by Lois Ruby
“Oh, Adam, look!” Diana pointed to one of the homey touches the decorators had scattered around the kitchen—a ceramic pecan pie that looked like something a dog would leave on your lawn. There was also a machine pumping out a domestic aroma, like hot mulled cinnamon cider. A realtor approached; the plot thickened.
“Might I ask your names?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Wagner,” I responded. “Might I ask yours?”
She shoved a card into my hand. She was Eunice Buntz. “Are you currently homeowners?” she asked.
“Just getting into the market,” I replied, oozing self-assurance. The cider machine was pumping and hissing like a respirator.
Diana and I went up to check out the bedrooms. The kids’ rooms were like Nike shoe boxes, but the master bedroom had a little sitting area, with a ceiling fan and a fireplace separate from the action center of the bedroom. In the main arena, the decorator had gone whole hog, with a wall of mirrors and a round bed that had a padded pink and green spread, and lush plants that set off my allergies, and a bathroom fit for a Roman orgy.
“There’s no door on it,” I said, between sneezes.
“That’s an architectural affectation,” Diana scoffed. “I’d never design a house with no door on the bathroom. Who wants to be doing her business with an audience? I mean really?”
But it was the bed that got me. “Which end’s the head?”
“It doesn’t matter. You just start anywhere.”
“I’ve got to try this out.” I slipped out of my penny loafers and crawled to the center of the bed, then flopped. “This is weird.”
“Get up! Eunice is coming.”
I scrambled to my feet just in time.
“You like the bedroom?” Eunice Buntz asked.
“It has some stylistic innovations,” Diana said. “My husband is intrigued with the concept of roundness in the room.”
“What does Mr. Wagner do?” Eunice Buntz asked.
“I’m an assistant district attorney,” I said, slipping into my shoes. “Consumer fraud undercover, very confidential. My wife is an investment counselor.”
Eunice was impressed. “This is a very well planned home for a young up-and-coming family.”
Someone set off a tinkly bell over the front door to alert Eunice. She retreated to the first floor and the dog-crap pecan pie.
“Come see the view,” Diana said. My shoes sank into the green carpet as I went to the window and stood behind Diana. I wrapped my arms around her; we could easily have been a married couple looking over our brown heaps of earth that weren’t lawn yet, and the bones of half-built houses, and the twiggy promises of trees, if you lived long enough to see it all happen. But I’m getting ahead of myself. In those days I thought everyone lived forever, except Jimi Hendrix.
“It’s not an inspiring view, Adam. Let’s not buy this house. Hey, isn’t that your friend Miriam Pelham over on the bike path?”
I dragged my lips off Diana’s neck; it was true, it was Miriam, walking with a giant of a man in denim overalls.
“Who’s the guy? What a wonderful bush of a beard. Why don’t you grow a beard like that, Adam?”
“I’ve got a better chance of growing a second head.”
“Could Miriam Pelham have such a dashing father? He looks sort of like Paul Bunyan on the chili cans. I would absolutely die if my father held my hand in public like that.”
“That couldn’t be her father.”
“Why not?”
“Too young,” I said. “Maybe it’s a boyfriend.”
“Too old.” Diana shook her head, and her hair brushed back and forth across my lips.
“Do that again.”
“Too old.” This time she wiggled everything from the waist up.
“How old?”
“Not old enough,” said Eunice Buntz, sneaking up on us. “You didn’t fool me for a minute. I am trying to sell a house. Bye-bye, folks.” She stepped back, clearly intending for us to pass her on our way off the planet forever.
“Thank you, Ms. Buntz,” Diana said, with her sweetest puppy eyes glistening. “Adam, you can take me back to drug rehab now.”
Dodging the sprinkler outside, Diana said, “Let’s catch up with Miriam and Paul Bunyan. I want to get a closer look at that guy.” Diana had the engine running before I was even buckled in. We headed up Thirteenth Street where we’d last seen them.
There are three places in Wichita where pimples in the road might loosely be called hills. Wichita, Kansas, is not San Francisco. Diana flew over the top of the zit of a hill on Thirteenth, and there was our prey, moving along at a good clip. Actually, it looked like Paul Bunyan was propelling Miriam along, like when you push a stalled car long enough that it takes off on its own. Diana honked, but the man did not turn around. Miriam stopped dead and leaned against a fence. We pulled into the service entrance of a clump of new house skeletons, and I jumped out over the door of the convertible.
“Hi, Miriam,” Diana called. “We saw you walking by. Is this your dad?”
Miriam was tilted toward the fence, and it seemed all her weight rose to her shoulders and sank into the wooden panels. She looked gray and was sweating like a pig, even though it was only about 55 degrees. Trying to catch her breath, she said, “This is Brother—”
“Oh, he’s your brother,” Diana said. “Well, that explains it.”
“What does it explain?” the man asked, finally acknowledging us. His voice had a golden resonance, like a radio DJ’s. He fixed his sea-blue eyes on Diana and would not lift them.
“Only that we couldn’t figure it out,” Diana stammered. “Well, it doesn’t matter.” She moved closer to me, reached for my fingers.
I asked, “Are you okay, Miriam?”
“Yes,” she said, but it was a lie.
“Who are your friends, Miriam?”
“This is Diana Cameron and—her boyfriend,” she replied, not looking at us.
“What is Diana Cameron’s boyfriend’s name?” the man asked, and I had the feeling that his questions were like commands.
“Adam Bergen,” I said, and I stepped forward to shake hands. His was so hot that I almost pulled my hand back. Remember the movie, The Karate Kid? My favorite part was when Mr. Miyagi, the old man, clapped his hands together and focused all his power into one hand, and then he put it on the kid to relieve pain. But this guy with the reddish beard was no black belt in karate, and his hand shouldn’t have been so hot. I glanced at my palm, as if he might have raised a welt on it, but it was still smooth.
“You have told me about Adam,” the man said, and a little color rose in Miriam’s cheeks, as she replied, “Yes, Brother James.”
Brother James? Diana and I exchanged looks. Was he like a church deacon or something? We didn’t have brothers and deacons in the synagogue, but I watched a lot of TV. There’s always one of those lunatic religious types turning up on Barney Miller and Night Court reruns.
The Brother James guy said, “I will leave you with your friends, Miriam. Be strong.” She didn’t look like she could be strong enough to stumble over to the car. Brother James walked back toward Rock Road with even, giant steps, his hands in his pockets, and the chunky heels of his cowboy boots resounding off the pavement.
“You’re both so dressed up,” Miriam said weakly.
“Adam and I were just house-hunting.”
“You really look nice.” She said it to Diana, but she was looking at me. It must have been that famous phallic symbol, the Man’s Tie, that got her, because she turned totally red. Then I wondered if my fly was open, but there’s no way to check without drawing everybody else’s eyes to the target.
“That big guy is such a hunk,” Diana said.
“A hunk?” Miriam leaned her head against the fence post.
“A babe. A fox. A study. You know, I mean he’s a tall, meaty man.”
“Jesus, Diana, the guy’s her preacher. She’s not supposed to notice.”
Diana snapped, “Ministers aren’t suppos
ed to be without gender, Adam. Only Catholic priests are into celibacy.”
Miriam’s face, which had been flashing red like a neon sign a minute ago, was now as white as a puddle of Elmer’s glue. “Has he rounded the corner?”
I told her I didn’t see him, and Miriam slid to the ground. Her head fell back against the fence. I saw the wood vibrate with the impact. Diana crouched beside Miriam. What if there was something wrong with her that only women tell each other? I circled a bush and tried to look invisible.
“You need a doctor,” Diana said. “You look positively terrible. Adam, don’t you think she needs a doctor?”
She looked more like she needed an undertaker. I’d seen people look healthier at Halloween parties.
“Come on,” Diana prodded. “Adam and I are taking you to a minor emergency center.”
“No,” Miriam protested weakly.
“That’s stupid, and I have no patience with avoidable stupidity. You’re as limp as a wet towel. Adam, help her up.”
Diana and I each took an arm and tried sliding Miriam back up to her feet, but she was like dead weight. Finally she stood up and let out a whelp like a dog whose paw’s been stepped on.
“What’s going on?” Diana asked, as we settled Miriam into the back seat of the convertible.
“I don’t know.”
Diana flipped her hair off the back of her neck, her sign that she was through fooling around and was coming in for the kill. We drove to the emergency center, back over the hill and right through a red light at Rock Road. Brother James had turned off somewhere; anyway, I was relieved that we didn’t have to pass him. Miriam made some lame attempts to get us to drop her at home, but Diana was determined.
At Mediplex, we eased Miriam into one of the plastic chairs in the waiting room. Diana, of course, did the talking.
“This is Miriam Pelham, P-E-L-H-A-M. She needs to see a doctor immediately.”
The nurse, a Ms. Doolan, asked, “Is she a minor?”
“Well, sort of.”
“Do you have written consent from her parent or legal guardian in the form of a notarized letter authorizing medical examination and treatment?”
“Well, not exactly.”
“We’re just her friends,” I said. “She needs help, look at her.”
Ms. Doolan nodded crisply. She must have been able to see that Miriam was the color of an old sweat sock. “And is either of you over twenty-one?”
“This is ridiculous,” Diana cried. “You call this humane medical treatment? I’m writing a letter to the editor.”
“I’m over twenty-one,” I said, hoping the suit and tie might sway Ms. Doolan. “I’m an assistant district attorney. Would you like to see an ID?”
“No,” the nurse said with a faint smile. She slid the consent form across the slick counter and buzzed for a doctor.
CHAPTER SIX
Told by Miriam
The doctor had a foreign accent. I could barely understand him, but I heard him say I should be in the hospital. Mama would never consent. I didn’t want her to consent. I locked my eyes shut, praying for strength, while the little dark man poked and prodded me in private places and asked me questions no one should have to answer.
Please God, I said to myself over and over, get me through this, and a voice from inside my head, very much like my own, but not my own, said, But look where you are, child.
A nurse came in, and the foreign doctor told her to find Mama. What would Mama do if they phoned her? Especially if the men were home, and where else would the men be on a Sunday afternoon except home, puttering with their power saw and knotty lumber? The nurse fixed a tight thing, a blood pressure cuff, she said it was, on my upper arm, pumped air into it, and watched the little clock face on it. She obviously did not like what it said. She gave the doctor some numbers that made no sense to me, something over something. He mumbled. The nurse laid me down and put a hard crackling pillow under my knees, which helped the pulling at my back. Her cool hand brushed my arm. The panic rose in my throat; I swallowed and swallowed, afraid I’d throw up. She asked me about school, about what clubs I belonged to, about my friends. I don’t remember what I answered, and I don’t think it mattered to her. Minutes passed. She would not leave me, but she’d run out of questions. She kept rubbing my arm; I felt the hair stand up on it. Finally, I heard a loud commotion out in the waiting room—my uncles.
“I want the girl out of here,” Uncle Benjamin roared. “It’s against the law, you keeping her here. You never signed, did you Louise?”
I didn’t hear Mama’s response, but I knew she’d never signed.
Then the doctor was out there talking to them. He slowed down and pronounced everything distinctly for their benefit. “She is very sick. She must be transferred to a hospital. She must have tests. I suspect she is dehydrated. Her blood pressure is dangerously high.”
Uncle Vernon said, “I’m going in to get her,” and I heard the swinging door slam against the wall. Uncle Vernon yanked back the curtain on my cubicle. The nurse clutched my arm tighter. “Little girl, we’re going home,” he said, reaching for my arm.
“You can’t do that.” Maybe because Uncle Vernon was a small, bald man, the nurse thought she stood a chance against him. “I will not let you take her.”
“Well, you have no choice, miss. She’s my blood kin, not yours.” Uncle Vernon yanked my hand, and it felt like a balloon had burst in my back. The nurse caught me and lowered me to a wheelchair.
In the waiting room, there was absolute chaos. Diana was yelling at Uncle Benjamin, while the doctor mumbled unintelligibly again. Adam grabbed the handles of the wheelchair and turned me around so that my back was to the crowd, and I was just as happy to stare at nothing. Mama came and knelt beside the wheelchair. “Baby, they want to take you to a hospital.”
“I know, Mama.”
“We can’t let them do that.”
“I know.”
“But I am so worried about you,” she said, tears streaming down her face. “I’ll see if I can reach Brother James.”
“Not this time, Mama.” There were already too many people there. Uncle Benjamin had bullied the nurse back behind the swinging door and held it shut against her. I saw her feet under the door, and finally she walked away. Later I figured out that she’d gone somewhere in the back to call the police.
All of them yelled out their positions, like carnival barkers. I focused on the wall, on a picture of a white stallion in midleap over a hurdle in a perfect field of poppies.
Two officers arrived, no doubt at the tail end of a peaceful Sunday afternoon shift. They were hardly prepared for the battle in the emergency room. They sent for reinforcements. One of them blew a whistle to silence the carnival. Diana and Adam stood on each side of me, but not facing the stallion, while the adults explained one by one what was going on. I sensed that Diana wanted to jump in, but Adam restrained her. I tilted my head back and saw him behind me with his arm around Diana’s shoulder.
There were at least half a dozen phone calls. I couldn’t keep track of them all, but finally we were told we were all to sit tight, while one of the policemen went to get something. No one spoke, but tension hung heavily in the air. I looked around at all these people fighting over me: a doctor, two nurses, two friends (did I dare to think of them as friends?), three policemen, my mother, and my two uncles.
Uncle Benjamin had flecks of sawdust in his hair. Uncle Vernon fidgeted with a key chain, sliding the keys back and forth over the chain. The faint grinding sound was like the shower curtains being ripped back in the girls’ locker room or back there, in my examining room. I figured out how to turn the wheelchair around. “Please, Uncle Vernon,” I said, and all the heads turned toward me. Suddenly I realized that they had all been fighting over me, but they had forgotten that I was there. I was no longer important in the battle of wills.
Then a father carried a wailing child into the emergency room. Her hand was wrapped in a white towel. “Scalding water,�
�� I heard the father say, and I felt the little girl’s searing pain. The doctor and nurse snapped back into action, while the rest of us waited. Adam and Diana finally sat down.
The computer printer behind the check-in desk hummed and spun out volumes of pages from its loom. They folded in broad pleats on the floor. Someone turned on the TV, and we all pretended to be engrossed in a football game, even the receptionist.
“Yes, yes,” one of the policemen said, as about nine men piled on top of the one holding the ball. All of them had muddy jerseys. I wondered how they ever got them white.
“The 49ers are hot this year, eh?” Uncle Vernon said. A band played “San Francisco, Open Your Golden Gate,” and six blonde women with pompons kicked their legs way up over their heads.
“Oughtn’t to do that over network TV,” Uncle Benjamin said, with his eyes fastened on the screen.
Some woman started to come in, nearly doubling over with a loose, wracking cough. She must have smelled the tension in the room. She looked us over, policemen and all, and turned around and left.
After what seemed like two long afternoons, one of the police officers came back with a court order to have me hospitalized, and if I’d thought there was a battle in the emergency room, it was only a border skirmish compared to the holy war that was about to begin.
I no longer belonged to my mother. I was imprisoned in a hospital bed with a needle in my arm connected to a bottle that dripped some kind of liquid into my veins. I had a police guard outside my door, a guardian ad litem (which is a court-appointed lawyer), a state social worker, a primary care physician, and an oncologist, for by 4:00 the next afternoon, they decided I had bone cancer.
I’d had a bone scan, which meant having some kind of dye pumped through my system, waiting around for hours, then sliding on a table through a monstrous machine that took picture upon picture of the insides of me. I tried not to watch, tried to concentrate on a stain in the ceiling, tried to name all the books of the Book in Gold Leaf, all the disciples, all the saints, all the martyrs, but too often my mind would wander and my eyes would stray to the screen where my body was being drawn, quarter by quarter. They explained that the dye would accumulate in those areas where a tumor was suspected. I saw the darkening ball, the size of a walnut, growing in my pelvic bone. So small, I thought. A little thing like that couldn’t cause much harm, and certainly not the pain that had been waking me up four, five times a night for weeks.