Nerve Damage

by Peter Abrahams

  “This is my husband, Roy. Roy, I’d like you to meet Paul Habib.”

  “Hi.”

  “Hi, Roy,” said Habib. “Heard so much about you.”

  “Likewise. Looking forward to Venezuela?”

  “Venezuela?”

  “My mistake,” Roy said. “I thought you were part of this pineapple caper.”

  Paul Habib smacked himself on the head. He was a big guy with closely trimmed hair and a full beard, a consultant to the Hobbes Institute, on loan from somewhere Roy couldn’t remember at the moment, or maybe hadn’t been told in the first place. “The pineapple caper, of course, of course,” he said. “A little jet-lagged right now, but, yes, I’m on the trip. Looking forward to it, in fact. Delia’s work on this has been brilliant.”

  “Think they’ll buy it?” Roy said.

  “Who?”

  “The Venezuelans,” Roy said. “Growing pineapples.”

  “Right, the Venezuelans,” Habib said. “The numbers work, no doubt about that, thanks to your wife. So it’s a matter of getting them comfortable with the idea. Never easy, though, is it, Delia?”

  Delia’s hand tightened a little on Roy’s arm. “What isn’t?” she said.

  “Rewiring people’s heads,” Habib said.

  “I wouldn’t know,” Delia said. “Isn’t that your job?” She turned to Roy. “I’d love a glass of champagne.”

  “And one for you, Paul?” Roy said.

  “Thanks,” Habib said.

  But when Roy returned with the drinks, Habib was gone.

  “Some problem between you and Paul?” he said.

  “No,” Delia said. “He gets on my nerves sometimes, that’s all.”

  “In what way?”

  “The usual workplace way,” Delia said. “It’s nothing. Let’s have fun tonight.”

  “I’m your man,” Roy said. “Here’s to Venezuela.”

  “No,” said Delia. “To us.”

  They drank to themselves, Delia downing her glass in one gulp. “Got a penny?” she said.

  Roy fished one from his pocket, handed it to her. Delia made a wish, her lips moving silently—he saw how she’d looked as a little girl—and tossed it in the fountain. The penny spun in coppery slow motion to the bottom.

  “Let’s go home,” she said.

  “Now?”

  They went home. In bed, she said, “You can do anything you want to me tonight.”

  “Time’s up.”

  Roy found he was staring at the water flowing over those honey-colored rocks in Dr. Chu’s fountain. He turned his head, saw Netty standing beside him. It was almost like waking up.

  “That wasn’t so bad, now, was it?” she said.

  “No,” Roy said. He glanced up at the IV bag, now empty except for a few last drops clinging to the plastic. Roy resisted the impulse to ask her to squeeze them into the tube, to coax every last microscopic warrior into his body. “It was good.”

  She nodded as though she’d heard that before. “We’ll need you back at the same time tomorrow,” she said. “Here’s an after-hours number to call, just in case.”

  “Just in case what?” Roy said.

  “You have some sort of bad reaction,” she said. “But you won’t—it’s never happened.”

  “Not with this cocktail, you mean?”

  “No, not with this cocktail.”

  Roy took the card she handed him, saw her name was really Annette. “Netty,” he said. “I’ve got a question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “The man in the waiting room yesterday, the one on oxygen—is he in the study?”

  Netty took in a deep breath through her nose. “He was.”

  It took Roy a few seconds to get that. “He died?”

  “Late last night. Dr. Chu is with the family.”

  “So the study’s down to three.”

  “Four, with you,” Netty said. “And there’ll be more, many more. Dr. Chu is a brilliant man.” She patted Roy’s knee. “Don’t think of any of the others. Don’t think about anybody. Concentrate on you.” She slid out the IV needle, swabbed the spot with alcohol.

  Roy rose, dizzy for a moment, but he mastered it.

  “And, Roy?” Netty said. “He was never a big strong man like you.”

  She was looking up at him in a way that reminded him of an encouraging parent or coach. Roy gave his chest a thump. Netty laughed. He left the building, walked across the parking lot. Yes, there was a huge gap between the man in the wheelchair and him. Roy took a few running steps, just to show he could do it, and he could, hardly breathless at all. A big strong man.

  Fight like bastards.

  When had he last drunk a milk shake? Roy couldn’t remember; probably in high school. He found an ice-cream place, ordered the biggest milk shake they sold, mocha fudge swirl with marshmallow topping, and took it with him in the pickup. Kind of sickening, but he made himself keep sipping. He was almost done as he drove into D.C.

  Roy hadn’t been there in years, not since Delia’s death, but it hadn’t changed much and he still knew his way. The sun came out as he turned onto Constitution Avenue, shining on the Capitol dome to the east, turning it lemony. Roy went by some Senate office buildings and there it was, with those four fluted pilasters: the Hobbes Institute. He found a meter on a side street, stuck in a few quarters and walked back. Winter, but there was real warmth in the sunshine this far south. It felt good.

  Roy climbed the broad stone steps of the Hobbes Institute—they looked lemony, too—and moved toward the double doors. Brass doors, although he remembered them as dark wood. And one other change—two security guards, standing on either side. No guards back then, but why should that be a surprise, with how the world had changed?

  “Hi,” Roy said, reaching for the handle. The security guards stepped in front of him.

  “Do you have an appointment, sir?” one said.

  “No,” said Roy. “But my wife used to work here.”

  “Her name?”

  Roy told them. The other guard consulted a clipboard, shook his head.

  “Her name wouldn’t be there now,” Roy explained. “This was a long time ago. Tom Parish was her boss.”

  They gazed at him.

  “Is he still here?” Roy said. “Parish with one r. His title was director of research, something like that.”

  The guard checked his clipboard, shook his head again.

  “What about Paul Habib?” His title? Roy wasn’t sure he’d ever known it.

  Another head shake.

  Roy tried to remember other Hobbes Institute names, couldn’t at the moment. “Look,” he said, “I’d just like to talk to someone from the Institute. They’ll understand right away. It’ll only take a few minutes.” All he needed was a two-sentence note over some official signature confirming Delia’s employment.

  “The Institute, sir?” said the first guard.

  Roy’s voice rose a little; he couldn’t help it. “The Hobbes Institute,” he said. “This building you’re guarding.”

  “Sir?”

  That was when Roy noticed the flag on a pole to one side, a flag he’d maybe seen before but couldn’t identify. Then he noticed a plaque on one of the doors: CONSULATE OF GREECE.

  He stepped back, down a few steps so he could see up to the pediment where the words Hobbes Institute were carved into the stone. No words there of any kind, and no sign that there ever had been, the facing smooth.

  “Where did they go?” Roy said.

  “Who, sir?”

  “The Hobbes Institute, of course,” Roy said. “The people who own this place. Or did.”

  “Never heard of it,” said the first guard, turning to the other one. “You?”

  The head-shaking guard shook his head once more.

  Nine

  Roy backed away from the Consulate of Greece, just stood on the sidewalk for a few moments. He looked around. Was it possible he’d made a mistake? Maybe there was more than one building with four fluted pilasters and a
triangular pediment. Twin buildings: the concept was not unknown. Roy scanned the long line of facades, and there, just a few doors down, saw—But no. Moving closer, he took in the details of a much bigger structure: six pilasters, not fluted, a pediment, but rectangular, and on it the engraved words Washington Historical Society. Long engraved: the shapes of the letters were softened by erosion.

  Roy walked on, spotted no other possibilities on either side of the street for several blocks. He returned to his original thought: they’d moved somewhere else. He backtracked, reexamined all the buildings, this time looking for Hobbes Institute on a sign, on a brass plaque, anywhere, but not finding it.

  A little group of tourists came starting-and-stopping down the block—somewhat like walking birds—following a guide.

  “Excuse me,” Roy said.

  The guide turned.

  “I’m looking for the Hobbes Institute.”

  “Sorry.”

  He pointed. “It used to be right there.”

  “Isn’t that the Greek consulate?” she said.

  “I’m talking about years ago,” Roy said.

  “It’s been the Greek consulate as long as I can remember,” the guide said. The tourists rocked back and forth behind her, a crowded flock brought up short. The guide gave Roy a quick second look, as though there might be something not quite right about him. “Maybe this will help,” she said, handing Roy a map and moving on.

  A tourist map, with all the famous sights well marked, but what was the chance a small private think tank like the Hobbes Institute would be included? None. Roy checked carefully anyway, reading every bit of print on the map. It wasn’t there.

  The security guards were watching him. Roy walked away, in no particular direction, but soon found himself on the side street where he’d parked. He got into the pickup, sat there. He gazed at the crumpled milk-shake container on the floor. The bent shapes, the balloon-style lettering, the picture of a happy cow all mesmerized him. A long time passed before he was struck by the obvious idea.

  Roy opened the glove box, took out his cell phone. He didn’t like cell phones, secretly believed that the technology sometime in the midtwentieth century had been good enough, but Krishna, tired of not being able to reach him instantly, had added Roy to his friends-and-family plan. An obvious idea: he called information, asked for the number of the Hobbes Institute, first in D.C., then expanding to Maryland and Virginia, after that New York, and finally the whole country. There was no listing.

  Roy bought a PowerBar and ate it on the way to Baltimore. Back at the hotel he changed into sweats and went to the gym on the top floor. Roy didn’t spend much time in gyms—hockey, hiking, snowshoeing, skiing were enough to keep him fit. But now—now was different.

  StairMaster: thirty minutes. At first, a little breathless, but that could happen to anybody. He pushed past it. Then came free weights. Roy squatted four sets of ten at two hundred and fifty pounds, then, despite the cast, benched three sets of one forty-five. He followed that with one hundred sit-ups on the slant board. Not bad. Not bad for just about anybody. Could it all be a mistake? Or was it a dream? Had he fallen off the ladder, working with those twisted helicopter blades, say, and was he now in a coma, a coma he might soon emerge from, good as new? He checked himself in the mirror. Could that action, checking himself in the mirror, be part of a coma dream? Why not? A woman on a stationary bike was checking him out, too, a woman he’d never seen before. That pushed the coma-dream concept a little too far. Her image gave his a quick smile.

  Roy went back to his room, showered, started getting dressed to go down to the bar, order exactly what he’d had last night, maybe even seconds on dessert. Outside the sun was setting, leaving streaks of gold on the highest windows of the tallest buildings. He sat on the bed to put his shoes on.

  Roy opened his eyes. For a moment or two, he didn’t know where he was. Then reality hit, a series of blows like a combination from a clever boxer: hotel room; daytime; fully dressed except for shoes; his lungs.

  He checked the time: forty-five minutes until his appointment at Dr. Chu’s. He’d been out for fourteen hours. Roy put on his shoes, brushed his teeth, splashed water on his face, went down to the coffee shop.

  “Three-egg omelet with hash browns, plus toast, orange juice, coffee. Oh, and bacon on the side. And fruit cup.”

  No dinner. He should have been ravenous. But when the food came—taking up all the space on the serving tray—Roy found that he was not. In fact, not hungry at all. He made himself eat every morsel.

  The man at the next table signed his check and walked out, leaving a newspaper behind. Roy reached across and took it. The Washington Post. He leafed through. Page eight, right-hand column at the top: STILL NO LEADS IN MURDER OF TIMES REPORTER.

  Roy scanned the story. Richard Gold’s credit cards hadn’t been used. His flat-screen TV and other valuables hadn’t turned up anywhere. Repeated neighborhood canvasses had led nowhere. The last paragraph was about a memorial service to be held that afternoon at a synagogue in Georgetown. Roy tore that part out and put it in his pocket.

  Netty took his pulse and blood pressure.

  “Numbers okay?”

  “Normal.”

  “Any change?”

  “Change?”

  “Since yesterday.”

  Netty checked the chart. “Slightly lower,” she said. “But that kind of fluc—”

  “Lower being better.”

  “In this range, yes.” She looked at him for a moment. “Do you want the actual numbers?”

  “I do.”

  “Pulse sixty-eight. Blood pressure one eighteen over eighty-one.”

  “That’s pretty good, right?”

  She looked at him again. “Yes,” she said, and seemed about to say more, but did not. Instead she came over with a needle, filled three more test tubes with his blood.

  “Where does the blood go?”

  “The lab.”

  “Did yesterday’s results come back?”

  “Not yet. But it’s too early for any changes to show up.”

  “Then why bother taking the blood?”

  “Roy. Can I say something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Let Dr. Chu take care of the science. You just take care of you.”

  One part of Roy knew that made sense; another part flared in anger. Netty looked away. She busied herself with the different colored stickers. Roy got a grip.

  “Did you want to weigh me today?” he said.

  “Please,” said Netty.

  Roy stripped down to his boxers, stepped on the scale. Netty came closer, balanced the weights.

  “One seventy-three,” she said.

  “And a half,” said Roy.

  She peered at the numbers. “And a half,” she said.

  “And yesterday?” said Roy, although he knew full well.

  Netty checked. “One seventy-two.”

  And he hadn’t even eaten dinner! Roy kept that little fact to himself, an ace in the hole. He got dressed, followed Netty to the feng shui room, lay on the suede couch. Netty hooked him up to the cocktail, said, “Twenty minutes,” and left him alone.

  Roy closed his eyes, listened to Dr. Chu’s fountain. His body was a battlefield for this very quiet battle. Much too early to tell how it was going, of course, but: yesterday had been good—isn’t that what the numbers were saying? And now, when all those cancer cells were still off balance—like so many teams when the opposition skates down for a quick opening goal—now here they came again, microscopic warriors by the million. Had to feel good about that. Fight like bastards.

  Delia’s voice again, so clear she might have been in the feng shui room with him. Fifteen years of silence and now he was hearing her again: What was that about? Roy didn’t know, but found it comforting. He tried an experiment. “Where’s the Hobbes Institute?” he said aloud. He heard nothing but the fountain.

  Roy opened his eyes. The IV bag was empty, except for those last few stubborn
drops, clinging to the plastic. Roy rose and squeezed the IV bag, forcing the remaining drops into the tube, on their way to the front. Netty entered.

  “Roy? Everything all right?”

  “Yup.”

  She unhooked him. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Yup.”

  “Still got the card?”

  “Card?”

  “With the emergency number. In case you have a reaction.”

  Roy shrugged; he knew perfectly well where the card was—in his wallet—but he wasn’t going to need it. He bought a Hershey bar from a lobby vending machine on his way out of the hospital.

  Roy had never been in a synagogue before. He had a notion that men and women didn’t sit together, but it wasn’t like that at all; in fact, the rabbi was a woman, plus only a few men wore skullcaps—including Roy, who’d taken his from a box by the door, thinking it was expected—and just about everything was in English. But there was Hebrew writing carved on the walls; the shapes of the letters kept catching Roy’s eye.

  From a seat at the back, he listened to stories from the life of Richard Gold. First came someone high up at the New York Times, who talked about Gold’s passion for getting it right. Then a woman from a gay rights organization talked about the importance of Gold’s support and what a stand-up guy he was. Finally, a man named Jerry, tears streaming down his face, said that Gold was the sweetest man that ever lived and how empty the house would be without him.

  After, in the parking lot, Roy waited while people said good-bye. Little clusters here and there broke up and cars drove off, one by one. A light rain began to fall, the drops much colder than the air, and the last cluster, around Jerry, broke up, too. Jerry walked alone to his car, slowly, like every step involved an act of will. Roy followed him, caught up as Jerry reached his car, an old but pristine Volvo. Jerry fumbled with the keys.

  “Excuse me,” Roy said.