On the Wilde Side

by Sandra Marton

  He was lying in a bed, but the room was not his. The mattress was hard. The wall ahead of him was an institutional green. No posters of Roger Staubach or Lyn Swann adorned it, no autographed photo of Walter Payton.

  “John?”

  His right leg was encased in plaster from knee to foot; a tube snaked into a vein on the back of his left hand. It felt as if a thousand drummers were beating inside his skull; every breath sent what felt like a sharp knife straight through his chest and into his back.

  “John?”

  Where was he? Not at Angie’s. Not in his car.

  “John? Can you hear me?”

  God. Oh God. His car. The truck. Everything spinning, tumbling out of control in the blackness. The screams, the shouts…

  Jesus Christ!

  He shot upright. Tried to, anyway, but pain lanced through him; the room went out of focus.

  He screamed and fell back against the pillow.

  “Easy,” a woman’s voice said. “Don’t try to move.”

  “Alden,” he said hoarsely. “My brother…”

  “Can you tell me your name?”

  Johnny blinked. Looked up. A woman stood over him. She was wearing a white coat; a stethoscope hung around her neck.

  “Johnny. Johnny Wilde.”

  She nodded as if he’d said something profound.

  “Good. And where are you, John? Can you tell me?”

  What was with all this BS? He knew his name. He knew he was in some damn hospital.

  “My brother,” Johnny said. “Is he OK?”

  “Tell me where you are, John.”

  Dammit!

  “Hospital.”

  “Right. You’re in the Mount Sinai emergency room. I’m Dr. Stuart.” She paused. “Do you remember what happened, John?”

  Johnny shut his eyes. He could see the truck skidding, blocking the road…

  “Truck,” he said, looking at the doctor. “Big truck, jackknifed…” A shudder ripped through him. “Steering wheel twisted out of my hands.”

  Dr. Stuart put her hand on his shoulder.

  “You’re going to be fine, John. You fractured a couple of ribs, fractured your right fibula, sustained a concussion, but otherwise…”

  “My brother?”

  “I know you’ll be glad to hear that the young women in the back seat came through with only a few bruises.”

  “I want to see my brother!”

  Johnny tried to struggle upright again. The doctor’s hands were firm as she clasped his shoulders and eased him back down.

  “Easy. We don’t want you moving around until we’re certain that your concussion—”

  “I don’t give a crap about that, goddammit! Tell me about Alden! Where is he?”

  “In the morgue,” a hard-as-glass voice said. Amos Wilde elbowed the doctor aside. “That’s where my son is, you piece of shit! He’s in the fucking morgue, and you put him there!”

  “Mr. Wilde,” the doctor said sharply, “please! Your son has just regained consciousness. Surely this could—”

  “My son is dead!”

  Bile rose in Johnny’s throat. He gagged; the doctor slipped her hand behind his head and supported it as a nurse shoved a blue plastic pan under his chin. He retched violently but his belly was empty—he never ate before a game and he hadn’t eaten since.

  He couldn’t imagine ever wanting to eat again.

  “Alden,” he gasped, “Jesus, no. Not Alden!”

  Tears streaked down his face. The doctor turned to Amos. He stood at rigid attention, his face white, his expression cold.

  “Mr. Wilde,” she said, “sir, please. I know this is difficult, but your son needs you.”

  “I told you. My son is dead.”

  Amos strode from the room. Johnny fell back against the pillow, racked by sobs.

  “No,” he whispered, “No! No! Noo!”

  The doctor stabbed a needle into the IV line.

  Liquid heat shot through Johnny’s arm, his body, his brain, and he tumbled into merciful darkness.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ALDEN’S FUNERAL TOOK place four days later.

  Johnny was still hospitalized, a cast on his leg.

  He knew that he could have gone home the day before; he’d heard the nurses whispering when they thought he was asleep.

  His father was the reason he had not been discharged. Amos didn’t want him home, and Johnny didn’t blame him one bit.

  He’d killed his brother.

  Nobody said so, but they didn’t have to put it into words. He’d been driving, he’d crashed his car, and Alden was dead.

  The ER doc sent a shrink to talk to him.

  He pointed out that the police report had cleared him of responsibility. There were no skid marks that would have indicated high speed. Blood tests for drugs and alcohol were negative. The three girls had given statements that said the tractor trailer was going fast; it veered over the yellow dividing line, jackknifed and came straight at them. They said that Johnny had done his best to avoid it.

  Still, Amos blamed him for what had happened.

  And Johnny did, too.

  He’d been behind the wheel. As far as he was concerned, that made him responsible for everything that had happened, starting with making the decision to go to Angie’s and talking Alden into going with him.

  Alden was dead.

  He was alive.

  That was fact.

  And of the two Wilde boys, only one had been worth anything and it sure as hell wasn’t him.

  That was fact, too.

  So, no. Johnny had no difficulty understanding why his father hated him.

  It was the first time in years they’d agreed on anything.

  He’d killed his brother. That was the simple truth.

  Amos surely wouldn’t want him at the funeral, but no way was Johnny going to let that stop him from being there. He wanted to see Alden one last time, tell him that the wrong brother was dead, and to hell with Amos.

  He phoned a friend. Told him what he’d need and when.

  The nurse on duty—his father had paid for private duty nurses and Johnny figured it was only because anything less would have looked bad—tried to stop him when TJ showed up carrying a dark suit, a white shirt and a tie, said “Hey, man, how you doin’?” and dumped the clothes on the foot of the bed.

  “What’s this?” the nurse said.

  “Clothes,” Johnny said flatly, swinging his feet to the floor.

  “You can’t check yourself out, John. You’re a minor.”

  Johnny began taking off his hospital gown.

  “My brother’s funeral is today. No way am I not going to be there.”

  “I’ll have to notify your father, John. And the doctor. And—”

  “Here’s the deal,” Johnny said. “You can walk away and pretend you didn’t see what was happening or you can notify everybody on the planet. One way or another, I’ll be at that funeral.” His voice cracked. “I need to be there, for Alden.”

  The nurse stared at him for what seemed a very long time. Then she picked up his chart and walked to the door.

  “I have some notes to make,” she said briskly. “I shouldn’t be gone more than a few minutes. If you need me—“

  “Thank you. I mean it. Thank you for doing this.”

  She nodded. “What happened wasn’t your fault,” she said softly. “You must believe that.”

  “Sure,” Johnny said, but they both knew he was lying.

  He dressed quickly. There was no way to get his leg into the pants so he slit the trouser seam until he could get it over the cast.

  Standing up wasn’t easy, either. His ribs hurt hard enough to make him stagger.

  TJ grabbed his arm.

  “I’m all right,” Johnny said, shaking him off.

  By the time he was ready, he was in a cold sweat. He winced when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Both his eyes were amazing shades of purple and black. His hair was too long. And the suit…r />
  TJ and he were about the same height, but TJ was a linebacker. The suit was at least two sizes too big. The tie was a wide blob of red polka dots on a teal background. To top it off, both he and TJ had forgotten about shoes. The sneakers he’d been wearing the night of the accident would have to do.

  He looked like something out of a bad movie.

  So what?

  He was going to be there for Alden no matter how he looked.

  He took a breath. Started to hobble toward the door and swayed; TJ caught him by the arm.

  “You’re not gonna make it, man.”

  “I’m fine,” Johnny said through his teeth.

  “No,” the nurse said, “you’re not.”

  She came into the room fast, held out two tablets and a paper cup of water.

  “I don’t need that,” Johnny said.

  “Would you prefer I ring for an orderly to stop you from leaving?”

  Johnny’s eyes met hers. She’d do it, he knew.

  He reached for the tablets, gulped them down, grabbed the cup and drank.

  The nurse took back the cup.

  “There’s a wheelchair outside the door. “

  “I don’t need a chair.”

  “What are you going to do, John? Fly to the church? Of course you need a chair.”

  “Crutches,” Johnny said. “I’ll use crutches.”

  The nurse glared at him. Then she marched to the closet, wrenched open the door and took out the crutches the physical therapist had brought in two days ago.

  “If you fall and break your fool neck, John Wilde, don’t look to me to take care of you. Now get out of here before I change my mind.”

  She sounded stern, looked stern, but Johnny could see compassion in her eyes.

  “Thanks,” he said gruffly.

  Her lips curved in a smile.

  “Give it a little time and you’ll realize this was an accident.”

  “Sure,” Johnny said, and they both knew that he was lying.

  * * * *

  The parking lot of the Wilde’s Crossing Community Church was packed with cars and trucks.

  TJ started to turn his wheezing black Chevy pickup into the lot, but Johnny stopped him.

  “Let me out at the front door.”

  “Wilde. You’re not gonna make it up those steps.”

  Johnny opened his door.

  “Watch me.”

  TJ got out and came around to the passenger side of the truck, but Johnny had already hauled himself out.

  “I’m fine,” he said.

  TJ went to the bed of the pickup for the crutches.

  “Thanks.”

  “OK. Let me park and I’ll come back and help you get up those—”

  “Forget it.”

  “Man, are you nuts? No way can you—”

  Wrong. Johnny was already halfway up the four wide steps that led to the double doors of the church.

  By the time he reached the top step, he was exhausted.

  He paused. Drew a deep breath. Then he opened the right hand door. Music reached out to him. The choir, singing “Amazing Grace.”

  The service had already started.

  He stepped through the door.

  He tried his best to make no noise, but that was difficult when you were shuffling forward on crutches, especially when the choir had just reached the end of the hymn and the tap-drag-tap of the crutches filled the resounding silence.

  “Friends,” the minister said solemnly, “we gather here today to—”

  Someone gasped. Heads turned, and a murmur swept through the church. Johnny felt every eye lock on him.

  For a moment, nothing happened.

  Then, Amos Wilde, seated in a front pew, shot to his feet.

  “Get out.”

  Johnny stood still.

  “GET OUT!” Amos’s voice roared through the high-ceilinged room. “Did you hear me, boy? I said—”

  “John.” The minister gestured to him. “Please. Come forward and take a seat.”

  Amos swung toward the minister. “This boy is not welcome here!”

  “This is a house of God, Mr. Wilde. Everyone is welcome here.”

  Heads swiveled from Johnny to Amos to the minister. Johnny could almost feel the congregation holding its breath.

  His father’s face turned purple. Then Amos sank into his seat, his back rigid. Johnny’s legs were trembling; he was sweating even harder. Dammit, he was going to humiliate himself. The crutches were going to slide out from his armpits. He was going to sink to the floor. He was going to make the funeral about him and his old man when it was about Alden.

  “John.”

  The voice was low and familiar.

  “John. Here.”

  He looked around and saw Miss Cleary, his English teacher. She was a rotund, sweet-faced woman in her sixties and Johnny knew he’d probably made her life unpleasant by goofing around in class those times he’d bothered to show up.

  Now, she was patting the empty space beside her.

  Johnny hesitated, but only for a second. Then he limped to the pew, took down his crutches and slipped onto the bench.

  He wanted to thank her, but he didn’t trust his voice.

  She smiled and patted his knee, and a hot wash of shame flooded through him as he thought of how he’d tormented her.

  “It’s OK,” she whispered, as if she knew what he was thinking.

  Then she turned her attention to the pulpit.

  “Dear friends,” the minster said, “we are gathered her to offer each other comfort at this difficult time. We have lost a fine young man. Alden James Wilde, the beloved son of Amos Jefferson Wilde and the beloved brother of John Hamilton Wilde…”

  A sob burst from someone’s throat.

  It took Johnny a minute to realize that the sobs were his.

  * * * *

  The cemetery was behind the church.

  By the time Johnny had composed himself, the building was empty, but Miss Cleary was still at his side.

  “Let’s go,” she said, “or we won’t hear the entire ceremony.”

  Johnny nodded and got to his feet.

  The teacher clasped his arm as they made their way out to the cemetery. He wasn’t sure if she was guiding him or he was guiding her. Either way, he stepped away from her when they reached the blue plastic canopy that shielded the Wilde family plot from the elements.

  “I’m fine, thank you, ma’am.”

  It was a lie of monumental proportions.

  He wouldn’t be fine, not ever again, and he suspected she knew it, but he needed to be alone, to ready himself for the sight of his brother’s coffin being poised above the dark, cold grave that awaited it.

  The day was overcast; the promise of rain was heavy in the air.

  Amos stood alone under the canopy with the minister; the mourners who’d crowded the church all stood back as if they knew that was what Amos wanted.

  Johnny stood alone, too, on the edge of the crowd. He could feel his heart pounding. He kept seeing Alden grinning at him in the locker room after the game—and then he’d hear him shouting a warning, hear the girls screaming…

  The rain thundered down.

  He felt wetness on his cheeks, not from the rain but from his tears.

  He was weeping for the brother he loved. The brother whose death stained his hands, his heart, his mind.

  He was the reason Alden was dead. His father knew it and, ultimately, so did he.

  Lost in despair, he didn’t realize the ceremony had ended and the crowd had dispersed until he felt a light touch on his arm.

  It was Miss Cleary.

  “John,” she said gently, “it’s time to leave.”

  Johnny shook his head.

  “I’ll drive you home.”

  Home. Where was that?

  “John?”

  “Thank you, ma’am, but I’ll be fine.”

  She patted his arm again.

  “Come on,” she said gently. “I’m parked at the
front of the lot and if you tell me the best way to get to El Sueňo from—”

  El Sueño.

  “I’m not going to El Sueño.”

  “But that’s your home.”

  A muscle knotted in Johnny’s cheek.

  “It isn’t. It never was. It’s my father’s kingdom, half a million acres of cattle and horses and oil, and the only good thing about it is that it was going to belong to Alden someday and now, sweet Jesus, and now…”

  God, he was pathetic! Standing here in the rain, hanging onto a couple of sticks of wood because he’d fall down if he didn’t, crying like a baby in front of an old woman he’d made fun of a dozen times over…

  “John Hamilton Wilde, you stop feeling sorry for yourself!”

  “I’m not.”

  “You most certainly are, and if you truly care for Alden’s memory, you’ll pull yourself together and be the strong, proud brother he loved.”

  “I’m not strong. And if I was proud, it was for all the wrong reasons. If Alden ever loved me—”

  “Loved you? He adored you! You were his hero. His champion. He wrote an essay about you just last week.”

  Johnny stared at her. “He did?”

  “The assignment was to write about a modern-day hero, someone who had changed your life. Alden wrote about his brother. About you. He wrote about how you stood up for him when others teased him, about how much he admired the courage you showed each time you stood up to your father. He wrote about how smart you are on the football field and off.”

  “Do you mean it?”

  “I’ll show you his essay once we get home.”

  “I just told you, I don’t have a home.”

  “Yes,” the old woman said firmly, “you do. You’re going to stay with me.”

  “No. I mean, I couldn’t. My father will—he’ll hate anyone who—”

  “John Hamilton Wilde! Do I look like a woman who gives a tinker’s damn about who your father hates?”

  For the first time in endless days and even more endless nights, Johnny felt the start of a smile at the corners of his mouth.

  “Exactly,” his English teacher said. “Now, let me hold onto your arm.”

  “I don’t need—”

  “I need, young man! The ground is soaked and uneven, and I’m not as strong as I once was.”

  Miss Cleary put her hand on his arm. She was lying and they both knew it. She needed his help the way a mountain lion might need help from a house cat.