what he said. Instead, he reminded Hatch of a painting of Christ with
the Heart revealed, the slender hand of divine grace pointing to that
symbol of sack and promise of eternity.
At last Nyebern looked away from the Ascension and met Hatch’s eyes.
“Some say evil is just the consequences of our actions, no more than a
result of our will. But I believe it’s that-and much more. I believe
evil is a very real force, an energy quite apart from us, a presence in
the world.
Is that what you believe, Hatch?”
“Yes,” Hatch said at once, and somewhat to his surprise.
Nyebern looked down at the prescription pad in his left hand. He took
his right hand away from his breast pocket, tore the top sheet off the
pad, and gave it to Hatch. “His name’s Foster. Dr. Gabriel Foster.
I’m sure he’ll be able to help you.”
“Thanks,” Hatch said numbly.
Nyebern opened the door of the examination room and gestured for Hatch
to precede him.
In the hallway, the physician said, “Hatch?”
Hatch stopped and looked back at him.
“Sorry,” Nyebern said.
“For what?”
“For explaining why I donate the paintings.”
Hatch nodded. “Well, I asked, didn’t I?”
“But I could have been much briefer.”
“Oh?”
“I could have just said-maybe I think the only way for me to get into
Heaven is to buy my way.”
Outside, in the sun-splashed parking lot, Hatch sat in his car for a
long time, watching a wasp that hovered over the red hood as if it
thought it had found an enormous rose.
The conversation in Nyebern’s office had seemed strangely like a dream,
and Hatch felt as if he were still rising out of sleep. He sensed that
the tragedy of Jonas Nyebern’s death-haunted life had a direct bearing
on his own current problems, but although he reached for the connection,
he could not grasp it.
The wasp swayed to the left, to the right, but faced steadily toward the
windshield as though it could see him in the car and was mysteriously
drawn to him. Repeatedly, it darted at the glass, bounced off, and
resumed its hovering. Tap, hover, tap, hover, tatap, hover.
It was a very determined wasp. He wondered if it was one of those
species that possessed a single stinger that broke off in the target,
resulting in the subsequent death of the wasp. Tap, hover, tap, hover,
tap-tatap. If it was one of those species, did it fully understand what
reward it would earn by its persistence? Tap, hover, tatap-tap.
After seeing the last patient of the day, a follow-up visit with an
engaging thirty-year-old woman on whom he had performed an aortal graft
last March, Jonas Nyebern entered his private office at the back of the
medical suite and closed the door. He went behind the desk, sat down,
and looked in his wallet for a slip of paper on which was written a
telephone number that he chose not to include on his Rolodex. He found
it, pulled the phone close, and punched in the seven numbers.
Following the third ring, an answering machine picked up as it had on
his previous calls yesterday and earlier that morning: “This is Morton
Redlow. I’m not in the office right now. After the beep, please leave
a message and a number where you can be reached, and I will get back to
you as soon as possible.”
Jonas waited for the signal, then spoke softly. “Mr. Redlow, this is
Dr. Nyebern. I know I’ve left other messages, but I was under the
impression that I would receive a report from you last Friday.
Certainly by the weekend at the latest. Please call me as soon as
possible. Thank you.” He hung up.
He wondered if he had reason to worry.
He wondered if he had any reason not to worry.
6
Regina sat at her desk in Sister Mary Margaret’s French class, weary of
the smell of chalk dust and annoyed by the hardness of the plastic seat
under her butt, knowing how to say, Hello, I am an American. Can you
direct me to the nearest church where I might attend Sunday Mass?