Most days Will’s job doing food preparation in the kitchen was so boring that the seconds multiplied and crammed into each other in such a way as to cause an explosion of unconsciousness. He was seized by the need to sleep. Outside the dry-goods pantry, against a back wall, pallets of canned food, clams in brine, ravioli, and fruit, were stacked ten feet high with access alleys in between. Just the cocoon of metal and wood, a little resting place, a man on the lookout might see. Will was not exactly indispensable. His schedule, as he knew from his brief time in industry, was counterproductive. He worked for about two hours, just getting into the rhythm of peeling carrots and potatoes for a thousand, when he was called for a head count upstairs, and the daily shave. He returned in time to serve lunch, leaving the vegetables to oxidize in piles, carrots turning leathery, potatoes brown. Back to Kentucky after lunch to be counted again. He didn’t return to the cavernous underground kitchen until two or later to finish off the work. By three o’clock, frustration with the shoddy quality of his labor made him crave sleep. The uncountable seconds and the stairs and the high dark brick vaulted ceiling all conspired. There, in between the pallets, he could rest.
There was a jokester at Woeburne named Sammy Finlandor who had a bit of a crush on him. Will was savvy about these things, knew all the signs from his stay in Korea. And he took a middle line. Loneliness likes attention, and Will was lonely. Sammy Finlandor looked at Will with eyes that watched and appreciated, and took in the wave of Will’s soaped black hair and the curve of his lip. Will felt a little better just to have a watcher. He trusted Sammy, a fellow exec, a fellow kitchen aide, not to give him any trouble. And when he slept between the pallets, he felt, as much as he felt anything, that Sammy might even warn him if trouble came by. He felt the wedge of insurance a bit of awe provided.
One day Sammy Finlandor was rinsing off the mountain of carrots and potatoes alone. This always took at least an hour, and by the time forty-five minutes had elapsed, Sammy was ready to renew the verve that watching Will Clemens’s wily hands slipping white lumps beneath the spray brought. This is how Will understood what happened, what he explained to himself later. Sammy said the devil made him do it. Made him tiptoe past old Chef Brodie’s dessert station, where red globs plopped into steaming vats of Jell-O, and made him finger one empty can of Persephone’s cherries. Sammy rinsed the pilfered item under the spray intended for potatoes, not easy to do unnoticed, because the can was the size of a portable latrine. He filled it up with water. On the highest pallet of clams in brine, Sammy deployed his joke.
He perched the can on the southwest corner above Will’s innocent sleep cove. Sammy attached a string to the toe of Will’s perfectly polished prison-issued oxford with rubber sole. He made a gentle incision in the rubber with a potato peeler, creating a flap that would irritate Will for the remainder of his stay. He tied the other end of the string around the horizon line on the label. The prank was only mildly successful. When Will’s dreams of ships tipping and rolling caused his own feet to mimic the motion, the can toppled, as intended, soaking only his socks and shoes.
Will carried the offending can attached to him upstairs to Kentucky for the four o’clock head count. He rolled the can under his cot into the shadow and stood in his doorway until Pasteur hobbled by, giving him the nod. Then he worked to detach the string from the nicked rubber sole. By the time he found a dry pair of socks and curtailed the damage to the polish on his shoes, Will could see a good use for the can. This was his chief strength, really, as Will saw himself. He had so many weaknesses, things he had to persuade himself not to ruminate on. In so many ways he was a terrible person. He knew that. Look at all the suffering he had caused around him. Like a pied piper of misery. But one good thing about Will: Given a moment, he could always spot the most elegant use for something. The simplest idea, always the best. And he could find it when everyone else was getting complicated and calling it thinking.
It had been a year, maybe more, since Rita had seen her grandson. She scanned back over that time for clues, things that might have signaled what had happened to him. That’s what the shock did. She loved Bo and was with him, but at the same time her mind flipped through past moments like a deck of cards: phone calls, canceled plans, odd tones of voice, strange weather, air smelling wet and decayed. All the clues that might have been there that she hadn’t noticed. And each possible clue had emotions like colors, said she could choose this one and run with it: anger, grief, guilt, fear. Anger again. She’d been deceived, over and over. But that was a gaudy choice to make.
Bo’s eyelashes had become transparent where they’d once been a sandy blond around his gray-blue eyes; now the white lashes were sparse and delicate. Blue veins traced beneath the nearly translucent skin of his face and scalp. She sat with him at a low green plastic table in the waiting area of the pediatric treatment clinic three floors below his hospital room. She smoothed out sheets of construction paper. Out by the elevators, Kay was in the phone booth, calling Roy. And Rita didn’t know why. Hadn’t he done enough harm? But she couldn’t get through to Kay. That was taking time.
Rita showed Bo how to cut a chain of paper dolls. And now he was the angry one, impatient. His white fingers wound through the purple plastic blunt-tipped scissors and cut wildly. Each time he finished a little stack of men, he’d snip the hands apart. He couldn’t understand how to keep the paper men together.
Here Bo. Look here, kiddo.
No. I’m stupid. Bo tossed the scissors. They bounced on the blue linoleum. His bloodshot eyes looked teary.
There’s a trick. We’ll do it together. Like this.
There weren’t any other children waiting. When Kay left to make her call, two little girls, both outpatients, had Bo giggling. Now Rita could see them through the glass barrier, inside, lying in leather loungers that looked like dentist’s chairs. Their mothers sat beside them, one read McCall’s, the other closed her eyes and chewed gum.
Rita picked up the scissors, made the gesture of dusting them off. Come on, baby doll. Bo let his grandmother put her worn-looking fingers on his, let her work the scissors through the folded paper with him. What happened to your skin, Meemaw?
I don’t know, sweetheart, here, here’s the place we leave alone so we keep the fold. That’s how they stay together. There you go.
Bo pulled apart a row of barrel-bodied men, four of them with flat heads.
Now you can color them any way you want. Rita pushed a bright yellow bucket full of peeled and broken crayons over to Bo.
Kay made her first try for Dan Dunlop, the finder-keeper, the man who actually got things done in Roy’s office, before seven this morning. Always in first, always available; today, for once, he was impossible to reach. So she hopped the 8:12 train to Manhattan anyway, with Rita and her suitcase. At every pay phone from the Red Bank train station to New York Hospital, Kay tried to get an answer.
She stopped pacing in front of the elevators and looked at the wall clock, 11:25. Bo’s test would be soon. Any minute, Hollis would stick her head out the door and say: Where are you! And then it would be a while before she could call Dan again.
But now some other melodrama was unfolding in the phone booth. Kay let a woman use the telephone, and she wasn’t giving it back. This made Kay furious. This made her throat prickle, like only a good scream would relieve the itch: This phone is for emergencies, not for conversations! She wanted to interrupt the subdued sobbing and say hurry, hurry, for godsakes, just hurry. You can do that at home. What would she do with Rita if Dan didn’t get them a hotel room? She couldn’t take her back to New Jersey. She needed to stay away from New Jersey for a little while, for everyone’s good.
The door peeled open on the booth, and the small woman in the cream-colored dress stepped out and blocked the entrance while she dug in her bag for a handkerchief. Oh, she said and looked up at Kay, searched her eyes. Kay stood as still as she could, tried to keep the recoil out of her face. She could not do this. She wouldn’t be the catcher
for this woman’s heartache. Forget it. The woman found the handkerchief, blue-and-gray-striped, it belonged to a man. She put it up against her face like she was breathing in chloroform. Thank you, she said to Kay, looking down, thank you very much, and she stepped over to the elevator doors as if waiting, but didn’t push the button.
Kay moved into the booth, closed the door, sat down, closed her eyes, lifted the receiver, depressed the button with her wedding-ring finger, started counting backward from fifty, at thirteen she opened her eyes, dropped the dime, and began dialing the number of Roy’s office for the thirteenth time that day. Alice, the receptionist, picked up on the fifth ring.
Alice, Alice, Alice, it’s Kay Clemens, give me Dan, will you?
Dan Dunlop came on the line all nervous cheer: Kay, my girl! How’s everything? I’ll bet you have some questions.
Dan, I just need a hotel room for tonight, maybe longer, and I have Will’s mother with me.
Tonight?
Right, said Kay. She opened and closed the seashell clasp on her purse.
Um. Well. I’ll call the St. Regis. Just like before.
What do I do?
Nothing. Meet me there at five, how’s that? said Dan. Is that going to be all right?
Kay could hear someone in his office talking loudly. In her closed-in booth, with all the pebbled glass, it sounded to her as if someone were standing on a mountain and yodeling, the sound echoed and bounced in her ear: Dan, Dan, Dan.
Someone wants you. Is that Roy?
No. No problem. All right, five it is, glad to hear from you, Kay. Ciao.
Ciao, Kay said, good-bye, and she put down the receiver, sat for a moment, then pushed out of the booth. The woman in the cream-colored dress had vanished.
In the children’s waiting room, someone had kicked over the toy box. Kay stepped on a pink hollow cube and crushed it. Plastic pieces were scattered everywhere, banked up against the furniture. Did you do that, Bo?
No. The twins did it.
The twins?
Look. Bo held up a loop of orange cutouts.
Beautiful! Kay cupped Bo’s head with her hands, stroked the peach fuzz. You did that yourself?
Yup.
Wow. How’re things, Meemaw?
I think we’re doing just fine here, isn’t that right?
Bo nodded and pressed the men flat on the table. Colored one of the heads aquamarine blue over the orange. Kay took a seat at the tiny table, decided not to pick up any toys. Just like Lou-Lou, said Bo, coloring one leg forest green.
She misses you, guy. We’ve got to get you home to see her.
Hollis leaned into the door. Hey there, partner. We’re ready for you. Sexy, lovely girl, Kay thought, done up in her cowboy boots, a bright red sweater beneath the standard clinic smock. Today Hollis had made a special trip down from ten, Bo’s usual ward, to assist. The last time they’d tried this test, a lumbar puncture to check spinal fluid, he’d gotten so hysterical they had a hard time getting a clear result. Bo loved Hollis. They hoped he’d stay calm with her present. How we doing? Whatcha got there, Bo? Hollis straightened up and smiled at Rita, smiled perfect, even teeth, everyone was crazy about Hollis.
Rita tipped out of her toddler chair, stood up, found her balance. She glanced at Kay, you’re not going to like this, then gave Hollis the direct question. Give me the straight dope here, what’s the story with my grandson?
Oh, boy, do I see the resemblance, said Hollis, looking only at Rita, especially the eyes, and she smiled.
Just tell me, please.
Well, Bo is very sick, but we keep looking for ways to help. His program is experimental, anything that might make a difference, he’s first in line. Hollis paused, nodded, watched Rita’s face. Today is mostly a test, a marker to check for progress. We’ll take a sample of his spinal fluid, and while he’s under a local, we’ll give him vincristine. It’s a chemotherapy.
Rita looked back at Kay. It wasn’t much different from what Kay had said already.
Everyone here thinks a lot of Bo. I’ll show you some other things he made, later, if you like. Hollis pulled a plastic cap out of her pocket and began fitting it over her ponytail.
No, said Bo.
Kay, said Hollis, ripping open a packet of sterile gloves, could you give me a hand?
Come on, sweetheart, said Kay, she bent down to lift Bo out of the chair. He wrapped his feet around the blue plastic legs. Come on, honey, you’ve done this a million times.
No, said Bo, and he started to whimper, his face flushed and bright.
What is it? Rita asked. What’s wrong?
Hollis waved to someone down the hall, called out, Okay, then turned back to Rita: It’s the test, he doesn’t like it, no one does. Right, Bo? But we’ll be quick, and then it will be all over. You’ll see. Dr. Fred is waiting.
Bo was breathing hard and blinking back tears. Kay frowned and knelt down next to him, pulled him to her. Come on, angel, I’ll go with you, come on now. Bo looked into Kay’s face and she lifted him into her arms and stood up. Hey, ballet! She carried her small, beautiful son past Rita, past Hollis, to the procedure area down the hall off the main space. She would never forgive herself for this.
Dr. Fred followed her in. Kay, he said. Hello, Bo. Let’s see. He placed Bo up on the examining table. He held a penlight to Bo’s left eye, which had cleared, was looking better, much better, Kay wanted to hear. Looks good, pal. Let’s—see—the—other, ah, good. Dr. Fred needed a lot of room. He moved around the table to the back. Kay stepped aside, keeping her smile on Bo. Maybe you could wait outside, Kay? Nope. Dr. Fred inhaled. Okay. Hollis? Give me a gauze pad. Right there, in the left drawer. Thanks. He wiped his glasses, tossed the pad in the waste pail. Bo, could you let go of Mommy’s hand? Bo was shivering, said, I’m hungry. We’ll get you something good to eat as soon as we get back upstairs, Hollis said, I’ll call the kitchen. Bo, could you let go of Mommy and lie on your side for me? Good. Kay stepped around Dr. Fred to the head of the examining table.
The room was hot and smelled like too much disinfectant. Kay crouched lower so Bo could see her face without turning his head. Scissors soaked in a blue fluid just to her left. Just like at the barber, she said. Sweetheart, she said. Bo watched her eyes. Kay smiled at him, thought of a lullaby in her head. Dr. Fred lifted Bo’s pajama top and pulled the elastic on the trousers. Hollis? Dr. Fred said. Hollis got a sheet. Laid it at the foot of the examining table, shimmied Bo’s pajama bottoms off, then covered his legs. You okay there, slugger? Dr. Fred lifted the sheet to swab the skin over Bo’s lowest vertebrae. His spine was a little reef of bone. He was so frail. Kay looked into his eyes. Sweetheart. And Bo watched back. Frightened.
Hollis handed Dr. Fred the syringe, and quicker than Kay could change her expression, the anesthetic had gone into Bo’s hip, and he was shrieking. A burn flashed out under his skin, and she hadn’t warned him. Bo screamed, but Hollis had anticipated it, and she held his hips firm and rubbed down the muscle. They waited for the numbing to set in, then a second needle bored into the bone. Bo cried and said they were breaking his back, Hollis held him tight, Dr. Fred withdrew the plunger and the barrel filled with fluid. Bo screamed and Kay wanted to scream right along with him. She swallowed her horror and put her face down to his. Touched his cheek. You’ll be okay. Very soon. You’ll be okay. The hurt will stop in a minute.
The third needle was only a pressure to Bo, and his crying softened, his breathing settled. Hollis looked away, lifted her hands from Bo’s hips. It had been a clean take. Nothing had gone wrong. Hollis put a sterile strip on Bo and gently, carefully wrapped him in a cotton blanket. There you go. He might fall asleep, Kay.
Kay had her head resting next to Bo’s. Kay kept saying yes, yes. Yes, what? Hollis said. Let me get you a chair, Kay. Dr. Fred opened the door to leave. I’ll see you in a little while. Kay stood up, hand on Bo’s head, his eyes were closing already. Yes, thank you, she said. She would go crazy. She was crazy already. Here, Mommy. Hollis came ba
ck holding a red chair. Here, you sit until he falls asleep, and then we’ll move him upstairs.
Outside in the children’s waiting room, Rita said a novena straight to the Blessed Virgin. She had a small, creased prayer book pressed flat on the table next to the cutout colored-in men. Hollis brought Rita water in a paper cone.
On the sidewalk just beyond the entrance to New York Hospital, Mrs. Millstein, the Sabrette hot-dog lady, was open for business as always, even though it had been raining off and on all day. Kay relied on her.
Adorable dress. Mrs. Millstein waved her tongs at Kay’s blue linen. Such a nice girl, said Mrs. Millstein, nodding. She searched out a cream soda for Rita from the ice chest. In my location, I know.
You getting any customers in this mess, Mrs. Millstein? I’ll take a Tab, if you’ve got one.
See what I mean? A gem!
Oh! Oh! Wait! Kay yelled and leaped off the curb and into the stopped traffic on York Avenue. A Checker cab was dislodging an elderly passenger on the other side. Kay ducked in and out of four lanes of cars and made it to the curb just as the light changed.
She’s gonna get herself killed that way! And over a cab ride. Better to wait and take your chances, I always say.
Kay slapped her hand on the wet hood of the taxi as if to hold it in place. She waved to Rita. Come on!
Now, don’t you do what she did. Mrs. Millstein took back the cream soda. No charge, you didn’t open it. She pointed with the can. There’s the crosswalk, that’s what it’s there for.
When the light changed again, Rita crossed the avenue holding her small suitcase in her arms like a baby.
Inside the cab Kay directed the driver to the St. Regis Hotel and sat back in the seat just as it started to pour again. They were a little early, but not much. Rita patted down the dark fabric around her knees. She looked done in. A drink, a bath, a bed. Kay knew the drill. And the sooner, the better. Upstairs in Bo’s room, Rita had been perfect, lining up all the Snoopies for magic tricks and jokes. And when Bo dozed off for good, they tiptoed out, two leaden fairies. She’d get Rita squared away, then come back to the hospital in time for the test results. If she didn’t loiter, things got lost, delayed, Kay believed that still.
Wavemaker II Page 4