Gert Maguire drove swiftly down curving Rumson Road. She’d decided to make an unscheduled visit to her husband’s office that morning. With the boys all needing her so much, and now that Lou-Lou was part of their household—well, she loved her boys and cared for Lou-Lou, and besides wanted to help, but the time with her husband was being eaten away. She barely saw him, and never alone unless he was asleep or slipping out the bedroom door for a midnight run. Before the intervention of a priest or an advice column told her what to do, Gert would inaugurate the random drop-in at the Maguire Real Estate Agency on River Road. Before the passion between them eroded entirely. After all, the place was romantic, an old-style Rumson house, creamy yellow, late Victorian, white gingerbread trim. And from the second floor, from Red’s office, it was easy to spot the Navesink River.
Red was lounging against the window, watching a strange barge huff down the channel, when his secretary and general receptionist, young Mrs. Fallon, entered with a three-part knock. She announced that Gert was in the opportunity area below. Yes, Mrs. Fallon, I’ll be two minutes, just two. Mrs. Fallon nodded without giving him her eyes. She had an aversion to looking at him when he spoke that Red found mildly arousing. It was as if she were listening to him say dirty things and not stopping him entirely, letting him talk but not. It was great. And she was a blonde. He’d always felt an affinity to blondes, being a partial blond himself. A blend-head, his sons called him.
Red Maguire adjusted the angle of his chin. He let his bottom teeth surmount his top, correcting the slightest, largely imaginary, recession of his jawline. He coughed to draw Mrs. Fallon’s eyes upward to his face. When he had her looking straight at him, he released his jaw and said in a low, profoundly unsuggestive voice: Thank you, Mrs. Fallon. She vanished immediately.
Red adjusted his trousers. He was both happy and dismayed. Happy to have this little erotic charge at the workplace, keeping him sharp. But dismayed, now concerned that his wife would find his arousal odd. Red stepped into the adjacent washroom, just to give himself a little splash of no-nonsense. But he left the door ajar, and peeking through the crack, his wife found him there.
Gert wasted no time. She let herself in and shut the door. Red was confused and uncertain how to proceed, but Gert’s mouth was on his in a second, her hand to his fly. Still kissing, she opened her blouse, unlatched her skirt and let it drop to the floor. Gert pushed down Red’s trousers and his skivvies. She closed the toilet seat. Sit here, she said. She straddled his knees. Panties and lace stockings now lassoed her calves. She did a quick evaluation, worked for a minute improving his erection, then took a firm grip of the lavatory and pushed herself onto him. She wriggled, right, left, right, left. After a while, he cried out: Holy Mother! Gert clapped her hand to his mouth: Shhh! Then she was off his lap and pulling up her lingerie. She turned away to fasten her skirt. Gert grabbed her blouse, opened the door, exited, and closed it without saying good-bye.
For a long time, Red Maguire sat on the john, wondering what had come over his wife, wondering if she was planning to make a habit of this. He wondered if young Mrs. Fallon had heard anything and tried to decide if that would be a good thing or a bad thing.
Bo searched for Hollis in the art-activity room at the old end of the tenth floor in the late afternoon. No one was there, but that was okay. He let the door swing shut and took a look around. He was a free agent today, cut loose from the IV. Cereal for breakfast, soup for lunch, and no throwing up. Bo had never been in the art-activity room alone before. He was seldom alone anywhere. Even at home, even when he was sleeping, Lou-Lou would come in and edge herself into the bed between him and the wall. She didn’t hug, she just liked to sleep next to his ribs. Sometimes at the hospital he missed her, sometimes not.
Bo pried open the Tupperware container of green Play-Doh. It smelled like an alcohol swab. The play-nurse, Mrs. Coxcomb, doused all their community objects, all the things they played with together, in disinfectant. Bo had learned that anything could make him sick. Before he knew it, a germ could wriggle its way into his body and he’d be out like a light, Mrs. Coxcomb said. He knew that, but he just couldn’t care about it. Bo dug the medicinal Play-Doh out of the container and made a pancake on the floor. He took off his baseball slippers and stuck his foot in the green mound. He pulled it out. Very nice. Bo found some tongue depressors still wrapped in paper and made a fork effect along the top, extending each of his five toes. Bo was probably the best artist on the pediatric hematology ward, but he tried to be modest about it. Michelle, a bad artist, made rips in her paintings. She’d slap on the paint, the paper would get soggy and tear. Other times she’d just bleed on them, which would also wreck them, and then Mrs. Coxcomb would hustle Michelle out of there, Michelle screaming to put her down now. But Bo didn’t let that ruin his concentration, and when Michelle was back, starting over with a clean slate in art, Bo always gave her a hand.
He wished he could find Hollis. Sometimes when she wasn’t busy, she played cards in here with him. Her square fingernails would tap on the deck, calling to her lucky card: the two of diamonds. Bo decided to explore the big windows. Be a Christopher Columbus of the hospital, Mrs. Westerfield said. Bo was an adventurer. Stay away from the windows, Mrs. Coxcomb said. She was extremely nervous for an expert in fun and art.
Bo crossed to the windows anyway. His skeleton didn’t hurt so much, he was cruising, he was sliding, he put his hands on two separate panes. No electricity, which was good. Far, far below, the East River curled and shivered. The tiny boats barely moved. Bo scanned the water for the Wavemaker II, easy to spot because its lifeboat was a Boston Whaler. You never knew when it would sail on by. It could be down there this second, waiting for Bo and for Michelle.
Actually, if it was there, Michelle probably wouldn’t want to go. The last time Captain Peeko pulled up to the electrical station across the highway, two orderlies with sweaty faces carried Bo and Michelle through the underground tunnels, which were too narrow to navigate with wheelchairs. They emerged under the loud cranking gears, and Michelle was afraid of electrocution. But Uncle Roy said it was all talk and no action, meaning the sound was loud but the generator was really underpowered, even if the emergency it was built for came. Michelle cried. In the Boston Whaler that carried them out from the dock, in Captain Peeko’s strong arms, she cried. And when the Wavemaker II sailed away down the channel, Michelle looked up at the cliff of stone and glass that was New York Hospital and wept like she was leaving Disneyland.
The trip was very short. They barely glimpsed the Statue of Liberty. Captain Peeko served the tuna sandwiches, Michelle threw up. When Uncle Roy strapped on his water skis and jumped overboard, Michelle said he would be eaten alive by invisible red fish. She was from Tampa and knew all about them.
Bo pushed away from the window. He sat on the floor next to his Play-Doh footprint and listened to the hum, a sort of sonic constant at the hospital. Nothing could drown it out. Herman, the pet experimental rat, clawed at his cage, but that was a minor sound. Bo tried to remember how long he had been at the hospital but couldn’t. His mother had been here all the time, and then she went home for a day, and then she came back with Meemaw, and now she was gone again but would come back tomorrow, Hollis said, and then maybe Bo could go home. Lots of people asked Bo what he would be. When? Bo asked at first, but not anymore. It was a question only to say hello.
Herman was snapping his tiny teeth on the bars of his cage. Herman, the rescued experimental rat, had been given more chemotherapy ounce for ounce than Bo, and more kinds, said Hollis. Even though Herman smelled of pee and sawdust, Hollis let him crawl on her shoulder and nibble her loop earring when they played cards. Herman’s main body was white, but his eyes and nose and tail were pink. Even the cobalt? Did he get the cobalt? Yep, said Hollis in a drawl, just like a cowgirl, and she stole the good one-eyed jack right out of Bo’s hand. She pulled Herman’s miniature fingers away from her neat black ponytail.
Now Herman chewed so hard and clawed
so fast he looked desperate. Herman had no voice, so he could not cry. Bo inched closer to Herman without standing up. He just slid along the floor on his bathrobe. Hey Herman. Did you turn into a dog ? This was a compliment. Pure flattery. Herman was an irritable rat, actually a poor choice for the art-activity room pet. Hey there Herman. Arf!
Herman did a quick spin, biting his tail. What’s wrong, kiddo? Maybe Herman just needed a lucky break. Bo put his finger next to the cage, just to see what Herman would do. He was a known biter, something that drove Mrs. Coxcomb crazy. Herman’s nose vibrated like a machine, sniffing at a hundred miles per hour. Bo put his finger closer and felt Herman’s cool dry nose bouncing on his fingertip. Come on out, Herman, you just need some company. Hey Lassie, here boy, come on Lassie.
Bo unlatched the cage door. Herman tore out, ran around the pet table about twenty times, then took a wild leap to the floor. He landed, Bo the explorer was interested to see, on all four paws at once. Herman ignored Bo. Come here! Lassie, here boy! Herman scrabbled across the floor. He couldn’t get much traction but made it to Bo’s green footprint. Good boy! It’s a bomb! Herman sniffed at the disinfected Play-Doh, then headed straight for Bo’s feet. Lassie! The bomb’s over there. Herman nibbled on Bo’s pajama leg. You gotta save us. Come on, you can do it, boy! Was Lassie a girl? Good dog. Herman was in Bo’s lap, burrowing into Bo’s belly. Bo wrapped his hands around Herman’s trembling body. There, there boy, don’t worry. The bomb won’t go off, actually it’s fixed. You fixed it! Just the sight of you was enough.
The swing doors opened and fat Clarissa the night nurse stood there, arms stacked on her big belly. Well, here you are, she said. Clarissa’s cheeks had bright pink spots right in the middle of each. Bo, did you let that piece of vermin loose again? That is irritating. Hand him over. No. I’m not going to touch him, I mean just put him back where he belongs and come have your dinner.
Did Hollis go home?
About an hour ago. Come on. Let’s get going.
Here Lassie. Bo stroked Herman’s quivering red ears, stood up, and carried him to the cage. Go to sleep now, Lassie.
If that’s Lassie, we’re all in trouble.
What’s for dinner, Clarissa? Bo made a pile of dry sawdust and dropped Herman on top. Herman rolled over and clawed at his own nose.
Chicken à la king.
Michelle’s favorite!
Michelle’s not here, Bo.
Bo looked at Clarissa, she was pulling at something on the skin of her engagement-ring finger. A tiny blue diamond poked out of four gold prongs and she scratched all around it. Clarissa liked to say she’s had a rash since the minute that guy popped the question. You ready yet, Bo?
Well, it’s still her favorite, you know.
Any day now, Bo.
There was no point in having a really excellent automobile, something truly fine, especially calibrated for speed, if Peter was going to stay within the speed limit. Roy always admonished Peter, said: Get the lead out, Rev it up! But not today. The weather was lousy. He’d just relax, let the scenery go by, think things through. He hadn’t done enough of that lately, and though he hated to admit it, things were out of hand. But soon he’d remedy all that.
Outside New Haven in only three hours! And weren’t they going to upstate New York? A world record in mediocre driving. How had Peter ever become a chauffeur? Because Roy had made him one, that’s how. He had no one to blame, etc. They’d get to Woeburne eventually. Today was Will Clemens’s thirty-fourth birthday, and Roy would celebrate whether Will wanted him to or not. And word from Sammy Finlandor was that Will did not. The story? Will was unhappy. Roy had promised protection from prosecution and now Will was in jail. Roy had promised protection from the press and now all the national syndicates were waxing their violins over Will’s trouble. Roy’s interpretation. And promises were important. Promises were a sacred trust and vow. Now what.
Peter took an odd route through New Haven, through the ghetto, for godsakes. What am I doing here? Roy tapped on the glass. Roy was surrounded by dark-faced people, everywhere he looked, on every corner, every sidewalk, leaning in doorways, smiling, not smiling. And now Peter was driving at a crawl, the least forward motion possible without actually stopping. What is this, Peter? What’s the message here? A shortcut? I see. My understanding is that shortcuts are about speed, not agendas. Agendas, that’s right. Could we move on, please? I’d like to get there before July.
Peter moved on. The scenery got sadder, poorer. Roy closed his eyes. Not today. No civics lessons today, Peter. We’ve discussed this. The car came to a halt. Roy blinked, sat up, leaned toward the glass divider: Enough! But it was a traffic light turned red.
A man crossing the intersection took a radical turn and came right up to Roy’s window, put a huge hand to the passenger handle, and yanked. Locked! Roy’s heart fluttered. Step on it, Peter. But the light was still red. A slow light. A law-abiding driver. Just run the fucking light, Peter. The man put hand over hand across Roy’s window, up to the roof of the car, hand over hand down the back window to the trunk, like he was patting it down, slowly, slower than Peter’s acceleration foot. The man made a bridge from one side of the car to the other. Hand, hand, hand, big as basketballs, making soft thuds as if weighted. He reached the opposite side and then released the dark blue limousine from his care. The light went green. Peter got a move on. What was that? What was that? Can you tell me?
Lord if I know, Mr. Cohn.
Roy shut his eyes, angry beyond words.
All right, Roy said to Peter in the parking lot, they really overdid it with the razor wire here, I won’t be long. Don’t go anywhere. Peter gave Roy a look of sweet incomprehension, as if going anywhere would never occur to him. But lately, Roy knew the truth, Peter had been taking little unexplained trips, maybe even running some kind of business on the side. Roy would find out soon enough. Just wait, please. That’s your job. In fact, it’s your job description. Can you do that for me? Peter smiled even more sweetly. He was beautiful. Really a perfect face, if there were such a thing. Roy felt something like the taste of apple at the back of his tongue, a prickle under the collar, he wriggled as if loose mites were squirming in there. Okay.
Oh, the present. He forgot. Peter? Open the trunk, please. There was a black cardboard box, and in the box Roy dug around until he found the long red jewel case from Cartier. A tank watch, who wouldn’t want one. Will was in the tank. It was a great gift. Why not. Roy made his way along the stone footpath to an arched entrance, gift in hand. He knocked. He knocked harder, looked back over his shoulder to Peter. Peter was in the car, in the driver’s seat, taking a long pull off a paper cup of coffee he’d bought hours ago on the Upper East Side. Roy could taste that stale coffee, and he was thinking that, I can taste it from here, when the metal door swung wide and an officer of the law asked him his business. Roy gave the warden’s name, Flagmeyer, and his own. He was escorted immediately down a long, dark corridor to a dark, curved staircase. Peter and the taste of his cold coffee vanished completely. Forgotten.
The warden was an ugly man. Roy concluded quickly that the main problem was the warden’s teeth. They looked filed down and coated with brown varnish. The man’s upper cheeks were swollen and red. Dry, flecked skin surrounded eyes the color of grilled organ meat. Roy didn’t like to look at him but did, made himself, and got right to the point. Nice to see you, sir. You’re looking well. And Mr. Clemens. I imagine everything there is just fine?
Not quite, said Warden Flagmeyer, averting his strange eyes, not speaking to Roy per se but directing himself to a sallow house-plant struggling under the weight of a blue ribbon at the corner of his blotter. The man had a mahogany desk, just as Roy’s father had. The judge. This seemed unfair. This seemed wrong. And Roy was suddenly angry for the second time in a short day. What do you mean; not quite, he thundered. The warden, twice his size, grossly overweight in fact, seemed to blossom under the assault. He smiled. Let’s take it easy, shall we? Warden Flagmeyer pointed to
a chair.
No, we shan’t take it easy. Not until you explain yourself, here and now. But Roy took a seat. He stared hard at the fat warden. Roy’s look indicated a whole catalog of unpleasantness to come, and the warden took his own seat, something carved and elaborate. He sat on the edge like a giddy sophomore on a first date, and he smiled again. Roy was beside himself. Who was this asshole? He’d call the governor, have the guy annihilated. The warden coughed, something nice and tubercular. And Roy calmed down. Made himself. Roy took a deep breath, what really was the problem here? Roy needed a vacation, that was all. Right after the retrial, assuming events unfolded as they should. The pressure was big, so the minutiae were getting to him. So tell me, Warden Flagmeyer, tell me everything. Now Roy was smiling too. A vulnerable smile, like it cost him a lot, revealed too much. The warden watched him, then said: Will Clemens has not been kept separate from other prisoners, he has not been given special food or special privileges. He has not had additional access to a television or more frequent visits from his wife. He will not be paroled early, as the judge has already made abundantly clear, and you cannot see him today.
Wavemaker II Page 7