Death and Resurrection Page 3

  He knelt on the mat and lifted Uncle Jimmy’s head. There was a small neat hole above one ear and another, not as small or neat, below the other. There was a dark, wet spot on the front of his green polo shirt. Jimmy Young’s eyes were open and drying.

  “No!” shouted Ewen, holding the head as though it were something very delicate: something he could hurt or help by the holding. “No!”

  The mirror was in front of him. He saw himself in it, holding Jimmy’s body. His own head, tilted up like that of a keening dog, looked entirely foreign to him. For a moment he saw the angle only as a painter sees things, a shape removed from personal meaning. He also saw something else—the image of a tall, burly, black-haired man he remembered bringing down on the asphalt not twenty-four hours before. Mr. Hong Kong. Mr. Hong Kong was holding a gun. His nose was bloody. Ewen knew he hadn’t hit that nose the previous night. He turned just in time to see the man’s eyes narrow over the short sights of the revolver, in time to hear a crack like close lightning, and to feel a blow to his body that knocked him over the corpse of his uncle.

  He was walking through a huge hall, or something much like a hall, and there was a light before him, a bright light. It did not seem to be a particularly friendly sort of light—not a very human light—but somehow he knew it. The glow of the light roused Ewen’s curiosity, and he wondered how he could express that light on paper. On each side of the light smaller lights were hovering, and in them he saw familiar and comforting things—houses and flowers and people talking. They flickered with smoke like that of a hearth-fire. He had no doubt how to paint these. He stood among them all—the single unwavering illumination and the pockets of comfort—and he tried to decide which was more worth investigating, when a voice filled the place.

  It was a familiar voice. He remembered he liked the voice, though he remembered little else, and he tried to make out what the voice was saying. This took some time, during which the soft smoky fireplace lights grew more and more attractive. He felt he was a bit tired and would like to sit down by one of those fireplaces. Then he made out some words.

  “Ewen Young, child of a noble house,” it said. “Child of the Way. The time has come for you to seek a path. At the ending of your breath, the radiance of the in-between has become visible. This is the essence of reality, the luminous void, the undefiled mind, centerless and abounding. Recognize this, for it is your true state, and rest in it.”

  “I will instruct you further.”

  The voice was Theo’s, of course, “Tibetan” Theodore. This was his version of the introduction to the bardo—the transitional state of existence between two lives on earth. It was Theo’s own translation, and he was proud of it, so Ewen had heard it more than once before. More times than necessary, in his opinion. He had always thought it very wordy.

  Ewen looked at the luminescence, the smoky lights, and the featureless space through which he was walking. He turned around and suddenly the whole situation seemed very funny to him. He felt an urge to laugh, but politely restrained himself. He spoke up. “No thanks, Theo. I don’t believe I’ll be going this time. But thank you for your good advice. I appreciate it.” Then he did laugh, and the great, bright open space broke up with that noise.

  Ewen woke to great pain in his chest, the smell of disinfectant, and a number of faces gathered around. There was his sister and there was Theo. There also was Dad, who lived all the way down in Santa Barbara. For a moment he wondered where Mom was, but then he remembered she had been dead twenty years.

  As he should be, if he remembered correctly. He thought about this, and wondered how long he had been unconscious. He looked around and met the eyes of his sister.

  “Oh, Ewen,” Lynn cried. “I knew you’d come back.” She touched him.

  “Ouch,” said Ewen. He passed out again.

  Chapter Three

  That day, Ewen Young entered the world of morphine. He found it a very rewarding one, although nasty pain got in the way. The sun shone into the hospital room window in the most beautiful fashion—much more easily paintable than the great illumination he had just left—and the plastic bedside water jar was an entrancing shade of red. So was the nurse’s lipstick. He told her red was a wonderful color, and she smiled in a knowing fashion.

  “That’s the dope,” she said. “Does great stuff with colors. Don’t get to like it too much.”

  Then there was sleep again, and the pinch of the IV line as he tried to turn in the bed. After more sleep, a man in a suit was standing next to the bed, clearing his throat. Ewen attempted to speak to him, and the attempt really hurt.

  “I’m Detective Petersen of the sheriff’s office,” the man said. “I’m sure you are in pain, Mr. Young, but you really should thank your lucky stars you’re here to hurt. They almost lost you. Used the paddles twice, or so I’m told. You’ve even got burn marks on your chest.”

  Ewen gazed at the man and in a thread of a voice asked for more morphine. The man, who was tall, dark, and angular-featured, smiled as the nurse had smiled and then he nodded. He pressed the button that called a nurse.

  Ewen closed his eyes and soon the nurse was injecting something into the IV line and left. He hoped this would erase the pain, but it did nothing right away.

  “Mr. Young, I’d like to ask you a few questions, and it will have to be now because in a few minutes you’ll be out again. Okay?”

  Ewen found he could move his neck easier than he could inflate his lungs, so he nodded and mouthed, “First tell me what happened.”

  Detective Petersen gave him a brooding frown. “You don’t know what happened? You don’t remember anything?”

  Again, Ewen mouthed words and hoped the man was good at lip-reading. “I know I was shot. In the chest. I can’t breathe much.”

  “You were shot with a .38, which nicked your heart wall—or membrane, or whatever they call it. In fact, you can say you were actually shot in the heart. That’s a story few people have to tell. You bled half out, went into shock. Your sister and brother-in-law found you. Your heart stopped in the ambulance, and then again on the operating table. Both times they could start it again. You must have quite a heart, Mr. Young.”

  Ewen tried to smile but wasn’t sure it had worked. His gift of stupid humor rose unbidden and he found he was whispering “I try to be nice to people.” He had actually made some sound. The morphine was making itself known.

  “Did you see who shot you?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Detective Petersen lifted his hands to heaven and his brooding face went light for a moment. Then his manner returned to somber. “I’m sorry, but do you know that your uncle was shot, too?”

  “Yes. I found him. He was already dead. Just newly dead. I think the same man did it.” Now Ewen had a ghost of his real voice back.

  “We can pretty well guess the same gun did it, so odds are good. What can you tell me about this man? Was he white, or . . . or Asian, or . . . ”

  “He was Chinese. Not American-born. Not from the north. Hong Kong. He was tall: not as tall as you. Big-boned, stocky. He has two bruises on his back and a sore right arm. Also a bloody nose.” Ewen’s enthusiasm for description outran his breathing capacity and he lay gasping.

  The detective stared open-mouthed. “Who the hell are you, Mr. Young? Sherlock Holmes? A psychic? Johnny Smith?”

  “No. I just met the guy the night before. He and two other men tried to assault me on the street.”

  “Tried?”

  Ewen didn’t have the energy to tell him the whole story. “I ran away,” he said, and in his present state, it seemed a marvelously clear and clever thing to say, and not entirely a lie.

  Detective Petersen looked at him long and hard, and Ewen could see he was no man’s fool. “And you called the police?”

  Ewen shook his head and tried to look properly remorseful. “I thought of it, but what could the police have done? I had never met any of the guys before.”

  “The police might have shown you a layout—
mug shots, I mean. But probably, to be fair to you, they wouldn’t have. Not if you weren’t hurt. But the layout’ll happen now; just you wait.”

  “I will wait right here,” said Ewen, and closed his eyes.

  This waking, seeing faces and falling asleep again was getting old.

  Once it had been his sister; she told him she had known immediately when he was shot, and called 911 from her house. Ewen had no doubts about her knowing; when Lynn was in labor with Teddy he knew because he was sitting in the back office of the kwoon doubled over with cramps. It wasn’t supposed to be like this with fraternal twins, but it was with Lynn and Ewen. She was trying to hug him without actually touching him at all when he fell asleep again.

  Then came his father. The elder Dr. Young looked more angry than worried, but that was just Dad; he was who he was. And, as a cardiologist, he knew more about Ewen’s injury and surgery than Ewen knew or wanted to know. They didn’t speak much.

  It was night when he woke again, this time needing an attendant’s help to turn to use the urinal without dislodging the IV. He tried not to ask for the morphine because he wanted out of this particular fading and shifting reality, but his resolve didn’t last very long. His heart hurt.

  He called up from his mind a vision of Kuan Yin, the bodhisattva of compassion: she of the great heart. In his mind, as always, her face shifted to that of his mother’s. That helped, but after less than half an hour he rang the bell and asked for morphine again. They were willing to give it to him.

  In a dream he returned to the place he had been so recently, the luminous place. Theo was telling him all about it—telling him he was the child of a noble family and not to be afraid of the light and he, in turn, wanted to tell Theo that he wasn’t afraid of it, just not ready to dive in yet. Then he was touring the dream place, where occasional dead people drifted off to the sort of light that most attracted them, and which determined their next birth. He was wondering how to portray what he was seeing in oils without using the old Tibetan style (which never much appealed to him), when he became aware of noise in the hospital room. There was a nurse’s aide clutching his bedrails, her eyes very wide, asking, “Mr. Young? Ewen! Why did you tear that IV out of your arm? And where did you leave your bandages?”

  Ewen stared at her, uncomprehending and bothered. The shade of the dream was still with him. “I didn’t leave them anywhere. I didn’t go anywhere. I went to sleep,” said Ewen, irritated. She stalked off, threatening to tie his hands to the bed rails. Ewen slept again.

  In the morning they gave him an ice cube for breakfast, which was just fine with Ewen. He was not hungry. A different aide took his temperature and blood pressure, and this one seemed very pleased by the results. Ewen basked in the pleasure of having passed a test without having studied for it. As he became able to think a bit, he remembered Uncle Jimmy was dead, and began to be sad, not only for the loss of his teacher but also for the belated loss of his own innocence. That he, of all the family, should have not known of Uncle’s problem! Problem, hell, fatal flaw. If someone had let him know Uncle Jimmy was a compulsive gambler, perhaps he could have had some influence, could have prevented matters coming to this. Or more likely, he reflected, he could not have. Perhaps saying he hadn’t known was just denial. There had been all that avuncular teasing—“I bet you fifty cents you can’t kick the tennis ball before it hits the ground.” Or, “You better win this match because I’m betting on you!” Could Uncle Jimmy have really been betting on Ewen’s little kid tournaments? How bizarre. Good thing he had done well—usually had done well. If he had known he was the object of money, he would surely have blown every little match.

  As he was thinking on this, the detective from the day before came in, this time with a shorter, blond fellow. Each of them was toting what looked like a big photo album.

  “These,” said Petersen, “are layouts. I’m going to lay them by you on your bed. No, don’t raise your head; we need you alive for this.”

  The blond man shot his partner a reproachful glance. “Don’t worry, Mr. Young. I’m sure you’re entirely out of danger.”

  Ewen almost laughed. “Sure. Unless the same guy sneaks into the room and shoots me again. Like on TV.”

  “Not likely,” said Petersen, deadpan. “We have better scriptwriters.” He opened a book and held it above Ewen’s head. “These are men who match your description and have sheets in the Seattle area. Asian men.”

  “Tall Chinese man is what we’re looking for,” Ewen corrected the detective, who in turn looked skeptical of the very concept.

  “This might take a while,” said the other detective.

  It took approximately three minutes. “That’s him,” said Ewen, lifting his unencumbered arm to point. “In fact, it looks more like him than most photos look like their subjects. I’d have to say that’s a great likeness.”

  “Hah. Spoken by one who knows about painting likenesses,” said the tall detective, surprising Ewen considerably. Then it occurred to him that detectives do research.

  “So, who is he?”

  Detective Petersen winked. “Tell you later,” he said, gathering up his albums. Both detectives seemed very pleased. On the way out the blond turned and said, “God bless you and keep you, Mr. Young.”

  “Thank you,” answered Ewen. “And—uh—you too!”

  That was a very stupid thing to say to the guy, thought Ewen, once he was alone again. He felt embarrassed. But the cops on television never said, “God bless you and keep you.”

  Ewen did a small fraction of his usual morning meditation, which was difficult while being on drugs and flat on his back. He kept thinking what a stupid response that had been to the blond detective: “And you too!” He kept thinking of how he hadn’t known or tried to help Uncle Jimmy. He was occasionally visited by images of Kuan Yin. Or was it his mother? His heart hurt.

  Chapter Four

  Despite the air conditioning in the station, Detective Rick Petersen had the window by his desk wide open. His partner, Gideon Ryde, who had no window, had rolled his chair over, and was typing on a laptop. The day was so rare, so beautiful, that both men occasionally stopped and stared out at the sun, mesmerized.

  Gideon Ryde spoke. “Hey. D’ya think we’ll get him, Rikki-Tikki-Tavi? The shooter?”

  “Don’t call me that, unless you want to get called ‘Giddy Ryde’ again. And yes, I think we’ve got Chow.”

  “It’s just Young’s word. And things can get complicated when it’s among the Chinese.”

  Petersen snorted. “Ewen Young is about as Chinese as I am Indian.”

  “Okay, so you don’t wear braids and his ancestors came to America before most of mine did.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah, but still,” said Ryde, “it can get complicated.”

  Mr. George Blundell was not having a beautiful day. He was, in general, a worrying man and not one for appreciating beautiful days. He did, however, take a certain pleasure in the attitude of the employee standing before him. Chow was sick with fear.

  “Young Yuen is alive, yes,” said Chow. “If being hooked up to things that breathe for him is alive. He is just parts, now. No problem.”

  “Just what? Parts? Parts of what, may I ask?” Blundell rolled his soft desk chair around behind the desk, as a standing man might pace, or a tiger stalk. Blundell chose to wheel.

  John Chow knew his English did not confuse Blundell. His English was better than Blundell’s, because he did not have the mumbling American accent. He knew he was being mocked, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  What he did not know was that his boss thought Chow’s “English” accent was phony and stuck-up. As though he thought he could convince people he was a Brit, and not Chinese at all. These two men could, merely by speaking the same language, offend each other all day long.

  “Parts for other people, Mr. Blundell. He is dead for all he means to us.”

  “So is Jimmy Young, Chow. Dead as a doornail. Where does my fort
y thousand dollars come from now? Do we ask his brother the cardiologist to pay us back? Perhaps we just pass the hat. You are familiar with the expression ‘pass the hat’?”

  Chow was not, but his fear of his boss was giving way to anger. “You know why I killed old Young! He was ready to talk. And the nephew, too . . . He could have recognized me. Now there is no one who can identify me.”

  “Goody for you,” said Blundell, lacing his hands over the paunch that concealed his abdominal muscles.

  “Goody for you, too,” answered Chow, and he left the room, almost, but not quite, slamming the door behind him.

  Blundell watched him go, and for him the day was still not beautiful.

  Ewen was sitting up, and the effort this took made him crabby. He tried not to show his crabbiness to his visitors, who were telling him what a lucky man he was to be alive. He personally thought he might have been a luckier man not to have been shot at all. He was also depressed at the thought of the long recovery time awaiting him, and how weak and flabby he would surely become before it was all over. He had never even broken a bone before, and couldn’t recall a time when he had been weak and flabby. He hadn’t known how ego-involved he had been with his body. Well, he was. So there. And, on top of everything else, he had missed Uncle Jimmy’s funeral,

  Perhaps that wasn’t such a bad thing, really.

  None of these things needed to be said to his sister. Lynn could read the set of his eyebrows easier than another might read a book. With Theo, who was there too, Ewen had to be more careful to conceal his mood: especially since Theo had done his best to lead Ewen through the bardo, and Ewen had been rude enough to refuse and turn back.

  “You know what the doctor told us this morning, bro?” asked Lynn, and then answered herself immediately. “He said that you have the blood of four different people in you. Five, including yours.”