The People Without Faces

Was that a knock on the door? I turn my hearing aid up slightly. Jarred me from a glorious memory “Who is it?” “It’s Ellen.” Ellen’s my neighbor from across the hall. She’s been widowed too. Her husband John passed away six months ago. “Be right there.” Even after fifty years, the old war injury still throbs at times. I set the box on the end table and lift myself from the recliner. It takes a minute to get my balance, which isn’t great anymore. But Ellen understands. We’re only a year apart. At seventy-one, her mobility’s not much better than mine. I open the door. She looks like she’s seen a ghost. “Alden, did you see the news?” “Nope. You want to come in for coffee?” I don’t pay much attention to the propaganda machine. Ellen, however, can’t seem to get enough of it. I used to write articles for the local paper more years ago than I can remember. But those were different times then. The news was real, not sensationalized untruths. “I can’t.” She lingers in my doorway, then steps back. “There’s a virus. They want us to stay inside.” Her white hair sits like a dollop of whipped cream upon her head and the veins bulge from the sides of her temples. She’s usually wound tight, but this is extreme. “You’re standing outside right now. Did you want to come inside?” She rolls her eyes, as she wrings her hands. “No. I mean we have to stay inside alone so we don’t get anyone else sick." What has she been watching? “I see. I should find out what you’re talking about. I’ll call Kevin. He’ll know.” Kevin, the eldest of our four children, is a doctor. He moved to New Jersey in 2018 when he joined another physician at his practice in a small office away from the hustle and bustle of the big city. “I’ll call you later on the telephone.” Ellen’s shuffle across the hall seems like a sprint today. Maybe it’s the garlic from my everything bagel. I shrug and close the door. A pot of coffee sounds good. It’s not great for me. I know. And I drink too much of it, but I suppose it’s better than the Jack Daniels and Marlboro cancer sticks. Those chains are gone. Thank the Lord for that. I pour water into the pot, then into the machine, and hit the start button. When I returned from Nam in ’70, the shrapnel embedded in my left calf muscle hurt less than the scars I carried on the inside. Nightmares haunted me for at least two years straight. My scars roused a life of excessive debauchery. Just home from the war, I met Katherine in a disco club in the city. Her father was a military man too. They’d moved all over the country, six different states by the time she was fourteen. Why she got wrapped up with me, a greasy-haired, chain-smoking guy with an alcohol problem, I couldn’t say. We married within a year, then celebrated our first anniversary with vodka and dancing in a smoke-filled club in Philly. Prospects seemed dim until one month later we found God in Jimmy Sutton’s basement while listening to the Maranatha record he wore out week after week. “Selah” skipped at the chorus, but Jimmy didn’t care and neither did anyone else who’d attended his Bible studies. We started with five people and grew to eighteen in the first two months. Jimmy was a good preacher but a better friend. The coffee’s done. I stir in three sugar cubes. Katherine always bought the cubes for our coffee. She kept the granulated kind for baking. Old habits are hard to break, especially for an old guy like me. Sitting at the counter with my cupful of sugar cubes is like taking a coffee break with my sweet Katherine. I shuffle back to my seat and lift a picture from the box of my old neighbor and good friend John, Ellen’s late husband. Distinct dark, bushy eyebrows and a thick mustache outlined his chubby face. His heart was as big as his size forty breeches. John was a good man, and Ellen’s had a rough time since his passing. Her religious affiliation hasn’t served her well. Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad she goes to church every day, but her faith seems misguided and shallow. From what I can tell, it’s based on traditions and man-made rules. I’ve tried to talk to her about Jesus and engage her in conversation about the Bible, but I get a blank stare. I wonder if the only Bible she knows comes from the robed man at the pulpit in the church with the antique, stained-glass windows. I’ve tried to invite her to church with me but she’d rather eat tar. Just kidding, but it seems that way. I pray for Ellen—every single day. There’s a high wall to her heart that only God can overcome. She’s prickly and nervous, but deep down she’s got to have a softer side. John must’ve had a key to that hidden place. I turn on the television and flick through a few channels. Every station announces the coronavirus, a Chinese virus that spreads and kills people. Coming soon to a neighborhood near you. Hmm. We had the SARS back in 2003, and then there was the swine flu a few years after, but nobody made a big deal of those. What makes this one different? Every reporter has replaced their flashy smiles with woeful expressions of fear exuding morbid tales of multiple deaths. They all use the word “unprecedented”. The first American cases have been reported in Washington State. They’re talking about halting flights across the country and taking the next two weeks to lock down and slow the spread. Since when have we taken such extraordinary measures for a virus? This thing must be deadly. Ellen could be right.