by D. K. Greene
Peter thinks about the mountain of toys and games in his apartment. He hadn’t considered contest entrants’ expectations might be so low. He shakes his head. “No, Ma’am. We aren’t some cheap outfit with junk like that. We have hundreds of prizes. I’ll just need you to bring your cereal box in so we can pull the secret code and see what you’ve won.”
“Bring the box in? How am I supposed to do that?” Her voice is equal parts curiosity and apprehension, like she can feel something’s not right.
He hadn’t expected a suspicious response and tries to rebound his confidence. “Yes. This is a regional contest. The number you dialed is our Portland Metropolitan line. We have local offices housing the prizes. You bring the box in, we scan the secret code, and you walk away with a prize.”
“Oh.” He can almost hear the woman give him a dirty look through the phone. “This is one of those shopping club membership deals, isn’t it? I come in to get my prize and you sit me down for a three-hour sales pitch? The prize ends up being a disposable camera and discount movie tickets. No thanks.”
The line goes dead before Peter can overcome her objection. He tosses the phone aside, frustrated with his lack of finesse. A glint of light catches his eye in the rearview mirror. He recognizes the alternating red and blue.
“Son of a bitch...”
He rolls down the window as the officer approaches. The cop advances slowly, cautious of the traffic hurtling by. “Good morning. Are you having a problem?”
“No, sir. Well, yes, sir. I pulled over to take a phone call.” Peter digs in his back pocket, fishing for his wallet.
The patrolman stands up straight. He frowns. “No car troubles?”
Grinning sheepishly, Peter answers, “No. Despite the haggard appearance of my crappy car, it runs like a champ. My dad’s in the hospital. I’m on my way there. I would have ignored the call, but I thought...”
The policeman’s face softens. He holds his hand out. “Say no more. I lost my dad two years ago. How bad is it?”
“Pneumonia, so who knows? He’s in the ICU right now.” Peter finally extracts his wallet, but as he opens it the policeman shakes his head.
“Do you need an escort?” The cop fingers the button on the radio attached to his coat.
“Thank you so much, but I don’t think so.” Peter breathes a sigh of relief and drops his wallet in the center console.
The cop’s hand moves away from his radio and down to a side pocket. He pulls out a business card and gives it to Peter, held between two fingers in the familiar way that smokers offer a cigarette. “If you decide you need to get there in a hurry, call me. This number forwards direct to my cell phone so you won’t bother dispatch.”
Peter takes the card and nods, solemnly. “Thank you.”
“I hope things turn around for your dad. Drive safe.” He taps Peter’s roof twice, like they do on B-Reel TV specials.
Waiting for him to return to his car, Peter starts his engine. While the cop flips on his light bar to move traffic out of his way, Peter has to crawl along the shoulder for several minutes with his blinker on before he finds a break in traffic wide and slow enough to merge. He guns the engine and his car leaps back onto the freeway.
It takes nearly two hours to drive to Salem’s hospital. Peter spends the entire time talking to himself about the woman who called to claim her prize. It was his first call, and he blew it.
“I need to bring the box to you?” Peter’s voice cracks with the forced falsetto pitch.
In his normal voice, he answers, “Yes, ma’am. This contest is being administered to our local customers. The number you’ve dialed is for our Portland office.”
“This seems suspicious.” He wags his head as he screeches the sentiment.
“I understand. This promotion differs from any other we’ve held. We want to help you avoid the long waits, lost paperwork and red tape that typically come with traditional contests. By having a representative in your area, we can ensure your claim is direct and immediate.”
“Are you going to sell me something?” Peter’s nose vibrates with the nasal tone and he rubs it with his palm to get the tingling sensation to stop.
“Not only will we not sell you anything, we have minimal paperwork to fill out. We require a valid form of identification, but won’t put you on a mailing list. These prizes are our thanks for your continued support of our company.”
Peter decides that’s as convincing as he will get for today. He turns on the radio, listening to KNRK for as long as the signal will hold out, then reverts to silence for the rest of the drive. The bitterness of the sludge at the bottom of the second cup of coffee is amplified by its lukewarm temperature. Peter finishes it anyway.
Once he’s parked in the hospital lot, Peter finds his regular cell phone and calls Inspector Douglas. He asks where Ollie is. Dougy’s voice guides him into the secure wing where his dad is being held for treatment.
Dougy waits for Peter in the depths of what looks to be a disused hallway. He stands in front of heavy double doors. “So, I hate to admit it, but I’m glad you called the other day. He’s doing bad. If we would have waited longer, he might not have made it.”
Peter shakes his hand and waits as the inspector presses a buzzer. The doors open slowly with a mechanical hum. They walk past an abandoned nurse’s desk, toward a room with two officers standing guard. They nod at the inspector as he opens the door between them, but all Peter can see is his father hooked up to a litany of tubes and hoses.
He’s sleeping, but it’s far from restful. His chest barely lifts as he wheezes into the mask tied to his face. Tubes snake across the bed, monitors blip behind him, liquid drips through an IV, and life barely clings to his shriveled body.
“They’ve got him sedated.” Dougy moves to the far side of the room and perches himself on a narrow bench below the only window.
Peter sits on a stool next to the bed and takes his father’s hand, careful not to disturb the IV sticking precariously out of his paper-thin skin. Ollie’s fingers are icy. He looks at the inspector and asks, “Can I have some time with him?”
“Sure thing.” Dougy wrestles himself back off the bench. He pats Peter on the shoulder. “I’ve got to check in with Mac, anyway. I’ll be in the hall if you need me.”
Peter and his father have been alone in the quiet room for a few minutes when Aerosmith fills the air. There are No Cell Phone signs papered all over the hospital. His heart races as he rushes to answer before anyone comes to yell at him. “Hello?”
A deep and unfamiliar voice says, “I know what you’re doing with Oliver Roberts. Building his legacy. Help waits in the shadows if he passes.” The line goes dead. Peter checks the caller ID but where a number should be says Unknown. A lump of anxiety drops in his stomach as he tries to sort out who, aside from Elsie, would call him with such a cryptic message. Would she break the order Dougy had sent to keep her quiet?
“Girlfriend?” Ollie eyes Peter through one barely open slit. His voice creeps out from under the oxygen mask before he’s overcome with a fit of coughing that lifts him from the mattress. The blips on the monitor behind him dance excitedly. His body contorts with pain until the hacking subsides.
Taking Ollie’s hand, Peter squeezes gently. “Prank call.”
“You don’t get many of those these days.” Oliver sinks into the pillows and his pale skin seems to melt into the sheets. “Caller ID messed that up a long time ago.”
“People can block their number.” Peter shrugs and puts his phone back in his pocket. His thumb twitches, announcing his worry.
Inspector Douglas pushes the door open with his shoulder. He’s talking to someone in the hall and isn’t paying attention to Peter and Ollie yet. Trembling fingers squeeze Peter’s hand. He leans closer to his father, so he doesn’t have to raise his voice above a whisper.
“I need good news. Tell me, how are things going with the project?”
Peter can’t bring himself to tell his dad he’s botche
d the only call he’s gotten. “It’s going. I’ve got stickers placed. Just waiting for the phone to ring.”
Oliver nods. The corners of his mouth curl into a half-smile. He pats his son’s hand tenderly. “If it’s taking too long, have you considered marking more packages? Maybe you need more saturation in the market.”
“That’s an idea. I can make more up tonight. I’ve got a couple hundred stickers out so far. Maybe I’ll run a thousand tonight and put them out. See what happens.” Peter hides his uncertainty and squeezes his father’s hand.
“Good. Very good, Son.”
“What’s good?” Dougy enters fully and moves to lean against the end of the bed. He adjusts himself, avoiding Ollie’s feet.
Shrugging together, Peter and Ollie share a mischievous look. Oliver takes a shallow breath, then wheezes, “It’s a delightful day to be at the hospital.”
The inspector chuckles. “I suppose it’s better than being in the clink. The food’s probably an improvement, anyway.”
Head dropping to one side, then the other, Oliver disagrees. “Nope. Our pudding comes with cookies and whipped cream.”
“Of course, it does.” Inspector Douglas’s eyes roll to the ceiling, then fall back on Peter. “How about you?”
“I don’t like pudding, so it doesn’t matter to me either way.” Peter’s tone is dry and emotionless.
Oliver’s guffaw is lost in another coughing fit. The inspector moves to the far side of the bed and takes his other hand. For a moment, Dougy looks at Peter’s father with tender concern. It’s a strangely intimate expression. The creases around the inspector’s eyes soften and he rubs Ollie’s hand gently.
Inspector Douglas seems to remember he’s not alone and shoots Peter a guilty look. He pushes off the bed and lumbers back to perch on the bench under the window. He clears his throat with a dramatic flair. “Oliver, you’d better get rid of that cough if we’re going to get back to working cases.”
Peter clenches his father’s hand as he forces a rasping cough into the recesses of his chest. Once he has it under control, he pushes the oxygen mask away from his mouth and croaks, “I’d like to visit the sea lions next.”
Dougy and Peter share an understanding nod.
“Well, I guess I’ll check with your nurse to see what kind of timeline we’re looking at.” Peter gets out of his chair and heads toward the door. “Keep an eye on him.”
“I won’t let him out of my sight,” the inspector answers, his tone serious.
Peter exits the room, passing between the thick shoulders of the guards outside. He’s not sure if he’s supposed to acknowledge them or not, but he’s saved from the decision when a blue-smocked nurse opens a cabinet of linens a few feet away.
“Excuse me,” Peter calls to him, “are you the nurse helping with my dad, Oliver Roberts?”
The nurse finishes shuffling the blankets in the heated cabinet and closes the door before answering. “I am.” He comes closer and moves his hands behind his back when Peter extends his for a handshake. “Sorry, can’t touch. Have to keep sanitary.”
Peter blushes with embarrassment. “Right. Sorry, wasn’t thinking.”
“What can I do for you?” the nurse asks.
“Do you know how long he’ll be here?” Peter hooks his thumb toward Oliver’s door.
“It’s hard to say. He’s a tough old guy. I imagine he’ll be home in a week. But it’ll be a couple more before he gets back to leading Bible study, I’m afraid.” The nurse tilts his head sympathetically.
“What?” Peter’s face scrunches. “You know about that?”
“Was it a secret?” The nurse’s eyebrows rise with surprise.
“Not exactly. But it’s not something I’d expect you to know, Nurse...” Peter’s eyes dip down to the nametag clipped to his blue smock.
“Miller. But you can call me Liam.” The nurse introduces himself with a patient expression. “I’ve been on shift with your dad all day. Whenever the sedative runs out, he’s quite the chatterbox.”
Relaxing, Peter nods in agreement. “Yeah, talking is a favorite pastime. Especially when it’s about himself.”
Liam chuckles. “Well, he is an interesting guy.”
“That’s an understatement,” Peter says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Will you be with him the whole time he’s here?”
“The days I’m on shift, yes. The higher-ups want as few of us to have contact with convicts as possible when they come in. They assign only a couple of us to inmates. They don’t want anyone to coerce us into going on wild crime sprees.” Liam tilts his head and widens his eyes dramatically.
Peter isn’t sure what to say. He doesn’t want to scare the clean-cut nurse off caring for his father, but his bosses have a valid concern. If other felons were half as charismatic as Ollie, it would be a real hassle keeping their staff from running after the exciting glory of criminal activity.
“Well, thanks for looking after him. I’ll probably see you around.” Peter fidgets uncomfortably. “I’m his son, Peter.”
“Nice to meet you,” Liam says. He looks at the giant black diver’s watch strapped to his wrist. “Sorry, I’ve got to cut this short. It’s time to check vitals and administer another round of meds.”
Peter steps aside as the nurse enters his father’s room. His cell phone rings again and the officers beside the doorway’s opening shoot him a dirty look. “Sorry,” he mumbles as he pulls the phone out. Valorie’s number scrolls across the screen. He backs up to the secure door and thumbs the phone to hang it up. “I’ll take this outside.”
The doors don’t budge when he pushes on them, and he can’t find a handle or anything to open them with. One of the guards approaches, passing a plastic badge over a scanner a few feet away. “Call the inspector when you want back in.”
Thirty-Three
It was nearly closing time at the bank before Peter remembered he was supposed to drive out to pick Valorie up for dinner. An hour late, he presses his forehead against the glass and gazes into the vacant lobby. The carpets reflect the soft glow of the dimmed lights. Endless laminate counters and deserted desks have all the cheer of an abandoned TV game show set.
There’s movement near the back of the bank, and the sudden flash of color makes Peter’s heart quicken. Valorie’s dress throws itself in front of her as she walks, announcing her approach with alternating splashes of red and yellow. Her face falls when she notices him.
She takes her time moving through the empty bank. She stops to straighten stacks of deposit slips and returns rogue pens to their holders before approaching the door. When she finally turns the lock, she only pushes it open a few inches. “Glad you finally showed up.”
“Sorry. I had a family emergency,” Peter explains.
Val leans her shoulder against the doorframe. “Uh-huh.”
“I should have called. I didn’t think about it.”
Losing her composure, Valorie smacks her hand against the glass. “I told you last time, I won’t just hang around waiting for you. I’m not some booty call you can ring up whenever you fancy. I deserve more of a relationship than that.”
“We can’t be together,” Peter blurts. He shocks himself with the statement and clamps his mouth shut. He should have said he was sorry. Or explained about being distracted with Ollie in the hospital. Telling her their fling will never be a relationship wasn’t a bright move.
Valorie’s face turns red. It isn’t the deep rouge of passion Peter’s gotten used to. The flush of her skin is blotchy. Patches of pale and scarlet stitching their way across her neck. Her eyes swell. “What?”
“I’m in love with someone else.” As Valorie’s eyes widen, Peter realizes this, too, is the wrong thing to say. “She doesn’t know about us, but it’s not like I’m cheating on her with you. I know we’ve been having a good time, but it won’t work long-term.”
“I don’t believe you,” Val says. Her voice is filled with the grit of frustration. She hangs her head a moment,
then her eyes become glossy with tears as they fix on him. Something in her changes and she stares at him with daggers. “How dare you use me like I’m some kind of party favor.”
“It wasn’t like that. It’s been a long time since I’ve been with anyone, and you were into me. It was just supposed to be a onetime thing.” Peter feels himself shrinking in front of her. All the confidence he had when they first met dissolves.
“I was a one-night stand that lasted too long?” Valorie glowers.
“Sort of.” Peter’s hand trembles like it’s holding an invisible jackhammer. He shoves it in his pocket, but it only makes the front of his pants vibrate awkwardly. The banker pulls herself to her full height and Peter wonders if she’ll cuss him out through the crack in the door.
“Mister Wilson, I think it’s time to find another bank.” She pushes the door closed and turns the lock. The metal mechanism fastens with a loud snap.
As he watches her retreat through the expanse of lobby, he places his jittery hand on the glass. If he presses his weight against it, his fingers almost stop shaking. He imagines touching her one more time. She reaches out to a panel on the wall behind the teller counter and shuts the remaining lights off all at once. Her shadow moves deeper in the building until it melts into the dark void.
Thirty-Four
Jeanne’s receptionist told Peter she was ready when he arrived, but now he sits alone in her office. He fidgets in his seat. Without Jeanne’s body lounging in the armchair across from him, the whole room feels artificial. He gets up and moves to the window. His therapist has a wide-angle view of gray pavement and white lines as far as the eye can see.
The door opens behind him and she slinks in. Her gorgeous eyes lock onto his and she smiles sheepishly as she moves to take a seat. “Sorry, I’m late.”
Returning the smile, Peter settles into the chair opposite hers. He spreads his hands wide across the smooth arms of the chair and imagines he’s stroking her bare calves. His fingers absently draw small circles in the upholstery.