The eyes closed. The jaw tightened. The hands moved among the tubes, too feeble
to attack them. "Somebody's bothering me." The old man fixed Mike in a sidelong glare. "A priest."
Mike grasped the bed's chrome railing. "I came because..."
"Get the fuck out." The quivering yellow fingers pumped the call button over and
over.
"Papa!"
The old man's hands stopped grabbling. His eyes read Mike's face and moved to
the Roman collar, then snapped shut. "How'd you find me?"
"The guy who admitted you listed Mom as next of kin."
The nurse with the Maybelline eyes appeared in her silent white shoes. "Mr. Loring,
why don't you let the reverend talk to you? Then we'll have our shot." She took the old man's hand and
bent toward him. "You want some nice, cold apple juice?"
"I want my shot," John said.
The nurse gave Mike a knowing smile. "Can I get you anything, Reverend?"
"No, thanks."
She padded away, leaving behind the scent of Taboo.
Mike sat in the chair next to the bed, put his elbows on his knees, smiled
tentatively. The old man lay tense, eyes still slammed shut.
Mike cleared his throat. "When Mom told me, I was afraid I might be too late.
I tried to get her to come, Papa."
"Don't call me that."
The taut body was motionless.
Mike scanned the room. No sign of hope. A book on the bed stand. Mike turned
it over. Historie of England. Inside he found a tattered snapshot of himself as a toddler. He
rested his fingertips on John's arm. "Papa, talk to me."
TOM'S TALES