Purely By Accident

Chapter One

 

A bitter gust of wind blew out of the gray northwestern sky and down through the middle of the small town of Eastland, Texas. It was just as the Channel 5 weather guy—the one with the too perfect teeth and the stiff hair—had predicted, unseasonably cold. Indeed, it was very cold for early November in this part of Texas, but the winter weather in North Texas was always unpredictable. Often, the long-time local residents would facetiously tell visitors that if they didn’t like the weather in Northern Texas in the winter, all they had to do was wait a few minutes and it would change. It was, however, perfect weather for a funeral, Mark Vogel thought, as he stood looking at the polished oak casket that was suspended over the freshly dug grave.

In a plain black suit, Mark stood with his wife, Amy, at his side. He had neither the benefit of an overcoat nor a hat. He was unconcerned about not having a coat, but he truly wished he was wearing a hat. He shivered as the wind gusted again. Amy did not seem to be bothered at all by the cold. She was dressed in a stylish black skirt and an expensive white silk blouse that she had picked out with meticulous care at Neiman Marcus the day before—just for this occasion. She had covered most of the soft white blouse with a black jacket that had come with the skirt. Mark had noticed, as they dressed for the occasion earlier, that she had color-coordinated every part of her wardrobe, down to her lingerie and pantyhose. Not that there was anyone around who would notice. The whole funeral party consisted of a total of three people—Amy, the minister, and Mark.

And Cecil. However, Mark doubted that Cecil, the casket’s occupant, would notice one way or the other. Gazing wistfully at the casket, Mark was drawn back to the day the two men met, and the year of friendship that followed.

<<<<<<<>>>>>>>

Mark Vogel and Cecil Lawrence had met a little less than a year ago, quite by accident. Literally. Driving to a meeting in downtown Dallas, Mark rounded a corner at the precise moment that Cecil, not paying attention, stepped off of a curb and into the street—directly in front of Mark’s car. Mark was not going that fast, but the impact was still enough to knock Cecil to the ground, break an arm, and render him unconscious. Mark had immediately called 911 from his cellular phone and offered what little first aid he could remember. The ambulance arrived, followed by the police, and moments later, Cecil was taken away in the ambulance.

Mark told his story several times to people in uniform who seemed only mildly interested in the fact that he had almost run over the old man. The only fortunate part of the whole ordeal was the fact that it was lunchtime and there were plenty of witnesses around to help establish the fact that the accident, while tragic, was not in any way Mark’s fault.

After giving the police officer what he felt like was his entire life history up to that point, Mark obtained the name of the hospital to which his victim had been transported. Without giving it any more than a passing thought, he drove there.

When Mark arrived at Parkland Memorial Hospital, he went immediately to the emergency room, where he learned that the old man (Mark still did not know his name) had been treated and admitted. Concerned about the man’s status, Mark rode the elevator to the sixth floor and inquired about the old man who had been admitted from emergency after the traffic accident. A blonde nurse, barely taking the time to look up at Mark, gestured to a young man walking up the hall toward the nurses’ station. She explained to him that Mark was inquiring about the accident victim admitted to room 611, and then introduced him to Mark as the doctor on call.

“How is he?” Mark asked.

The doctor, dressed in green scrubs, and looking as if he hadn’t slept in two days, incorrectly assumed Mark was a relative and began talking about the status of the patient.

“Well, there was no concussion or other trauma to the head. His right arm is broken in one place, but the fracture is not compound and will heal with time; although because of his age, it will not be that fast.” The doctor paused and looked up. “That is the good news. The bad news is that, after reading the X-rays, we discovered that Mr. Lawrence’s tumor has progressed much more aggressively than his doctor in Panama, whom we have consulted, had told him it would.”

Mark stood stunned. Only just moments ago he had learned the name of the man he had hit, and not even his entire name, and now he was finding out that the man was seriously ill. He felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. For some reason he suddenly felt as if the tumor, whatever kind it was and wherever it was, was the fault of the accident, and therefore his fault too. In his mind he knew that was not so, but the shock of the whole event was just now starting to take hold. Not knowing the right thing to do or say, Mark fell back on the only experience he had ever had with this type of situation—television. His next question came straight out of the countless hospital dramas he had watched over the years.

“How long does he have?”

The doctor paused again, looking at the chart and doing some mental calculations. “A year, tops,” the young man said, trying to be honest and casual at the same time. Mark just stared at him blankly. The doctor incorrectly gauged Mark’s stunned reaction as that of a grieving relative, and not as a participant in the accident. “I am very sorry,” the doctor concluded, with notable anguish in his voice.

Once again, his television dialogue training came to Mark’s rescue. “Does he know?” Mark asked.

“Yes,” the doctor nodded. “I’ve just come from telling him. He took it well.” In an effort to help Mark, the doctor took him by the arm and began walking him down the hall. “Would you like to see him? He is sedated, but not that heavily. I am sure he would like to see you.” Mark’s mind was now totally disconnected from his body and he let the doctor lead him down the hall to the closed door of room 611. Without thinking, Mark knocked on the door and went into the room.

The old man in the bed looked up as the door opened. Cautiously, Mark stepped in, but stopped at a point halfway between the door and the bed.

“Excuse me, sir,” Mark began, his mouth dry and on auto-pilot. “My name is Mark Vogel. I am the guy who tried to run you down.” Puzzlement, then shock, then understanding, and finally a smile crossed the old man’s face.

“I am not sure that I can say that it is a pleasure to meet you, son.” He held up his cast-encased arm. “Under the circumstances, you understand.”

Mark was suddenly questioning the wisdom of coming here. He was confused and now embarrassed. His mind came partly back to life and he began to look for an escape.

“I am sorry to have bothered you,” Mark said, turning to go. His only thought now was to run and get out of there as fast as he could. The old man’s words stopped him before he could bolt.

“I understand that I was not looking where I was going.”

Mark turned around to face the old man. “To be honest with you, Mr. Lawrence, I am not sure what happened,” Mark said, remembering the name the doctor had used.

“Cecil,” the old man said.

“What?” Mark asked.

“Cecil,” the old man said again. “Please call me Cecil. Won’t you sit down?” Cecil said, motioning to a chair close to the bed. Cautiously, Mark sat and they began to talk. The conversation was awkward at first, but soon became comfortable and friendly. For thirty minutes they talked before Mark sensed that Cecil was beginning to get drowsy. When Cecil began to yawn vigorously, Mark took this as his cue and decided it was time to leave. But, before leaving, he asked Cecil if he would mind a visit again the next day. Cecil brightened and told Mark he was welcome anytime.

The following day Mark arrived right after lunch. Cecil was in good spirits and seemed to actually be looking forward to Mark’s visit. Mark asked how Cecil felt and Cecil assured him that he was on the mend. It was then that the conversation came back around to the accident.

“I am told, by the police, that you did everything you could to keep from hitting me,” Cecil began, moving to a more upright position in the bed. Mark blushed deeply and looked at the floor. “In fact,” Cecil continued, “they said that you reacted pretty coolly at the scene, got the ambulance and even checked me over yourself.”

“Well,” Mark said, “‘react’ is a good word for it. I was on autopilot. In fact, by the time I got home last night I had a case of the shakes so bad I couldn’t get my key in the door to my house.”

Cecil laughed. “I want you to know something, Mark. I know that the accident was not your fault. I don’t blame you, and I am sorry to have caused you all this grief.” With that statement, as if by unspoken agreement, the issue was settled. Relief washed over Mark and the conversation moved to what they were each doing downtown at that time of day.

Cecil told Mark he was coming from a visit to his lawyer. Mark told Cecil that he was on his way to a meeting with the company that he worked for—a software company, based in Phoenix, but with a large operation in Dallas. Upon learning this, Cecil told Mark that he, too, had been involved in the computer business at one point in his life, but had retired from it twenty years earlier. Continuing, Cecil said that, since his retirement, he had spent a good deal of time traveling and living outside of the...