If You Are A Host To Your Guest

Chapter 2 of The Other Side of the River.

If You Are a Host to Your Guest…

…be a host to his dog also. --Russian Proverb

 

     Bob Sheehy was better than his word. Not only had he a team waiting as Roosevelt pulled up to the ER of  St. Mary's Hospital, but he was waiting with them as well. Putting the vehicle in park, Roosevelt turned and addressed Hoover. "Up front now, boy, let's go."  He patted the seat next to him. Hoover turned his head and fixed his master with a look of supreme sadness. He was clearly not ready to give up his protective duties. Roosevelt's voice  took on a warning note. "Hoover…stand down! The dog complied then, but his whole body seemed to droop. Once on the front seat, he gave his human a final baleful glance, sighed dejectedly, then settled in to wait for further instructions.

     With the canine bodyguard out of the way, Bob motioned for Roosevelt to stay put and opened the rear door. He then stood aside and allowed the medical team to carefully remove the woman from the vehicle and place her on a gurney.  As they wheeled her quickly through the ER doors, he opened the front passenger door and smiled affectionately at its occupant. "Hey, buddy, remember me?"  Hoover did, but it wouldn't have mattered even if he hadn't. Hoover liked everyone he met until he was given a reason not to.

     Bob peered over Hoover's head at Roosevelt. "Why don't we go for a drive?" Roosevelt shook his head and looked distressed.

     "I promised her I'd keep her safe. I should stay with her."

     "No." Bob's response was quick and firm. "There's nothing you can do right now, and you'd just be in the way." His voice softened. "She's safe, Roosevelt. Now let my people do their jobs.  It'll be hours before they're finished, and in the meantime, you and Hoover need food and rest. And a change of clothes,"  he added, eyeing Roosevelt's wet form.

     Roosevelt sat quietly for a few moments; and when he finally looked up at Bob, he didn't look any happier, but he nodded. Then he inclined his head toward the back seat for Hoover's benefit.  "Go on, Hoover, let Bob in." As Hoover exited the front seat and Bob took possession of it, a quiet descended on the vehicle for a moment as its occupants settled themselves and collected their thoughts.

     Perhaps what was going on inside of Hoover could not be considered thinking by human standards, but he was certainly not happy about the situation. He had found a new friend, one who needed his protection, and she had been taken away from him. He felt this loss keenly as well as frustration at his own inaction.  He knew that she needed help, but did not fully understand that at this moment she was being helped. He only knew that what had happened, his master had allowed, so it must be alright.

     For his part, Roosevelt was in much the same position as his dog. He could not say why he already felt such a strong attachment to this woman. He didn't even know her name, could only think of her as "she." And at this moment he could only trust that she was in better hands than his. He fought back his emotions-- the strong need to protect her, to just be with her--and found himself reminded of the Serenity Prayer. So he prayed silently, "Lord, help me have the serenity to accept what I can't change about this situation, the courage to change what I can, and the wisdom to know the difference."  Then he quieted his mind and just listened for a moment. Once again, that small voice spoke to him, and when Roosevelt lifted his head and looked at Bob, his countenance had changed completely. He smiled at his friend. "Where to, Bob?"

     "My house. Sandy's waiting dinner on us." As Roosevelt pulled up the saved address on the Navigator's GPS and began to follow its instructions, Bob became lost in his own thoughts. He marveled at the change in his friend, in his ability to go so quickly from such frustration to such peace. He hadn't know Roosevelt very long--only a few years--and the miles between them hadn't allowed for a lot of interaction. But he knew some important things about the large black man. He knew that Roosevelt was a man of deep faith and intense purpose, and when he believed something was the right thing to do, nothing would dissuade him. Whatever promises he'd made to the injured woman would be kept, come hell or high water. He realized that the best thing he could do for his friend, for the time being, would be to take care of his and the dog's physical needs and to keep them out of the way while they weren't needed. There was a lot to sort out in the meantime, if possible.

    

    

 

 

                                 •  •  •

 

 

 

     Roosevelt had not forgotten how good a cook Sandra Sheehy was, but the aromas that greeted him as he stepped into her large, gracious home made him realize that, until that moment, he had forgotten how hungry he was. Hoover, on the other hand, never forgot anything that had to do with his stomach, and he greeted Sandy with enthusiastic canine affection, nearly knocking the petite woman off her feet. Roosevelt tried to call him off, but Sandy would have none of it. Laughing good naturedly, she gave the dog a big hug and said, "Don't worry, Hoover. I cooked for you too, Sweetie. Now, Roosevelt, you come over here and give me a hug."

     Roosevelt had to bend himself nearly in half as he gently wrapped his massive arms around the tiny woman. "Thank you for your hospitality on such short notice, Sandy. Sorry to descend upon you like this."

    Sandy raised an eyebrow at him. "Really, Roosevelt, I can't believe you inconvenienced me this way," she snarked. "You've just got to stop going around rescuing helpless people!" Laughing, she steered the men toward the dining room table and began loading it with food.  Then she filled a bowl and placed it on the floor for Hoover. Roosevelt shook his head in bemusement at the gusto with which Hoover attacked the bowl.

     "You'd think he hasn't seen food in a week," he chuckled.

     "Well," put in Bob, "it is a home-cooked meal."

     Roosevelt looked offended. "I cook for him! Well…not every day." He reconsidered. "Ok, not every week…I guess maybe it's been awhile," he finally admitted, to the amusement of the Sheehys. "We've been busy."

     As they applied themselves enthusiastically to their own meal, the three caught each other up on their recent adventures. Sandy laughingly admitted that being an artist didn't make for nearly as good storytelling as Bob's and Roosevelt's careers, but she was content to listen and throw in her "two cents' worth" occasionally. When they had finished eating and settled themselves into the comfortable leather furnishings in the den, the conversation finally turned to Roosevelt's "mystery woman." 

     "I'm afraid there isn't much to tell at this point," the big man observed. He grew reflective. "You know, if it hadn't been for Hoover, I wouldn't have even known she was there." With a gleam of almost fatherly pride, he glanced at the mastiff, who was blissfully accepting ear massages from Sandy. "When we pulled her out of the river, I thought she was dead. She came around when I did CPR, but only for a minute or two."

     "Did she say anything?" Sandy asked.

     "Yes. She asked about someone named Jeffrey. Then she begged me not to let him hurt her." He paused. " And I promised," he finished softly.

     "You're taking this very seriously, aren't you, Roosevelt?" Sandy asked gently. He looked at her pensively for a moment; then, instead of answering, he turned to Bob.

     "I need to get back to the hospital."

     Bob shook his head. "I can guarantee you she's still in surgery. My team will let me know when they're finished."

     Sandy broke in. "You don't really think he's looking for her, do you?"

     "No." Roosevelt shook his head, seeming more impatient than he meant to. "A man doesn't throw a woman in a river and then go looking for her."

     "Then why do you feel such an urgent need to protect her right at this moment?"

     "It isn't that. It's just…" He trailed off. He couldn't put it into words, but Sandy nodded sympathetically.

     "You need to do something," she offered. "Anything." He nodded.

     "Listen to me, Rose," Bob interjected. He leaned forward and spoke earnestly. "I can understand how you feel; I've been there. But believe me when I tell you that the best thing you can do for her right now is to get some sleep, so that when she does need you, you can be fully present and focused on her. None of us really knows what  to expect when that woman wakes up." He paused uncomfortably. "If she wakes up. We're not even sure at this point that she's going to make it. She was in pretty bad shape."

     Roosevelt nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, but…I have to believe…" He sighed. "I just really need to believe that I didn't pull her out of that river for nothing."

     Bob nodded. "All right. Then we'll think positively. When she wakes up, you'll need to have all your wits about you. Agreed?"

     Roosevelt sighed again and managed a small smile. Bob Sheehy was a hard man to argue with. "Agreed."

     "Good!" Bob stood up. "Sandy has a room ready for you."

     "Just promise me something, Bob. When you hear from the doctors…"

     "I'll wake you up. I promise." Bob grasped his friend's arm and squeezed. "Now try to quiet your mind and get some sleep."

 

                                •  •  •

 

      Roosevelt had retrieved the overnight bag he always kept in his SUV and was now comfortably ensconced in a spacious and well-appointed guest room. He was alone, Sandy and Hoover having not been ready to part company. For a few minutes, he sat quietly with his eyes closed in a wingback chair by the window, preparing himself for the two phone calls he was about to make. Then he took out his cell and dialed. "Hello,  Mama."

     "Hey, baby. How are you?" Harriet Brooks sounded sleepy.

     "Fine, Mama. Did I wake you?"

     "No, sweetie. We were just sitting up in bed reading, and I started to get a little drowsy."

     "Well, I just wanted to let you know I won't be back tomorrow as planned. Something came up."

     "Is everything alright?" She sounded wide awake now. Next to her, Frank Brooks began to take an interest in the conversation, but she held up a hand to keep him quiet. On the other end of the line, her son was silent a moment before answering, and she could feel him weighing his thoughts, choosing his words carefully.

     "I can't tell you much, but would you and Pops just be in prayer? For me and for…my client?"

     "Of course. Anything specific we should pray for?"

     "Wisdom for me."

     "And for your client?" Another silence. Then the quiet answer.

     "That she'll live."

    

The phone call to his mother had been the easy one. Roosevelt wasn't exactly dreading the call to Nathan Cutler, but he wasn't exactly looking forward to it either. He knew Nathan would want a little more of an explanation than his parents had needed. Roosevelt wasn't fond of explaining himself in the best of circumstances, but now…well, he hadn't much explanation to give, had he?

"Yeah, Buddy, what's up?" When Nathan answered, Roosevelt nearly laughed. He could never tell whether or not he had woken his friend. No matter how sound asleep Nathan was, he could shake himself awake in two seconds and sound as if he'd been on a caffeine buzz for hours.

     "Listen, Nate, I won't be home tomorrow after all."

     "Oh? Is the fishing that good?" Nathan's voice vibrated with good humor.

     "No. Something came up."

     "Another job?"

     "Yeah." This was the part Roosevelt dreaded. He couldn't dodge Nathan's questions; his friend knew him too well. He was in a no-win situation. The less he told Nathan, the more curious his friend would become; but if Nathan knew how little information Roosevelt had about the situation, he would think him crazy. The silence on the other end of the line was rife with expectation.

     "You need my help?" Nathan finally asked.

     "No." Roosevelt answered too quickly. He could almost hear Nathan's eyebrows go up.

     "Hey." There was both amusement and curiosity in Nathan's voice. "This isn't a pretty woman you're trying to keep to yourself, is it?"

Roosevelt sobered quickly, remembering the woman's battered face. He didn't even know if she was pretty. "No. No, it's nothing like that."

     "Well, what is it like?" Nathan's voice had suddenly lost all its good humor. This wasn't working, Roosevelt realized. He sighed and gave in.

     "Look, Nate, I pulled her out of the river, okay?"

     "You what?"

     "I saved her life. She's in terrible shape, and it was somebody she knows who did this to her--most likely her husband."

     "You got her to a hospital, right?"

     "Of course."

     "Then that's all you need to do, isn't it?"

     "No." Roosevelt's voice held a hard edge. "She asked for my help and I promised her."

     "So you're in. Just like that."

     "Yeah. I'm in." Roosevelt's voice had lost its edge, but was no less resolved. There was silence for a few moments, then Nathan spoke again.

     "You sure you don't need my help?"

     Roosevelt closed his eyes, and all the tension washed out of him. "Not yet. Hold the fort there for now, but stay loose. I may need you soon."

     "All right. Consider the fort held. Stay in touch."

     As he hung up, Roosevelt smiled. As long as he had known Nathan Cutler and as close as they were, sometimes he still forgot to give him sufficient credit. Nathan could be argumentative, but never for its own sake, and he always had Roosevelt's best interests at heart. But mostly, he had a very strong respect for Roosevelt and for their friendship, and in the end, he almost always deferred to Roosevelt's judgment. This may have been partly due to the fact that, as CEO of the personal security firm Peacemakers, Inc., Roosevelt was technically Nathan's boss. But Roosevelt liked to think of Nathan as his friend and partner more than anything else, and he also liked to think that it was mostly Nathan's respect for him that kept his combativeness at bay when they disagreed.

     On the other hand, it was partly Nathan's argumentative nature that made their friendship work so well. Roosevelt disliked explaining himself, but Nathan had a way of pulling explanations out of him, of forcing him to articulate his beliefs and desires. As much as he hated to admit it, Roosevelt knew this was good for him. Not for the first time, he thought of the proverb, "As iron sharpens iron, so does one man sharpen the wits of his friend." That was Nathan--his own personal wit sharpener.

     Roosevelt made his final preparations for the night, turned out the light and got into bed. Quieting his mind, he began to pray. At first, he prayed for the woman's life, but something stopped him. Once again, he heard the familiar still, small voice. "Why are you asking for her life, Roosevelt, when I've already given it to you?"

     "Then what should I ask for?"

     "Ask why," came the cryptic response. Pondering this, Roosevelt drifted off to sleep.