Page 77 of Unwanted Vows

“No doubt,” Andrew says. “We will make arrangements for your debts, provide medical and counseling support for your other needs.”

There is a ripple of laughter from the group. It is neither raucous or loud.

Another man speaks up. “I got a business,” he says. “I fix motorcycles. Paint ‘em up nice, and sell ‘em. You got room for that?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Andrew says. “But if you are packing anything extra into those bikes, stop doing it. Nor will I allow you to run a chop shop.”

One by one the men and women in the room brought forth their concerns. A woman dressed in biker’s leathers asks, “What about kids? My old man and I got three. I’d like to see them get an education and a chance at a decent life. Where we are, there’s nothin,’ an’ we got no way to get out.”

“Our son attends an excellent private school,” Andrew says tentatively.

I quickly add, “I am sure we will set up an even better school for the community. The woman who runs the private school will be an excellent resource for that.”

“Do you like the school, Mrs. Lane?” the woman asks. “Never mind what the men say, is it good for your boy?”

“The best,” I answer, “We’ll just need to scale it up and hire more good teachers.”

“I used to have a teaching license,” one of the men says.

I open my mouth, trying to think how to field this one.

“There will be background checks,” Andrew moves in smoothly. “Whether you work in the school or not will depend on why you lost your license.”

The man nods. “Fair enough.”

The little courtyard outside begins to brighten, and the first of the tiny jeweled birds visit the fountain and the bird feeder. The old man in the hospital bed falls asleep. His snores have the ragged, deep tone of the elderly who have abused their lungs.

Andrew talks on and on with Grandfather Aims’ leaders. His voice grows hoarse, and I can feel the moist heat from his body. To me, he radiates tension. Yet, to the others, he must seem cool and collected. Their questions are endless, but he answers patiently.

I slip out from under his arm, go to the door and ask the attendant who is hovering outside, “Can we get some bottled water for everyone? And please tell whoever is on duty that we can take a break if Mr. Aims is scheduled for attention.”

“Yes,” she says. “I can get water. He’s on death watch, palliative only. The doctor will be here soon.” She doesn’t question why I want bottled water, not glasses. Probably she can guess.

When the water arrives, I open one for Andrew. He nods his thanks, but never takes his eyes off the assembled people. I must have missed something, because Austin produces a bundle of papers from an inner pocket.

One by one, each of the men and women sign, then file out the door. At the end, Andrew takes the paper to his grandfather and says, “Will you sign, sir?”

“What? What?” the old man stirs to wakefulness. “Is it done, then? They’ve agreed.”

“Yes,” Andrew says. “You can use my fountain pen.”

Grandfather Aims hitches himself up in bed, and scribbles across the bottom of the page. “There,” he says. “Now I can rest easy.”

He looks out the window, and the crisp morning shadows stretching across the grass and at the colorful birds. “This world is so beautiful,” he says.

He lays back on his pillows, closes his eyes, breathes out but not in again. The beeping monitor flat lines.

Andrew bows his head. He says nothing, but his shoulders shake.

I place my hand on his sleeve.

“What time is it?” he asks.

“Six fifty-two, am,” says a woman’s voice. The petite doctor who visited the cottage enters, checks for a pulse, then turns off the monitor. “I’ll put that on the death certificate.”

Andrew turns, crushes me in his arms. “Oh, Maddy,” he says. “He was a scary old man, but he did his best to take care of everyone. Even if he did go about it the wrong way most of the time.”

“I know,” I say, reaching up, and laying my hand against his face. It is wet with tears. “Now we have his people to take care of.” The group around us is quiet, as if waiting for directions.

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