't take away, punishment I can't absorb for him. How can he face it? Maybe it's something he learned from being in AA. Maybe he's just being strong for his family, and then again there must be moments where faith doesn't suffice, and hopefully we can help somehow, someway. And the mate's voice drifted off. Once again the car was quiet. They drove on as the sun passed overhead and California faded away. Somewhere in Arizona, the captain pulled over to refuel. It was a chance to stretch their legs and feel the sun on their faces. The station was a truck stop with fifty pumps and a food court, an oasis of gigantic proportions. Every brand of garbage pile was represented, lousy places devoid of nutrition, specializing in returning drivers to their vehicles without undue delay. That's America for you, the captain thought. We hurry through life until there is none left, then we beg for more time. To do what? Waste it in mindless pursuits? Watch TV? Eat more fast food? Suddenly, from the back seat a voice cried out, I'm hungry. I haven't had any breakfast. No coffee. Drive me over there. I gotta piss. The commands, the stream of commands were endless. Of course, it was the old man. The blast of hot desert air and lack of motion roused him from his repose, and the barrel was a-grumpy. Here in person was the king of fast food and television, a poster boy for excess, and a psychiatrist patient zero in an impulse control study. Self-denial was not a long suit. If he saw it and liked it, he bought it. From cars to clothes, the old man favored nice things. His culinary desires changed with age, but generally speaking, the appetite was undiminished. It just got pickier. Now he faced a plethora of favorites. The gang was all here. The colonel, the clown, and the king were all represented at the food court, and he was quite nearly salivating, almost forgetting his full bladder. Moving the old man was never an easy task. Commands required disconnection, breathing units were to be unloaded, and the skill of a piano mover needed to lift him out of the car. All made worse when he was impatient, driven mad by a pressing urge to urinate. Only then would it be possible for him to shuffle over to the men's room, where he would use his age and infirmity to bully past younger and more agile travelers, cutting the line. Upon exiting, he turned his laser focus on fueling himself while the crew dealt with the automobile. He gave them no mind, believing his hunger trumped all, and thinking them perfectly capable of fending for themselves. Until, that is, he discovered how popular this oasis truly was. The queue he selected was actually quite reasonable, only a few people on line, but still too long to suit the old man. He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, blew out his breath in exasperation, and generally let it be known that the volcano was about to explode. Funny thing about old people, they lose their inner monologues and ability to modulate their voice. In brain, out mouth, exemplified in this instance by his endless commentary about other diners. Are they ordering the entire menu? Do these people own mirrors? How many kids do they have? In short, an observation about anyone at the counter for more than a nanosecond. The mate appeared, and suggested replacing him. The offer was gratefully accepted, and he began the arduous journey back to the car. The captain met him en route, and assisted in guiding him to the waiting auto. Human cargo loaded, they waited for the mate. Lunch would be consumed in the vehicle. A simple pit stop had been transformed into Moses crossing the Sinai. At the current rate of progress, they would make Tampa in a month. The old man was exhausted from his marathon trip to the food court. It took several minutes for him to regain management of breath. The portable unit whirled peacefully by his side. Soon the mate returned, loaded down with vittles, and they tucked in. It appeared likely garbage would be on the menu for the next several days. After greedily consuming, and subsequently wearing, much of his food, he asked for another pill, and the mate complied. Carefully they pulled away from the truck stop, and accelerated back onto the highway, heading east, always east, and further into the desert. Well, I think that went okay, the mate said, settling into the passenger seat. We managed our first pit stop, had lunch, and got back on the road in maybe about an hour or so. Yes, marvelous, said the captain sarcastically. Should be good for another few hours, just enough time to get deep into Arizona, maybe make Tucson. I'd be pleased to get that far. If he's still asleep when we make Tucson, should we keep going? I mean, what's he going to do differently in a motel than he's doing right now? Watch TV? Eat food with a knife and fork? Have an old-fashioned cocktail? I don't think a cocktail's a good idea. How many pills has he had already today? The mate asked. Just enough, the captain replied. I suggest we keep feeding him them as often as he wants. I mean, what harm can it possibly do? He's 84, has COPD, and his son is dying of brain cancer. If the damn pill lets him relax and keeps him from stressing out, I'm all for it. They do seem to do the trick. He's out like a light again. What kind of vet is this? Standard stuff. The doctor thought he'd need it. He was right. They're safe. I take them sometimes when I have anxiety. It helps me relax and keeps the walls from closing in. I must admit, it doesn't knock me out the same way it does him, though. They blew through Tucson with hardly a thought and kept moving, trying to make the New Mexico border. To the captain, New Mexico felt like progress, one state closer to Florida. Daylight was fading and the crew thought it was wise to find accommodations prior to darkness, but instead they pressed on, and as long as the old man was asleep, they would continue. Light lasts long at this time of year, they told themselves. They had time still. Traffic was moving well, and after Tucson, the highway was nearly devoid of vehicles. Occasionally, they saw a roadrunner. More often it was roadkill. The two animal icons of the desert, a cartoon bird, or the final act of a desperate creature making the last bad decision of its life. There was some quirky synergy in this. Would they end up like the roadrunner or the coyote? The captain expected they would find out tomorrow as they broiled across New Mexico and into the dreaded Texas. God, how I hate Texas, and I don't mean simply driving across Texas. I hate what it stands for, the obvious crassness, the impressed and overarching religiousness, the condescending attitude. Don't mess with Texas? No problem. I want nothing to do with that state, the captain said to no one in particular. But given that the mate was the only other person in the car, the invective seemed to demand a reply. I really never spent much time there, the mate nudged. Where? said the captain. Texas. You were talking about Texas, and how you were not fond of the state. Not fond? That's mild. I have a deep and profound dislike of the place and the people. So cocksure they know what's best for everyone else. So morally superior, yet so base and evil. Hypocrites. All of them. The captain was red-faced, gripping the wheel as if to crush it. I hear Austin is nice. College town, surface progressives. But if you dig down deep enough, you'll find the same racist value run through every one of them. It's a place with an entrenched sense of entitlement. Those Austin people not only look down on the rest of the USA, they consider themselves the cream of the longhorn herd. They own the ranches and oil fields, the banks and the buildings. Every other Texan is a sharecropper, a fieldhand, a clerk to them. Peons to the dons of the new world. Don't be fooled. Those polo-shirted frat boys are just as narrow-minded and bigoted as the Bible-toting dimwits that breed like mice in that shithole. The captain looked down and saw the speedometer crossing ninety miles an hour, and eased off the pedal. You'll see. Hi, where are we? The backseat was speaking. I'm sorry, the captain said. Did I wake you? I was dreaming about John and Virginia, and then I heard something about peons and polo-shirts. So, where are we? I need to stretch my legs, the old man said. Just outside of Boise, nearly to New Mexico, it was the mate who answered. How far do you think we're going today? We don't plan to drive all night, do we? Well, the next city of any size seems to be Lordsburg, and I think we can be there in an hour. After that, it's Deming. I don't think we'll get as far as Las Cruces by dark, but El Paso isn't much further than Las Cruces. And if you're feeling okay, we could try to push on to El Paso, the mate said, studying the 21st century version of an atlas, the cell phone's navigation app. Not after what I just heard about Texans, the old man exclaimed. Let's tackle that in the morning. How far to this Lordsburg? Fifty miles, the mate said. I can make that, the old man said, and stared back out the window again. In less than an hour, they parked by a big blue sign with a wheelchair on it. The captain went to check on rooms while the mate opened the rear door and let in some fresh air. Seemingly, most of the old man's lunch was either in his lap or on the floor, and the mate hurried to clean up the mess. He tried to exit, but found that he had been sitting too long and his legs refused to cooperate. Squirming around like a child in a church pew, he attempted to position himself on the edge of the seat, intent on launching himself out of the vehicle. Hold on there, the mate cried. Wait till I get some help. I can't be picking you up off the ground. The old man grunted, and the struggle ceased for the time being. He turned to the mate, tears in his eyes, and asked if they'd make Tampa in time. Clearly, it had consumed his mind, and for the first time since signing on to this voyage, the mate realized the captain was right about the need to medicate. As it was, his breathing was labored. Without the calming impact of the pill, the old man would worry himself to death long before they ever reached Florida. For a moment, the decision to stop and spend the night seemed the wrong one. There could be no rest, no peace for any of them, this night or any other, until they were reunited with the sun. We are going to be there in two or three days. He's a fighter. I think we will make it in plenty of time, said the mate, who almost believed it. Tomorrow we will get an early start and be across Texas by nightfall. Possibly we can make Tampa the next day. It will be long days, but we made good progress today, nearly 700 miles. So I think it is doable, and you're the boss. If you say go for it, then the captain puts the pedal down and we drink a shit ton of coffee. You know, I remember him as a little boy, said the mate, changing tack, and he was such a small boy, but what a big and easy grin. Always happy, always game to try something new. A natural athlete, just like his father. Had he been bigger, he might have been a football star or a basketball player. Do you recall him trying to talk his mom into letting him play football? The mate continued without waiting for a reply. Said he'd be killed, and then she'd have to claim his body at the principal's office. The old man forced a smile. It was true that his son had always challenged the possible. Not always in the best or most responsible way, it was true, but he had a way of turning that into an advantage that was endearing. On the subject of his dead wife, the old man was glad she did not have to bear this. She had always protected and cosseted the boy. Even at his most potent, the old man would not have been able to withstand a single glance from her today, knowing what she was thinking. That look was sure to pierce his heart and drain whatever small bit of strength may have remained. But mercifully, she passed away three years prior, after a lengthy bout with everything. The woman was afflicted with cancer and dementia. Multiple surgeries and treatments reduced her, but on her weakest day, she was ten times stronger than him. A huge presence for the work ethic of a galley slave and the compassion of Clara Barton. Undoubtedly, his better half. He tried to put the thought out of his head. My God, this was beyond tragic. It is unbearable. He had to watch his beloved wife fade away from him, and now, apparently, his son as well. OK, we are in, said the captain, waving a packet. Room 110, first floor. Two queen-size beds. I'll drive the car around so the distance is minimal. Then get settled and I'll find somewhere from which to get dinner. Any preference? Well, we are in New Mexico. It would seem likely Mexican food will be good, the mate tentatively suggested. Later, fed and watered, the crew and their charge were prone and set for bed. In the corner of the room, the little machine whirred away, dispensing oxygen to its grateful recipient. Empty sacks of fast food containers and soda cups were piled in the small trash receptacle for all the captain could source in the small village. It was more of the same. Sleep was fitful, but the captain resisted the urge to medicate. They needed an early start in the morning, and the mate would need help loading the car. The goal was to cross the whole of Texas tomorrow, a thousand scorching miles, but a troubling text from Tampa vexed the captain. It said that the son's brain was swelling, that he was in a great deal of pain. Passing in and out of consciousness throughout the day, the doctors wanted to induce a coma, but he resisted, wanting to see his family first. The news, of course, was kept from the old man, and whispered to the mate, only once he was asleep. End of chapter two