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Bitter Pill

By Richard L. Mabry, MD

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Bob Bannister, still wearing his suit pants and an unbuttoned, sweat-soaked dress shirt, sat in the small room he was using as an office. His jet-black hair was tousled. Through the closed door, he could hear the sounds of the last stragglers filing out of the old Albertson’s that was now the Gospel Tabernacle of Goldman, Texas. Bannister had a glass of amber liquid at his elbow, but he ignored it to focus his attention on the sheet of figures in front of him.
A noise from the back of the room made him look up.
“Got a second, Brother Bob?” Randy Futterman was standing in the partially open doorway. Where the man had spent most of his adult life, there was neither privacy nor manners, so talking about knocking or the meaning of a closed door was an exercise in futility.
“Sure. Come in and close the door.” Good old Randy, sometimes a bit slow on the uptake, but devoted as an old hound dog. Of course, some of that loyalty came from Randy’s status as a wanted man. One phone call from Bannister could probably put him back in prison. However, so long as he did what he was told, the man performed adequately as an assistant.
Randy removed his baseball cap and held it in front of him like a shield. He took three hesitant steps into the room, halting several feet from where Bannister sat.
“Uh, about tonight’s service,” Randy said.
Bannister picked up his glass and took a sip. “Yeah, it went well. Give that woman something extra before you put her on the bus.”
“Uh, uh…that’s just it. We can’t do that.”
Bannister put down the glass—actually, he slammed it onto the table he used as a desk, some of its contents spilling onto the sheets before him. His voice rose. “What do you mean? After every service, it’s the same routine—old one out, new one in. You know how it works.”
“I know,” Randy said. “But there’s a problem.”
“Why? We’ve always put that person on a bus out of town as quickly as possible. We don’t want to risk people recognizing them and asking questions.”
Randy twisted his cap with both hands. “Yeah, I know. But…you see…the thing is, somehow this lady slipped by the ushers to get into that front row seat.”
“I don’t understand.”
“She wasn’t the person we planted.” Randy’s Adam’s apple did a dance as he swallowed twice. “I think you really healed her.”
* * *
“Mrs. Ferguson, I’m so sorry.” Dr. Abby Davis felt her stomach knot. She reached across the desk and covered the hand of the woman seated across from her. This never got any easier. And as young people moved away from Goldman, leaving behind a progressively older population, she was seeing more patients like this.
“I wish the news were better.” Abby looked down at the sheets of paper centered on her blotter but didn’t read them—there was no need. The words had burned themselves into her brain when she’d first seen them. “I just got a report this morning from the oncologist. The cancer’s still growing. Your tumor didn’t respond to radiation, and none of the chemotherapy drugs have helped. Nothing has worked.” Abby tried to swallow, but the lump in her arid throat refused to budge. “At this point, what the oncologist suggests is palliative care—perhaps in a hospice.”
Only the old woman’s eyes showed her hurt. Her countenance continued to display the composure Abby had come to admire, the serenity she displayed in the face of each bit of terrible news.
Mrs. Ferguson nodded. Her voice was steady. “You’re saying he thinks you should try to keep me comfortable while you wait for me to die.”
The knot in Abby’s midsection seemed to grow. “I don’t… That’s not…” She took a deep breath, pursed her lips, then exhaled slowly. “I guess so.”
After what seemed like an hour, Mrs. Ferguson patted Abby’s hand. “Dr. Davis, I appreciate everything you’ve done. I guess there’s no need for me to keep seeing that cancer doctor. But can I come back to you if I need to? The pain’s not too bad right now, but when it gets that way, I’m going to need some help.” She looked into Abby’s eyes. “And I trust you.”
Abby cleared her throat and swallowed twice before she spoke. “Sure. I can see you as often as necessary. I’ll stay in touch with the oncologist, and if there’s something more he recommends, you and I can discuss it.”
Had she made a mistake, sending this patient to the consultant she felt was the best choice? When the news of what happened to Mrs. Ferguson reached Dr. Willis—and she was certain it would—she wondered if he’d say something to his colleagues about it. Something like, “I understand that another one of Dr. Davis’s referrals didn’t respond to treatment. She should have sent her to me.”
For a brief moment, Abby wondered if Willis was right. The oncologist she’d recommended was sympathetic and understanding, a far cry from the impersonal, assembly line practice Willis ran, but in the end nothing had worked.
Mrs. Ferguson put both hands on the arms of her chair and began to push herself up. When she paused in the process, Abby rose and started around the desk to help. The woman waved her hand and eased back down into her chair. Abby could see beads of sweat dotting the older woman’s forehead.
“I’ll be okay if I just rest a bit.”
Abby paused where she was. She knew there were other patients waiting, but she wasn’t going to hurry this woman. “Take your time.” She came around her desk and took the side chair next to her patient.
Sometimes Abby thought these were the hardest moments for a family practitioner, at least for someone who cared—as she did. When it came to taking care of patients for whom there was no hope, she’d never learned to be comfortable with the situation.
Finally, Mrs. Ferguson rose slowly from the chair. “I think knowing you’re there for me makes it easier.”
Abby wished she could say the same for herself.
* * *
The waitress poured coffee for Scott Anderson, and although he and Ed Farmer had met in this coffee shop every Monday morning since he’d moved to Goldman, Texas, three months ago, she asked, “Cream?”
He replied, just as he’d done for about a dozen Mondays. “No thanks. Just black.”
When Scott assured her that Pastor Farmer would arrive soon, the waitress nodded. “I’ll keep an eye out for him. He likes his coffee hot.”
Scott—he had dropped the “doctor” in front of his name when he left his surgery practice—wondered how much longer he could continue this. It was what he’d let himself in for when he decided he was taking this route. Friends told him that his decision to step away from medicine when Erica died was taken in haste, but he couldn’t be talked out of it.
“Give it a few weeks,” they’d said. “You’ve got a nice practice. Don’t throw it all away.” But Scott remained steadfast. Entering seminary had seemed a good way to take a year or more away from medicine, but the deeper he’d gotten into his classes, the more he had no desire to return to his surgical practice. Whether following God’s call or merely reacting to a huge shock, Scott continued with his studies.
Being older than the majority of his classmates in seminary didn’t seem to hurt. He’d managed to keep up with the others and even climbed to the top quarter of the class by graduation. But there were still times when Scott had been on the verge of quitting. Each time though, whether due to his inertia or by God’s hand, he’d continued on the course he’d set out to pursue.
There was no question in Scott’s mind that his call to become associate pastor of the First Congregational Church of Goldman, Texas, was due in no small part to recommendations from several faculty members at the seminary.
Before Erica’s death, he had started growing the pseudo-beard, the “designer stubble” that was popular at the time. She thought it made him look distinguished, and he’d continued it, even after her death.
At his interview, Pastor Ed Farmer had commented on Scott’s “near-beard.” “It makes you look older, more mature. Keep it.” So, he had.
The position seemed almost too perfect. The city of Goldman was close to the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex, yet still small enough to appeal to Scott, who grew up on a farm in the Texas hill country. The duties weren’t onerous, and although the salary wasn’t much in comparison with what he used to earn as a surgeon, the chance to listen to Ed Farmer, to talk with him outside the pulpit, as well as listen to him preach, was a great opportunity.
So far, the work hadn’t been challenging—visit the hospitals and shut-ins, meet with various committees when Ed either had a conflict or manufactured one, teach an occasional Bible study class. But he knew that eventually he’d have to do more than the busywork that kept him occupied.
“Sorry, I’m running a bit slow this morning.” Ed slid into the black-vinyl booth opposite Scott and almost before he’d fully settled himself, the waitress was there, brandishing her coffeepot.
“I knew you liked your coffee hot,” she said, filling up his heavy ceramic mug. Then she turned away with a self-satisfied air.
Scott watched Ed Farmer do what he always did with a fresh cup of coffee; he pursed his lips and blew over the surface of the mug. Usually he followed that with, “They serve this coffee too hot.” But this time was a bit different. Without looking up, Farmer said, “Scott, I want you to preach this coming Sunday.”
The coffee shop was noisy, so Scott leaned across the table to be sure there was no misunderstanding. “You want me to preach next Sunday?”
“Yep.” Ed took a sip of coffee and frowned. “They serve this coffee too hot. It needs to cool a bit more.” He shoved the cup to the side.
“Me? Preach?”
Ed looked up and smiled at his associate. “Yes. You know—stand in the pulpit, read the Scripture, pray. They did teach you about that stuff in seminary, didn’t they?”
“Yes, but—”
“No buts. I figure it’s about time. You’ve been serving as our associate pastor for three months now. You’re doing a good job, but some of the congregation are asking when they’ll hear you from the pulpit. Besides…well, let’s just say I have my reasons for getting you into action as soon as possible. So, I want you to preach this Sunday.”
“If you think I’m ready—”
Farmer held up his hand, palm out, like a traffic cop. “You’re more than ready.”
Scott’s brain went into high gear, seeking a way out. “Since I’m fresh out of seminary… This is my first real pastoral position, and...I…I really need some more time.”
“Nope. This is Monday. You’ve got six days to prepare, just like I have every week. That should be enough time for you.” Once more, Ed blew across the surface of his coffee cup before taking a cautious sip.
“I don’t—”
Ed’s laugh sounded loud in the coffee shop. “God created the world in six days. Surely, you can get a sermon ready in that time.”
“I…I’ll do my best.”
The senior pastor tried his coffee again and found it drinkable this time. He swallowed at least a third of it before setting his partially empty mug on the table and wiping his lips. “Let me know if you need any help—books in my library, sermon outlines from my files—but I think you’ll be fine.”
Scott managed to keep up his end of the conversation as it turned to the local sports teams, but in the back of his mind he was once more asking the question, What am I doing here?
Now it was time to stand and deliver—in this case, to deliver a sermon from the pulpit. And that’s where the trouble might lie. Because in the sermon Scott figured he was going to be called on to reveal the depth of his own beliefs. And right now, he wasn’t totally sure what his beliefs were founded upon, or how deep that foundation went.
* * *
The prowler moved from shadow to shadow in the postmidnight darkness. About an hour ago, the clock had rolled over from Monday night to Tuesday morning. The neighborhood was quiet as people slumbered, some anticipating what the remainder of the week held, others dreading it. School was back in session after the summer hiatus, the children were all asleep, and now the parents had joined them. Every house on the block was silent. Nothing stirred. Perfect for what the prowler had in mind.
A few faint lights glowing through the windows marked houses whose inhabitants liked the security of a night-light—sometimes to soothe a child, or to facilitate trips to the bathroom or kitchen. But the windows of the house that was occupied by his target remained dark. Good.
The prowler didn’t know whether this particular garage was full of junk, or the car’s owner was too lazy to do more than stop at the curb. In either case, the gray Toyota sedan that was his target tonight was parked outside. So much the better.
By the faint light of a distant streetlamp the prowler could see evidence of a fine dusting on some of the cars at the curb, dirt combined with pollen from the ragweed that was still blooming here in Texas in early fall. He could imagine that, if the owners washed off the ash he was about to create, the benefit would be clean cars. Well, all except one, which would be incinerated.
The prowler’s first thought had been to blow up the car by lighting a gasoline-soaked rag stuffed down the filler neck of the gas tank. But a little Internet research convinced him that maneuver was more successful in movies and books rather than in real life. Okay, he could adapt. He’d douse the front seats of the car with an accelerant, toss in a match, and run. That should deliver the desired message.
What message? The same one he’d tried to communicate by a few telephone calls and anonymous notes. The prowler had talked with people in town whom he thought believed as he did, that the man sleeping inside that house was a threat to the people who heard him. They listened politely, but no one would take action. Well, he would! And since what was going on was obviously the work of the devil, sending the message via fire seemed quite appropriate.
The prowler carried a pinch bar in the rumpled gym bag in his hand, ready to pry open the driver’s side door or break a car window for access if needed. But that proved unnecessary. The car was unlocked. Either the driver felt safe and secure, or simply didn’t care. In either case, this stroke of luck made his job easier.
His supplies nestled inside the bag, which now rested on the pavement. The prowler carefully extracted them, one by one, forming a neat row on the sidewalk—a couple cans of charcoal lighter fluid, a box of kitchen matches, an old towel.
He looked around once more, checking the neighborhood. All quiet. Well, that was about to change.
The prowler was poised to proceed when a sudden noise made him look up. Three police cars screeched to a halt at the end of the block, their helter-skelter positions at the curb, indicating a bust or robbery in progress. The headlights of the cars stayed on, partially illuminating the people who emerged. A couple wore civilian clothes; the others were clad in police uniforms with jackets displaying the words GOLDMAN PD in large reflective letters on the back. The revolving strobes on top of two cars and flashing from behind the grill of a third painted the area in splashes of red and blue.
This wasn’t the best of neighborhoods in Goldman, and it took only a couple of seconds for the prowler to fit the pieces together. For whatever reason, the police had picked tonight to raid the house at the end of the block. Which was all well and good in most circumstances, but not tonight. The prowler didn’t need their presence while he was preparing the conflagration he had in mind—and certainly not while he made his escape afterward.
As the police fanned out around the house at the end of the street, the prowler took three deep breaths to still his rapid heartbeat. Don’t let panic make you do something stupid. If he remained calm, he could sneak away undetected. In the space of a few seconds, he carefully returned the items to his bag and then eased away until he was completely hidden in the shadows.
The prowler turned and peered from his hiding place in the darkness. No one was looking his way. He edged further away, using the cars parked at the curb for cover, pausing at each one to make certain he was unobserved. Finally, he started to walk down the sidewalk, holding the bag against his side, both to conceal it and still its faint rattle. When he left the shadows, the prowler walked purposefully toward where he’d left his car.
He reached his vehicle, which was headed away from the police activity at the far end of the street. He climbed in, then experienced a moment of panic when his car failed to start on the first try. He turned the key again and breathed a silent sigh when the engine turned over and caught. Using only his parking lights, he pulled away from the curb. Soon he was driving toward freedom. He felt frustration that he wouldn’t be delivering the warning tonight. But there’d be another time. And he trusted that the conflagration he had planned would get the message across to Bob Bannister.
 

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