by Tom Larsen
Lean starts for the living room stairs.
“It can’t fail! That’s what’s bugging you, isn’t it Lena?”
She turns with an angry look. “Listen to yourself, Harry. You’re talking about killing someone so you can be comfortable in your old age. It’s insanity.”
“One way or another I’m getting off this treadmill. Little shit-balls like Baldini have no place in my life. I stay there and I’ll end up killing him and you won’t get a nickel out of that!”
“You need professional help.”
“Like I said, I can’t do it anymore.”
***
Later, in bed:
“What are you thinking about Harry?”
“Who says I’m thinking?”
“I can hear those squeaky little wheels turning.”
“I’m thinking about your old guy in the fedora. You never said a word.”
“I must have. You weren’t paying attention.”
“Uh-uh. That would have caught my attention.”
“Maybe that’s why I didn’t tell you.”
“Maybe, yeah. Or maybe you were saving it.”
“It’s late, Harry. Go to sleep.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Stevie follows the ripple of muscle, those shoulders of epic proportions, even the back, chiseled with muscled wings spreading up from the ribcage. My God he’s magnificent, the butt, perfect, the legs, ooh la-la! Twin tree trunks twisted in sinew, sculpted Adonis, diamond in the buff. Too bad it’s all steroids and methamphetamines and the poor pea brain will never see forty. Walking time bomb, primed and ready.
“You understand, Rolf. It’s not anything in particular, just a general, well . . . incompatibility.”
“Christ, Stevie, it’s only been six days.”
“Almost seven.”
“And you were gone the whole weekend.”
“Yes, so you had a few friends over. And my couch . . .”
“It was an accident!”
“I know. It’s unfortunate. Honestly Rolf? It’s as much my fault as it is yours.”
“Oh sure, but you don’t have to move back in with your mother.”
Stevie goes halfway to him.
“It might work out this time. She needs you now Rolf.”
And that face, like something carved in marble, no granite, the impossible jaw, the cheekbones like perfect little ledges. Like what’s-his-name the football player. Howie Long, that’s the one. Jesus. If you could just unplug them when you’re through and stick them in the closet.
“What about my deposit?” Rolf grumbles.
“I told you. Your mother asked me to send it to her so you wouldn’t spend it on drugs.”
“You what!?”
“I told you! You weren’t listening!”
“Fuuuck!” and the muscles double then quadruple as Rolf bangs off the walls, calling up threats of death and destruction, coming down nose to Stevie’s nose.
“I ought to break you in half,” the meth-breath, have mercy!
“You don’t want to do anything stupid now, Rolf,” Stevie’s voice goes all over the place. “Look, I can write you a check. Please, Rolf, my glasses.”
He backs off to crunch a number. “Make it three bills. And I need to borrow a coat. It’s getting chilly.”
“How do you spell that last name again?”
“Just Rolf. They know me at your bank.”
“Right. Okay then, look, no hard feelings, okay?”
“You never wanted it to work. I knew it that first night in the bar.”
“That’s not true. But we must be realistic, Rolf. The chemistry just isn’t right.”
“You’re so full of shit, Stevie.”
“Okay, I know you’re upset. We’ll talk about it when you come for your stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“Well, your clothes and that chair.”
“The chair? What the hell am I going to do with it? I got nowhere to put a chair.”
“Of course, my mistake. The chair can stay.”
Rolf continues to prowl the room, stuffing his stuff in a laundry bag, trying on Stevie’s coats, pawing through Stevie’s sweaters. When he has what he needs he snatches the check and brushes past without a word.
Gone. Gone at long last. Stevie wanders from room to room soaking in his absence, six days and nights of Rolf and his muscles. Mood swings and marathon phone calls. Weepy Rolf and his running babble on into the wee small hours. Lips smacking, tongue lathered in slime, Rolf and his relentless sweat, musky at first, but fading to stink. Mad Rolf gone from his life, at least until the check bounces.
A dumb idea, getting a “roommate” at this stage of the game, his daughter sick, his life unraveling, the latest in a long line of poor decisions, mercifully resolved. But thoughts of Lilly fill him with dread and he sees himself running after the big lug, begging him to come back, at least for a few days. All the earmarks of a downward spiral, just the thing he doesn’t need. He thinks to nosh, but he’s already eaten too much today. He worries that worry will make him sick.
When he’s sure Rolf’s gone and not just out front sitting in his car, Stevie goes out on the deck and watches the sun set, a real production with the swirls and streaks, every color in the crayon box. He watches to the end and into the darkness, slide shows rolling in his head.
Lilly. Poor kid’s only five years old!
The phone brings him back, Dorie calling from the hospital.
“There’s no change, Stevie. I know you hate to hear it, but that’s all I can tell you.”
“But did they say if the drugs are helping? I mean aside from killing her . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.”
“Have you given any thought to what Doctor Brymer was saying?”
“Any thought? What do you mean?”
“The bone marrow transplant? As a final option?”
“What, you don’t think I’ll go through with it?”
“I didn’t say that, Stevie. It’s just that you’re the only compatible donor and you’re in denial. You said so yourself.”
“You have my word, Dorie.”
Stevie hangs on as she fills him in on Lilly’s day, the painful injections, the skin color, her words going in one ear and rattling around his head. He paces the kitchen, scanning the floor for food stains, squatting with the phone and a wet paper towel. Scrubbing and consoling, as is his way.
“And I’m praying for you too, Stevie. Every day,” Dorie’s voice, frail and rubbery.
“I’ll be down in a couple of days,” he searches the cabinet for the Windex, mucho disgusting in there too.
“You know I think about us, all the things that happened.”
“Dorie, honey–”
“Somebody should write a book, hey Stevie? A heartbreaker in three parts.”
Stevie toes a towel under the counter, scrubs at a spot on the oven door. “What’s the third part?”
“I guess we have to wait and see.”
“Jesus, Dorie, when you put it like that its sort of obvious, isn’t it?”
“Did you deal with your roommate?”
“Don’t remind me. It was like getting rid of a show cat that sprays.”
“Spare me the imagery.”
“Or a bad front tooth.”
“My sister said he’s a real hunk.”
“He was okay, a little too macho for me.”
Dorie goes on for ten more minutes, trailing off now and then as if she’s been drinking. So what if she’s been drinking? If he were there with her they’d both go for the load. Poor Dorie, marries a gay guy then loses their daughter. Christ, what a thing to be thinking, Lilly’s far from dead. The doctors give her a sixty-forty percent chance, or did last time Stevie pinned one down. A while ago, now that he thinks of it. Even so, sixty-forty, for every two parents who bury a child, three will see theirs recover. Something like that, more than fifty-fifty. Better than even
.
“Maybe you should give it a break for a while, Dorie. The hospital, I mean.”
“Oh, that reminds me. I’m going to Mendocino next weekend. Unless, of course–”
“With whom?”
“My friend Roger, from the city? The one in the photo I sent from Tahoe. The designer?”
“Oh him. Well yes, I think you should. It will do you good to get away.”
Balanced on a chair to wipe the windows, corners-in, three at a time. Then it’s hands and knees for the baseboards and under the radiator, two rolls worth when all’s said and done. Dorie concludes her Roger rave with the weekend agenda. A quick go round with the Swiffer glove and Stevie bids her bonsoir.
***
Bone marrow transplant, God help him. The thing about living in Phoenix, there’s no one he can ask about it, no one to give him the real scoop. As if he didn’t hear enough the last time, that it can be painful, what he remembers most. That you can feel pain inside your bones!
He looks out on the inky desert, the light from some far off something beams comfort from the void. How he would love to lose himself in all that landscape, sunburned and wind chafed, a weathered, wizened man on the moon.
Bone marrow, what it is and how they get it, scraping tools against raw nerves. It’s never been a question of whether he would; only when and how on earth he will bear it. Not that he thinks it will work, even in the event, one of those last-ditch heroic measures. What you hear before you hear the worst.
If only he could lose himself in some other worry, something serious but acceptable, open to options, a bad debt or legal problems. That money’s never been an issue makes him feel guiltier, deserving of a cross to bear. Stevie searches for something else to brood about, anything to let the Lilly part of his brain cool down.
Mexico! That’s the ticket, still a few weeks off but out there waiting for him, bone marrow or no bone marrow. A real vacation not some butt-fuck getaway, no one to nursemaid, nothing to do but relax.
Si, Mexico.
CHAPTER FIVE
By the time Lena gets there the staff lot is full, pickups jammed in every direction, a plumber’s van in her spot. She circles around to the visitor’s lot and leaves her car under the bird shit tree. Inside, workers and patients clog up the lobby. Down the hall she sees men removing tables and chairs from the nurses’ lounge trailed by Alice, stoked and smoking.
“What’s going on here?” Lena catches up to them.
“I’ll tell you what’s going on here,” Alice hands her a memo. “Strickland wants us to squeeze in more patients.”
Lena reads it, balls it up and tosses it toward the trash can but it misses and lands beside a startled patient.
“He in yet?”
“Been in. It’s gung-ho honey.”
“Hey! Hey you!” Lena barks at the flunky with the coffee machine. “Take that and I’m calling a cop!”
Three doors down Strickland mans the copy machine. There’s a stool to the side, but he foregoes it in deference to the crease in his pants. The first new suit he’s had in a decade, the women in housekeeping checking it out, Strickland’s the name, efficiency’s the game.
And really, what could be easier. See which way the money goes then make sure it doesn’t get there. Wouldn’t need a degree for that even if he had a stinking degree. Start with the perks, the drug rep lunches, the concurrent vacations, the endless overtime. Just revamping the schedule should save a bundle. And when he gets himself mobilized and the unit softened up he’ll axe the whole program and save the freaking day! Oh yeah, shit-can the lot of them. Christ, Walters will have to give him the corner office with the–
“Mr. Strickland.”
“What is it Nurse Watts?”
“I’m just curious.” Lena takes the seat by the copy machine. “When you decided to go ahead with these renovations, how did you think I’d react? I mean, considering my reputation and all.”
Strickland busies himself with memos, anything. “Quite frankly, I didn’t take your reaction into consideration.”
Lena fingers the hem of her skirt. “Do you think that was wise? See, ever since I was little I’ve had this problem with my temper. You just wouldn’t believe the trouble it gets me into. And it’s not the kind of temper where you blow up and then forget about it.”
“Nurse Watts I’m extremely bus–”
“It’s the kind where you gotta get even. It’s all about revenge with me, Strickland. You know, spreading rumors, plotting behind your back, stuff that makes for . . . well, inefficiency.”
“Come to the point, Nurse Watts.”
“The point is this,” Lena let’s a shoe dangle. “If the nurse’s lounge isn’t turned back into the nurse’s lounge by the end of the shift, the name Strickland shoots straight to the top of my shit list.”
Strickland gives her a smarmy smile. “This is an administrative decision. It’s nothing personal. The unit needs a higher census to remain viable.”
“Save it, suck up. I’ve got that crap coming out of my ears.”
“That doesn’t change the fact, the hospital must have a solid plan of operation. It’s my job to implement that plan. End of discussion.”
“And the staff and I think it would be nice to have one of those cappuccino machines in the lounge, with the espresso maker?”
“Nurse Watts, I don’t think you’re behaving professionally. You’ll find I don’t respond well to threats and intimidation. I can assure you, the lounge will be restored when additional space is made available. Until that time you will take your breaks in the cafeteria.”
“By the board room?”
“The patient’s cafeteria. It will do you good to mingle with the other staff members.”
Lena studies her nails. “You know Strickland, a career is a funny thing. One miscalculation, a couple of bad decisions and you find yourself being passed over.”
Strickland pivots to the window and heaves a sigh. “More threats I see.”
“Look at it this way,” Lena reaches for the car keys on his desk. “Alice and Dot have been here fifteen years. I’ve been here for six. You know how many pencil pushers we’ve been through?”
“That will be all, Nurse Watts.”
“You might want to reconsider,” she slips the keys in her pocket. “You have until 5.15 p.m.”
Strickland snorts. “Not a chance.”
***
The kind of temper that sends Lena steaming out the front door, west on Tasker, into the badlands and up to the first broke down piper she sees. Not far, maybe three blocks as the bus flies.
“Julio, listen to me. Julio!”
“Hey Nurse Watts, what are you doing out here?”
She dangles the car keys in his face. “This is for the midnight blue Beemer in the executive lot. Think you can handle it?”
“Handle what?”
“Yes or no? Okay, where’s Manny? Manny!”
“No, hey,” Julio snatches the keys. “I can handle it. Got a guard in the big wig lot though.”
“I’ll take care of Marvin. Just give me ten minutes.”
“So, what do I get out of it?”
Lena drops the keys in his hand “I don’t want to know anything. We never had this conversation. The next time you’re in detox you don’t know me”
Julio’s rheumy eyes light up. “For real?”
“Don’t screw it up, Julio.” Lena starts back the way she came.
“What’s going on? You okay over there?” he shouts after her.
Lena turns and looks at him funny. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”
Julio grins and pockets the keys. “My mistake. I thought you was somebody else.”
***
He hates the television at Brennan’s. From where he’s sitting Harry has to hold his head back to see it and after a while his neck starts to go. Of course he could always sit on the other side of the bar, but this is his seat and he’s par
tial to it. Harry swore to himself that he wouldn’t hit the gin mills first thing, but what else is a grown man to do?
He still doesn’t know how he’ll break it to Lena, though he’s been batting it around all day. Not quitting your job until you got another lined up suddenly makes more sense then it used to.
“Hey Harry, did you see that wrecker cruising around?” Ned calls from the storeroom.
“I parked out back. Getting at it would be more trouble than it’s worth.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it. This guy’s hungry.”
“When did you start getting so cautious, Ned?”
“It just comes over me, I don’t know.”
“Christ, we’re all turning into sad old men.”
“You’re right,” Ned backs out with a bag of recycling. “I say we cuff him to the wheel and torch the fucker.”
“Whoa, easy partner.”
One of those reality cop shows is on now, with the car chases and the hayseed accents, like we don’t get enough of that on prime time. Maniac on a motorcycle, one of those sprint bikes you have to lie down on to drive. Guy’s out of his fucking mind alright, looping in and out, blowing through lights. The cops trail radio chatter, flinching at the intersections but sticking with it. The bike opens up on the straightaways, pulling away in suicide bursts. It seems to go on forever with the two-way squawking and cars veering off into the bushes. They crest a hill and the biker’s flat out flying. There’s no way the trooper chases him down. But then the video slows down almost to a stop and a red circle pinpoints a jerky blur, frame by grainy frame as the biker T-bones a moving bus. Holy Jesus! They run it back once, twice, Harry can’t make out the chatter, but the cops sound pretty hysterical. Then they show it once more at regular speed and the film keeps rolling. The cop car wheels up to the wreckage and there’s the rider in a heap on someone’s front lawn. Broadside a bus and that’s what becomes of you. Harry sees the cop walk into the picture and here comes the bus driver shrieking like a lunatic. Just as people gather and things are getting hectic, biker scrambles to his feet and takes off running. The camera gets jostled for a few seconds then there he is, sprinting a block away.