by J. J. Murray
“Today is free, of course, and on your case, I would work . . . for whatever you feel is right to pay me.” That’s the first time I’ve ever said that, and it felt good to say it. “If I am successful at getting your husband the help he needs, he might be due some back pay and disability payments.” I have no idea if that’s possible, but I can’t charge this woman a cent. While so many want to be rid of their spouses, this woman wants her spouse back.
“You have to make a living, don’t you?” Gloria asked.
“We’ll discuss payment, but only if I’m able to get some people to listen,” Matthew said. “Okay, first I’ll need a copy of his service record.”
“I have a copy at home,” Gloria said.
“How was he discharged?” Matthew asked.
“He received an honorable discharge,” she said.
“When did he stop working at Woodhull Medical?” Matthew asked.
“Two years ago . . .” She nodded. “Two years ago tomorrow.”
Matthew wrote it down. “When can I meet him?”
“Timothy hasn’t left our apartment since the incident,” Gloria said. “He, um, he looks out the window most days.”
Two years. “I’ll go to him then. When is a good time?”
“He won’t speak to you,” Gloria said. “He doesn’t speak to anyone.”
I’ll have to ask him the right questions, then. “I’d still like to meet him, say, sometime tonight?”
“So soon?” Gloria asked.
“He needs help soon, right?” Matthew asked.
“Right.” Gloria smiled. “Any time after six is fine.” She gave Matthew an address on Berry and South 2nd Street. “It’s only a few blocks away.”
Matthew looked at Angela. “I have to help Angela close up shop. Is after nine okay?”
“Yes,” Gloria said. “We live near Milly’s. You can’t miss it.” She slipped out of the booth. “Thank you for caring. So many people I’ve talked to simply don’t care at all.”
“I can’t promise you anything, Mrs. Simmons,” Matthew said.
“I know,” Gloria said, “but for the first time in a long time, I feel hope.”
After Gloria left, Angela brought over a grilled cheese sandwich on a plate. She sat across from him. “What can you do for them?”
“Is this for me?” Matthew asked.
“Yes,” Angela said. “Now, can you help them or not?”
Look at all that cheese! “If her husband is as impaired as she says he is, all I need to do is get him reexamined and put him in front of the powers that be. I may not need to go to court at all.”
“You don’t have to help me clean up tonight,” Angela said.
“I want to,” Matthew said, taking a huge bite of his sandwich.
“You’re going to have a longer day than I had for a change,” Angela said.
“Would you like to go along?” Matthew asked.
“To see her husband?” Angela asked.
“Yes,” Matthew said. “I was planning not to take you out to dinner again tonight since we’re not going on dates.”
Angela slid around the table and sat next to him. “Scoot over.”
Matthew scooted. I like her initiative.
“You want to take me to dinner again?” Angela asked.
Matthew nodded.
Angela put her hand on his arm. “Where would you take me?”
“We could grab a quick bite at DuMont Burger on our way.” Please leave your hand there. I like you to touch me.
Angela squeezed his forearm and dropped her hand. “I don’t know.”
“I’m dying for a bowl of corn chowder and some of their onion rings,” Matthew said.
“No burger?” Angela asked.
“Not for fifteen bucks,” Matthew said.
Angela blinked. “They’re getting fifteen bucks for a burger now?”
“Yeah,” Matthew said, moving his leg to brush hers. “And if they don’t cook it all the way through, it makes a mooing sound every time you chew.”
Angela laughed.
Take her hand, take her hand . . . No. She’s gripping her other hand too tightly. “And I don’t want to break the bank on our second not-a-date.”
“Our what?” Angela asked.
“Our not-a-date,” Matthew said. “It’s just two people going out for dinner.”
“Hmm.” Her knee brushed his. “Chowder and onion rings. An interesting combination.”
“I have interesting tastes,” Matthew said. He slid a full inch to his left and pressed his leg into hers. “Will you go with me? It’s only a few blocks.”
“But it will be late,” Angela said, “and Monday is always my busiest day.”
“I promise to have you home by ten,” Matthew said.
“That’s not it, Matthew, I just . . .” She sighed. “I mean, I love a good bowl of corn chowder. The onion rings? Not so much.”
“Order something else then,” Matthew said. “What’s really stopping you?”
Angela pulled her right hand from her left and placed it on Matthew’s leg.
There’s a hot hand on my leg. I like a hot hand on my leg.
“Nothing, I guess,” Angela said. “We’ll have to do some precleaning from seven o’clock on so we can leave right at eight.”
“I told Mrs. Simmons I’d be there after nine,” Matthew said.
Angela shrugged. “It doesn’t sound as if her husband’s going anywhere, and we are eating first, right?”
“Right.” He put his hand lightly on top of hers. “So . . . it’ll be a not-a-date.”
Angela turned her palm up, and squeezed Matthew’s hand gently before sliding out of the booth. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
Why can’t I breathe properly? Yes, she touched me, and I touched her. Her shyness is intoxicating! That gentle squeeze has to be the most intimate thing I’ve ever felt in my life.
We are going to clean this place in record time tonight, oh yes.
And they did, leaving the shop at eight and walking briskly a few blocks to DuMont to eat corn chowder and share an order of onion rings.
“How exactly do you pay your bills?” Angela asked.
“Unlike how you walk,” Matthew said. “I pay them slowly.”
“Sorry,” Angela said. “I like to walk fast.”
“After being on your feet all day,” Matthew said.
Angela shrugged. “I use different muscles when I’m working.”
This is a golden opportunity to flirt. “I like your muscles. Especially the ones in back.”
Angela’s mouth dropped open for a moment. “I don’t see how you can keep up with your bills. You don’t charge anyone.”
“You have so many nice muscles, too, Angela,” Matthew whispered. “Nice and smooth. Excellent definition, too.”
Angela looked away. “What am I supposed to say to that?”
“I’m jealous of your aprons,” Matthew said. Her aprons get to hold her.
“Matthew, a woman isn’t supposed to be too muscular,” Angela said. “A woman is supposed to be toned.”
“You are seriously toned then,” Matthew said. “Especially in the back.”
Angela drank some of her Coke. “Have you been staring at me, Matthew?”
“I can’t help it,” Matthew said, pushing his bowl aside. “You walk faster than I do. I can’t help but look at what you let me see.” Ah, now her lips are smiling. No teeth yet. “And I also watch you from the booth, too. I have the best view.”
Angela toyed with an onion ring, removing bits of the breading, a half-smile on her face. “So how are you paying your bills?”
She’s hard to flirt with! “I’m dipping into my retirement funds,” he said. “Here and there, nothing major.” He looked at her fingers. “Are you going to eat that onion ring or strip it naked?”
Angela looked at her plate. “Maybe I like to eat my onions naked.”
“Now there’s an image.” A very sexy image.
; “I meant . . .” Angela smiled broadly. “You know what I meant.”
Matthew’s shoe found hers. “I like the other meaning better.”
“Has your rent gone up, too?” Angela asked.
She’s always trying to change the subject. “Not as much as yours is, only two hundred more for an apartment that is falling apart while they build all those factory condos on the shore.”
“You mean those ‘people storage facilities,’ right?” Angela said. “I’ve seen pictures of them in the paper. They look like maximum security prisons.”
“They do.” He smiled. “I’ll never live in one of those. But . . . I’ll have to find another place in Williamsburg when my lease is up at the end of March.”
“Have you already started looking?” Angela asked, disrobing another defenseless onion ring.
“Not at apartments,” Matthew said.
She looked up. “Oh? So you’re looking for a house?”
“No.” How long can I hold you in my eyes?
Angela looked away.
Not long enough. I will try again. “Where do you think I should look, Angela?”
“I don’t know.” She looked at Matthew again. “Maybe . . . on South Ninth.”
That’s ten blocks in the wrong direction! “I’m thinking somewhere closer to your shop.”
“You are?” she asked.
“Not that I’d actually use it for more than sleeping, shaving, and showering,” Matthew said. “I mean, I practically live at your place as it is.”
Angela nodded as her fingers tapped the table. “I never thought Williamsburg would ever be truly trendy, did you?”
The subject changes again. “Billyburg is trending itself out of a population.”
“What time is it?” Angela asked.
Matthew checked his phone. “Almost nine. We better go see Mr. Simmons.” He stood and put on his coat.
Angela didn’t move. “We? I can wait here, can’t I?”
“I want to be with you, Angela.” Did I say that right? “I mean, I want you with me. I want you in there with me.” Oh, look at her eyes! They are sparkling. I have to say more things “wrong” to her.
“Why do you need me in there?” Angela asked.
I do believe she’s catching on. “I need another pair of beautiful eyes and another pair of cute ears. I want to know your honest assessment of the man.”
“Does this mean that you doubt his wife’s story?” Angela asked.
“Not at all,” Matthew said. “I trust your judgment and value your opinions.”
Angela put on her coat. “Are you trying to sweet-talk me?”
“Yes,” Matthew said. “Is it working?”
Angela stood and nodded toward the door. “I’ll let you know.”
As they rapidly approached the entrance to the Simmons’ apartment building, Angela took Matthew’s arm. When he opened the entrance door to a dark stairway, she gripped his elbow.
“It’s dark,” she whispered. “Is there a light switch?”
“I don’t see one,” Matthew said. He felt along the wall near the railing.
“I don’t want to fall,” Angela whispered.
“I got you,” Matthew said. “We’ll go slow.”
On the way up the stairs, Matthew felt his arm go numb from Angela’s firm grip. Angela didn’t relax her grasp until they were standing outside the Simmons’ third-floor apartment.
“Well, knock already,” Angela said, hovering inches from the door.
Matthew knocked. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” Angela said. “I just . . . I’m fine.”
I hope she is. I know my elbow has to be bruised.
Chapter 18
Timothy Simmons, former soldier and anesthetist, was as gray as the blanket covering him as he sat inert and catatonic in an easy chair facing the window looking out onto South 2nd Street. His close-cropped hair and beard had flecks of gray, and his lips were a chalky white.
“Timothy,” Gloria said, “this is the lawyer I told you about.”
While Angela hugged the arm of a simple blue couch and Gloria sat in an armchair near Timothy, Matthew pulled a kitchen chair close to Timothy. He turned on the microcassette recorder.
“Mr. Simmons, I’m Matthew McConnell.”
Timothy’s eyes remained glazed.
“Your wife has retained me to help you get the help you need,” Matthew said.
Timothy blinked but otherwise remained motionless.
“May I call you Timothy?” Matthew asked.
No response.
“Or would you prefer I call you Lieutenant Simmons?” Matthew asked.
Timothy’s lips twitched.
Hmm. It might be too soon to bring up the military. “I’ll call you Timothy. Timothy, I’d like to ask you some questions, if I may, and I’m going to record them and take some notes, too, all right?” He wrote Timothy’s name on a legal pad. “Okay, when did you first notice that things weren’t right in your life?”
Timothy blinked.
“When did you realize you weren’t feeling right?” Matthew asked.
Timothy sighed.
This isn’t working. I need specific answers, so I have to ask specific questions. “Timothy, how many operations did you witness over in Germany?”
Timothy turned his head slightly.
We have movement. “How many operations did you witness over in Germany? A dozen, fifty, a hundred, a thousand?”
Timothy’s lips parted slightly. “Too many,” he whispered.
Gloria gasped.
Matthew felt goose bumps on his arm. He’s in there. “How many?”
Timothy blinked rapidly. “I lost count,” he whispered. “Hundreds.”
Matthew wrote “find out # of operations.” He moved his chair to the side of Timothy’s easy chair. “What kinds of surgeries were they?”
“All kinds,” Timothy whispered.
“Were they mainly amputations, reconstructions, what?” Matthew asked.
“All kinds,” Timothy said, his voice hoarse and dry.
Okay, he’s talking. Time to gently shock him. “What made you break down in the OR over at Woodhull Medical?”
“What?” Timothy said. He dropped his right hand off the armrest and pulled the lever, his legs dropping, and he turned the chair to face Matthew.
I have his attention now. “What triggered the incident in the OR over at Woodhull?”
“What incident?” he asked, the dark wrinkles around his eyes tightening.
He has to remember. “Timothy, you had a meltdown in the OR at Woodhull and lost your job,” Matthew said, staring into his eyes. “I’ve had one of those myself. They’re no fun to relive, but I need you to do that now. Please describe your meltdown for me.”
Timothy blinked and squinted. “It was a . . . a motorcycle accident. A man’s . . . his legs were . . . threads.”
“And seeing the motorcyclist’s leg reminded you of what you witnessed at Landstuhl in Germany.” Matthew gripped his pen. This is the moment. This is where it has to spill out.
Timothy nodded, his ashen hands rising and covering his face. “It brought it all back.”
“What did you really see in the OR, Timothy?” Matthew asked.
“What did I . . . really see?” Timothy’s hands shook.
“Yes,” Matthew said. “Tell me what you really saw that day.”
“I saw . . .” Timothy parted his hands and glanced up at Matthew. “I saw an eighteen-year-old kid with fuzz on his chin, fuzz like a kiwi fruit, you know?”
“Peach fuzz,” Matthew said.
“Yeah,” Timothy said. “I don’t think the boy had ever shaved in his life.”
“Do remember the soldier’s name?” Matthew asked.
Timothy seemed to search the room, his eyes darting. “I can’t remember.”
Matthew wrote, “find soldier’s name, 18, leg injury.” He smiled at Timothy. “It’s okay. I have trouble remembering names, too. What did the soldi
er say or do?”
Timothy’s chin quivered. “He came in screaming. They had to restrain him. He kept trying to reach down to his legs, but they weren’t there. And then the captain yelled, ‘Knock his ass out, Simmons, that’s an order!’ ”
Gloria and Angela jumped on the couch.
“And did you?” Matthew asked.
“I tried,” Timothy said, his voice straining, “but he was a big kid, and he kept moving his arms, and he was screaming, ‘Don’t let them take my legs! Don’t let them take my legs!’ ”
I don’t want to ask this. “Did you see his legs?”
Timothy nodded. “What was left of them.”
I don’t want to ask this either. “What did his legs look like, Timothy?”
“His right leg was gone below the tibialis anterior,” Timothy said, “and the left leg was gone below the vastus lateralis. Both of his rectus femoris were in shreds. They were . . .” He blinked away a tear. “They were already gone, man. They were already gone.”
Matthew jotted down a few notes. I’ll have to look up those terms later. The man really knows his stuff. “And then what happened?”
“I put him under, and they removed . . . everything up to his hips.” He wiped tears off his nose. “I thought about putting him to sleep permanently, you know? He was eighteen. No legs. In a chair for the rest of his life . . .” He shook his head. “Like me.”
“What exactly did you do in the OR at Woodhull Medical that day to lose your job?” Matthew asked.
“This,” Timothy said. “I cried. I cried my guts out, right there in front of everybody.”
Their basis for firing Timothy was him weeping? An anesthetist felt for his patient, and they fired him. That doesn’t sound right.
“I have never felt so alone in all my life.” Timothy looked at Gloria. “Until you came to get me.”
Gloria’s eyes shone. “Of course I did.”
Matthew noticed Angela wiping away a few tears.