by Paul Cleave
When I get to my door, I dig into my pocket. My jeans tighten across my crotch. I wince as I take hold of my keys. Fumble with the lock. Thirty seconds. And I’m not picking this one.
I close the door behind me, drop my keys on the floor, and stagger toward bed. My entire body is shaking. Is this the next step? Lie down forever?
No. Although I want to do nothing more than rest, I know I need to take care of the injury. Best to do it while I still have the balls. .
Huh!
. . to go ahead with such an operation.
I find a towel and toss it onto the floor, then make my way out of my jeans. Don’t know if I’ll ever be able to wear them again. From my experience blood, unfortunately, stains. I spend fifteen minutes undressing myself, then another five finding a bucket and filling it with warm water. My fish watch me with odd looks on their small faces. I say nothing to reassure them. I want to feed them, but can’t.
I grab more supplies, then lie down on the towel on the floor with my ass on a cushion, elevating my hips. The following hour is spent in three ways. The first involves drinking enough wine to have the room spinning. The second has me biting down extremely hard on a broom handle, stifling screams. The third has a disinfectant-soaked rag in my hand, dabbing at what should never be dabbed with disinfectant. I don’t know if it will become infected. Thoughts of my testicle becoming gangrenous are so horrifying that the mere possibility keeps me dabbing. When I’m done, I wash down my stomach and see that the long cut Melissa gave me is shallow enough to ignore-not that it matters. I mean, Jesus, my stomach lining could be poking through and it would be nothing in comparison with my testicle.
I don’t know if I will ever have sex again. Ever walk properly. Ever talk. All I know is that I need this day to end. This Sunday. . No, hang on a moment. Saturday?
Jesus, this is Saturday! This means my internal clock is far more damaged than I thought, but also means I have another day before the weekend’s over. A whole day to heal.
I am starting to slip into a total-body shutdown. I head over to my bed and lie down. My mind is setting the pain aside and storing it in my memory bank on the chance I can fall asleep, and on the slimmer chance I might manage to wake up again. I wish a blurred good night to my fish. It could be night. Could still be morning.
My head swirling with thoughts of revenge, sluggish from the alcohol, I close my eyes and look for an escape.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
She’s watching one of the DVDs with her father when the phone rings. On the TV somebody is trying to put Clint Eastwood into a grave. If you took that out of a Clint Eastwood movie, there wouldn’t be a lot else going on. This particular time they’re starting by putting his head through a noose. Her father hits the pause button while she gets up and moves into the dining room. On the screen, time has stopped, giving Clint longer to think about what he has done to make these men want to hang him.
Sally is sure the call will be for one of her parents because nobody ever calls for her. For a moment she thinks it could be Joe, but the moment is brief. He probably threw her number out as soon as she left the records room yesterday. Just what had she been thinking? That she could somehow replace her brother?
She reaches out and picks up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Sally?”
“That’s right,” she says, not recognizing the voice.
“Sally?”
“Who is this?”
“It’s Joe.”
“Joe?”
“Sally? Sally, you said if I ever needed anything. .” His voice fades away.
“Joe?”
Still nothing. Is it really Joe? It doesn’t sound like him.
“Joe?”
“Please. Sally. Something has happened. I’m sick. Really, really sick. I don’t know what to do. I’m in pain. A lot of it. Can you help me? Is there anything you can do?”
“I can call you an ambulance.”
“No. No ambulance. Please, I need you to understand this,” he asks, talking as if she’s the one mentally challenged and not him. “I need painkillers. And first aid. Please, I need you to pick some up and come to my house. It hurts so bad. Please. Do you understand?”
“Where do you live?”
“Live? I. . I don’t remember.”
“Joe?”
“Wait, wait. Hang on. Pen? Do you have one?”
“I’ve got one.”
He gives her his address, and then he’s gone. She stares out the window at the vegetable garden in the backyard her father has been at war with for the last few years (he is slowly accepting defeat). All the plants and weeds also seem to be at war with each other. The phone call already feels like it just didn’t happen. It was short and confusing and so unlike Joe. She realizes she’s still holding the phone. That’s proof he just rang. She didn’t at all like the way he sounded. She punches two of the three required numbers to call an ambulance, then hangs up. She’ll hold off calling for help till she’s seen Joe. For all she knows, it could be something as simple as a splinter. Sometimes her brother would be the same way for something equally as small.
Up in her bedroom she pulls out a first-aid kit from beneath her bed, unzips the top, and checks to make sure it’s fully stocked, even though she knew it would be. She tells her parents she’ll be back later, then heads out to her car. It’s gray outside, there are a few patches of blue sky out to the east, but not many.
Joe’s neighborhood is on the decline, she thinks, as she follows the streets on her map. Many of the buildings and houses need work. Some more than others. A coat of paint and a lawn mower would solve some problems, but nothing short of demolition would fix others. This area wouldn’t need to be this way, she thinks, if more people cared.
Joe’s apartment building is only a few stories high. It’s made of brick, which in places has been tagged by teenagers’ spray paint. None of the windows are clean, mildew and mold have discolored the bottom third of the building, and cracks have been patched with mortar and paint. The pathway out front has some weird stains on it and smells like rotten food.
The staircase is dimly lit and smells a little like urine, but it’s not dim enough to miss seeing patches of blood every few steps or so. By the time she reaches the top floor she’s extremely worried. She looks at the different doors and finds Joe’s apartment. As she reaches out and knocks she notices her hands are shaking.
A minute goes by and Joe doesn’t answer. Was it him who actually called? It didn’t sound like him, but who else could it have been? A second and far worse thought comes to her. What if Joe was so badly hurt, he’s died? That’s the thought that makes her try the handle. She reaches out and twists it, and when she opens the door the stench of decay and disinfectant pushes out at her, and she has to stifle the compulsion to start gagging.
The apartment is small by any standards. Daylight is flooding through the single window on the far side and it hits every particle of floating dust along the way, making it look as though she’s walking into a sandstorm. She’s been wondering what Joe’s place would look like, but she hadn’t pictured this: wallpaper hanging from the walls, filthy and damaged floorboards, old furniture full of cracks and splits, not that she ever pictured she would see it under these circumstances. She hadn’t imagined such a mess either, but when she spots Joe lying on the bed she realizes it must only be because of the state he’s in. His clothes are heaped on the floor, covered in blood and grass stains and vomit. Bandages and tissues are piled in the middle of the floor. Next to them lies an empty bottle of wine, cotton swabs, rags, even a bottle of disinfectant. A bucket that reeks of bad things stands next to the couch.
Her immediate thought upon seeing all of that is that he’s been stabbed. Stabbed and killed.
She closes the door behind her, then quickly makes her way over to him. He’s naked, except for a sheet that covers his waist. His entire body is covered in a film of sweat, and has taken on a grayish tinge. His eyes are barely open, and she isn’t
sure he can even see her. She can see the rise and fall of his chest. She smooths away his damp hair and rests a hand on his forehead. He’s burning up.
“Joe? Joe, can you hear me?”
His eyes open slightly further. “Mom? What’s happening?”
“Joe, it’s Sally.”
“Mom?”
His eyes close. The sheet covering his waist has patches of blood on it. More has dried on his stomach. His body is covered in scars, and a recent cut runs down his stomach. The blood on his hands and caked under his fingernails is mixed with dirt. There are smears of vomit on his upper body, along with streaks of grass and dirt.
“Joe, can you tell me how this happened?”
“Attacked. I was attacked.”
“I’m going to call the police, then I’m going to call an ambulance.”
“No. No. No ambulance. No police. Please.”
“Where’s the phone?” she asks, and only then do his words start to sink in.
Before she can ask him why, he reaches out and wraps his hand around her wrist. He tightens his grip, manages to keep a hold for a few seconds before it falls away. “I’m Joe Victim,” he says, “but Joe doesn’t want to be a victim. No police. Just medicine.”
Gently she reaches out and picks up the corner of the sheet. Joe starts to shiver. She slowly lifts it aside not sure what to expect, but certainly not this, and what she sees makes her gasp and tears well up and spill down her cheeks.
“Oh, my poor sweet Joe,” she says. “Who did this to you?”
“Nobody,” he answers, only managing a whisper.
“We need more help.”
“People can’t know. People laugh at Joe. Laugh more if they find out.”
“I have to call the police.” She reaches out and grabs hold of the phone.
“No!” Joe screams, sitting up and grabbing hold of her hand again, his hand wrapping around her wrist with so much force she’s worried he’s going to break it. “They’ll kill me!”
Then, the pain of sitting up hits him, he flops down, his eyes roll back in his head, and he passes out.
Sally stares at the phone. What are her obligations here? To help Joe, that’s a certainty. Does she do what’s best for her patient, or does she follow the patient’s wishes? If she makes the call, what happens if Joe is right and people come back to hurt him? The police can only do so much. She puts the phone down. She has made up her mind. God has brought her here to help Joe, not to risk putting him in the path of more violence.
She balls up the sheet and puts it on the floor, out of the way. Standing by the side of the bed, peering at the wound, she can’t help but think she’s invading Joe’s privacy, but of course she’s a nurse now, a professional. This is what she trained for. This is what she wanted to be.
Yes, but a professional would know when she was out of her depth. She would know when to call for an ambulance.
That’s exactly right. This isn’t what she trained for. But a professional making that decision could get Joe killed, if what he said is true. At the very least she’ll see what she can do to help him, then reassess the decision. She reaches up to bring the crucifix up to her chin. She holds it there for a few seconds before taking it off and wrapping the chain around Joe’s hand so Jesus rests in his palm. Moving back she crouches down to look at the wound from another direction. Joe’s penis is lying on an angle, upward across the base of his stomach and pointing at his shoulder. He’s placed a piece of duct tape across it, to hold it away from the wound.
“Poor Joe,” she says, almost in tears. The way to continue is with the basics. She tells herself this over and over as she pulls on a pair of latex gloves, and as she does, she notices other pairs lying around the apartment. What does Joe use them for? Cleaning, most likely. She reaches over and pushes down on the side of Joe’s thigh, trying to get a better look at the wound without touching it. His testicle has been squeezed, mashed, and destroyed by a tool. Her guess is a pair of pliers, or vise grips.
“Mugged,” Joe murmurs. His eyes are open again.
“Who mugged you?”
He doesn’t answer. Just keeps looking straight ahead.
She continues to assess the wound. The testicle has to be removed. She wishes there were a way around that, but can’t see one. There’s no doubt it has to go, just as there’s no doubt she lacks the qualifications-or even the confidence-to do the procedure.
“We have to get you to a hospital, Joe.”
“Can’t. They’ll come back. Hurt me. Please, can you make it better?”
She smiles down at him. “Of course,” she says.
The first thing she does is open the window. It has to be close to a hundred degrees in here, and already she’s sweating. Fresh air starts to roll in. While she waits for some water to boil, she soaks a cloth in cold water and rests it on Joe’s forehead. He hardly seems to notice.
Her first-aid kit is more advanced than most, as it contains items she has owned since nursing school. One thing she’s missing is any form of local anesthetic, but if she’s lucky Joe will stay unconscious through most of this. Actually, Joe needs to be the one who is lucky.
She pulls out the handle of her scalpel and drops it in the boiling water. The blade is wrapped in foil, already sterile. She unfolds a plastic sheet and tries to roll Joe on his side and slip it beneath him, but he’s too heavy. She does know how to move patients, but not a patient with a testicle that has been ripped into shreds. She rocks him slightly to the side and does the best she can. She leaves the tape over his penis. It’s a crude job, but effective enough. She soaks a few small pads in iodine, then begins to wipe the area around the wound. The risk of infection is high, but this is the best she can do.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go to a hospital? Joe?”
Joe is staring at her as if he wasn’t expecting her to be here. His eyes move to the goldfish bowl on the table. She hadn’t noticed it until now.
“Joe?”
“Please. .” He points to the empty bottle of wine. She takes a closer look and realizes it’s still about a third full. She reaches out and hands it to him. It will help, she thinks. She also pulls the belt out of his discarded and bloody jeans. The belt will help too.
She looks down at her hands. They’re no longer shaking. She rips open the foil packaging of the scalpel blade and prepares to go to work.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I dream of death and wish I was there. I dream of pain and this is where I live.
My teeth bite down on the end of the wine bottle and I start swallowing what I can. I’m lucky I even own wine. I bought it six months ago when it was my mother’s birthday. I thought we might celebrate. She accused me of trying to poison her, and I ended up bringing it back home. Normally the smell of wine is enough to make me gag. Now I cling to the feeling it’s giving me, a feeling of hope that I might just slip away from all of this. I try to hold my tongue aside so I don’t have to taste it, but it doesn’t work. I feel like vomiting after a few seconds, but the more I get through, the less concerned I become about the taste, and the more I begin to enjoy the sensation it’s giving me. I let my head rest against the pillow, and look at the person crouching in front of my crotch. The person is wearing a surgeon’s mask, but I can tell it’s a woman. I pray it isn’t Melissa. I don’t know why she’s here. I can’t remember calling for help, and I realize I must be hallucinating. Or just lucky. My face is growing numb, and my vision becomes slow. When I turn my head it takes my eyes a second to catch up.
The pain starts to flare up again. I look around the room, but the surroundings are familiar, not like they ought to be if I were in a hospital. I try to bite down on the bottle, but find I am already biting down on something else. It’s my belt. Not the sort of thing a doctor would use.
My hands are shaking, and my entire body feels warm. I don’t know how the doctor does it, but she moves so quickly that one moment she’ll be holding something sharp in the air, and the next she’ll be d
abbing something on me. I blink once, she changes position; I blink again, she’s somewhere else-I’m slipping in and out of consciousness. Mostly her words are disjointed, but she’s trying to reassure me. I watch as she removes pieces of skin and flesh, then I can watch no more.
I stare up at the ceiling. It is sagging slightly in the middle. I try talking to my doctor, but I’m not really sure what I’m saying. Is this all a dream? Am I operating on myself?
I don’t know how much time passes, but when I look up again, the doctor is gone. I am all alone, just as my testicle is now all alone. I start to reach down my body, but then think better of it. I’m too scared to see what the damage could be. I close my eyes. Open them again. The doctor is in. I close them. The doctor is out.
What is happening to me?
Am I dying?
I stare at the ceiling and hope that I am.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Sally sits on the couch and stares at the goldfish bowl. When she reaches out and sprinkles in some food, the two fish inside quickly head toward the surface and begin eating.
The surgery, if she can call it that, has gone well. She suspects the chances of infection are slim. She has neatly removed the damage done by the pliers, and used dissolvable stitches internally and normal stitches externally. Of course only time will tell. Now that she’s finished, she’s hung the crucifix back around her neck.
She had figured Joe needed it more during that time.
She’s decided that as much as she wants to call the police, she won’t do it. She wants Joe to be healed professionally, and she wants the people who did this to be caught and convicted, but she’ll wait until she can discuss it with him. There isn’t room out on the streets for people who can commit such an evil act. She thinks about the Christchurch Carver, about the hell he’s been putting women through. It’s true that the devil can walk among us.