Lady Blues

by Aaron Paul Lazar

  I gave her my full attention. “Could they have been from the fire?”

  “I don’t think so. Some of the welts looked red and… raw. Not like burns. More like lashes from a belt.”

  “Oh, damn.” I flopped onto my side of the bed and stared into space, pondering the awful idea.

  She stood suddenly, pacing the room. “We need that translator. If someone’s abusing her, we have to help her.”

  In Camille’s job as social worker and therapist for kids in Livingston County, she’d dealt with plenty of cases of abuse or neglect. The frequent exposure to these tough situations hadn’t numbed her. Instead, it seemed to intensify her empathy and resolve.

  “Agreed,” I said, wondering about Lily’s brother. “Do you think it could be Thom?”

  She sat beside me on the bed and leaned her head against my shoulder. “I sure hope not. I get the feeling he’s very protective of her, and I have seen him yell at her from time to time, but—”

  “She never leaves the shop, does she?”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve never seen her in the grocery store, or any other place in town, now that you mention it. She’s always there, bent over her work.”

  “Do you think she ever gets a day off?”

  Camille frowned. “Good question. Since they’ve been in town—I guess about four years or so—I’ve only seen him driving to the store on his Vespa. He does the grocery shopping, then loads the sacks in the basket and saddlebags.”

  I put my arm around her shoulder and squeezed. “Well, there’s no crime against that. She probably doesn’t have a license.”

  Camille snuggled against me. “I know. But we have to help her. That is, if she wants help. She could take free classes, you know? The literacy volunteers are equipped for cases just like hers. They help the migrant workers, and—”

  I leaned down to press my lips against her forehead, cheek, and finally, her mouth. She tasted like peppermint toothpaste. “That’s what I love about you, sweetheart. You’re so passionate about your work.”

  She hugged me closer. “You leave it to me. I’ll make some calls in the morning.”

  “I’ll count on it, love.”

  Chapter Four

  On Sunday morning at nine, I called Reverend Nahum Hardina at the East Goodland Methodist Church. We were his regulars in our tiny parish, helping out with Sunday school, various committees, and maintaining the grounds.

  He answered on the first ring. “Hello. May God’s blessing be with you.”

  I already felt guilty, knowing I’d disappoint him with my news. “Nahum? It’s Gus.”

  He sighed, long and low. “Uh-oh. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, really. We just can’t make it today. We’re bringing a friend to the hospital to check on her brother. She doesn’t drive or speak English.”

  He paused for a second. The sound of rustling papers came through the receiver, and I imagined him preparing for his upcoming sermon. “Can I help?”

  “Thanks, but I don’t think so. Unless you can translate Korean.”

  He chuckled. “That’s one language I never mastered.”

  I tried to wiggle out of the conversation as quickly as possible. “Well, guess I’d better get going.”

  “Hold on, just a second. What time will you be back?”

  A sinking feeling washed over me. “Um. I’m not sure. Maybe noon?”

  “Good. I need you to play for the service at the new Alzheimer’s center in town. Just for an hour. That’s all. Then I’ll let you get home to start cooking. You know how much I look forward to your meal every Sunday.”

  I hesitated. It would mean a tight schedule for me. “I guess I could push dinner back an hour. You just need the standard hymns?”

  He spoke rapidly; apparently afraid I might back out if he didn’t agree. “Oh, yes. Of course. ‘Rock of Ages.’ ‘Morning Has Broken.’ ‘Amazing Grace.’ The old standbys. How’s one o’clock?”

  I sighed. “Okay. I’ll be there. But don’t expect a gourmet feast today.”

  He laughed. “Whatever you cook will taste gourmet to me, Gus. You’re a magician in the kitchen.”

  I groaned. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

  “That’s the general idea,” he chuckled, replacing the receiver with a soft click.

  ***

  The burn unit at Rochester Memorial Hospital was on the sixth floor, west wing. I stepped off the elevator behind Siegfried and Lily, who walked uncertainly toward the nurses’ station.

  Sweat broke out on my brow.

  Oh, God. Not again. Memories of Elsbeth.

  I tried to focus on small things—the way Siegfried’s hand occasionally brushed Lily’s, the startling difference in their heights, the contrast of his pale blond hair to her dark locks. I struggled to forget the oppressive memories, but couldn’t seem to manage it.

  Images of Siegfried’s twin sister, my deceased first wife, Elsbeth, flooded my brain. I saw her in the curtained room, attached to wires and devices while doctors tried without success to diagnose her illness. The suicide attempts. The seizure-like spells. The blackouts and depression. Eventually, the shape-shifting diagnoses of bipolar or perhaps mini-strokes evaporated when they detected cancer in her temporal lobe. I pushed away visions of the radiation burns, the dark circles beneath her eyes, the way she’d withered to skin over bones.

  The chemo had been dreadful and in the end, useless.

  I shook myself, pushing the images away.

  Siegfried approached the desk, adopting a new role. Normally, he let me deal with stuff. Today, however, he marched up to the nurse with the round face and frizzy white hair and carefully explained the situation, pronouncing his words with great precision. “This is Lily Kim. Her brother was in a fire yesterday. He is Thom Kim.”

  A sudden wash of sympathy passed over the nurse’s face. “Oh, dear,” she said. “Mr. Kim is in the intensive care burn unit. If you’ll wait over there,” she gestured to the waiting room, “we’ll call you when the doctor’s free.”

  I glanced into the glass-walled ICU and saw patients shrouded in dressings and surrounded by blinking lights and tubes and wires.

  We waited for an hour before a doctor finally approached us.

  “Miss Kim?” she asked. “I’m Doctor Reed.”

  Lily looked anxiously from Siegfried to the doctor. “Thom?” she asked.

  Siegfried explained, “She speaks no English.”

  Dr. Reed scrutinized us with. “And you are…”

  I stepped forward to shake her hand. “Professor Gus LeGarde. Nice to meet you, Doctor.” Her palm felt moist, her grip sure. “This is Siegfried,” I said.

  She shook his massive hand.

  “We’re Lily’s friends. We’ve taken her in until her home can be rebuilt,” I added.

  Understanding dawned in her eyes. “Ah, the fire.” She examined the chart and pushed a a pencil behind one ear. “Neither of you speak Korean?”

  “I’m afraid not,” I said.

  She turned to the nurse at the desk. “Sherrie? Please page Doctor Kwon for me.”

  Ten minutes later, a young Asian physician in a white coat hurried around the corner. “What’s up?”

  After several minutes of introductions and a brief spatter of conversation between Lily and Dr. Kwon, Dr. Reed shared Thom’s status.

  Dr. Reed rested her hands on Lily’s shoulders. “Now, Lily. I want you to know that everything I’ve told you about Thom is speculation. It’s hard to know how he’ll respond to treatment. But it will be a long process, regardless. Three months? Six months? It’s hard to say.”

  Dr. Kwon translated rapidly.

  Lily asked her something, and Dr. Kwon repeated it. “She wants to know if she can see him.”

  Dr. Reed nodded warily. “Of course. But please prepare her for the worst. He’s heavily bandaged and we’re keeping him sedated. He’ll be asleep.”

  Lily nodded and followed Dr. Kwon into the ICU. We watched through the window
as she donned a gown and mask before being led to a bed on the far side of the room. Siegfried and I waited awkwardly near the door after thanking Dr. Reed for her help. She directed us back to the waiting room and strode away.

  “Will Lily be okay?” Siegfried asked. His eyes darted toward the door, watching for her.

  I laid my hand on his. “Seeing her brother like that will be a shock.”

  He sighed deeply, his eyes troubled. “Ja. Natürlich.”

  He got up and stretched his arms up, fingers brushing the ceiling tiles. I watched him alternately pace the room and stare out the window. My gentle friend finally stopped and sat opposite me on the couch, chin on palms and elbows on knees. He looked toward the door every ten seconds or so.

  “Buddy?” I asked.

  He lifted his blue eyes to mine. “Ja?” They flew back to the door again.

  “She’ll be okay. I promise.”

  He sighed, then ran his fingers through his long blond ponytail. “You are sure?”

  “Something tells me Lily’s a very strong woman. I think she’ll surprise you.”

  A chuckle burst from his lips. “She surprises me already, Professor.”

  The strong April sun shone through the window, dancing in pools at Siegfried’s feet. A blue jay flapped his wings in the elm tree outside.

  I studied my friend, watching the color rise in his cheeks. “You really like her, don’t you?”

  He looked at me, then down at his scuffed work boots. “Ja, I do.” Waves of love rolled over his face like the surf on a golden beach.

  My heart flip-flopped as I watched, amazed at the transformation. My best friend, this steadfast foot soldier, this stalwart defender of family… had finally found someone to love.

  This time, I felt sure it would work out. If my impressions were right, Lily felt the same way about him. “I think she likes you, too,” I said.

  He blushed and his chest heaved. “I hope so.”

  Lily and Dr. Kwon came back, and Sig rose to meet them halfway across the room. Light stole over his features. “Lily,” he said, as if whispering currents of a gold-threaded breeze.

  Face ashen, she sank onto the couch beside him, reaching for his hand. He enfolded hers gently in his enormous paw.

  Dr. Kwon smiled with sympathy. “I’m afraid it was quite a shock for her. Her brother’s in rough shape.”

  Siegfried glanced up, gratitude spilling from his eyes. “Danke, Doctor.”

  As she turned to leave, I said, “Would you mind translating just a few more things?”

  She glanced down at her watch. “Okay. Just a few minutes. I’m late for rounds.”

  Ushering her to the couch, I rattled off my proposition to Lily, which Dr. Kwon rapidly translated. “…and so, we’d like to offer you a place to stay, Lily. We hope you’ll accept our invitation to live with us until your place is rebuilt.”

  Lily’s eyes widened and her brow furrowed. She answered rapid-fire.

  Dr. Kwon said, “She wants to know why you offer with such generosity.”

  I looked at Siegfried, whose skin saturated dark pink. He didn’t say anything.

  “Because,” I said, “that’s what we do in our town. We take care of our neighbors.”

  Siegfried looked at Lily, whose dark eyes had widened. He nodded. “Ja.”

  Lily lowered her head, listening to the translation, then brushed back her curtain of silky black hair, gazing at Siegfried with affection. She spoke in a low voice.

  Dr. Kwon translated. “The only way she’ll accept is if you allow her to work around your house,” she said, tossing an approving glance at Lily. “Sounds like an equitable arrangement to me.”

  I nodded. “Sure. If that’s what she needs to feel comfortable. We’ll find something for her to do. And if she’s interested, my wife will get her set up with our local literacy volunteers. They’ll teach her English, for free.”

  After a brief conversation with Dr. Kwon, Lily turned to us and spoke with feeling in her native language. We turned back to the doctor to hear the translation.

  “She says thank you, gentlemen. She believes you are sent from the gods to help her in her time of need. She will be forever grateful. And yes, she would very much like to learn English.”

  Mission accomplished, the doctor disappeared into the sterile hallway. Her footsteps tapped away, echoing with purpose. Siegfried rose and offered his arm to Lily. With a shy smile, she accepted it.

  I followed them to the elevators. When the car stopped at our floor, loud bickering erupted from inside. The doors whooshed open, revealing two well-dressed men. Slick suits, briefcases, bundles of drug samples, and nametags advertised their profession: pharmaceutical reps. “Novacom” shone in gold letters on both briefcases.

  The heavyset, sallow man seemed upset. His pitted face darkened in anger as he shushed his companion. The other guy, who seemed furious, narrowed his flat black eyes. With a silver crew cut, and a tall, trim physique, he towered over his out-of-shape partner.

  “Excuse us,” I said as we shuffled onto the car.

  The men moved back, still glaring at each other. I half-expected them to come to blows by the time we reached the ground floor. The silver-haired man clenched and unclenched his fists and kept sighing in exasperation every time the elevator stopped. I imagined him wanting to wrap those strong fingers around his partner’s neck.

  When the doors opened, they shoved their way out, continuing the argument sotto voce as they strode down the hallway. Silver-hair spoke in a guttural tone, taut with rage. We followed them toward the main lobby and parking garage. They marched around a corner with briefcases swinging, and finally disappeared.

  “Okay. Let’s find the car and go home,” I said, relieved when we reached the corridor linking the hospital and parking garage. I stopped and tried to remember where we’d parked.

  Siegfried reached into his shirt pocket and produced a ticket. “Yellow Level,” he said. “Fourth floor.”

  His new sense of responsibility and attention to detail thrilled me. Although the childhood boating accident had left him mildly “challenged,” he’d been happy to let us help him through life. Because the world often saw him as different, and at times treated him unkindly, I always felt it was my job to protect him and keep him on track. But I was proud of this new development, and knew it must be related to his love for Lily.

  “Thanks, big guy.”

  Lily glanced up at him, carefully copying my words. “Taynks…beeg guy.”

  I chuckled, and Siegfried flashed a delirious smile.

  We stepped inside when the parking lot elevator arrived. I punched the button for the fourth floor.

  They held hands all the way up.

  Chapter Five

  We arrived home just in time for me to grab a sandwich before I left to meet Nahum at the nursing home. I drove along Goodland Road up to Route 20A and headed east for a mile, planning the meal I’d make for our gang after the service. Turkey fillets roasted and drizzled with maple syrup, sliced baked potatoes with Parmesan and herbs, homemade cranberry sauce, and salad. I went through the list of ingredients I’d need and finally relaxed, hoping I could pull it off in the time allowed. About a mile east of the Wegmans plaza, I took a left and wound along a curvy driveway bisecting land that six months ago had been a beautiful cornfield. I lamented the loss of this open land, as I always did when a new structure or store sprang up in our county.

  The gray building boasted marble pillars and solid stone doorframes. Windows with tiny glass panes trimmed in turquoise faced the parking lot. The building did have an old-world feel, but its attempt to look elegant was contradicted by lackluster landscaping. Berms with dreary bushes and newly planted white azaleas mounded from the earth in monotonous similarity to those beside the other nursing home half a mile down the road. Bland and rigid, it bored the hell out of me.

  The same no-talent landscaper must have designed both properties. With continued uncharitable thoughts, I approached the main do
or mumbling, “They look about as lush as Burger King.”

  The new facility catered to patients with Alzheimer’s disease and memory-related ailments. It had opened a few weeks ago after excessive fanfare and ostentatious ceremonies in which every aspiring local politician paraded on TV and preached about its value.

  I headed inside. Nahum hailed me in the hallway and ushered me toward the small chapel. “Gus, over here.”

  I stopped just inside the door and stared. Instead of the usual cement-floored dining hall with an out-of-key piano, I faced a work of art. Wood panels lined the walls and ceiling. Oil paintings hung beneath swags of heavy velvet drapes, artfully arranged. Polished beams crisscrossed overhead. Stained glass windows, worthy of a church, graced the walls. And best of all, instead of a piano, a small pipe organ sat in the corner, just left of the pulpit.

  Eagerly, I approached the organ, hurrying past a dozen patients in wheelchairs and thirty robed residents slumped in their pews.

  Setting my folder on the carved wooden stand, I played a few chords, eliciting a surprising boom in the small hall. I adjusted the stops, familiarized myself with the foot pedals, and settled in as Nahum began to preach.

  Although I hadn’t been at morning services and should have been interested in the sermon, I’m embarrassed to admit my mind wandered. I thought about the book I just finished writing, a tribute to the great composer, Aram Khachaturian. In my next book, I planned to delve into the jazz scene, highlighting talents like Ella Fitzgerald and Duke Ellington. I’d also find some of the lesser-known artists and bring them acclaim, unearthing pieces few people had heard. The notion tickled my fantasy of becoming respected in the literary music field, but I knew better. Teaching was my forté, not writing. My books seemed best suited as classroom guides, not prize-winning works.

  Nahum cleared his throat and shot a surprised glance at me.

  Daydreaming, I’d missed his cue for the first hymn. With an apologetic smile, I began to play.

  An elderly woman who’d been slack-jawed in the front row jumped to her feet and sang in a warbled voice. “Rock of Ages, cleft for me…”