“Oh my god!” Cateyo screamed and she leaped to save him, but too late. Furiously, she snapped at Heather, “Now look what you've made me do! My god, he might be hurt!” She knelt over him, examining his bandaged face with obvious concern. “Are you all right, Paul? Are you all right?” She struggled to lift him then looked in panic for the chair, which lay on its side.
“Help me,” Cateyo said to the woman. “The chair.”
“Here, let me lift him,” Heather said. “You get the chair.” She spoke briskly and Cateyo leaped to do as she suggested.
“He seems all right,” Heather said, “but maybe you better run back for some help. I'll watch him. Hurry.”
Cateyo dropped the chair and knelt over Paul/Joe. His eyes were open and he blinked encouragingly. “No, I think he's all right,” she said. “Let's get him back to the parking lot.”
Heather picked up Joe's fallen sunglasses, then scooped him up in her arms. “He's not heavy,” she said. “I'll carry him back to the walk. You bring the chair.”
She set off up the path and Cateyo, alarmed but uncertain, followed hastily, dragging the chair over the bumpy earth, trying to keep up to Heather's rapid strides and calling after her, “Is he all right? Wait. Wait.” But Heather strode on.
Heather stared down into Joe's face intently. His eyes were blue and clear and they stared directly into hers. His mouth was slightly open and a thread of spittle drooled from one corner. “He's okay,” Heather called back over her shoulder. The woman carried him briskly and easily. It occurred to her as she reached the paved sidewalk that she could “accidentally” stumble and drop him directly onto his head. There was a good chance that it would do for him. Or, she thought, glancing across the blacktopped surface of the parking area, she could carry him to the side of the hospital and bash his head against the rough brick wall until she was sure he was dead. The girl wouldn't be able to stop her. She set off across the parking lot.
Behind her, Cateyo had stopped to set up the chair and rearrange the fallen plaid blanket, so that Joe/Paul could be resettled in it and wheeled back into the hospital as if nothing had happened. She glanced up when she realized that the woman was walking on.
“Stop!” Cateyo cried out. Her voice was strikingly clear and commanding. “You! Stop!”
The woman stopped and turned toward Cateyo, cradling Joe in her powerful arms. She smiled. “My name is Heather,” she said.
“Bring him here,” Cateyo commanded.
Heather stared at her for a long moment, then looked down at Joe. He showed no emotion, just stared at her.
“Oh. Sorry,” Heather said, and carried her burden tenderly back to the chair, where she carefully lowered him and stood by while Cateyo fussed over him, rearranging the blanket, examining him to be sure that he wasn't hurt.
Finally, Cateyo stood and said, “I think he's all right. No harm done, I guess. But it must have scared him. Poor dear. Well, I better get him inside. I'm sorry I yelled at you . . . Heather. It wasn't your fault. It was my fault. I didn't realize how steep that path was. I should have paid more attention. Please forgive me. I can't thank you enough for helping out.”
“Oh, don't think of it,” Heather said. “I shouldn't have distracted you. Not when you have such an important responsibility. I'm glad I could be of help. Are you sure he's all right? Good. Well, no harm done, I guess. Listen, what's your name? Could I call you later and we could talk? I really don't know anyone here in Butte, and it's kind of . . . well, lonely. Maybe you could give me some advice on an apartment.” She stood casually but firmly in the way of the wheelchair, smiling but not yielding.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Cateyo said. “I'm Cate Yoder. I'm in the book. Bye!” And she wheeled the chair around the larger woman and whizzed back toward the warmth and safety of the hospital.
Joe was intensely relieved. He had no idea who the woman was, but she had given him a terrible scare, the way she looked at him, the way she held him. He remembered her hands particularly, large and red, and she flexed them constantly, squeezing him. He had seen something odd in her face, as if she hated him, but he could not imagine why a perfect stranger would hate him. Even before the accident, which he had in a sense willfully precipitated, those spasmodically clenching hands had alarmed him. Perhaps it was why he had allowed himself to tumble.
Once back in his room, however, he forced himself to forget about Heather. He leaned quietly against the bed while Cateyo undressed him, moving his arms one way, then another. He wore flannel pajamas that she had brought him. They were warm and comfortable and they had hockey players on them. He liked that. He liked it too when Cateyo sat him in bed and laid him back, then covered him.
“Oh, you poor thing,” she said, talking more or less constantly under her breath, “what a ninny I am. How could I have not noticed how steep that path was? And then to just stand there talking to that woman while you're freezing to death. I'm sorry. I should be more careful. I will be more careful. Are your hands still cold? They are.” She began to chafe them, then tucked them under the covers.
“Are you comfy? Is my guy comfy? My handsome Newman. Yes you are, a New Man, the New Man, the newest man there is.” She adjusted the covers, checked his pulse, felt his brow, looked into his clear blue eyes. Then she glanced around and knelt to give him a swift kiss on the lips. Joe liked this part best.
Now she would sit, he knew, and talk to him for a while, at least until another nurse came along. All about Jesus, of course. About her theory of the New Man, the one who was coming to save the world from sin. She pointed out the similarities between his life and that of Christ. An unknown person, she said, who came out of nowhere, was killed and then rose from the dead. Of course, she had no idea who Joe was or what his life had been about, but then he wasn't too sure about it himself. Perhaps she was right. Maybe he was some kind of New Man. He wanted to be a New Man. He wasn't sure what he had done to fetch up here, in this bed with this lovely woman babbling at him, but he had a feeling it didn't bear too close examination.
On the other hand, he felt unaccountably anxious. He was afraid of something, he knew, but what? Perhaps it was that awful woman, Heather, and her mention of Detroit? But he couldn't imagine what she could have to do with him. And more than that he felt he had something important to do, but he had no idea what it was. It had something to do with money, he thought. Yes, whenever he thought of money he got a strange, satisfying feeling. It was good to think about money. He wasn't exactly sure what money was, but he kind of knew, and he had a feeling that very soon it would all be perfectly clear.
Already his face felt more whole, more solid, and his tongue could move, he had discovered. But to move everything at once, the jaw, the tongue, that was too much. But soon. Perhaps in the night, when no one was around, he could practice.
Heather went directly to Smokey's Corner. Smokey was standing at the end of the bar. A skinny woman with hair dyed too red was pouring drinks. Heather nodded to Smokey, and he followed her back to a table in the rear.
“You see your man?” he said.
“I saw him,” Heather said.
Smokey nodded. “You're s'posed to call Mr. Rossamani,” he said. He gestured to a phone hanging on the wall near the end of the bar. “You can use that. No charge.”
When she got through to Rossamani she said, “It was Service, all right. The nurse was taking him for a ride around the hospital, in a chair. The face is still bandaged and he wore dark glasses, but I got a good close look. It couldn't be anybody else. He's not talking, not even moving. He makes little noises, though. He'll talk, eventually . . . if he lives.”
Rossamani was pleased. “I'll pass it on to the Fat Man,” he said. “I'm sure he'll want you to go ahead. How long will it be?”
“I don't know. I damn near did it today, but then I thought I'd better check it out with you. How much does this old creep here know?”
“Smokey? He don't know nothing, just you're there to check it out, keep an eye on Service
. What's your plan?”
“I'll be needing more money. I have to get close to the nurse. She seems to be the key. She watches Service like a hawk.”
Rossamani said he'd call back in a few minutes. Heather told Smokey and picked up a copy of the morning Standard and went back to the table. A few minutes later the phone rang and Smokey answered it. He talked for a couple of minutes then hung up and came over to sit down near her.
“You gonna be sticking around?” Smokey reached in his back pocket and hauled out a large trucker's wallet, which was attached to his belt with a thin gold chain. He opened it and counted out three thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills into Heather's large hand.
“Why?”
“I thought maybe we could have dinner,” Smokey said. “You're new in town, probably a little lonely. I'm not a married man, myself.”
Heather almost smiled at him. “You want a date?”
“Why not?” Smokey said. “You got something against older men?”
“Not particularly,” she said. “But I've got a lot of work to do. I need to find out about a nurse.”
“What nurse?”
“Cate Yoder, she works at the hospital.”
“Cateyo?” Smokey grinned, then he looked at Heather for a long moment and something clicked. “So, you'd like to get close to Cateyo?”
“What does that mean?” Heather demanded. She crammed the money into her coat pocket.
“Nothin’. Good lookin’ woman, though, eh?”
“How do you know her? She wouldn't be seen dead in a joint like this.”
“She was one a my nurses when I had a triple bypass a coupla years ago,” Smokey said. “Kinda made you sorry to get well, knowin’ you wouldn't see her anymore.”
“So? What do you know about her?”
“Nothin’,” Smokey said. “Kind of a religious gal. Real sweet. Like a flower in the field.” Smokey snorted, surprised by his own lyricism.
“A flower, hunh?” Heather smiled herself, remembering the woman's fresh loveliness. “Is she married?”
“Married? No, I don't think so.” Smokey shook his head. “I never even heard about her going out much. She never talked about any boyfriend or even flirted with the doctors, like most of them do. She's quiet, religious.”
“That's interesting. She live alone?”
Smokey caught the hopeful tone and said, with a wry look, “I don't know if she lives alone, or what, but I know she ain't like . . . uh, you know.”
“Like what? Like me? You don't know anything about me.” She fixed him with her flat brown eyes.
Smokey didn't back down. “Okay,” he said, “I don't know shit about you. You want a drink?” He stood up.
“Bring me a shot of something,” she said. “Rye, and a beer chaser.” She opened the Standard to the classifieds and began to look at rentals. When she saw the cop come in, she felt a sudden thrill, especially when she saw the other man, the plainclothes cop. She continued to peruse the ads, however, and when she felt composed, she stood up and walked out. As she passed the men, she was very conscious of Jacky Lee's eyes. Oh, let him make a move, she thought, just one move. But he didn't and she was outside. She hung around for a while, keeping the sheriff's Blazer in view, and when the two men finally left, she returned. Smokey was still standing at the end of the bar, looking at what appeared to be a lingerie catalog.
“Who were those guys?” she asked Smokey, leaning over the bar.
“The deputy is Jacky Lee,” Smokey said quietly. “The other one was some kind of dick from Detroit.”
“I thought so,” Heather said. “Mulheisen. I've seen him.”
“That's the name,” Smokey said. “He was asking about Soper. I already told Jacky I never seen the bum, but you know how cops are: Everything's gotta be told again, and again. I sicced him onto Tracy.” He indicated with his head the gaunt man still sitting against the wall, now reading a book and occasionally sipping whiskey from a glass. “Don't worry,” he assured her, “Tracy don't know nothing. He's just an old reporter, trying to drink his way into heaven. They yammered for a while and left.”
“Bring me a shot of what Tracy is drinking,” she said, “and a beer chaser. And when you talk to Rossamani again, tell him about Mulheisen. Also"—she leaned closer, across the angle of the bar—"you talk to Rossie, not the Fat Man.”
Stover gazed at her calmly. “Rossie. Not the Fat Man.”
“Good,” she said. She sipped the whiskey and looked down at the catalog. There were pictures of beautiful women lounging about in see-through garments and a plethora of straps and lace. She put her finger on one of the pictures, a woman in a bustier, garter belt, and hose, but nothing else. “I've got an outfit just like that, only in red,” she said.
“You?” Smokey narrowed his eyes. “I'd love to see it.”
“I bet you would,” she said. “Maybe I'll show it to you sometime, after dinner.”
Smokey was pleased. She was an interesting woman, he thought, full of surprises. “I wouldn't of thought you'd be into this stuff,” he said, cautiously.
“Oh yes,” Heather said. She tossed down the rest of the whiskey. “I've always been the fern.”
That evening, having showered and groomed herself very carefully, Heather rang the doorbell of Cateyo's house. It was a solid brick house with a tiny front yard surrounded with a wrought-iron fence. It was one of several similar houses on a street just a few blocks from the hospital. The houses were just a few feet apart. They had small porches and steep roofs. They looked to have been built in the thirties, or even earlier, but they were all in good repair. The street was on a hillside, but not steep.
Cateyo was surprised to see her.
“Hi,” Heather said, smiling pleasantly. She gestured at a brick apartment house across the way and up the hill a few houses, saying, “I was just looking at a place over there, but it was already taken. The phone book said you lived close by, so I thought I'd stop. You were so kind to invite me. Was your patient all right? I hope he wasn't too upset.”
“Oh, Paul's okay. I think he might have been a little alarmed, is all. Well, come in. It's cold out there.”
The house was quite nice, pleasantly furnished but with too many religious pictures for Heather's taste. But evidently the kitchen had been recently remodeled; it was quite modern. In the way of such houses there was a front parlor, or living room, which opened through an arch into a dining room, then a swinging door into the kitchen, as one moved from the street side toward the alley. There were two bedrooms, separated by a bathroom. There was also a basement, half of which was given over to a narrow garage with space for a single, preferably small car and which one entered from the alley.
All of this Heather learned in the first half hour, as Cateyo took her on a little tour. Most important, it was soon clear that Cateyo lived alone, no sign of a man at all and no roommate. She was obviously quite proud of this house, which she had only recently purchased, although she had rented it for some time. She was full of plans to renovate further.
“It's lovely,” Heather enthused. “I love these drapes, and the furniture is just right. You were so right to start your renovation with the kitchen. What's next, the bathroom?”
“I think so,” Cateyo said, “but it's so expensive. The kitchen cost me about a thousand dollars more than I expected.”
Heather stood in the doorway between the bath, with its plastic shower curtain hanging into the old-fashioned tub, and the empty spare bedroom. The sink was a freestanding pedestal model, dating from the thirties. Heather pointed out that it was still quite attractive, with the original ceramic handles. “You ought to keep that,” she said. “You could save quite a bit by doing some of the work yourself. If you get some dumb carpenter in here, he'll want to yank that out first thing. These guys, a lot of the time they aren't really very creative.”
“The guy who did the kitchen was really pretty good,” Cateyo said, defensively.
“Oh, he did a swell job, as far
as I can see,” Heather assured her, “but I bet it was you who decided how it should look, who made, you know, the real creative decisions. You can get very nice bathroom cabinets that are pre-built and hang them yourself. It isn't hard, with a little help. I've done it before. I can help you, once I find a place to sleep.” She turned and looked frankly into the empty back bedroom. Cateyo was using it as a temporary storage space. Skis, a tennis racket, an old dresser, and a couple piles of old magazines were all that occupied the little room.
Cateyo watched her and felt a tiny pang of guilt. She had plenty of room, and she had sometimes thought of advertising for a roommate, but then she'd thought she would just wait until another single nurse came in to St. James and, if she liked her, offer the room. And then, lately, she had harbored a little fantasy about Paul. Maybe, when he got better and was discharged, she could bring him here. This was so remote and the means of effecting it so unclear that she hadn't dared to really think about it.
There was something about Heather, though. She seemed at once big and strong, exuding power . . . but then there was an odd vulnerability, a faint breath of tenderness. Cateyo liked to stand next to her, sensing the older woman's power. It was a curious combination, perhaps only displayed by physically imposing women. Or certain beasts, such as gorillas.
Heather turned back and thrust her ugly hands into her pockets. She had learned early that for some reason people felt easier around her when her hands were in her pockets. She observed the irresolute expression on Cateyo's face: guilt contending with something unknown. Fear? A desire to be left alone?
“Part of the problem with finding a place,” Heather said, “is that I can't stay long. This job with the power company is only for a couple of months, and then I'll be off to the next one. Probably Seattle.”
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