The Rest of the Story

I have been a baaaad blogger, and it sucks, because I really do have a lot to tell. I just don't have time to sit down and tell it. I need to get back into this.

First, a little history lesson. When we were visiting the Tower of London, we heard the story of the only time the Tower has ever been invaded. This was by an angry mob in 1381. They were cheesed off about a tax hike and were intent on finding someone who represented the privileged classes to pick on. They encountered poor old Simon of Sudbury, Archbishop of Canterbury, who was hiding in there, dragged him out and murdered him in a not-very-nice way. They have some cute little shoebox dioramas in the Tower that depict it: dusty-looking fake grass; little dolls all chopping and hacking at a tiny, prone figure; smears of fake blood. It looked like a really stellar elementary school social studies project.

So we're standing there looking at the diorama, and Simon says that he knows what happened to Simon Sudbury's head. I guess that, after his murder, it was taken back to his hometown church. He became a saint and the head was revered as a relic. Simon's dad grew up in Sudbury, and his grandfather was the rector of the church there. He used to entertain Simon and his little brother by unlocking and opening the box containing Simon Sudbury's 14th century skull. I could tell by the look on Nate's face that he was wishing that his great-grandpa were alive today.

Now, I'll tell another story, this one about our good friend, A. We have been friends with A. since we moved to Salt Lake many years ago. This is a relationship so well-worn that he and I often just sit reading the paper and drinking coffee without talking at all. He only lives a couple of blocks away, so he is always coming over to hang out, making me roll my eyes with his awful puns. You know, the utterly taken-for-granted type of friend who picks things out of the pan while you are cooking.

He was over here a couple days before we left on vacation, but the day we flew out, he...got burned somehow. As soon as we got back, his wife called to tell us that he had been in a medically induced coma at the University Hospital Burn ICU for the past couple of weeks. Third degree burns on 63% of his body. I went straight over to their house and his wife and I sat at the kitchen table with a box of Kleenex between us. I asked her what happened, and she said she didn't know. He was outside and must have caught fire somehow. She told me that he ran inside and upstairs, and climbed into the shower. That's where she found him, with his skin falling off. What was he doing, I asked? She says she doesn't know. She said that, after she found him, she called a friend, and the friend drove A. to the hospital.

I wish I could just accept this at face value. But there are some things that are not hanging together for me. Why did she call the friend and not 911? Why can't she figure out what happened to him? You would think there would be a smoking gun of some sort. The lawnmower out on the drive. The grill with its propane unhooked. A can of paint-thinner spilled on the garage floor. A matchstick! A lighter! A live wire? I guess it's beside the point. Right? After all, the only thing that matters is whether he is going to live or not. So why do I feel like I need the rest of the story?