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in the 2009 book


Crawling
Through the Dirt



Crawling Through the Dirt
Priority Flight

Richard Vaughn

    First-year doctor-in-residence Arch Lamb stared at the artifact of a bygone era—the clear glass airplane filled with colored candy pellets. Of all the nostalgic things his grandfather cherished, this was the most peculiar. But, given Gavin Archibald Lamb’s fascination with flying, not unusual after all. It wasn’t an authentic replica of anything that might fly. Its hollow fuselage with a metal screw cap to hold the sugar treat had a thick rudder and stabilizer, with fat wings that would never lift such a travesty off the ground. Its triviality was a mockery of Lindbergh’s 1927 Spirit of St. Louis monoplane.
    “Is that all you brought from home?” Arch asked as he looked in on the frail man during hospital rounds. “There must be something else of value for your nightstand.”
    “Not at all, my boy,” Gavin said, ghost-pale and thin in the upraised bed. “I’ve had that toy plane for seventy years. After I fly off, it’s yours.”
    Arch laughed. “Thanks a lot. Some legacy to remember you by.”
    “Ah, yes, well. If this heart thing hadn’t come up, I’d leave you more.”
    Arch explored the glass airplane with its red, yellow, blue, green, purple, and pink candy pellets that filled the fuselage. He didn’t try to twist the metal cap off to see if the candy was still edible. Even modern medicine, made to exacting standards, degrades in a year or so and must be discarded. He put the airplane on the nightstand and gazed at the flaccid face and thin lips of the man who was all that remained of his family.
    “I don’t think you’re going to depart soon,” Arch said in his most sincere bedside manner. “Dr. Sebart is a superb surgeon, and once you’ve built yourself up you’ll receive a top notch bypass.”
    “Ah, my boy, but at the cost of everything I have left in the world.”
    “The reverse mortgage on your house will more than cover the cost.”
    “But that damned money was meant for you, to allow you to go on and become a surgeon. That’s what you wanted, what you need. Your mother’s dream.”
    “What matters now,” Arch said, “is for you to get well. Build stamina till you’re strong. If you were farther along, this pre-op ritual wouldn’t be necessary.”
    “Wrong priority. I don’t want to waste what’s left of my estate. That money’s for your strong future, not my feeble present. I’m ready to fly in my own way.”
    “You’re robust, and a good investment. Besides, you’ve been my champion since before Mom died.” He could add that Gavin was the significant male who’d replaced the man that disappeared before Arch ever knew what a father should be. “There’s no reason why you shouldn’t stick around longer.”
    “You’re stubborn, and that’s good. Got it from me. But I’m not your priority. You know resources must go where they’ll create the most return. A hundred thousand to buy a bit more time for me is a bad buy. As a surgeon you could save younger lives.”
    “It’s a clever argument, but won’t work. You helped me become a doctor, and my first duty is to preserve life when it’s worth doing so. This isn’t a constructive discussion. You have to gain strength, follow Dr. Sebart’s medicinal regimen.”
    “Those damned pills,” Gavin muttered. “Six of them four times a day. They didn’t do me one bit of good at home, and won’t in this hospital either.”
    “Did you really take them as prescribed?” Arch checked the pulse, thinking of the many clever ways Gavin might avoid doing what he should. “Be honest.”
    “Do you think I’d play you false over something this serious?”
    “Why don’t I believe you?” Arch said, knowing that Gavin hated pills, a holdover from his childhood with a Christian Science mother and sugared turpentine and molasses in milk-based home remedies. “The meds should have built you up a month ago.”
    “Lot of damned fuss over nothing. I told you, those pills don’t work.”
    Arch had visited often enough at medication time to ensure that the nurse brought the assorted pills in the paper cup and observed as Gavin tossed them into his mouth and sucked water from a straw. It was passing strange, therefore, that he not only didn’t gain strength but declined. So much so that the heart bypass surgery was postponed until one day Gavin, in the lethargic metabolic interim just before dawn, died in his sleep. It was a bitter disappointment, and the handwritten note was not consoling. It asked forgiveness, but for what, Arch didn’t understand. He was praised for his desire to be a doctor. Lastly, Gavin admonished him to become a surgeon—priority one in living and doctoring.
    Arch gathered Gavin’s personal articles: safety razor, soap bowl and brush, comb. He spied a blue pill on the floor by the nightstand. In an instant he knew: The old fox had outwitted him. When Arch was a boy, Gavin ate peanuts from a dish that never emptied using sleight-of-hand. Where were the untaken pills? He looked beneath the pillow and mattress, in the nightstand drawer, and checked clothes pockets in the closet. Finally, he picked up the glass airplane. The screw cap was loose. At first he didn’t believe his eyes holding the crystal toy aloft as if in flight. Against the sunlight, colored pills sparkled in the fuselage just like candy pellets. He grinned, shook his head and tightened the cap of his treasured legacy keepsake.



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