The Redeeming Power of Brain Surgery

by Paul Flower

  Elvis spoke but couldn’t feel the words.

  There was a crash from Jerry’s side of the conversation, a pause, then a crowd laughing. “What?”

  “I said, where are you?” Elvis shouted.

  “You don’t worry about that. Your worry is what I’m gonna do to you. I’m bailed out for now,” Jerry was getting hysterical. “But they’re gonna pull it all together and when they do, I’m… I had the guy... I killed the… Man, you had me do this. You did.”

  “Elvis, you still in here somewhere?” Donnel was in the dining room.

  “They said they turned up something in the autopsy, traces of the stuff I slipped the guy. Guy I got it from must’ve lied, man. He said that shit showed no traces.”

  “You poisoned him?”

  “What you think I did? You wanted violent.”

  “I did.” Elvis said it like a statement but meant it as a question.

  “Damn straight you did. And know what? I did everything you asked, even got that guy to follow him around. How’d I know he was a cop?”

  Elvis tried to regroup. Harvey. Harvey Monahan.

  “Now they’re talking to people. And I am in no way, shape, or form going to stand here and take this deal alone, I tell you that.”

  To Elvis, that part didn’t figure. How could Jerry have gotten in touch with Harvey Monahan?

  “Elvis, wait up, man.” Donnel’s voice was suddenly clear. He was in the kitchen.

  “This is on you,” Jerry’s voice said in his ear. “This is all yours. There’s no way you can, like, avoid it. No where you can run to.”

  Donnel was walking toward him, his eyes wide and sad. His face had a hound dog look. “Elvis, man. Don’t leave. I’m trying to help you’s all.”

  Elvis closed his eyes. This was too much. A cloud, mean, menacing and thundering, rumbled in his head. He pictured Jesse and Lavern in this kitchen. Or maybe it was Donnel and Lavern. He imagined Lavern peeling potatoes and humming to a tune on the radio. Maybe there was milk on the counter just begging to be spilled. Jesse-Donnel, leaning against the counter, was reading the paper and mumbling about excise taxes and mutual funds and the Dow Jones industrial average and stuff she didn’t know diddly about. Then he saw his mother at the bus station with an ashtray cocked by her ear; she was waiting to sling it at him. The fox growled. Elvis swallowed and opened his eyes. He flung the phone at Donnel.

  “It’s for you.”

  ****

  His car was gone. Jesse had taken it.

  The only option was Jesse’s car. Elvis walked toward the garage, praying silently that the car was in there and that it had keys.

  The garage had the scent of exhaust and something else; it was an odor that was soft and sweet but, in a funny way, overwhelming. Elvis tried to identify it but it seemed to drift away into the shadows.

  The guy’s car was gorgeous—a silver Mercedes. Gorgeous. It was the kind of car that looked like it was moving when it was sitting in the middle of the garage. The garage itself was awfully clean, and the smell seemed out of place; it hung, strong, smoky sweet and sickening in the air. There was none of the usual garage stuff—no tools, no peg board or anything—just some cardboard boxes stacked next to the door and on the far side, in the back corner, a black, new-looking wood stove. The stove door was closed. A shining metal pipe connected it to the roof, and there was a mess of what looked like leaves and dirt on a tarp on the cement floor in front of it.

  Elvis walked around the back of the car. On the clean, gray concrete next to the Mercedes—in the second stall of the garage—was a muddy shovel, some wood kindling stacked in a painstakingly neat pile, one of those adjustable, goose-necked work lights, and what looked like another work light on some kind of collapsible tripod.

  Something in his gut slithered. The longer he stood there, the more smell he absorbed.

  Get out of here. Go. Now. Yes. The Mercedes. Maybe. No. Yes. Keys. Maybe. Elvis took two wobbly steps toward the car then turned back toward the tarp. He thought he heard something outside. He stopped and looked out into the yard, holding his breath.

  Nothing.

  Go. Now. Go.

  He moved quickly back around the car, running a finger along the finish, then grabbed the door handle and pulled. Ca-click, it opened on the first try. The scent of leather and cigars rolled out at him, partly masking the other thing. He also sensed another vague, familiar scent.

  Whoa. Hold on. Elvis swayed a little, then steadied himself. No, no way, he thought, even though he wanted to believe what he smelled was real. Oh, please, yes, he did. He took a deep breath, got in the car and closed the door.

  The Mercedes had a—“whatchacallit?” Elvis thought—a key fob. And the thing was in the ignition. Elvis imagined the hand of God, Mercedes Benz fob clenched between the fingers, coming down through the moonroof and sliding the thing into the ignition then pulling back up, up, up into the sky. He bowed his head and closed his eyes. His mother’s eyes stared back. No. Please. He opened his eyes and his gaze wandered from the dash to the seat next to him. A piece of yellow paper, folded, stood out against the burgundy leather.

  The way his name was written was the way she wrote. Mrs. Feely had always given her high marks for her penmanship, all the teachers had. “Elvis,” the note said, in her penmanship.

  Slowly, the car grew warm and Elvis could feel his heart trying to crack through his ribs. The paper was turned just so he could he read it. Watermelon perfume, Zest soap and Butterfinger candy bars; he smelled them again. He tasted the other thing, the smoky, sick thing, and swallowed.

  The paper was in his shaking hand. He sat, staring at it, blood pounding in his ears. Once again, he wanted her to explain it all. He’d need a couple beers to get through it, he knew that. But he wanted her to explain. One Lavern please, he ordered to an invisible waitress, with a beer chaser.

  He unfolded the paper slowly, laying it open on the steering wheel like a surgeon opening a patient.

  The letters were firm, perfectly looped, cursive letters in red pen, maybe red-orange:

  Elvis:

  I love you baby. I always did. I always will.

  I’m here. I’ve been here. And I know you might be mad at me but I hope you’re not! I’d hate to have you mad at me! I’ll explain everything as soon as I can. To everything there is a season and a reason, right? Really, I hope you’re not mad because I did what I did for a reason. Donnel, too, he’s a trooper, you know? And he loves you, really. I know that sounds funny, him being a guy, but it’s not that kind of love, like queer or anything. He doubted you a while, to be honest, I think. And I’m sorry, so sorry to tell you so did I baby. I’m so so sorry. Please forgive us, me. We’ve been through a lot and I doubted but now we know we shouldn’t have. And we been trying to help. And I think it worked. I think it helped! You’re doing stuff you never would have done if I hadn’t done what I did, what we did, you know? That’s confusing, right? But it’s kind of supposed to be. We was desperate. I thought a lot of it up last night when I had Donnel roll the truck. Then, after I found out you’d gone out here to the house, I was so proud of you! That was an answered prayer, you know that? But it told me we’d done the right thing, OK? I know it hurt some but I also knowed I had to keep pushing you, Elvis. I wanted to get you to remember, baby, ‘cuz I knew something bad did happen back then; I just didn’t know what. I wanted you to find out the truth on your own. With God’s help. God led you back. God will. Do you BELIEVE that? Now I been thinking something and you think it’s dumb just ignore it because maybe I’m going too far and I hope God don’t mind and you neither but maybe you need to go back to where you used to live. You don’t have to but maybe that might JAR something. It was just an idea. You don’t have to. You’re doing just great. Great!! But I want you to REMEMBER everything. I don’t, I can’t tell you everything because there are things I don’t know, except I kno
w you’re not BAD. Stay with it baby. I love YOU. You’re not BAD. But you got to remember what happened back then, you know, a long time ago.

  Lavern.

  Lavern. The way she formed the letters and capitalized some words—he could hear her in that. He breathed deeply and he could smell her. Watermelon perfume, Zest soap and Butterfinger candybars. Oh. Lavern. What had she done to him? Why? Why? Donnel didn’t trust her. Should he? No. Yes. He should. Yes. Lavern cared. Lavern was good. She was EVERYTHING, wasn’t she? No. She’d lied. Lied and DIED. She’d cheated. With him. Maybe. Maybe not. Trust. Donnel. Of course. Yes. Trust them both. She’s here. Him too. Here. For a reason. And you know. You know why? Yes. No. The hand. God. Help me. Please. Mom. Oh. Mom.

  Elvis fumbled for the latch and, out of habit, pushed hard against the car door. He flung himself onto the garage floor, his face skidding on the concrete. He rolled to his back with a groan. Get out of the way. Don’t let her. Don’t let her. He turned and ran, away from them, away from this house, away.

  Chapter Eighteen

  He’d heard other cops talk about how it feels to be shot. Some dwelled on the cartoon-world impact, like taking the full hit of a Ford F-250 at 60 miles per hour in the (choose the body part being shot). Pretty much everyone mentioned the rush of adrenalin and tingling heat and everything around you going super slo-mo.

  He felt all of these things and a few he didn’t expect, including the nearly irresistible urge to release his bowels and bladder.

  And after the worst of it, shuddering in the cool grass of the ditch, Harvey Monahan looked up at trooper Clayton Diebold and saw the panic-paralyzed face of a young man whose career was bleeding in front of him.

  “Get on the radio. Get some help,” Harvey Monahan heard himself say. “And put that sidearm away before you kill some damn raccoon or something.”

  Diebold fumbled for his holster and stuck the gun in it. “I’m…oh, I’m sorry… You jumped in my line of fire.” He turned and leaned into the car, pulled out the mic to the radio, dropped it, bent over and fumbled for it, the gun sliding out of the holster and clattering to the pavement. “I didn’t… you…”

  “I was keeping you from shooting an unarmed brain surgeon, you wiseass,” Harvey groaned as the kid recovered the gun and microphone; he heard him making the call for backup and an ambulance.

  “Forget the ambulance. I’m fine. And relax.” He groaned. “We’ll find some way to explain this, baby boy.”

  Rising to his knees, Harvey tested the shoulder. It moved. He groaned and tried to stand. The ditch slid out from under him. He clawed his way to his knees and managed to stand. The world swayed. A hawk or something like it waved at him from a goofy angle in the slate sky. The shoulder hurt. It hurt. He pulled a trembling hand away from the hot hole in his shirt and looked at it. Surprising. Not too much blood. It dawned on him that it was on both sides; the bullet had gone through. He was going to be fine. But now the stupid doctor was on the run.

  He’d been having a good day, a really good day. This couldn’t be it. No. This day had been too good to end this way.

  ****

  Jesse Tieter reached the Cordoba, fought the stubborn latch, got in, and slammed the door. The cell phone was ringing. No. No time. Someone. A gun? Shot. Big trouble. Hurry. Now. Not the phone. Not now. He turned the key in the ignition. The car coughed. The phone rang. He had to go. Get out of here. Not now. But. Stupid car. He stomped the gas pedal and tried again. The phone rang. The engine tried to turn over, but nothing. What if. Go. How. Hurry. Who could call? Someone. Shot. A gun?

  He answered the phone. “Hello,” he said, trying to catch his breath. Jesse glanced out the windshield. Up the road the cop was down. Shot. The kid, the driver, he was on the radio. He’d done it? The driver?

  “You coming to get me or not? I got to call every phone number or what?”

  Mom?

  “I’m down at the bus station like I said. Like you wanted me. You want me to get that dang cab?” The anger in her voice, the instability in it, snapped and crackled in the receiver. “I called every number I can get my hands on. One’s busy. Another’s got a dang answering machine with your kid on it. What you got, another pot boiling? You too busy cleaning house to answer the phone? You always were a neatnik. Neatnik beatnik. That’s you. Had to keep all your shirts lined up in the drawer just so. Egg on right, bacon on left. Hup hup and chinnee chin chee, bossing momma’s the life for me. That was you. Mr. Puckerbutt Neatboy. Liked everything tidy, clean, and perfect. Always.”

  Huh? No. Wait. Hold the phone. “You here?”

  There was a quivering, ugly silence then her voice, low and vicious: “Like you wanted, I am. Like you said a million hours ago, ‘Sit tight;’ that’s what you said, neatnik beatnick.”

  “Where? Where are you?”

  “O’Goolys. The news stand. The bus stop. Where you think the bus has been stopping forever? O’Gooly’s News…” For a minute, she was so angry she couldn’t go on. “You sure you ain’t that other boy now? You sure? You my messy boy, idiot boy or you the neat one?”

  “No. Mom. Mom. I’m, no. Not Elvis. You’re, you’re here?” What had she meant, pot boiling?

  “Like you wanted, I’m here. You coming or not?”

  The cop, Monahan, was in the ditch, standing or trying to stand. His shoulder. Oh. Wow. Jesse clenched his jaw. “Mom, just hold on.”

  “I been holding on long enough, don’t you think?”

  “Mom. I can’t… wait. Just hold on.”

  “What more holding you want?”

  Monahan was mad. He started to yell something, looked toward the Cordoba, wobbled and fell down again. With a trembling hand, Jesse reached for the key. His shoulder throbbed. His hands itched. He clawed at the hand holding the phone. “Mom, I have to deal with some things right now.”

  “What now, you got doily arranging need to be done? I tell you what, you one of the fanciest little boys there ever was. Liked all that pretty stuff. Every time I ever showed you a picture of something pretty, you was all google-eyed over it. Liked your baths, too.”

  Jesse ground his teeth and turned the key. The car groaned, coughed and sputtered like an old man. “Shit.”

  “What you say? You swear at me young man? You swear? I’ll wash your mouth for sure. You’d like that, too. Whoa, couldn’t get no dirt on you. And if you did, you had to wash, wash, wash. A regular pretty little angel. You’re just what I needed to go ’long with my war hero and my half-retard other baby. That’s the way I looked at him. Half-retard. No basis for it, you know. None. They call ’em, what, motorskills? The motorskills was just fine on him. I told the stupid doc there was something wrong with him, but the motorskills was fine and he was in his percentages, he said and so what, la-dee-dah that his brother’s ahead of him, different kids is different. One real extra advanced baby doesn’t mean the other one’s abnormal, just not advanced is all. That’s what the doctor said and he was asking about the stupid spot on Elvis where he fell on his back, like babies do that are learning to walk, just this spot, talking how that was maybe why he was crying so much, the spot, staring at me the whole time and looking at your arms and legs and checking out your belly and back and asking about did I ever get mad at you babies, asking me if I was okay and talking about dee-pression like there was something wrong with me or you and not your poor little dumb baby brother. Doctor needed suing. What he needed. Both of you, our fine little rewards from God your daddy’d say. God works in mysterious ways, he used to say. Used to come back from church and ask ‘how you been,’ and tell me one baby bawling all morning was a blessing and the other was a blessing and the way God works is mysteriousness, then he’d try to get me all in the mood. Used to come home all lovey-dovey like the preaching was a turn-on and me with you needing a change and that brother squalling, squalling, squalling all morning. No mysteriousness in either of you. That’s God. Way
I see it. Take this. And that. See how you like them kumquats. See what you get for getting all hot in the hay with your little cowpunk before you had the ring and the paper. Oh, but he was a fine one at first, Lord. Oh, he was. Lord, see him? Don’t you see? How could I not? I was all shot up with vinegar and looking for trouble and there he was. When he was young, a stallion, all wild with that hair and those cowboy boots, standing all tall there. Something. Whacked in the head, though. That’s how they sent him back from the war. They did. Sent him back, brain all jelly. Strawberry-jammed head. They done it. Sent him back half-baked. Wasn’t his fault. The government. They could’ve fixed him, but they didn’t. And that’s way I remember him. All pretty and fine outside. All cooked up like bad meat inside. Was me that named the babies and raised them. Elvis Pelvis and his dead brother twin. Was me. He didn’t know nothing about babies and didn’t care and got those buddies of his coming over and got to so he thought it was fine and dandy to just laze around and drink and yell at me when the food wasn’t hot enough or when his pants wasn’t ironed just so and oh he was so good about wanting things perfect—wanting everything just so. His food all arranged right on the plate before he’d slop it down then head out to who knew where. I was scared, living out there in the sticks with just me and you boys half the time. Got so I learned how to shoot; him gone all the time I had to protect myself. Truth be told, I was worried about him too; used to wonder if maybe he’d go over the deep end and I’d need to be ready if he came after me or you. Used to practice with this old pearl-handled thing he’d traded off some buddy in the army. When he was gone and you was older and off at school. Wasn’t wrong of me to do. Not wrong. Not at all. Come in handy, now that I think about it.”

  Blah blah blah. He didn’t hear her. He couldn’t. There was too much to take in. Jesse clenched his eyes and tried to form a plan. Lavern. Jerry. Monahan. That fat, stupid Donnel. Mom. And Elvis. How? He groaned again and twisted to see himself in the rear-view. The side of his face was scraped; his hair was wild. His lower lip was swollen. Sheeze. He needed to get out of here. Hotel. Indiana. Maybe. Yeah. Hide there. Get this shoulder set, then a bath. But this car. And now, the guy. Monahan. Was on his feet. The kid-cop was coming around. He was going to Monahan. Monahan was climbing the side of the ditch. Looking this way. Even from here you could see his face. It was red, blotchy. Holding his shoulder. He was coming. Trying. This way. Wait. Wait. The kid was yelling, his vapor-words punching the air: “Wait. No. Monahan. Come on.” Sweat trickled down his spine. Monahan stopped and turned, annoyed at the kid-cop. Monahan’s face was gray. He tottered. Jesse scratched the back of one hand, the other.