Chum walked around the deck, rolling the tarp back, knowing he would have to take it off the boat, lay it out on the lawn, wash it down, let it dry, and then fold it up for storage in the hold.
“You know,” Chum said, “I need to get back to work, fishing and making money. Hell, I don’t even know what I’m hiding from. You know, there was a woman on that fishing trip. Cried some. Then walked off the boat, said to forget I ever saw her, and walked away. Then I got another call to come here, hide the boat and wait. Hell, Horace, I didn’t do anything wrong. I never hurt nobody.”
“Then why are you here?” Horace asked. “If you didn’t break the law. You must have done something wrong.”
“No. No I didn’t. Except I didn’t tell anybody about that woman.”
“So what. A guy falls overboard fishing. That’s not your fault. He was probably banging that chick and didn’t want his wife to know. And the guy who called you was probably just his friend. Another waterman.”
“You’re right,” Chum said. “I’m talking to a voice on the phone I don’t even know. And I did nothing wrong. Hell with them. Let’s go fishin.”
They spent the rest of the day cleaning the boat. Working side by side scrubbing the hull was a bonding experience. Chum thought Horace was probably a little smarter than himself. At least he didn’t think that Horace had committed any crime, although he wasn’t positive about that. And it seemed that Horace shared his view of permanence in the world, of a family without the stabilizing impact of regular meals, and church, and family outings. Nothing was permanent.
Chum’s parents just never seemed to be around. His dad was an electrician who signed on with different companies and building sites, sometimes at distant locations. It was common for his father to be out of town, in places like Detroit or Knoxville, where they were building a big box retail outlet or shopping mall. Often, he could be gone for two or three months before coming home for a weekend.
Chum’s mom worked at the local hardware store, and she knew every pipe and wrench and hammer in the store, even if she never used them. She always volunteered for overtime to stock shelves or rearrange displays. Chum was left to fend for himself. Mostly the house was empty. He would come home, fix a sandwich out of the refrigerator, and head for a friend’s house down the road. Chum never had a car until he could buy one himself, which was after he dropped out of school and started working as a first mate on the charter boats. So he walked. Everyone in the neighborhood knew him from the streets. He wore low rider pants, hanging precariously on his butt, usually with a tee shirt advertising some musical group. People would pass him on the street, wondering if he was headed for trouble. Chum wasn’t particularly introspective, and didn’t ponder his future for long periods. But he did wonder if his parents represented the norm. He was lonely as a child. He wondered about other parents and what they did at night. Did they sit and watch television, or read books, or talk about their work? Chum thought that seemed reasonable but then, what would they read or talk about. His mind hit a wall at that point, uncushioned by knowledge of issues or the presence of books, he simply moved on to more comfortable surroundings. He walked the streets and watched the animals, the birds and the squirrels. He thought violently about them, wondering what it would be like to kill them, or capture them. But when he told his friends in the neighborhood, they shrank from him, or they laughed uneasily. And soon people generally thought he was killing animals, even though the closest he ever came was shooting a rabbit about seventeen times with a pellet gun. And when the rabbit didn’t die, Chum just walked away.
Horace reminded Chum of the Captains he worked with on the fishing boats, before he bought his own. They were never warm and sympathetic, like parents were supposed to be. But they were a presence. Chum hadn’t talked to anybody privately or personally since he came to Florida, and he liked Horace’s company. Horace liked to talk.
Horace unfolded the white captain’s chair and several small spiders scampered down the arm. It was wedged under the tarp where water had collected. But it looked like fine leather, although he knew it was imitation, probably naugahyde or some other plastic. As he eased into the chair, he could imagine fishing with the waves flashing behind the boat and a hot sun on his legs.
“Chum,” Horace said, “let’s take the boat south, maybe around Florida. We could pick up some charters in the Gulf of Mexico, maybe just keep moving from Fort Myers up to Tampa, maybe over to New Orleans and Texas. Hell, we could just follow the sun all the way to California.”
Why not, Chum thought. “Let’s get the Scatback cleaned up.” He was warming to the idea, and beginning to see the possibilities.
Chapter Fifteen
The Nablani Center for Scull Based Surgery was located on the seventh floor of an all glass building, and the only identifying sign on Suite 62 was computer generated and scotch taped to the door, although lights were on somewhere and they glowed through the door’s glass panel. Martha pushed the door open while I was still contemplating the location and newness of the office. You could smell the fresh paint. And I wondered why this wasn’t in a hospital, or a medical center, or at least some building that indicated an association with medicine.
Inside, the waiting room was lined with wood trimmed chairs and warm leather seats, but no pictures. It looked like the moving van had arrived that morning, left the furniture, and departed, leaving only a well dressed receptionist behind the office counter.
“Good morning,” she said. “You must be the Shannons.”
“I am,” Martha offered. “This is Ned Shannon, my husband’s brother.”
“Welcome,” she replied. “Do you have your MRIs with you?” Martha was carrying them under her arm. She handed them to the receptionist, who wheeled around in her chair, and said, “I’ll give these to Dr. Nablani. Please have a seat in the waiting room. He’ll be with you in a few minutes.”
We sat on a leather couch, and I remarked that the file cabinets behind the receptionist were almost empty. There was really nothing in the room to make us comfortable, or to instill confidence. Suddenly, the door opened and a young African American woman entered, with an older woman, presumably her mother. They took seats across from us, and the girl turned sideways. There was a horseshoe imprint on the side of her head, starting in front of her ear, rising to the top and back of her head and down the back of her neck. It was startling. My God, I thought to myself, it’s so big; they’ve taken the whole side of her head off. Martha was as still as an anvil. I was sure she was imagining herself with such a scar. Clearly, the girl’s head had been shaved before the operation, and now that some weeks had passed, the scar looked like a branding iron had left its terrible mark. I wondered how long it had taken for her hair to grow back, and would it ever cover the scar. Still, Martha was a stone. I was hoping that the girl would say something to her mother, or show some animation, but she seemed subdued. Her mother went to talk with the receptionist, and the girl remained in her seat, staring at the floor. My God, I thought, has she been traumatized, or paralyzed, or somehow turned into the stone figures I used to see on television of people with lobotomies? I never thought those old horror movies would come alive, and I vowed to never watch another movie or documentary on the subject. I looked at Martha and she was as pale as the ceiling. I put my arm around her shoulders and she accepted the gesture, softly muttering, “Thank you.”
The receptionist soon appeared and invited us to follow her along a corridor of offices. It wasn’t clear that anyone else was in the building. She showed us to a small conference room with a round table and six chairs, inviting us to take a seat and Dr. Nablani would soon arrive. Again, no pictures. But a light screen for viewing MRIs was on the wall, and a plastic human scull was on a credenza behind the table. It looked like a toy, perhaps for a young person to play with, to take apart like a puzzle with multicolored pieces. I assumed that it would be used to show us the operation.
Nablani walked in with a younger man, looking Egyptian, lik
e Nablani, carrying Martha’s MRIs. I recognized them from the scribbled notes on the back of the manila folder that I had made in the car, searching for the right address. Nablani was somehow older than I expected, at least 50, and his assistant was younger than I expected, probably 25. His complexion was dark, middle eastern, and a bit yellow around the eyes. But at least he smiled. I guess I was looking for a younger doctor, but it was nice to see a smile. He began immediately to ask Martha questions about her background, and the assistant took notes. He wanted to know about previous operations, none. Allergies, none. Any infections, none. Age, 35. Insurance, yes. And finally, who referred us?
Martha answered with a directness I had not often seen. In the few days since she first told me about the tumor, Martha had grown more controlled. She was all business, analyzing her condition, ready to ask questions and get answers she needed. She seemed newly aware of the gravity of the situation. It was her life. And she was a little impatient, wanting to ask Nablani about her condition.
The assistant kept writing, but spoke directly to Nablani. “She’s a good candidate,” he concluded. Then I realized the intent of the questions. Nablani didn’t want someone who might die on the table, or couldn’t survive a difficult recovery, or couldn’t pay. Although I suspected survivability was even more important than money. I kept thinking of those percentages of hearing loss, or blindness, or death. This doctor wanted successes, patients who would give him every opportunity for a safe and complete operation. It was somehow reassuring that Nablani didn’t care about bedside manner and nursing; he cared about solving the problem, getting that tumor out of her head, and having an assistant who would write it all down for his next book. In a way, that was our goal too.
“Let’s look at the MRIs,” he said, and placed the negatives on the wall screens. Martha and I had seen them so many times before; we had stopped searching for unseen changes or rays of hope. Our focus was on Nablani, to see if he recognized the complications every other doctor had described. He talked us through each negative, then he turned to face us directly and started to describe the operation.
“I will do a craniotomy,” he said. “I will remove the side of the scull above and around the ear. Then I can examine the nerves that control various parts of the body, and see how they are impacted. Then I will remove the tumor from the top.” He stopped, apparently to let all this sink in.
Martha leaned forward. “Does that mean you can do it?” she asked.
“I can do it,” he said. “And I would like to do it Thursday.”
We sat stunned, not expecting such a positive response, and not expecting to do it so quickly. It seemed like there should be more time for preparation, more time to adapt to the idea of the operation, more time to prepare. And then I started laughing, almost uncontrollably, aware that this was not a funny moment, and no one else shared my mirth. Martha just stared at me, and Nablani stared at her.
Finally, I spoke. “Forgive me sir, I admire your confidence. But how can you just say, ‘I can do it,’ when at least three other brain surgeons have said it’s impossible. Two of them refused to operate at all, and the third said maybe in two operations. Now you say, ‘I can do it.’”
Nablani fixed his gaze directly in my eyes. “Because I am the best,” he said. “I am a surgeon’s surgeon.”
Silence. Martha still had not said a word. Finally, I said, “Can we have a few days to think about this?”
“Sure,” he said, “but I need to know by Wednesday. We will do the operation Thursday, and I leave for Paris on Saturday. Are there other questions?”
Martha finally spoke, not surprisingly in a strong voice, “How long will the operation take and how long will the recovery be?”
“Eight to ten hours,” he said. “And maybe two weeks in the hospital, and a couple more weeks as an outpatient. Let me show you the operation.”
He reached for the plastic head on the credenza, brought it to the table, and showed us where the horseshoe incision would be. Then he started taking the brain apart, describing the multicolored pieces by their bodily function, and finally arriving at the core.
“This is where the tumor is,” he said. “I think the top part is solid and I will lift it out the top. Then the bottom part can be taken out the side, or drained if it is liquid. Do you have any questions?”
It was just too much for me to absorb. Martha just stared at all the pieces laying on the table, I’m sure wondering how she could ever recover from that. How can you just take out pieces of the brain? How can you not disturb the nerves? It just seems impossible.
Nablani read her mind, and said again, “This is a very delicate operation, but I can do it.”
Then he started putting the plastic pieces of the head back together. The first three or four pieces slid into place. But the next one didn’t fit. He turned it in different directions, like turning a puzzle piece, trying to see the curves and angles that fit together. Then he placed it in position, but it didn’t quite go all the way into place. Then he hit it with the palm of his hand.
Martha and I looked at each other, shocked and bewildered. Did we just see what we saw? It was the most incredible moment of irony and bewildering shock I’d ever known. Again, I started laughing. How could the surgeon’s surgeon not even know where the pieces of the brain go, how they fit together, and most incredibly, how could he hit a piece to force it in. It was unfathomable.
Nablani stood and said, “Nice to meet you. Let me know by Wednesday about the operation.” And he walked out of the room.
Martha and I stood up, both a little unstable. I took her by the arm for support.
“Come on, Marti, let’s go back to Parkers,” I said. “Philadelphia is only a few hours drive, and I think we should be home when we decide. Especially if we have to drive back in a few days.”
Martha said very little on the drive home. She had gone inside herself, and I decided not to interrupt.
Chapter Sixteen
For perhaps the first time, I felt like I needed to be on the water, crabbing, to clear my mind. I couldn’t seem to make sense of Martha’s medical stuff. On the one hand, I have the divergent advice of three different doctors and hospitals who talk about the odds of living and paralysis as if it might be a day at the track, and on the other hand my sister-in-law fears her life could be snuffed out within two months because only one doctor thinks he can do the operation, and he’s so looney he can’t even put a plastic scull back together. How many removable parts does a brain have anyway? Maybe Vinnie can help me sort this out. So I called him.
“Vinnie,” I said, “I need to be on the water tomorrow morning. I’ll meet you at the boat at 7:00 a.m.”
“You’re on boss,” Vinnie responded. “See you then.”
I arrived at the Bayfront just before seven and could see Simy serving coffee at the bar to some of the other Captains. I decided to pass that encounter, just because I didn’t want to talk to anybody, Simy or the guys. The Martha Claire was floating gently in her berth, a yellow light illuminating the cabin. Vinnie had obviously arrived earlier to get the boat ready. Empty crab baskets were stacked on deck, four bushels of alewives were waiting to be shoved into the empty pots after we had captured the crabs, and the diesel was running. I noticed the plywood floor was losing some of its grey paint. It’s November and should be cold, and my car thermometer said 37 degrees, yet the weather forecast is “clear and 65.”
Vinnie motioned me aboard with a cup of coffee.
“Should be a great day today boss,” he said. “The crabs are running thin, but we have 300 pots out there and we should be able to get most of them out by noon.”
“Everything ready?” I asked.
“The bow lines are off,” Vinnie said in the process of moving around the boat, and slipping the lines off the cleats. “The stern lines are off. Let’s go.”
I took the helm and edged the boat out of its slip. This was the part I liked best, taking control of the boat in the early morning, when de
w was still on the bow and it glistened in the morning sun. The big diesel was idling, and I edged it forward as we moved to the middle of the channel. I loved the deep roar of the engine, a low growl like a lion on the prowl. The speed limit is six knots, with an admonition not to leave a wake. Vinnie could feel the speed of the boat without ever looking at the gauges. I looked. The water was porcelain gray, like the flower vase on my desk, and smooth as silk, with water bugs skipping over the surface. I settled into the hum of the engine, thinking of Marti at home, taking care of Mindy and no doubt wondering if she would be alive for the little girl’s future.
I knew the open water would drive these thoughts from my mind, and if not, working the crab pots would do it. Once you reach the first pot, your hands are flying from the wheel, to the throttle, to the clutch, to the wire cage that holds your catch. It’s a synchronized process that captures your mind and body, driving out all extraneous thoughts. Even as you rev the engine to move from one pot to another, there is no time for daydreaming. You must be on buoy, and slowed to just the right speed to operate the hydraulic wench that raises the pot to the surface, and then you have to grab it, pull it into the boat, and turn it over to Vinnie. Three hundred pots and your mind is mush, not with big thoughts, but with the repetition of the work, and the knowledge that you must stay focused. Today I wanted all that consuming repetition more than ever and I’m kind of proud that I’ve mastered the process. I pulled on my Grundens foul weather waders with suspenders, and readied my rubber gloves for handling the crabs. The gloves only last about two weeks. Even on the first day you wear them, small holes appear from handling the pinchers and bony back of the crab.
I pulled the Martha Claire beside the first buoy, my left hand on the transmission lever, right hand on the throttle, which I release at idle as the boat slows to a stop. I grab the pot hook leaning beside me, reach into the water and scoop up the pot line just below the buoy. I thread the line over the roller just outside the cabin. The line immediately starts to reel in, bringing the pot up from the bottom. When it breaks the water, I lean over the gunnel and grab it with both hands and in one continuous motion, lift it to the small platform on the edge of the boat, turn it one way to empty any unused bait, turn it another way to release the crabs. In a handoff similar to the Olympic relays, I hand the wire pot to Vinnie who bangs it against a square metal basin and empties the crabs. He raises it back to the platform, grabs two handfuls of bait from the basket, refills the trap, and I begin to move the boat forward to the next buoy. Vinnie pushes the rebaited pot and buoy overboard. When I see them hit the water, I ram the throttle forward, then ease off again at the next buoy. Only 299 more pots to go, and let’s hope each of them is full of crabs.
Death in the Polka Dot Shoes Page 16