Love In The Suicide Lane

By Thomas Fullmer

I always meant to talk to her, say something to her, at least introduce myself to her and see where
it all went. But when it came down to it I was a coward. I could handle a tough business or sales
meeting, but when it came to the woman I longed to be with, I could do nothing.

I would see her walking down the street with a group of friends, laughing, and tossing her head
back as she did so. Her long dark auburn hair trailing down her gently curved back. I wished
that I knew what joke they all shared.

I would see her in the grocery store, just a few carts ahead of me as she chatted gaily with the
cashier in such a relaxed, off handed manner. But I never got close enough to say anything to
her. Never got to talk to her until the day she died, until the day I killed her.

I was on my way home from an important business meeting in my silver BMW convertible. It
had been one of those long drawn out things where everyone has to get in their two cents worth,
regardless of the relevance to our profit margin.

I was tired, and it was dark and raining, the top was up, and my windshield wipers weren’t
working particularly well. It was more smear than clear. My cell phone began to chime its
happy tune and I reached in my suit pocket to retrieve it. I fumbled with it and it fell onto the
seat. I went for it, and in that instant I took my eyes off the road momentarily distracted from my
driving.

The car, as if on its own volition, or perhaps out of some memory of what it should do at this
point, drifted into the turn lane, in preparation for turning into my condo complex. When I
looked up at the road, I was startled to see in my headlights the beautiful face that had haunted
my wildest fantasies. Only it was filled with shock and terror as she was in the suicide lane.

The car hit her full force, throwing her aside. The thud that broke her body will reverberate
forever in my memory. It was a sickening, bone crunching thud, which sent a chill down my
spine. The car skidded on water as it slowly came to a stop and died with the headlights still on.

I jumped out of my vehicle, and rushed back to where she lay on the edge of the suicide lane, the
turning lane between the two sides of traffic. Was she still alive? I knew her body had to be
broken. How could it not be after a bone shattering impact like that?

Hoping beyond hope, I rushed to her side, careful not to slip on the pavement, and lifted her head
up to gaze into a blood streaked face. It was the most beautiful face I had ever seen. It dripped
of blood. It tormented me that I had marred such beauty. But, thank God or the demons, she was
still alive. She still breathed. Her eyes were still open, and she gazed up at me and mouthed the
word: “Why?”

Why what? Why had I hit her? Why hadn’t I paid more attention to the road? Why hadn’t I
talked to her when I had the opportunity? Why had God allowed this to happen? Why what?
She didn’t say, all she did was mouth the word again as blood ran out the corner of her mouth
and down her lovely, soft cheek.

“I’ll get help!” I cried over the thunder of the rain that fell like sheets upon us. I couldn’t just lay
her head back down on the cold, wet pavement. I hurriedly took my Armani suit jacket off, and
use it to support her head. Then I dashed frantically for my car where the phone remained on the
floor where I had dropped it when I had hit her.

Once in the car, I couldn’t find my phone. I looked everywhere, but no phone. I was frantic!
Where was it? The thought came to me to feel under the seat. I did. My phone had scooted
underneath the driver’s seat. Using the lights in the car, I dialed 911, and then not wanting to
leave her for too long, I hurried back out to where she lay bleeding on the pavement as the phone
rang the emergency number.

I could only hope that she would still be alive when I returned to her side. She was still
conscious, thank God! If He existed?

After what seemed like several dozen rings, and an interminable amount of time, a woman’s
voice finally answered my call. “Oh my God!” I blurted out. “I just hit a woman with my car,
and she’s lying here bleeding on the pavement! I need an ambulance here now, and
paramedics!”

“Calm down sir,” said the nasally voice, that sounded like an imitation of an old Lilly Tomlin
character I’d once seen on the TV show “Laugh In”.. “Can you tell me where you are?”

“I’m out here in the rain outside my condo complex. Please hurry! I don’t know how long she
will last!” She closed her eyes momentarily, and I cried out, “Oh my dear Lord! I think I’ve
killed her. Send someone NOW!”

“I will sir, but first I must ascertain where you are.”

“I’m on seventh east and about forty-five-seventy south, in the suicide lane!” I managed to gain a
modicum of composure. “Right outside of Cambridge Condo Complex! Hurry! I don’t know
how long she will last!”

“I will have someone there right away,” said the woman. “Stay on the line, and I will get you
through this. What is your name?”

“Richard,” I said.

“Richard, what sir,” said the voice.

“Richard Montgomery, Oh my god! How could I do it? How could I kill the woman of my
dreams, the only woman I could ever love?” My lament was so deep and heart rending that I
began to cry as I held her body next to mine. Copious tears fell from my eyes as if the rain were
nothing, and all the water in the oceans were sprouting forth from my own eyes. My body
shielded hers as I cradled her head in my arms. I lay my cheek down next to hers, and then
rolling my head softly kissed her on her cheek, ever so tenderly and tasted her sweet flesh for the
fist time.

It must have had some effect on her, because her eyes fluttered open. She looked up at me and
smiled so serenely that it took my breath away. Her emerald green eyes seemed to bore right
through me asking questions I could not answer. She was like an angel in my arms, and she was
alive.

“Oh my God!” I cried out in joyous wonder. “You’re alive! My beautiful angel, who haunts my
dreams is alive!”

“That is good to hear Mr. Montgomery,” said the nasally voice on the other end of my droid.
“Do not try to move her, someone will be there momentarily.”

“You’re going to be all right,” I said. “Please, be all right!”

I could hear a siren in the background. Up the street I could see the flashing lights coming
towards us.

I gazed back down at her lovely, blood streaked face. Her skin was alabaster and of the
smoothest texture. I could not resist reaching down and stroking her cheek, even as my white
shirt soaked up the blood from her head wound.

She gasped as if trying to say something but couldn’t. Her eyes fluttered as she grasped my hand
hard, as her body convulsed from some unseen paroxysm of pain. I held her hand, and tried to
shield her face from the rain that beat down upon us, to no avail. “Hang on!” I said. “They’re
almost here!”

Then I spilled my guts to her, as she lay there gazing up at me. “I’ve wanted to tell you for so
long how I love you,” I held her in my arms, hoping she could hear me over the approaching
ambulance siren. “I’ve been a fool. I’ve seen you in my dreams a thousand times, and in reality
dozens. But I never had the guts to approach you. That is so strange to say from one who
considers himself so suave and debonair. I’ve always been a lady’s man, I must admit. But with
you it was different.”

She looked up at me questioningly. I continued. “I guess I just didn’t know how to approach you
in a way that didn’t seem false or fake, as I’ve done so many other times with so many other
women. And there have been other women. So many, I’ve lost count. And so I never
approached you. I wanted to, but it was almost as if I thought I would spoil things, say the
wrong thing. Be the kind of jerk I”ve always been, so smooth and polished. But now, now it
may all be too late. Now I’ve met you in the worst of all possible circumstances. Now I’ve
nearly killed you, and I don’t know if you can forgive me for what I have done to you and for
what I haven’t done in approaching you. Can you forgive me? Can you ever love a fool like
me? Is there any hope for us?”
I looked up to see where the ambulance was and saw it come over the rise not a half mile away.
She tried to answer me, but it must have been too much for her. One more paroxysm of pain./
One more gas for air. One more attempt to say something I could not comprehend, and her body
went limp, her eyes closed, and she was gone.

“NO!” I cried. “Don’t go! Not now!” It did me no good. Did her no good. She was gone.

The rest of the night was a blur. The ambulance, the paramedics, the police, the questions were
all a blur…a long nightmarish blur. I didn’t even know her name, and now she was gone. The
woman I had loved from a far, who had filled my sweetest fantasies was gone. I had killed her.

After that my life spiraled downward. I couldn’t sleep. When I closed my eyes I saw the blood
streaked face of the most beautiful woman in the world. Or the astonished, terror filled
expression I’d first seen on her face when my BMW smashed into her. I put the car up for r sale
cheap of course. How could I keep it? It reminded me too much of her and how I had killed her.

I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t concentrate on work. It was a Friday night when I killed her, and the
weekend was pure hell. I called in sick to work on Monday, then on Tuesday, and on
Wednesday, which as I found out was the day of her funeral. I knew I had to go back to work
someday, but I decided not this week, maybe next.

I found out her name, Pennie Johnson, “Our Million Dollar Pennie” is what the obituary called
her. It said that she was: “Kind, giving, compassionate, and loving to all who knew her. She
will be sorely missed.” I had killed a saint.

I considered drowning my sorrows with a pitcher of beer. Instead, I decided to go to the funeral
of the woman I had loved and killed to tell her friends, family, and loved ones how sorry I was
for their loss and mine. Would they try to hurt me? Would they want me dead for taking this
angelic woman out of their midst? I didn’t know, but I knew I needed to go and face them all or
I would never know a moment’s peace.

I dressed in the only black suit I owned and went to the funeral. I stood in line with everyone
else. When I came to her mother I told her who I was. Horror filled her eyes as I told her I was
the one who had killed Pennie. I told her how sorry I was for what I had done. How I wished I
could change it all. How I wished that it had been me that had died that night. How I wished I
could bring her back. Then I said, “There is something else I must tell you.”

“What?” said her mother grief stricken and almost unable to contain her anguish. “What more
could you possibly say or do?”

That was like a frozen dagger to my heart, but I went on: “I loved your daughter.”

“Funny,” said her mother, “She never mentioned she had a man in her life. She was always so
busy with taking care of other’s needs to see to her own.”

“She didn’t know I loved her,” I said. “She didn’t even know that I existed.”
“What do you mean?”

”I mean the night I killed her was the first night we’d met. It was the night I will regret the rest
of my life. It is the night I lost my only chance at true happiness. Can you ever forgive me for
what I have taken from you? Can you forgive me for killing your daughter? I mean, I can’t eat.
I can’t sleep. I can’t work. Life is a burden. I need to know if you can forgive me?”
”
She looked at me a long moment as she considered this. “Pennie was the most compassionate
person I know. As hard as it is for me to do it and say it, I think that she would want me to
forgive you. I think she would forgive you herself. But it is so hard to lose a child. A parent
should never have to bury a child, especially one as good and pure as was my million dollar
Pennie. You have to understand, it is so very hard.” She thought a moment longer and then said,
“Yes, I can forgive you. The only question you must ask yourself mister…I’m sorry what was
your name.”

“Richard, ‘Richard Montgomery.”

“Okay Richard, I’m Grace, Grace Johnson,” she said extending a hand, which I took and shook.
“The only question Richard that you must ask yourself is…can you forgive yourself? Because
knowing Pennie as her mother, she would want you to. She was always so compassionate to
others."

At that point I had to gulp back my tears. Then I made a mistake that I would come to regret but
which I would also appreciate.

"Is there anything I can do for your family? Anything at all? It was a harmless enough question,
or so I thought at the time. Her response startled me, but it changed my life forever.

She looked like she was about to say, "Haven't you done enough." Then her expression changed
and she said, "There's a little eight year old girl in the oncology ward of St. Jude's Children's
Hospital named Amanda Blake. Pennie goes there every Wednesday at four PM and reads to her
and talks to her for an hour or so. We haven't had time to go tell her or to contact the hospital to
tell them my daughter won't be there today, or ever again." She fell deftly silent.

Never before had I been so terrified of facing an eight year old little girl as I was at that moment.
But I surprised myself when the next words came out of my mouth, "Do you want me to contact
the hospital and let them know Pennie won't be there?"

"We'd see her ourselves," continued Grace, "but with the funeral today and all." It was a
Wednesday morning. "And Pennie was so close to Amanda. Pennie loved little Amanda so. We
couldn't bear..."

I didn't let her finish before the next mistake came out of my mouth unedited. It came out and
shocked me."Do you want me to go to the Hospital and tell little Amanda myself?"
The relief in her eyes told the whole story: "Would you. It would mean the world to us and her."

How could I say no? I had made the suggestion. Hell I had killed the lady's daughter. So all I
could do was to nod my head and say with quiet resolve, "I'll do it."

"Thank you Mr. Montgomery," she said. "It means so much to all of us, and in the end it will be
best for Amanda."

What I had just promised to do hit me like a ton of bricks. And I staggered away as if I were a
prize fighter who had just been hit by a uppercut to the jaw. I didn't remain for the funeral,
couldn't bear to. I couldn't even go to the beautiful ebony casket and see Pennie's broken body
resting in eternal sleep one last time. I had already held her dead body in my arms. It would
have only torn me up to see here lying there. .

I wandered out of the church where the viewing was being held and wandered the streets of the
city looking for some kind of solace and peace and knowing I would never be able to find it, not
now, not anymore. I had always been a selfish sort. I had always worked hard for what I had
obtained in life, wealth and material possessions, the best money could buy. I had always looked
down at others who didn’t have as much or as good of things as I did, and I had always admired
those who had more. But now I viewed my selfishness as despicable, and myself as the lowest
of men. My pride had become my depravation..

I caught a cab that took me down town to where my office was. It let me off a few blocks away.
As I wandered the streets lost in thought; I wished I could join the beautiful Pennie I had killed
in her coffin, and go to the paradise that everyone seemed to believe she had gone.

I didn’t believe in such fairytales as purgatory or paradise. I didn’t know what happened to life
energy when it left a person’s body. Perhaps it went to a Paradise, I doubted it, but it made for a
good story for children. Perhaps it went into a cosmic soup and was recycled into something on
the other end, a kind of reincarnation. Perhaps it dissipated into the universe and was lost. I had
always ascribed to the last of the three. But it was so depressed to think of Pennie’s beautiful life
energy being lost forever. It was even more depressing to think I’d never see her again.

Alone in the depths of my sorrow, I wandered the streets of the city wondering what I would say
to this eight year old little girl to tell her the woman she loved and had befriended her had been
killed. I had killed her, a veritable saint of a woman. What does one do when the mental
anguish becomes unbearable? How can you rid yourself of the awful burden? I didn’t know.
But I knew I had to go to St. Jude's and face this little eight-y-ear old girl, and that terrified me to
death.

I wandered long enough that it became late afternoon, but found myself standing in front of St
Jude’s Children's Hospital as if drawn there by some unseen force that had guided me. I didn't
even know I knew where St. Jude’s was I checked my watch and found it to be almost four pm,
and little Amanda Blake was waiting for Pennie to come to be with her. Trembling slightly, I
gulped and entered the hospital.
I entered St. Jude's at ten to four, and inquired about Amanda Blake. I was directed by the front
desk to the third floor, to room three-sixteen. Before I’d had a chance to consider what I was
doing, I found myself wandering the halls of the oncology department looking for the room I had
been given, Amanda Blake's room. I didn't enter, but hesitated outside.

Should I enter? Should I run away? What of my promise to the dear mother to fill in for the
only woman I had ever loved?

I looked around not certain what to do. And for a long moment I took in the heart wrenching
scene that surrounded me. Children with shaved heads and hospital gowns, some with the first
sign of stubble growing back, lay in beds with tubes running out of their bodies', or rode in wheel
chairs, and a few even walked some with the help of others, some by themselves. Monitors
beeped, and lights flashed, and occasionally a voice would come over the intercom and say
things I could not understand.

I realized that not only were there children walking up and down the halls, or maneuvering wheel
chairs, but adults went with them to see to their comfort and needs. I thought that if ever I had
seen angels, these adults who cared for these cancer patients were they. An old woman slowly
walked by pushing a wheel chair with a little boy slumped over to one side. A young woman, no
more than eighteen, walked a long side a little girl, holding her hand in one of her own and
pulling some hospital monitor along behind her. It was such a poignant scene, the angels as
innocent children and the angels of earth who assisted them.

But I was no angel, in fact I had killed the one who came here every Wednesday afternoon to
administer to the little girl who lay just behind the partially opened door. I was a demon who
had killed Pennie the angel in Amanda Blake's life. That realization almost sent me running
down the hallway to the elevator and out of the hospital for good. But I didn't run. I hesitated
out side the door for a moment. I couldn't see Amanda and I was pretty certain she couldn't see
me. I felt guilty just standing there. I wondered what I should or would do, as doctors, nurses,
lab rats, patients, and visitors passed me by as if I wasn't even there. Part of me wished I wasn't
there, the rest of me was glad I was. The rest of me knew I had to be there to fill my mission, and
open that door and go inside and tell that precious, little girl why the woman she waited on as her
friend to arrive wasn't ever coming to see her anymore.

I hesitated there at the door, as doctors, nurses, parents, visitors, and patients passed me by as if I
weren't even there. Part of me wished that I wasn't there, the rest of me know I had to be. I had
to go in there, in that room and tell this precious little girl why her own angel wasn't coming to
see her any more, which only made me want to leave all the more.

"Pennie, what should I do?' It was almost like a prayer, but not quite, as I knew she was no god,
angel yes, god no. Was there even a god who would allow such things like this to happen? Of
course I received no answer, but something did happen that would change the course of my life
forever.

A small, quiet voice called out "Pennie are you there?"

I had been found out. I was caught in the act, with no choice but to enter. So I did.

When I entered the room I was stunned by what I saw, just as the little girl was stunned by what
she saw, her mouth agape told me as much. I realized my own mouth was open too. Some
strange man stood there before her and not her beloved Pennie. She looked so small in that
hospital bed, more like a four-year-old little girl, and not an eight-year-old. An IV was in her
right arm, and other monitors were attached to her cancer ridden body.

We gazed at each other for the longest time it seemed, both our mouths wide open with surprise.
I don't know what she thought, but I thought she had the most cherubic face I'd ever seen, sweet,
pure and innocent, and green eyes full of questions, but no fear, just full of warmth and curiosity.

"Who are you?" she asked in her sweet, little voice.

"I'm Richard Montgomery," I said.

"Where's my Pennie? It's after four o’clock and she’s supposed to read to me.”

I wanted to run over and give her tiny form the biggest hug it would be all right, take away her
pain, give her a chance to heal from the cancer and the news I was about to give her. It was a
terrible thing I came to give this sweet, angelical, little girl who had suffered so much at a young
age. I suddenly wished it was I who had died that night in the suicide lane, instead of Pennie.

“She’s not coming,” then I added, “Her parents sent me to tell you.”

“What do you mean?” she was suddenly alarmed and concerned about her friend. “Is she okay?
Is she all right? When will she be able to come see me again?”

I wanted to break down and cry and beg her forgiveness for the ignominious deed I had done in
killing her earth angel.

“Never,” I blurted out too clumsily.

“Why?” The alarm was evident in her eyes as they darted questioningly back and forth, and then
landed on me. “Doesn’t she love me anymore?”

“She loves you very much.” I had to stifle a sob of my own as I raised the back of my hand to my
mouth.

“Then why won’t she come? Why not? Why can’t she? What happened?” She was as incessant
as any eight-year-old would be under these circumstances.

I felt emotionally numb.

“There was an accident in the suicide lane,”

“What do you mean? What accident? What suicide lane”

“I killed her!”

“What?”

“I hit her with my car and I killed her!”

I couldn’t bear to watch the pain stricken tears of that beautiful little, cancer ridden girl. It
appeared as someone had just slapped her hard in the face. And so I had. I felt as if I’d suckered
punched her with my own fist. I wanted to rush to her bedside, kneel next to her, and beg her
forgiveness for killing Pennie. But I did none of those things. Instead I ran out the door and down
the corridor. I fled, as if the devil himself was after me. I left her to deal with her grief alone.

I felt like a son-of-a-bitch to do it, but I couldn’t bear it any longer. Besides I had my own tears
and sobs and pain to deal with, as guilt wrenched my gut way down deep inside my very soul,
which I was certain was going to hell.

The next thing I remembered, I found myself on the edge of a fountain outside St. Jude’s. My
head was in my hands. I sobbed my guts out, as my whole being shook with torment, pain, and
guilt. Doctors, nurses, visitors, even patients passed me by, but didn’t even acknowledge my
existence. I was alone in my grief, as I tried to collect my emotions and thoughts after what must
have been an hour or more.

As I sat there outside of St Jude's, a man approached pushing a shopping cart full of what must
have been his meager life’s belongings and I thought, “Here we go again.”

But I soon realized I was wrong when he said, “Are you okay mister.”

“Yes,” I began to say, instead I said. “No, not really.”

“What’s wrong?” He sincerely appeared to want to know.

I was touched by his sincerity and so I unburdened my soul to him and told him the story of
Pennie, and how I had loved her from a far and then only met her the night I killed her. It seems
strange to me now that I opened up my heart to such a completely stranger as if he were a trusted
friend or therapist, but I couldn’t help myself. All the anguish and misery I had held inside just
came pouring out. And he was patient and kind enough, though grimy and unkempt, to listen.

“So you never told her or your feelings for her?” he said.

“Not until the night I killed her,” I said.

“Why was that?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “She was so beautiful and happy, and most of the relationships I get into
end badly with the woman hating me, so I guess I was afraid and intimidated by the prospect of
finding someone I might actually care about.”

“So you never gave yourself a chance,” he said.

“No, I guess not.”

“And now you feel the opportunity to know the one woman you can truly love is gone.”

“Yes, exactly.”

“So why did you go to her funeral if you weren’t going to view her dead body?”

“I don’t know. I guess I sought some kind of healing or closure to the whole affair. I guess I
hoped by confessing my misdeed to her family, her mother in fact, I would release myself from
the depression and darkness I feel mired in.”

“Did it help?”

“Not really. They wanted me to go talk to the little girl this woman knew here at St. Jude's.

"Did you do it?'

"Yes, but it’s made me feel even worse than I already did.” He just nodded his head as if in
understanding. “And what makes it worse is I can’t buy into the belief in some paradise where
she has gone to dwell with God and the angels.”

“Why not?”

“Because it has always seemed like a big fairytale to me that people tell themselves and each
other to give them hope in something I can’t believe exists. They do it to comfort themselves
and give themselves hope that there is some meaning to our existence on this planet.”

“What makes you think there is not some meaning to our existence?”

“It goes against the grain of my being,” I said gesturing with my hands. “I mean, I’ve always
believed that we were here to enjoy the moment as we are in it. To grasp the most we can get,
even if we have to screw someone else over to get it. I’ve spent my whole life in the pursuit of
my own comfort and aggrandizement. I work hard, and I work smart, and I believe I deserve the
best life has to offer, even if I have to step on some poor schlep to get it.”

“You mean some poor schlep like me?” A deep frown and look of disappointment furrowed his
brow.

“You know, I hate to admit it, but yes,” I felt very awkward and sheepish. “I know it sounds
horrible, and it makes me feel guilty as hell, but yes, if I had to I would screw you over and take
advantage of you. I’ve done it to both family and friends, and made a ton of money at it. But it
has left me empty inside. And I can’t help but wonder what the meaning of it all is, or if there is
a meaning. And I guess it’s just easier to think there is no meaning, than to believe that I’ve
been wrong all along.”

“That is a sad story,” he said when I was through. “What makes it sadder is that you just seem to
accept your situation without a thought of the consequences or what you might do about it.
You’re hell, a kind of bondage to your way of thinking and behaving, and don’t realize it.
You’re resigned to being who you have been. And that is the saddest thing of all.”

“Yeah, so what if I am,” I became defensive for the first time in our conversation. He used the
kind of language that I would expect of an educated, sophisticated person, and not some poor
bum off the street.

“The question you have to ask yourself,” he said.

“Yes,” I countered in anticipation of some gem falling from his mouth.

“What are you,” and he pointed an accusing finger at me, “going to do about it?”

Up to that point I thought there was nothing I could do about it. She was gone, I had killed her,
and that was that. Besides I was who I was and up to the moment that I had killed the beautiful
angel, Pennie Johnson. Up to that point I had liked my life. I was a selfish pig, but it had gotten
me all I had wanted and more, except now I realized for the first time just how little that all was.

“What do you mean?” I said looking at him and feeling baffled.

“I mean she was this giving person right,” he said.

“Yes,” I answered.

“She cared about others and sounds to me like she would give the coat off her back to someone,”
he said.

I hadn’t thought about it like that but now I realized that she would. “Yes,” I said. It was then
that I felt the first chill I had felt since coming out of the hospital with Amanda Blake. It was
spring, and the air was a bit nippy. I had been so caught up in my misery that I hadn’t noticed
the drop in temperature when the sun had gone down.

“Well there you go,” he said with a big grin.

“There I go,” I said dumbfounded. “What do you mean there I go? I’m not following you.”

“You took one of God’s special daughters from off the earth,” he said. “You deprived the world
of one of its true Samaritans.”
“Yes,” I said not certain where he was going with this. “Yes I did. And now I’m miserable and
alone, and I’ll never know what it was like to know Pennie Johnson, because she’s six feet under
or soon will be.”

“Well it’s up to you to make that right,” he said.

Now I was completely lost, she was dead. How was I going to change that? “How do I do
that?” I asked.

“You have to find out.”

“How? Here I’ll pay you a hundred bucks to tell me how.” I handed him a hundred dollar bill
out of my wallet.

“I don’t want your money!” He was disdainful. “You can’t fix every problem in the world with
money Richard.”

I looked at him quizzically, and did not realize until later that I had never told him my name.
“Then how?”

“With you!” He thrust an accusing finger into my face, and I winced. “You just can’t throw
money at it to fix the problem. Governments do that all the time and tain’t solved nothing yet.”

“Then what?”

“Come on Richard, you know.”

“No really I don’t”

“Yes you do.”

“Please tell me! I need to know!”

“Look within yourself Richard. You’ll find it.”

With that he walked off leaving me to do just that. Suddenly it dawned on me. “Wait! How do
you know my name?”

But he had disappeared. It was as if he’d never been there in the first place.

I got up and hurried down the sidewalk where he had gone passing doctors and nurses dressed in
their medical uniforms. But when I made it around the corner of the street, he had disappeared. I
saw nothing.

“Where did he go?” I asked to no one, because there was no one there. He had just disappeared.
A man and woman out for a late night visit to some unknown patient walked past me hand in
hand and I said, “Did you see an old man pushing a cart by here?”

“I saw nothing of the sort,” said the man, and hurried on probably worried that I was a thug of
some sort and might try to rob him.

“He was just here a minute ago,” I said following them. “Surely you must have seen where he
went.”

“I would have remembered that,” said the man, “But we passed no such person and have seen no
one else outside the hospital except you. Now if you don’t mind…scram!”

He was very rude about it, but all I could say was: “Thanks, thanks anyway man.”

Where had the old man gone? I never found out. It was as if he had disappeared into thin air.
But I had learned a valuable lesson. I could keep Pennie alive in my heart by being the kind of
person she was, by being a selfless man. I didn’t know what all that entailed, but I was
committed to give it a try and fill the hole I had left in the world when I had killed Pennie
Johnson. It was going to be a big challenge I realized. I would make a lot of mistakes. But I
was going to do it. I was going to give to the world what Pennie would have if she were still
here. And I knew where to start.

In a lonely cemetery miles away an ebony casket was lowered to its resting place as a solitary
bagpipe played “Amazing Grace” ever so softly in the background..

On the third floor of St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital a cancer ridden little girl silently, stained her
pillow with her copious tears.

I raised my hand in solemn salute to the casket I saw only in my mind’s eye, as if I were still a
marine, though it had been over ten years since I’d donned that uniform. I clicked my heals
together, and slowly,, yet resolutely, I turned and entered the hospital.