Ejecta by William C. Dietz Page B

ironically enough, he had trained her to do. The work began.
    ***
    Though reasonably clean, the room had an institutional quality, and the air smelled of human feces. The TV sat high on a shelf. It droned incessantly even though the man it belonged to was currently asleep. But Arthur Gormley, who was partitioned off from the other patient by a salmon colored curtain, had learned to tune out the noise. The world, which had once been so big and fascinating, had been reduced to what he could see through four panes of glass. Not that the 72-year old ex-Air Force officer, Boeing engineer, and father of three wasn’t grateful for what he had. No, the window was a blessing, even if his vision had started to fade.
    Gormley’s thoughts were interrupted by a loud knock and the sound of Leva’s voice coming from somewhere behind him. It was eternally cheerful, even when the Hispanic woman had very little to be happy about, which was most of the time. “You have a visitor!” Leva chirped enthusiastically, as she bent over to speak into the engineer’s right ear.
    Leva had a tendency to speak loudly, not because Gormley had a hearing loss, but because most of the other residents were at least partially deaf. “Her name is Sara Devlin,” the caretaker said, “and she came all the way from Seattle to see you.” Then, having done her duty, and with five other patients to care for, the scrub-clad care-giver disappeared.
    Gormley turned the wheelchair to the right. The woman was pretty and he liked pretty women. But couldn’t place her. “Devlin?” he croaked. “I don’t know anyone named Devlin…. Are you a doctor?”
    ***
    “Yes,” Devlin answered honestly. “But not a medical doctor. I’m a parasitologist.”
    Gormley had wisps of white hair, glassy eyes, and sunken cheeks. He was little more than a shadow of the man who had led soldiers into battle and traveled the world. “Pleased to meet you,” the old man replied politely. “You came to the right place…. We’re all parasites here... Living off of others as we wait to die.”
    “Not true,” Devlin lied. “You worked and made a contribution. Now it's your turn to rest. May I ask you some questions?”
    “That depends,” Gormley countered cautiously. “What’s the subject?”
    “You were at Seattle-Tacoma International airport about a year ago when, according to news stories at that time, a man exploded.”
    The engineer’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah, I’ll talk, but it’s going to cost you.”
    Devlin’s eyebrows rose. “Really? How much?”
    “Wrong question,” the old man answered brusquely. “I’m not looking for money—what I want is a ride out into the courtyard. And a Grande mocha. No whip—extra hot. There’s a Starbucks about a block away.”
    Devlin laughed. “You’re on….. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”
    “I’ll be here,” Gormley said grimly. “I’ll be here.”
    Twenty-minutes later the two of them were sitting outside in the wan winter sunlight sipping their quickly cooling drinks. Devlin, who was still trying to adjust to the northwest winter, sat with her jacket zipped up around her neck. But Gormley swore he could feel the sun’s warmth on his skin—in spite of the fact that his breath frosted the air in front of him. “So,” Gormley said, “you want to hear about the exploding man.”
    “Yes,” Devlin agreed. “I do.”
    “Why?”
    “Because a friend of mine was present when the incident took place. He came down with a rare disease later on and I’m trying to figure out why. So I googled his name hoping to come up with some clues. There were a lot of hits, because of the text books he wrote, but the exploding man episode stood out. So I went looking for witnesses. You are the only one I could find.”
    “No,” Gormley replied, “I’m the only one who agreed to talk to you…. The rest of the witnesses clammed up. And no wonder since the whole thing was labeled a hoax.”
    “It looks like I’m