The Sparrow - Mary Doria Russell [12]
"Voelker’s a jerk," John Candotti said dismissively as the secretary’s footsteps receded down the hall. "Don’t let him rattle you. You can take all the time you need. It’s not like we’re waiting to rent your room out." He perched on the edge of Emilio’s bed, the only other place in the room to sit. "Are you okay? You look a little—" Scared, he thought, but he said, "Sick to your stomach."
"It’s ... hard. To have so many people around."
"I can imagine," John said automatically but then he took it back. "I’m sorry. That was a stupid thing to say. I can’t imagine it, can I?"
There was a brief bleak smile. "I hope not."
Sobered, John dropped all thoughts of lecturing this man on real life.
"Look, Father, I hope you don’t mind but I was thinking about what might be a help with your hands," he said after a while, not quite sure why he was embarrassed about mentioning this. Sandoz himself had made no attempt to hide them. Probably, it was thinking about all the things the guy couldn’t do for himself. Cut his toenails, shave, go to the can alone. Made you squirm, just considering it all. John rummaged around in his briefcase and pulled out a pair of thin leather gloves, fingers and thumbs removed, cut edges expertly turned and hemmed. "I mean, eventually, a surgeon could probably reconstruct the palms for you but, see, I thought gloves would sort of hold things together, for now. You still won’t have a lot of dexterity, I suppose, but you might be able to grip things this way." Sandoz looked at him, wide-eyed. "I mean, you could try them. If they don’t work, it’s no big deal. Just a pair of gloves, right?"
"Thank you," Sandoz said in an odd voice.
Pleased, and relieved that Sandoz had not been offended by his offer, John helped him fit the impossibly long, scarred fingers into the gloves. Why the hell did they do this to him? John wondered, trying to be careful of the raw new tissue that had only recently reclosed. All the muscles of the palms had been carefully cut from the bones, doubling the length of the fingers, and Sandoz’s hands reminded John of childhood Halloween skeletons. "Now that I think of it," John said, "cotton might have been better. It’s okay. If this pair works out, I’ll make another. I’ve got an idea for a way to fit a spoon into a little loop here, so it would be easier for you to eat. Sometimes the simplest solution is the best, you know?"
Shut up, John, you’re babbling, he told himself. Occupied with putting the gloves on, he was for the moment completely unaware of the tears tracing the lines down Sandoz’s worn and expressionless face. When he finished with the second glove, John looked up. Appalled, his smile faded.
Sandoz wept silently, still as an icon, for perhaps five minutes. John stayed with him, sitting on the bed, waiting until the man came back from wherever he’d been in memory.
"Father Candotti," Sandoz said at last, tears drying unacknowledged on his face, "if ever I should desire a confessor, I shall call upon you."
John Candotti, speechless for once, began to realize why he had been brought to Rome.
"Thank you for coming," Sandoz said.
Candotti nodded once and then again, as though confirming something, and left quietly.
4
ARECIBO, PUERTO RICO:
MARCH 2019
WHEN THE SOLUTION came to him, Jimmy Quinn was shaving, stooped over to see into a mirror hung, inevitably, too low to reflect his head. Most of his best ideas were like that. Sometimes, they occurred to him in the shower, crouched down trying to get his head under the water. He wondered if contorting his neck increased blood flow to his brain somehow. Anne Edwards would know; he’d have to ask her the next time he was over there for dinner.
This particular idea had taken its own sweet time in arriving. Jimmy had promised Peggy Soong that he’d find some way to balance the interests of the employees and the owners of Arecibo, but he’d come up dry. And that surprised him because he was generally able to find ways to please himself and, at the same time, to please