Break Point Down Page 31

  “People may believe what they want to believe.”

  “On both sides. But that doesn't answer the question. I'm thinking there must be some real truth out there. Something I can find if I work at it. Some way to find out where to go. And how.”

  “A modest request.”

  “And then another thing. This document has been through heaven knows how many translations. I've dabbled in languages enough to know that you never quite get it the same when you take something from one language into another. And we are talking one era to another, one culture to another. How much has been screwed up? If the translator picked a word that's just a little off, and then the next guy updates him a little and gets even farther off the mark—what have you got?”

  “So assume the translation isn't perfect. Is the book as a whole?”

  “Of course, it isn't one book. It's a library. It's a whole bunch of books in one cover. We don't even know how much of any original manuscript we have. You lose a few pages out of a document like that and you can wind up changing the course of history. I'm telling you, it can be scary to hunt for answers there. You usually come out with a longer list of questions.”

  “I don't think it was meant to be that difficult.”

  Kitt pounced on that.

  “You said meant to be.”

  “So?”

  “That means intent. It means a person, an identity, somebody who does the intending.”

  “It was just an expression.”

  “But take it further, Danny. Doesn't it seem logical that if there is a God who wants us to do certain things and be certain things—wouldn't you think he'd make it a little easier for Joe-off-the-street to figure out what he wants?”

  “I think people know and believe on different levels. You're intense, you're the perfectionist. What's enough for most people is not enough for you. You're all-or-nothing. So where other people are satisfied, you're not.”

  “Okay, okay. I know to some people faith is as natural as breathing. For some of us it's a struggle.”

  “Maybe that's your answer. Perhaps you are meant to struggle.”

  Kitt stared at him.

  Was that it? The struggle before the prize, and faith from the refiner's fire before knowledge. A spiritual journey instead of an intellectual search. Had he been willing to believe what he could understand, what he could prove, and no more? Faith and denial, both based on imperfect knowledge. What kind of faith was that—faith in people, in himself, in as much logic as he could grasp? Maybe it was in the testing after all, the trying out. Live as you believe, not believe as you live. Did faith come, like knowledge, after you'd paid the price?

  If that was so, had he kept God at arm's length? Faith with caveats. Small print attached. I'll accept you, God, as long as you don't do anything I can't fit into my intellectual comfort zone. I'll listen to you when you've got all the facts.

  But how could you just believe, without some evidence? What did he expect you to do—blindly latch onto others' say-so? What if it was all no more than superstition, an emotional crutch for the helpless? And what about Kari? Was she meant to struggle, too?

  Instinctively he knew that sort of struggle was not for her. Not now. Right now what she wanted was for him to tell her that there was a God and he loved her, and she was going to be all right. The searching and testing and discovery could come later, but if there was a God, he had to find out, because Kari would depend on him to know when she came back.

  His thoughts were interrupted by Danny's cell phone.

  “Excuse me a sec.”

  Afterward he was in a hurry.

  “I've got to get to the airport. Dad's been in an accident. He's in intensive care. Can you drive me in?”

  “Sure thing. How bad is it?”

  ”Passenger side hit by a Corvette. Driver with an alcohol level in the stratosphere. Thank heaven Dad was alone in the car.”

  “Seat belt?”

  “Seat belt, air bag. But the Corvette went up over Dad's car, crushed the roof. He's got head injuries. They couldn't tell me much.”

  “Was that your mom?”

  “My brother-in-law. They've called Tess, and she's flying out tonight.”

  “Let me know how things are if you can.”

  “I don't know what Mom will do if he doesn't make it. I don't know what I will do.”

  “Stay cool, Danny. You don't know his condition.”

  “He's in ICU. That's as critical as it gets.”

  “Danny, it's the care he gets there that's critical. If it were just a place to die in, it would be quiet and peaceful. It's a place to fight.”

  After a flying trip to the airport, he watched his friend run down the concourse to the waiting plane. Preoccupied, he didn't turn to wave.

  Jeff, Laura, Kari, now Danny. Some picked themselves back up and some didn't. In the end, you didn't get anywhere sitting back and thinking profound thoughts. Faith and knowledge and the whole bit—they were going to come to me just like that if I had a chance to think about them. You had to pay the price. Tranquillity was for changeovers.

  Danny called the next day to say he didn't know when he'd be back through. His father was semicomatose.

  “Doctors tell you anything?”

  “It's a long shot. Next forty-eight hours are critical. Odds are poor. So we wait it out. See if he comes around. He's got brain activity.”

  “That's something. He's hung in there so far.”

  “Him and the machines. I guess it's good I didn't go to Europe. At least I'm here, in case. Mom's pretty shaky.”

  “And you?”

  “Drives me nuts sitting here wondering if we should keep trying. Ron— that's my new brother-in-law—he thinks we should pack it in, tell'em to take him off the machinery and give it a miss.”

  “What do you think? What does your mother think? What do you think your Dad thinks?”

  “How should I know! He's unconscious.”

  “His brain is working. It's been only one day. Don't sit around talking each other into tanking, for heaven's sakes.”

  “What if we are just prolonging his death?”

  “What if you're taking away his chance to live?”

  “The way Ron looks at it—what kind of life?”

  “Is this guy for sure on your side? On your Dad's side?”

  “I guess so. I don't know. He figures you let him go with dignity. No heroics.”

  “What's heroic about giving somebody a shot at breathing?”

  “You know what I mean. Just letting go, not forcing him through a life on machines.”

  “Listen,” Kitt said impatiently, “I'm sure he can think of any number of noble reasons to head for the showers. It's not his life. Figure out what you think is right. Doctors think he has a shot—is this a time to quit?”

  “Ron's got everybody here wondering.”

  “Then you get everybody there believing. If you want to tank you can still do it next week or next year. Quit now, with a few chances left—you're cutting your options down to one.”

  “Suppose he wakes up but he's in a wheelchair the rest of his life?”

  “Then get him the hottest wheelchair on the market and help him learn to zap around in it.”

  “You think we have a right to do that to him?”

  “You're not doing anything to him. The drunk who hit him did.”

  “But we'd be condemning him to a life as an invalid.”

  “Whereas you could just put him out of his misery?”

  “You make him sound like a dog. We wouldn't kill him. We'd let him go.”

  “The difference is a bit subtle for me. Anyway, are you ready to decide for him what kind of life is good enough?”

  There was a brief silence on the other end.

  “I've been thinking about that talk we had, just before I left.”

  “Me, too. I wish I'd had something solid to offer you.”

  “If there is a God, and he cares, why isn't he answering my mother's praye
rs?”

  “I don't know, Danny. Are you so sure he isn't? Me, I always wind up at the question: Is he not answering, or is it the wrong answer?”

  “Well, if this is the answer, she could have saved herself the trouble.”

  “But now you're saying if I get my way, there is a God, and if I don't, there isn't.”

  “You have an answer for everything, don't you.”

  “I didn't mean that as a comeback. It's just that maybe we're supposed to work things through without getting bailed out, at least most of the time. And if there is a God, well—”

  “Well what?”

  “I'm just thinking that if I start every sentence with ‘If there is a God,’ maybe I can't expect miracles.”

  “Why not? A little miracle right about now would make a believer out of me.”

  “Don't quote me on this, but I think it's supposed to work the other way round. Believe first, miracles later. Anyway, it looks to me like God has sort of a laissez-faire policy.”

  ”That's a real help.”

  “The way I see it, by and large we're on our own figuring things out. Support, yes. Comfort, maybe. But direct interference with history seems to be a no-no.”

  “Well, you have experience with crises. Ever prayed any away?”

  “Seems like nine times out of ten the problem stays. But some do become manageable.”

  “I tried the prayer bit myself. For all the good it did.”

  “Covering all the bases?”

  “Okay, so I don't operate on faith.”

  “You've got to wonder if you can stake it all on getting the answer you're willing to take.”

  “At least you play by the divine rules. You don't solve my problem either, but you give me some stuff to think about.”

  “Always glad to help.”

  The sun was still a promise on the horizon when Kitt jogged up the ramp toward the field house. George drove up minutes later.

  After a quick warm-up they played a couple of sets. George grinned across the net.

  “You trying to make friends and influence people lately?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Rumors. Been fighting with Admin again?”

  “Not recently. They want me out?”

  “Not yet. Just kicking about our budget and all. They know the team has been doing better since you've been on board. There's support for you out there. Students. The public. Even in Admin. But somebody with some clout seems to have it in for you.”

  Kitt snorted disdainfully.

  “Yeah, and his name starts with a double l.”

  “This about his daughter?”

  “Partly. I had a run-in with him a while ago. I thought it had blown over by now.”

  “You got an exhibition lined up yet?”

  “I'm gunning for early to midsummer. I want to be sure my knee is healed.”

  “Hard court?”

  “That or an indoor. Hard court's bad on your knees but I think it's my best bet this time of year. Some of the guys may want the extra practice. I'm kind of looking forward to it. Pull in some cash, you know. All I need is enough to take care of my niece and get through school. If I have to play a couple of exos for that, so be it. They won't pay anywhere near what they used to. An ex-jock.”

  “Have you thought of going back to the tour?”

  “Thought about it. Scratched it.”

  “I know of a good coach.”

  He sighed. Not him, too.

  “Sorry, George. If I went back, I'd have you in a heartbeat. But I got stuff to do.”

  “You think I am good enough to coach a top twenty player?”

  “You're coaching me, and I'm not complaining.”

  “I'm not really coaching you. I'm your hitting partner. You don't need any coaching. But you haven't had the tough opponents, either. You think I could prepare someone for one of the majors?”

  “Sure. You'd have to know everybody else's game, know what to prepare your man for in each match, how the other guy plays, his weaknesses, how he serves, all that stuff. Same about your own player. Kind of like what you've been doing here, but on another level. You can do it.”

  “You make it sound simple.”

  “The mechanics are simple. But knowing how is not the same as teaching, and teaching isn't coaching. You got to click. Know how to get the best out of your man. And some players change coaches every other week. You got to be flexible, go with the flow. Some of ‘em get pretty testy.”

  “How well do you know Erik Litmanen?”

  “Litmanen, huh? The big Finn. Great guy. That's right, he just got in the top twenty. Great return of serve. Baseliner. Played him a few times—don't know him well, but enough to give him a call, if that's what you had in mind.”

  “Kitt, that'd be great. I know he's looking for a coach.”

  “Sure. So you're ready to make the change?”

  “Thought I'd try after the college season.”

  George brought him the bad news a couple of days later. The department was cutting the coaching staff. Kitt was out of a job as of the first of April.

  “Cut anybody else?”

  “I don't know. This may be about you. But you'll never prove it.”

  He thought hard for a few moments, then shrugged.

  “Will you have time to work with me now that you've got all the sessions again?”

  George looked uncomfortable.

  “It's not the time. But you're not part of the university tennis program anymore. That means court fees, and it's not easy to get court time. You know the demand.”

  “I take it the fees are pretty high?”

  “Let me see what I can do, Kitt.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks. I'll find a place to hit some balls. They can drop dead. I'm not crawling.”

  The news from Danny was encouraging. His father had regained consciousness, though his condition remained serious. Kitt wrote him encouraging e-mails, and kept his troubles to himself.

  The days were longer now. He'd set up a more or less permanent campsite on a small, grassy plateau about half a mile below Thor's stony grave, and he'd made it a routine to run in the mountains for several hours each day to keep up his conditioning. Practice for his hoped-for exhibition match had become difficult without the unlimited access to the university tennis courts. He played on the public courts along the park strip, but he knew his efforts were laughable as preparation for a match against a top ten player, and that after nearly two years off the tour he might not be able to take a set off anybody.

  He'd tried the tennis clubs. His name got him a ready audience and some free court time, but coordinating with George was hard, and often there was no one better than some club player to practice with. Occasionally, they had him put on a clinic, but no steady job came of it. After classes in the morning he worked six hours at a car wash and spent the evenings in the library studying and tutoring a few students in foreign languages. Many nights he just parked the car on a quiet street and sacked out in the back of the Suburban. At four he was up, ready to start running. One night he was awakened by someone knocking on the windshield. He tried to orient himself, shielding his eyes from the powerful flashlight that shone in his face.

  “Police. Step outside, please.”

  They had him spreadeagle against the car, patted him down.

  “You sleep in your truck often?”

  “That against the law, officer?”

  “No. People have been complaining. What are you doing here?”

  “What does it look like I am doing? I was sleeping.”

  “You have a home?”

  “I live in a mansion around the corner. It's just that I ran out of gas.”

  “There are homeless shelters downtown. There's Brooks Home and Willie's Cafe—”

  “Thank you for that info, officer. If people here are intimidated by my limo, I'll move.”

  He parked high in the mountains off a dirt road, and got ready for the day.

 
; Soon the cadence of his run up the hillside eased his irritable mood. He carried his flashlight and hiker's bells, and stayed on the dirt roads rather than veering off on the trails in the dark. Stupid to run here at night; you could run into a moose or a bear, or heaven knows what.

  But where else could you run at this hour? The gates at the university tracks were locked at night, and anywhere in town he'd attract unfavorable attention. There wasn't enough time in the daylight hours to get enough conditioning in. Now and then he shouted into the night as he ran away the paralyzing fog of uncertainty that always came back to Where is she? How is she surviving? Who is exploiting her now? Zack had called and suggested ads in the paper, but they had produced no results.

  In the early daylight a few hours later, he made his way to a small stream and followed it uphill till he reached the fair-sized waterfall that fed it. He stripped and waded out under the ice-cold, cascading water for his morning shower. Afterward, he pulled a towel from his backpack, and dressed quickly.

  On his way down the mountain he glanced at the gas gauge and frowned. Payday wasn't for four days yet. Better find a place in town to sleep for a few nights. His cell phone rang as he pulled up at the car wash. It was Danny, and he was jubilant.

  “Dad's going home in a couple of days. Things turned around this weekend—he's sitting up and talking.”

  “That's great.”

  “I'll be back through in a while, maybe stay a couple of days. I'll let you know.”

  The next morning he was on the streets early, searching an industrially zoned district south of the city center. A few blocks down he ran into a surprise. Between the blind back walls of warehouses, separated from the trashy environment by a rudimentary fence, was a tennis court of sorts, or at least a couple of vacant lots generously littered and half overgrown with weeds. Several teenagers and younger kids were picking up trash and rocks, while others wielded what looked like beat-up wooden tennis rackets thirty or forty years out of style. The improvised court had been cleared of debris and vegetation, though some weeds still grew from the cracked soil. The lines were barely visible and the patched net hung disconsolately from bent and rusty posts, but four kids were hitting a few well-used balls back and forth. To his practiced ear the balls sounded soft, and the professional eye found little to appreciate in the rackets, either, but the kids were serious about their game and a young woman supervised the activity as if she were coaching the next Wimbledon champion.