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  When they entered the room, both Jake and the doctor were surprised to see the petite brown-haired woman holding Finney’s hand. Sue turned to the men, raised her eyebrows admiringly at Jake, and said to Dr. Simpson, “I’m Sue Keels, Finney’s wife. I’m also an emergency room nurse. Dr. Milhall let me in. I’m not in the way, Doctor.”

  “Yes, no doubt.” Dr. Simpson didn’t sound convinced. “Mr. Keels has persistent friends and family, I’ll say that for him. We can’t seem to keep them away regardless of the rules.”

  “If you knew him, you’d understand why.” Sue looked at the bedraggled, scantily clad journalist, trying to keep from laughing. “Jake, good to see you. How are you?”

  Before Jake could answer, Dr. Simpson said, “I caught him sneaking around ICU. He needs to get back to his room. We’re on our way.”

  “Let him sit here with me, Doctor. I can take care of both of them. I’ve got eighteen years as a nurse, including a few in ICU.”

  “I can see you’re as stubborn as Mr. Woods here.” Jake welcomed Simpson’s air of resignation.

  “Yes, Doctor. Maybe more so.” Sue smiled, but she wasn’t kidding.

  “All right, I’ve got surgery. No more time for this nonsense. I’ll tell the nurses to give you fifteen minutes, Mr. Woods. That’s all. Then they wheel you back to your own room. You try this again and we’ll strap you down. Deal?”

  “Deal. Thanks.”

  The doctor grabbed another chair from the corner of the room and set it down, not so gently, for Jake. “Don’t mention it. That’s what we’re here for, right? Who cares about rules and policies? Excuse me while I go try to be a doctor instead of a hall monitor!” He was gone.

  Sue pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows at Jake. “I have this way with people,” he explained. Both chuckled, like people who needed to.

  Jake eyed Sue’s big leather Bible in her hands. It always looked out of proportion, Sue so small and the book so big. She stood up and moved her chair so Jake could pull alongside her, closer to Finney. The two sat quietly, saying nothing and focusing their thoughts and hopes on Finney.

  Finnegan Douglas Keels. Friendly to a fault. Open heart and open hand. A vagrant prospecting for a handout would always approach him first. Broad shoulders, the look of an athlete. No longer the washboard stomach he once had, but as fit as any fifty-year-old had the right to be. His hair hadn’t changed since high school, except the graying temples. Short, wavy, the straight cut of the ex-athlete, ex-soldier.

  You’re an institution, Finn. The Berlin Wall could come down, the Yankees could finish last, but Finney would always be there. Like the rising sun, like the stars, something you could set your watch by. A beacon. A lighthouse. And sometimes a major pain in the rear.

  Finney’s laugh. That’s what was so conspicuously absent from this tomb-like room. Finney’s great, powerful, heartfelt laugh. A laugh that was always spontaneous, never self-conscious. He didn’t notice and didn’t seem to care if people turned and looked, as if a laugh was never something to apologize for. It was the laugh of someone who enjoyed life. But here he was, teetering on life’s edge, threatening to fall over the other side. Jake could sense it. Finney was further gone than Doc.

  Finney’s thick shoulders seemed so out of place in a sick bed. Those shoulders had been there for a lot of people. For the Cambodian family the Keels had adopted. For the pregnant girls they’d opened their home to. For hungry people overseas who were fed from an established percentage of the profits from Finney’s business. Finney was the kind of guy people instinctively trusted and opened up to. Jake remembered that store clerk who poured out her heart to Finney after he saw something in her eyes and asked if he could help. Finney was at his best with people who were serving, those who were used to being under-appreciated and pushed around and told what to do. They could tell Finney respected and appreciated them. He always said “thank you.” He always left a generous tip but never expected them to trade their dignity or sincerity to get it. He always said the thing that set them at ease, that made them feel equals rather than subordinates.

  Like that waitress at Corey’s who spilled coffee on him. Finney assured her everything was fine, as if he’d often been scalded by his waitress. Jake was surprised it hadn’t done more damage, that fresh steaming cup of coffee straight on his lap. Later Janet talked to Sue and learned the skin on his thigh had been badly burned, and he was in pain for days afterward. But he didn’t let the girl see that, didn’t even tell Jake or Doc. Jake watched carefully as they were leaving. Finney put down a five dollar bill. The lunch had come to maybe nineteen dollars and he’d left a five-dollar tip. It was his way of saying, “Everything’s okay, don’t worry about it. Sorry you had to go through the embarrassment.”

  Jake realized, as he looked at Finney’s weak body, that he’d spent his life watching him, studying him. And Doc too. Part of Jake’s success as a journalist came from his ability to observe, to capture the essence of a man in details and incidents others didn’t notice or thought inconsequential. He could write a book on these two guys.

  Then there was the other side of Finney, the troubling, infuriating side. His self-assured manner about his beliefs. His clearly defined concept of right and wrong that sent such a judgmental message. Some were offended when they learned 10 percent of profits from his software business went back into the four crisis pregnancy centers in the area. Planned Parenthood and National Organization of Women cooperated in boycotting his business. But Finney wouldn’t back down. Some people admired him for it. Doc thought he was a fool. Jake argued he was just being stubborn. “Why not just back down gracefully and cut your losses, so you’ll have more to give to any cause you want?” But Finney wouldn’t listen.

  During that flap Ryan Dennard, Jake’s columnist colleague at the Tribune, labeled Finney “a right-wing fundamentalist preacher in a business suit.” It was one thing to have your beliefs at church, it was another to bring them into your business and community. That was forcing your religion on others.

  Jake once told Finney, “I know you’re sincere, but you’ve got to think of image and perceptions. If you want to sell people on your values, you’ve got to tone it down! Otherwise you’ll be painted with the same brush as David Koresh or any other religious nut. And you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.”

  Still, Jake knew that while most people covered up and explained away their shortcomings, and blamed them on others, Finney admitted his and worked hard to change them. You could disagree with Finney—and half the time Jake did—but if you knew him, you couldn’t dismiss him.

  Finnegan Douglas Keels. No one called him Finnegan but his mom. He was born to be Finney. And he would die Finney. O God, please don’t let him die.

  This man lying there was and yet somehow was not the same Finney Jake grew up with, the Finney he knew in Nam. It had been four years after the war that the new Finney had emerged. After the army Finney went to his grandparents’ home in Indiana, where his mom had moved. Two years later he married Sue. He and Sue and baby daughter Jenny moved back to Oregon to be near his buddies and start a business. Doc was half way through medical school, Jake was getting his master’s degree and working part-time at a newspaper. Finney saved up his money and opened his office products store, a forerunner to the computer software business he’d turned into a gold mine. The three old friends worked hard and played hard. The familiar chemistry hadn’t lost its magic. Their wives became almost as close as the men, their young children played and grew together.

  Then came the change—Finney’s conversion. Doc wanted nothing to do with this zealous and dogmatic new Finney, and at times Jake shared the sentiment. But Finney wouldn’t let go of his friendships. Jake discovered the new Finney had all the qualities that made the old Finney so special. He had the same wit, the same humor and something else. A kindness and sensitivity. The big heart that was even bigger. A confidence. A sense of faith and trust. A peace. And a purpose.

  When Jake’s dad die
d, it was Finney who was there for him. Then Finney and Sue had their third child, after Jenny and Angela. They’d been warned something was wrong. The baby had Down’s Syndrome. Their doctor recommended an abortion. Rather than give up on the baby, they gave up on the doctor. And when he was born, the most amazing thing happened, something Jake never got over. They named him Finney, Jr.

  Only a few years later Jenny had died. It still made Jake sick to think about it. Little Jenny, taken out by a stupid drunk. Thoughts of death seemed to keep coming at Jake, and he tried in vain to push those thoughts away. He dared not allow death to take hold in this room.

  Jake’s inner world was interrupted suddenly by a distinct and familiar voice, spoken with a thick tongue that couldn’t quite pronounce the words.

  “Hi dere, Unca Jake!” Jake was so absorbed in his thoughts he hadn’t notice Sue slip out of the room. Now she’d returned with Little Finn.

  “Hi there, Little Finn.” For Little Finn it was never just “hi.” It was “hi there,” with his inimitable accent. Jake was always glad to see him.

  “Daddy had uh accident.”

  “Yeah, he did, Little Finn.”

  “And you were wid him, weren’t you, Unca Jake?”

  “Yeah, I was.”

  “What was it like?”

  “The accident? It’s hard to remember. It happened so fast.”

  “Unca Jake…do you dink my daddy is gonna die?”

  “No, no, he’ll be okay, Little Finn.”

  “Well, da doctors say he could probly die.”

  “Well, I think the doctors are wrong.”

  “I hope he doesn’t die. But if he does, he’ll be in heaven, ya know.”

  Simple Little Finn. The faith of a child. If only it were so simple.

  “Don’t talk like that, Little Finn. He’ll make it. I promise he’ll make it.” Finn gave Jake a curious look, as if wondering how he could make such a promise.

  “Know what I told Dada dis morning? I told him if he dies to be sure and give my sister Jenny a big hug, and tell her it’s from me.” Little Finn looked very proud for having the foresight to think of this. “Mama says he probly heard me, cause people in hospital beds always hear more dan we dink. Right, Mama?”

  “Right, Finn.” For a moment Sue looked weak, like a withering flower. “Finn, I need to read to your Dad now, so you listen, okay?” Sue situated her big Bible just right, so the back touched against Finney’s chest. “This is from the last two chapters of Revelation.”

  “Revelation is da last book of da whole Bible,” Finn whispered loudly to Jake, his head bobbing and his eyes big, emphasizing just how important this information was. Jake nodded soberly, and Sue smiled as she often did at the interactions between the two.

  Jake faded in and out, catching snatches of what Sue was reading. “Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away…And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, ‘Now the dwelling of God is with men, and he will live with them. They will be his people and God himself will be with them and be their God. He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.’”

  Sue paused to look at Finney’s face, seeing a large tear that had formed in his right eye. As if on cue to the verse she’d just read, Sue reached over with her tissue and wiped away Finney’s tear. Then she kissed him softly on the corner of his mouth, whispering “I love you, Finney.”

  She continued reading, while Jake wandered in and out of grade school, Benton Stream, high school, summer jobs, college, Vietnam, and Sunday’s coin flip. Sue’s voice seemed to build, to take on a strength not its own, as if energized by the big book. Jake looked up to see her finger pointing at a verse within a few paragraphs of the Bible’s last words. Little Finn leaned forward, listening breathlessly. Jake decided to listen a bit more closely himself.

  Sue read, “Behold, I am coming soon! My reward is with me, and I will give to everyone according to what he has done. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the First and the Last, the Beginning and the End. Blessed are those who wash their robes, that they may have the right to the tree of life and may go through the gates into the city. Outside are the dogs, those who practice magic arts, the sexually immoral, the murderers, the idolaters and everyone who loves and practices falsehood.”

  Jake cringed. This book seemed so full of hope for some, so condemning of others.

  “Whoever is thirsty, let him come; and whoever wishes, let him take the free gift of the water of life.”

  Suddenly a loud gasp filled the air. Startled, Sue and Jake looked at each other, each thinking the gasp came from the other. They turned to Little Finn, on the other side of the bed, leaning over his father. There was Finney, his head lifted six inches off the pillow, eyes wide open, looking intently at something beyond the room, beyond the moment. Finney gasped again, his lips suddenly turned up in that patented grin, and for a moment he was full of life. Just as quickly his head fell back to the pillow.

  Jake felt something like a brush of wind. His spine tingled with the eerie sensation someone had just left the room.

  Finney was gone.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  He stood immersed in the passageway’s twilight, unable to decide which direction to go. At one end, the closest, was a murky shadowy light, at the far end the brightest light he’d ever seen, yet not a light that hurt his eyes, but drew them. He sensed excitement and activity from beings at both ends, one excitement surrounded by uncertainty and longing, the other by certainty and fulfillment. He remembered what lay beyond the passageway’s near end, the murky one from which he’d come. But he wasn’t sure what awaited him at the other. The explorer in him tingled with anticipation as he considered the mystery end—be it exit or entrance—from which a magnetic pull beckoned him to come join the radiance.

  Finney felt his energy being siphoned off, his body growing weaker. He sensed efforts being made, whirring machines and tubes of fluids desperately trying to keep him from leaving his old world. Strangely, though, he felt energized, as if the dynamism siphoned off his body was draining back into a vast energy supply somewhere else, from which it had come. He felt less and less connected to his body. He was a fighter, a survivor, a soldier who would never easily let go of life. But that was just the thing—what awaited him at the other end of the passageway was not lack of life, but Life itself. Not an end, but a beginning. He could feel it. Its power and lure were palpable, almost overwhelming. He was a ship on a stormy sea, caught between two ports, unsure which he could reach. But the storm itself seemed to be making the decision for him. That was all right because, strangely, he trusted the storm. His course was now out of his hands.

  Though his eyes were closed, Finney could periodically, just for a moment, sense the light through his eyelids. He’d heard voices from time to time, ever since he’d been here. At first they were all unfamiliar voices—concerned, professional, muffled. When he heard that first familiar voice, that beautiful voice, it infused him with strength, so much so that for a moment he thought it enough to bring him back. He couldn’t hear every word, but he caught many phrases, including “I love you, Finney.”

  He wanted to say “I love you, Sue,” but his mind couldn’t make his lips move any more than it could lift his eyelids. He was trapped within a mutinous body that no longer took his orders. So he just listened, unable to give to Susan, able only to receive from her. He received, thankfully.

  Beautiful Sue. He could see her clearly in his mind’s museum of film clips, exactly as he first saw her when he was a high school sophomore and she an eighth grader, at Brady’s Roller Rink in that little town, hidden from the rest of the world in the Willamette Valley. He relived the sights and sounds and silliness and youthful exuberance of the “All Skate,” the smell of cotton candy blended with buttered popcorn and the inimitable flavor of the “graveyard” mix of cola and orange and 7-Up. Now came the feeling
s of dread at the “Couples Only” where he finally asked Sue to skate with him, and his excitement when she said “yes.” They didn’t marry till his last year in the army, the year after Vietnam. Sue. He basked in her quiet presence next to him.

  Soon there came another voice, like Sue’s but higher, with fewer years and fewer life experiences behind it, but with her mother’s incisive mind and wit. A voice full of wonder, and full of fear.

  “Daddy, it’s me, Angela. I hope you can hear me. I love you.” Her voice broke. “I’ve been praying for you. Everybody’s praying for you.”

  Angela. In love with life, twenty-one years old, married less than a year, but still and forever Finney’s little girl. They’d always been close, but since Jenny died when Angie was eleven, they’d been inseparable. There was a pause and some sobs, and words of comfort from Sue to Angela that Finney couldn’t quite make out.

  “Please get better. You’re the best Daddy in the world. When you get out of the hospital, I’ll make you your favorite beef stew. Just the way you like it. You know how you always say I make it better than anybody? And I’ll make those cornbread muffins, too. And we’ll play tennis, and I’ll let you beat me. Oh, Daddy.”

  Finney felt Angela’s head fall gently on his chest. She abruptly lifted it, perhaps thinking it could impair his breathing. No, honey, keep your head right there. I want to feel you against me. Finney was disappointed not to hear his own voice, because he knew it meant Angela couldn’t hear him either.

  After a few minutes of silence, Sue said, “Finney, I’m taking out Angie and then I’m coming back with Little Finn. They won’t let all three of us in here at once. Angie will come back later.”

  “Bye, Daddy. I’ll see you soon.” That voice so precious to Finney carried two loads—one hope, the other anguish.