Final Stroke

by Michael Beres

  As she watched the man shadowboxing in the parking lot, she couldn’t help wondering if the movement she’d seen at the kitchen window might not have been a tree branch. Lifting the drape a little more and glancing toward the tree outside the kitchen window, she detected no movement at all, no wind.

  After shadowboxing for several seconds, the man in the park ing lot went directly beneath the light and used the light pole to do stretches against. He was wearing baggy sweats and white athletic shoes. She couldn’t tell much else about the man except that his nose was very small, or flat. Yes, flat like a boxer.

  After a few more seconds of stretching, the man jogged in place, then began running and soon disappeared into the darkness where the parking lot bordered the road that paralleled the fence surrounding the Brookfield Zoo grounds.

  Jan reached for the phone in the dark, picked it up, and punched at the lit numbers. Although she knew Lydia would not be there, she decided to leave a message saying she had decided not to join her for the long weekend.

  When Jan finished with the message, she couldn’t recall exactly what she had said and how she had said it. She walked down the hall but did not go into the bedroom. Instead she continued to the end of the hall and stood outside the door to the spare bedroom. Although is was dark, she knew that inside the room was the cabinet where Steve kept his gun and ammunition, and she also knew that just a few steps behind her, in the bathroom medicine cabinet, inside a band-aide box, was the key to the gun cabinet. But she did not retrieve the key to un lock the gun cabinet, and instead went to her and Steve’s room.

  As she lay on her back in the dark planning what she would do the next day, she decided that going fishing did not require a gun, and that in order to be successful during her fishing expedition, and also to help Steve rediscover who he’d been, she should be careful not to allow paranoia to stand in the way of objectivity. Before she closed her eyes to try to sleep she saw a light flash onto the bedroom curtain and heard a car start up and drive away.

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  Hell in the Woods rehab was a seven-day-a-week grind. The end of each week was especially hectic because of staff shortages and shift changes, causing Friday sessions to be grouped rather than one-on-one. Younger stroke victims complained when the skeleton Friday staff insisted on playing taped Wheel of Fortune shows, but eventually they went along. Bernie and Louise, a couple of new stro kers, sat with their mouths hanging open. And Phil, as usual, only worked his mouth occasionally, saying, “Jesus fuck,” as Vanna put up a couple of letters.

  Steve was usually pretty good at Wheel of Fortune, but today he wasn’t doing well at all. Words came to mind, but these had nothing to do with the puzzle currently on the screen.

  When a contestant yelled out an R, he thought of Rickie Deveno who had changed his name to Justice years ago and had a son named Dino. When a contestant yelled out an N, he thought of the word nephew and the name Max Lamberti. When a contestant bought an A, he thought of Antonio Gianetti junior and Antonio Gianetti senior.

  When an M was yelled, he thought of the mob and wondered if the same organization that had once been headed by Antonio senior still existed or if there was a new organization, and if all or part of that or ganization was now headed by Max. Then, when a T was yelled, the Gianetti family and their connections were drowned out by the cheer ing Wheel of Fortune audience and all Steve could think of was the name Tyrone Washington.

  Tyrone Washington, he’d seen the name beneath the photograph on the employee board in vocational rehab. Tyrone Washington, the guy in the janitors’ closet with the flat-nosed accomplice itching for a fight. Although Steve could not concentrate on Wheel of Fortune today, mulling over hunches in his mind felt good, even if he couldn’t put it together.

  When Wheel of Fortune ended, he was sidetracked. The blond recreational therapist everyone called Charming Charmaine went from stroker to stroker, charming them as usual. At dinner a few days ear lier, all the strokers agreed that the men in the group purposely rolled their eyes and sat with their tongues hanging out so Charmaine would spend more time with them. Sometimes Charmaine would move in close, touching a guy’s back, putting her head close to his so he could smell the musky perfume that went well with her gorgeous face and body. When Charmaine snuck up on Steve that morning and bent in close, and her head and his head were side by side, and he turned to see her big blue eyes right there, he recalled that Marjorie also had blue eyes. Marjorie parking her wheelchair next to his and leaning in close and saying they should put her brain and his brain together and make a no-brainer. The recollection made him laugh, and his laughter made Charmaine giggle.

  After Charming Charmaine finished her rounds, the cute speech therapist named Bianca gave her speech about the staff putting the pressure on for their own good. Steve had heard this speech aimed at new strokers in the group many times and began to tune out. Even when Bianca launched into her musical “Name Game” exercise in which those in the group were quizzed about one another’s names, he tuned out.

  He needed to get back to his hunches. Marjorie stumbling, yes, but stumbling upon someone who didn’t want to be stumbled upon? Like maybe a punch-drunk flat-nosed guy? Or maybe Marjorie stum bled upon something else, and then someone worried that speech ther apy might pop something out of Marjorie’s head one day, causing the shit to hit the fan down at the administration office.

  Maybe when he gets back to his room he should type all these crazy hunches into his PC. Then, when he reads them the next day after they’ve had time to cool, he can see if his hunches make sense, or they are simply a product of a stroke zapping a brain that’s a cess pool of old hunches. And if anything coming out of his noggin does make sense, then what? Call Tamara? E-mail her? It wouldn’t be the first time he’d e-mailed her. But in the past it was always day-in-and day-out stuff, part of therapy in the computer lab. Maybe, instead of doing the usual word drills on the therapy software, he could get on the Internet and send e-mail after e-mail, dumping all the crazy hunches from his head until … until Tamara loses patience and Steve Babe becomes known at Chicago PD as the crank-head down at Hell in the Woods?

  When the “Name Game” ended and the strokers wheeled down the hall for coffee, they passed floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out on the courtyard. Some frowned up toward the cloudy skies and rain slanting down and spattering the windows. Although Steve no ticed the change in weather, he stared at the floor, wheeling himself slowly behind the others. The word case was there again, its meaning and importance having escalated. If this was a case that needed inves tigating, how could he do it? Now that he was able to use the phone, maybe he should call Tamara because there was no way to get across so much detail on e-mail. By the time she read her mailbox and re sponded to one question—probably with a question of her own—the circumstances of the case could have changed completely. So maybe he should call Tamara. Not tell her about the case on the phone, his speech wasn’t good enough for that. But he could ask her to visit, and when she did, he’d be prepared with his notes and maybe be able to show her in writing what was on his mind. First he’d tell her he didn’t think Marjorie’s death was an accident. Then he’d tell her he had … what were they called? Leads. Yes, he had leads pointing in two di rections. One direction, perhaps the most obvious, was toward the staff guy named Tyrone Washington who was clearly ripping off sup plies or maybe drugs at Hell in the Woods. The other direction, not as obvious but a whole lot more interesting, was Marjorie Gianetti’s family. This direction would be hard to explain because a lot of it was intuition, things picked up when Marjorie was alive, things she’d said in speech rehab.

  But calling Tamara seemed a great idea only if he were alone in the world. Calling Tamara would be selfish. Not because Jan had told him he and Tamara had once been lovers. No, the selfish part would be him, a damn stroker, going after a case as if no one else mattered. He wasn’t alone in the world, and he couldn’t do that to Jan.

  As he
rolled slowly behind the others to the central rehab lunch room for coffee, he felt extremely melancholy. He was supposed to be a happy son-of-a-bitch, but this feeling that, after finally finding out who he’d been and what he’d done, he’d have to give it up … well, that depressed the hell out of him.

  During physical rehab that morning, Percy put a restraint mitt on Steve’s good left hand to encourage him to do more with his right hand. Exercises like picking up balls and putting them into baskets. But instead of using the balls, Steve grabbed one of the grips and began squeezing it as best he could. He worked hard on strengthening his right arm and hand, squeezing the grip clumsily until Percy came by.

  “Take it easy, Steve. I told you you’re going to pull something if you keep up like that.”

  When he went back to his regular routine, Percy smiled and pat ted his shoulder. “That’s better. The idea is to work on the entire rou tine so you’ll rebuild those neural pathways. Number and quality, not brute strength. You’ll need finesse to drive a car in a few weeks. Keep your mind on that.”

  When Percy said this, Steve thought again of driving a Gypsy caravan with some idiot in back trying in vain to play a violin. Yes, an idiot like him, thinking too much about a past that’s lost to him instead of thinking of the here and now.

  At speech rehab, in one of the small speech rehab rooms, Georgi ana asked Steve to set up the tape recorder while she went to the com puter lab with Hiram, the local computer expert.

  “Set up a blank tape, Steve. We’ll be working with a new arrival named Harold. He just checked in today and you can help with the exercise.”

  “Hope that ain’t my daddy,” said Hiram, standing in the doorway with several colorful computer software cartons under each arm.

  “What?” asked Georgiana.

  “My daddy’s name was Harold,” said Hiram. “Hope he didn’t dig himself out of Martin Luther King Cemetery and have himself a stroke. Otherwise you’ll have to find someone else to load all this new software.”

  Instead of answering, Georgiana rolled her eyes toward Steve, then went off to the computer lab with Hiram.

  Harold was not Hiram’s daddy, definitely not recently exhumed from Martin Luther King Cemetery on the south side. Harold was not only white, but much too young to have been Hiram’s daddy. Steve figured Harold must have been a weightlifter before his stroke because he had monstrous muscles in his upper body. The aide named Pete delivered Harold to the rehab room and hung around for a while, slouching down in Georgiana’s chair. Pete fiddled with his long side burns and stared alternately at Harold and at Steve.

  “How’s it goin’?” asked Pete.

  “It’s goin’,” said Steve.

  There was something about the way Pete fiddled with his side burns that Steve couldn’t put his finger on. He should remember what it is, but all he could think of was reaching out and, because he’d thought the words, actually putting his finger on one of Pete’s side burns. He didn’t do it, but something from the past made him want to do it. Instead, he found himself rubbing his chin with his left hand. Then he recalled it. Yes, having a new beard and rubbing it simply because it’s new. Or fiddling with the beard the way Pete fiddled with his sideburns as if the sideburns are new and need getting used to.

  Pete didn’t get up from the chair when Georgiana returned from the computer lab until Georgiana asked him whether he had work to do somewhere else in the facility. Reluctantly, Pete unfolded himself from the chair, gave a heavy sigh, and left.

  After taking her seat, Georgiana announced that Harold had the rare privilege of being the youngest stroke victim to ever have been en rolled at Hell in the Woods. Harold was twenty-seven, his stroke an apparent result of overdoing steroids when he was a teenager.

  Harold’s age shocked Steve, making him forget his own dilemma for the moment. He concentrated on giving Georgiana a hand. When Harold was unable to pronounce a word correctly after finally manag ing to get it out, not only would Georgiana ask Steve to play it back, but she also asked Steve to say the word. Steve knew this was part of the program. Set up a little competition, put a little pressure on poor Harold who had obviously put a little too much pressure on his cir culatory system during his young life. He and Marjorie had seen this done before, had even done it to one another during their sessions.

  Harold would try to say, “Hand,” but it came out more like, “Aggehnd.” Then Georgiana would play it back and have Steve say it.

  As speech therapy for Harold went on, Steve returned to his earlier ruminations because repeating words and operating the tape recorder had become routine. He thought about his case again, and about the possibility that pursuing it in any way might bring danger to Jan either from Tyrone or, worse, from a “family” member who didn’t care for anyone nosing into their business. Jan had wanted to check around, and if he kept bringing this thing up, he knew she’d eventually do something that might backfire. She’d already questioned the nurses’ aide who found Marjorie, and the paramedics.

  Why the hell couldn’t he keep his mouth shut? Why the hell did he have to tell Jan about Dino Justice and things Marjorie mentioned about some idiotic fly in the ointment and her nephew, Max the fly? Probably better that Jan was gone for a long weekend because who knows what else he’d say to make her want to help him? When it came right down to it, he wasn’t sure if he’d still be alive if it wasn’t for Jan’s help in the first place, and then to use her like this …

  As he sat there alternately pushing the Record, Rewind, and Play buttons on the recorder, he noticed someone standing at the doorway to the small room. At first he assumed it was Pete again, or maybe Hiram returned from the computer lab. But when he looked up, he saw Tyrone Washington looking in at him, a strange smile on his face.

  And just at that moment, Georgiana spoke up, saying Steve’s name and asking him to demonstrate a word for Harold. And so, without taking his eyes off Tyrone, he said it.

  After he said the word, Georgiana seemed on the verge of laughter. “Steve, I don’t think that’s the word I had in mind. It’s been quite a while since I’ve heard you use it.”

  When he turned from the doorway and looked at Georgiana and Harold, both were trying to suppress grins. He looked down at the re corder, saw that the red Record button was depressed and rewound the tape. When he pushed Play, he heard his own voice say, “Fuckhead.”

  Fuckhead? Shit, if he ever got caught saying something like that, Tyrone knew he’d get the pink slip. And if he got the pink slip, he’d lose his connections. And if he lost his connections, he wasn’t sure what he’d do.

  Fuckhead? A paycheck was one thing, but if he got canned out of this place he’d lose the extra dough he got from Christ Health Care Supplies by way of Flat Nose. And now he’d bought the DeVille from the classic car shop, so he needed that extra dough more than ever.

  Goddamn system. White bastard calls him a fuckhead, then white bitch with her dumb-ass name like a man’s name laughs at him. Good thing that fox speech therapist Bianca wasn’t around to overhear him being called a fuckhead. No way he could ever hope to get into her pants if she heard him being called a fuckhead and being laughed at.

  Maybe right now was the time to teach this Babe guy a lesson. Maybe tonight he’d come back and pay the bastard a visit. Shit, this was getting complicated. Coming back to this place on his own free time. Just what the hell did Babe and that old lady talk about all those times they were in that little room with that Georgiana bitch and her damn tape recorder? Sure, it was good not having the nosy old lady around anymore, but why the hell did she have to leave this Babe guy behind with his dumb-ass name?

  Maybe, instead of waiting until tonight, he should deliver a couple cases of toilet paper to the storage room behind the nurses’ station on the third floor and snoop around Babe’s room. Hardly anyone on the floor this time of day. Unless that bitch wife of his is there with all her damn magazines so the two of them can sit down later tonight and point to pictures instead of watchin
g TV and keeping their mouths shut like normal asshole resident families. Yeah, the bastard point ing out pictures that would probably make his skin crawl. Pictures of glasses, or maybe a water spigot with water coming out, or maybe even an advertisement for janitor closet shit like brooms and mops, or maybe something about door alarms or some damn thing. Shit, why hadn’t he thought of that before? Just because the bastard couldn’t talk so good, didn’t mean he couldn’t point to those damn pictures.

  As Tyrone got on the service elevator to go down for the cases of toilet paper so he’d have an excuse to be up on the third floor, he won dered if he might really have to do it. He wondered if he’d have to sneak into the guy’s room late at night and … and what? Twist his good arm behind his back and whisper sweet nothings?

  He could say, “Listen to me, motherfucker. And don’t go looking for your call button ‘cause I already got it.”

  He’d have to research it. Watch him for a couple days to make sure he really was a right-brainer, which meant his left arm would be the good arm. He could say, “Don’t holler or nothin’ ‘cause it won’t do no good. If you holler I’ll break it. I seen stuff you wrote down in your room. If you don’t stop poking that big nose where it don’t belong …”

  No. It’d be better to take another approach.

  He could say, “Don’t you understand everybody screws the system in this place? Even you screw it with your damn insurance forms. So how about we reach a little understanding?”

  The guy would nod then. And he’d finish by saying, “That’s bet ter. Now I really shouldn’t do this, but I’m gonna tell you a couple things that’ll help you understand the situation a little better. See, it ain’t just me. There’s bigger cats out there that’ll cut your balls off and throw you down the elevator shaft if they find out you’re trying to put them out of business. These bigger cats, they’re not health care work ers like me. They don’t give a shit about health. Not your health, and especially not the health of that nice lady comes to visit who drives a nice red Audi. You get my drift?”