by Dan Dowhal
“It’s a long-distance call to Canada,” he explains, and he sees Yolanda flash Tammy a triumphant look. As much as he’d like to avoid the added humiliation of calling his father collect, he needs to reward Tammy’s faith in him. “It’s okay, I’ll reverse the charges … it won’t cost you anything.”
He doesn’t need directory assistance. Although he hasn’t lived in Peel Crossing for over twenty years, his boyhood phone number is tattooed on his memory. He connects with the operator, delivers the instructions, and waits while the line rings. His father is an invalid. Shane can picture the old man sitting in front of the television in the same La-Z-Boy he has occupied since his stroke five years ago.
The call connects on the third ring.
“This is a person-to-person call from Shane Bronkovsky. Will you accept the charges?” the operator asks.
“What? No, Shane doesn’t live here anymore,” his father answers. His voice sounds slurred, disoriented. Perhaps he was napping.
“Dad, Dad, it’s me,” Shane cuts in. “Tell them you’ll accept the charges.”
There is a pause as the old man absorbs the situation. “Okay,” he finally responds, and Shane hears the operator click off.
His father starts in on him right away. “Why the hell are you reversing the charges, Mr. Big Shot? All that money you make and you won’t even pay for a damned phone call.”
“Nice to talk to you, too, Dad.” Shane keeps the sarcasm out of his voice, sensitive to the fact the three women are listening to every word, not even making a pretence at affording him privacy.
“Listen, Dad,” he continues, “I’m in a bind. I crashed my bike. My arm’s broken, and my knee’s hurt, too. The thing is, I’ve been robbed. Some kid took my wallet with all my cash and credit cards. And if that wasn’t enough, these other guys came along and stole my motorcycle. I really need you to wire me some money to pay for the doctor and tide me over until I get things sorted out.”
He’s glad the women can’t hear the ensuing silence at the other end of the line. After his father still hasn’t said anything for several seconds, he adds, “I’m in New Mexico.”
That finally garners a response. “New Mexico? What the hell you doing there? If I was you, I’d keep going all the way to Old Mexico. There’s talk on the TV they’re going to charge you.”
“It was an accident.” Shane is no longer talking about the motorcycle crash, but hopes his audience won’t pick up on it.
“Maybe so … I must have watched it a hundred times, and it looked that way to me, too. But the kid’s dead, and a lot of people got a serious hate on for you. And now some camera-loving DA is making noises about charging you.”
Shane feels the bottom fall out of his stomach. “I can’t do anything about that right now. Listen, Dad, about the cash …”
“Did you say some guy stole your wallet?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, Mr. Smarty Pants, how the hell do you expect to pick up a wire transfer when you got no ID, huh? Tell me that.”
Shane feels anger ignite in him. He would like nothing better than to curse the man and slam the phone down hard, but he chokes back the impulse.
He turns to Tammy. “What’s your last name?”
She exchanges glances with the other women before answering. “DeWitt.”
“Where’s the closest place to wire some money?”
“Western Union office in Columbus, I reckon.”
“Listen, Tammy, since I’ve got no ID, I’m going to have my dad wire you the money. Is that okay?”
Tammy shrugs her consent.
Shane returns to the phone. “Okay, Dad. I’ve got some people here helping me out. You can wire the money to one of them, care of the Western Union office in Columbus, New Mexico. Got that?”
“Can I now? Lucky me. So just how much you need?”
“I don’t know. Fifteen hundred ought to do it … at least until I can get my credit cards replaced. You know I wouldn’t be asking, but it’s an emergency. I’ll pay you back double, I promise.”
What is meant to be a concession only inflames his father. “Screw you, Big Shot. I don’t need your money. You think I can’t afford a couple thousand dollars? I can damn well fend for myself, but from the sound of things you still need me to take care of you. Yes, sir, all that big money you made and you still got to come crying to me for help.”
The words are meant to sting, and Shane again feels his rage rising, causing his face to redden all the way up to his scalp. So many times in the past, he has let his anger erupt freely, usually with the result of something being broken, but this time he does not succumb to his father’s taunts.
“You’re right. I still need your help,” he says, eyeing the watching women.
“You’re damned right, you do. You’d be nowhere without me — not that you ever gave me one ounce of appreciation for it.” Shane’s father pauses, as if leaving room for Shane’s usual angry retort. When no outburst comes, the old man heaves a sigh, like an ancient boiler letting out steam. When he speaks again, his voice is calmer, almost friendly. “All right, then, who am I sending it to?”
“Tammy DeWitt, care of Columbus, New Mexico.”
“Too late to get anyone to drive me into town today, but Oksana’s here tomorrow morning.”
“Who’s Oksana?” Shane asks. As far as he can recall, his father lives alone.
“My caregiver. You know her from when you were kids. Oksana Kravchuk, remember? Anyway, I’ll get a lift from her in the morning and send the money out right away, don’t you worry.” All the gruffness and resentment has disappeared from the old man’s voice. Shane can’t remember the last time their conversation didn’t end in a shouting match.
“Thanks, Dad. For everything. I do appreciate it. Honest.”
His father grunts. “Always knew one of those motorcycles of yours would get you, if some goon didn’t. You sure you’re all right?”
“I’ll live.”
“Hope it’s not inside a jail cell.”
“Yeah, me too, but I guess I’ll worry about that later. I got other problems right now.” Their business has concluded, but Shane finds himself reluctant to end the conversation, revelling in its rare amiability. “So, how’s the weather back there, anyway?” he asks. “Snow gone yet?”
“Pretty much, except for what’s hiding in the woods. We don’t get the weather we used to anymore. Remember how frigging cold it used to get? You kids had your shinny game going on the pond pretty much into May.”
“Sure I remember. I gotta say, it’s pretty darn hot down here. We could use some of that cool air.”
“Don’t complain. I’d trade you for hot any day of the week. Listen, Shane, someone else is trying to phone me. Probably Oksana making sure I took all my pills. Great girl, but she sure does nag. I’ll let you go now. Take care, son.”
“Okay, thanks again, Dad. I’ll phone again soon to confirm I got the money, and, well, you know … to let you know how I’m making out.”
“Do that, son.”
“Bye, Dad.”
Shane hangs up and turns to face his audience. “He’ll wire it first thing tomorrow morning, okay?”
Tammy shakes her head. “Tomorrow? Gosh, no. Tomorrow’s milking day. It’ll have to be the day after.”
“All right. Can I stay here until then?”
The reactions are immediate. Maybelline cackles, and Yolanda slams her fist onto the table.
“No, sir, you can’t stay with us,” Tammy tells him. “When Doc Sanchez gets here you’ll have to get him to give you a lift into town — drop you off at a motel or something.”
“For fuck’s sake, I already told you! I have no money … no credit cards, no ID, nothing. How the fuck am I supposed to pay for a motel?”
“I said no, and that’s that. And I’ll thank you not to use cuss words in this house.”
Regretting his error, Shane tries another tack. “I’m sorry, Tammy, I really am. Here you are being a Good Samar
itan, and I’m being a royal pain in the … um, butt. But, listen, I’m not asking for a free ride. I’d pay you for it. How about a hundred dollars for the night? The money from my dad’s going to be wired in your name, so you know you’ll get it.”
“I already told you I’m too busy to go into Columbus tomorrow, so it wouldn’t be just one night now, would it?”
“All right, then, two hundred dollars for two nights.”
“Four hundred dollars,” Yolanda interjects from the table. “And you sleep in the stable.”
Clearly caught by surprise, Tammy gives Yolanda a questioning look, and the Chicana nods in response. Shane senses money is in short supply on this hardscrabble ranch.
“Okay. Four hundred dollars, then,” he offers, sticking out his still-operable right hand. Maybelline squeals and begins bouncing up and down on her bench with delight. “Gimme gimme money, honey,” she sings. Although she helped negotiate the arrangement, Yolanda still looks hostile.
Tammy looks at Shane’s proffered hand, then spits in her own palm and shakes his to seal the contract. Her grip is surprisingly strong.
“Deal,” she says. “But don’t go thinking this is some hotel. You’ll eat what we eat, and once the doc patches you up, you bunk in the stable. There’s a room at the back where we keep the tools ’n’ such, and there’s a mattress in there we can drop on the floor. Should be cozy enough.”
Doc Sanchez is a short, corpulent man in his forties sporting a large walrus moustache. He enters the house without knocking, drops a black leather satchel on the floor of the parlour, and bellows for someone to bring him a basin of water and a washcloth. When the doctor removes his mammoth stetson, Shane sees that his salt-and-pepper hair has been slicked back, revealing a pronounced widow’s peak that hangs down his forehead like a buzzard’s beak.
There is a buzzing in the kitchen. Shane gets the impression that none of the women wants to be the one to attend to the good doctor. Finally, Tammy comes out carrying the requested items. Doc Sanchez breaks into a big, toothy grin and rises to greet her.
“Hiya, Tammy darlin’. You’re looking mighty fine, as always,” he coos. He takes the basin of water, but instead of using it for his patient, mops down his own face and hands.
“That’s better,” he says, picking up his satchel and dragging a chair over so he can scrutinize Shane. Rather than survey any injuries, he examines Shane’s features. “What have we got?”
Shane holds up the broken arm for inspection, supporting it with his good hand.
“Had a motorcycle accident back on the highway. The ulna’s definitely fractured … maybe the radius, too.” He gestures to where his leg is being supported by a pillow. “The patella’s dislocated, but it’s happened before. I think you’ll be able to just pop in back into place.”
The doctor seems more interested in the stitches and scars on Shane’s face than the fresh injuries. “You know a lot about anatomy for a biker,” Sanchez comments, and he unbuttons his suit jacket, which flaps open to reveal a revolver hanging from his belt in a decorative black-leather holster. The gun’s handle is ornately carved, and the weapon has an antique appearance, although Shane wagers it’s fully functional.
“Look, I’m just a traveller who’s had some bad luck. And then some. I don’t know if they told you on the phone, but I was robbed, too.”
Sanchez has finally started to study Shane’s injuries, starting with a probing of the kneecap through Shane’s jeans. He raises his head and bellows at the kitchen door.
“Hey, Tammy! Git in here. I need a hand.” When Tammy enters, he instructs, “Take his pants off, will ya, darlin’.”
Tammy hesitates, and Shane can see she is trying to decide whether this is a necessary medical procedure or some sort of ribald prank.
“I need to examine his knee … he says it’s dislocated,” the doctor explains, although the smile on his face betrays his amusement at Tammy’s discomfort.
“Why can’t you do it yourself?” she asks, not budging.
“It’s a nurse’s job, not a doctor’s,” Sanchez replies. “Besides, I figure you’re better equipped to deal with whatever might come crawling out. Of course, it’s been a while, hasn’t it, darlin’?”
Tammy’s face reddens, and Shane can endure her discomfort no longer. He begins tugging at his belt buckle with his good hand. “I’ll do it myself,” he tells Tammy.
She watches him struggle for a few seconds, then sighs and begins helping. She pulls off his boots, then grabs his jeans at the ankles and tugs them off in one smooth motion.
Shane has always been proud of the musculature of his legs, and he thinks Tammy is impressed, too, although when her eyes make the inevitable trip upstream to Shane’s ultra-brief designer underwear, she immediately averts her gaze and focuses her attention on folding his jeans.
“Anything else y’all want?” she asks.
“Plenty,” Sanchez replies with a wink, “but I know you’re not selling.”
Tammy flings the jeans at him and storms out of the room.
The amusement disappears from the doctor’s face, however, when he returns to examining Shane’s leg. The scar of previous reconstructive surgery runs up one side of the knee and makes a large crescent below it, and the doctor traces it with a finger.
“You say you were robbed. I guess that means you’ve got no insurance card or money to pay for treatment.”
“Don’t worry,” Shane says testily, “I’ve wired for cash. Tammy’s picking it up the day after tomorrow. So you’ll get your —”
The last statement remains unfinished as Shane lets out a howl of pain. Doc Sanchez has grasped the injured knee with both hands and given it a sudden twist.
“How about that? Just like you said,” the doctor says, chortling. “The patella just popped right back into place.”
The door to the kitchen opens and Yolanda sticks her head out. She seems pleased to see Shane grimacing in pain, but when Sanchez calls out, “Hola, bonita Yolanda,” her face hardens, and she disappears.
“Geez, Doc. You might have given me some painkillers first,” Shane complains.
“I figured a big macho biker like you could take it, but okay.” Sanchez grunts as he bends to open his satchel. He fishes around inside and pulls out a pair of plastic pill containers. Holding one in each hand, he shakes them rhythmically like miniature maracas. “What’s your pleasure — Vicodin or Percocet?”
“Percs, always. More punch, more buzz.”
“Ah, a connoisseur.” He dispenses a pair of pills into Shane’s open palm and hands him a plastic water bottle.
The doctor now turns his attention to Shane’s arm, squeezing the swollen areas and rotating the wrist’s position. The pills have not yet taken effect, and Shane winces with pain.
“Looks broke, all right,” Sanchez opines, “but I’ll need to take an X-ray. Let’s see if you can stand up.”
Shane hoists himself to his feet, and when he shifts his weight onto his injured knee, it holds. He takes some steps to walk off the stiffness before stopping in front of Sanchez, who nods approvingly.
“Okay, then. We’ll head out to my truck to take some pictures.”
“Mind if I put my pants on first, Doc?”
“Whatever. Can you do it yourself, or do you need one of the ladies to help you?”
“I’ll manage.”
The doctor shrugs and occupies himself by jotting down some entries in a pad. Shane steps into his pants and pulls them up with one hand. He cannot do up the top button, but manages to fasten the belt. Finally he steps into his boots and stomps a couple of times to make sure they’re secure before turning to Sanchez.
“Lead on, MacDoc.”
FOUR
The doctor’s vehicle is a converted cube van crammed with medical machinery and gear. A gurney with rumpled bedding sits against one wall. Sanchez first removes a bathrobe and a bag of potato chips to make room for his patient. Shane surmises that the van constitutes the doctor’s hom
e as well as his clinic.
The X-rays reveal that Shane’s self-diagnosis was spot on. There is a perpendicular break across the entire width of the ulna — although luckily the bone has not separated — as well as two hairline fractures of the radius. Whatever his initial dislike of the doctor, Shane concedes that Sanchez is skilled at his craft, or at least at casting broken bones. Rather than use the pre-fab plastic variety, the doctor puts on a traditional cast, applying the plaster layers delicately, almost lovingly, as if moulding a sculpture.
Once he has completed the work, he wheels over to a small desk and begins writing.
“What name do I put on the bill?”
“Shane Bronkovsky — B-R-O-N-K-O-V-S-K-Y.”
“What’s that, some kind of Russian name?”
“Ukrainian, originally, but I’m pure Canadian — second generation.”
“Do tell. Well, my people have been in this part of New Mexico for well over three hundred years, but a lot of folks still act like I came sneaking over the border yesterday.” He hands Shane a handwritten bill. “You owe me four hundred and sixty bucks all told. Now, normally I get paid up front, but it seems I have no choice but to let it slide till Thursday.”
Suddenly, Sanchez draws his revolver and shoves the barrel into Shane’s groin. “And just so we’re crystal clear, I don’t care what kind of tough guy you think you are or who you’re running with — nobody fucks with Frank Sanchez … and I got badass friends of my own you do not want to mess with. Comprende, hombre?”
It is the second time today that someone has threatened Shane with a handgun, but this time he does not experience the same gut-wrenching fear, either because he knows the doctor is merely posturing, or because the drugs are working their way into his bloodstream.
“Okay, Doc … how about tossing in a bunch more of those percs, and we’ll call it an even five hundred.”
Sanchez lets out a big belly laugh, withdraws his pistol from Shane’s nether regions, and gives it an expert gunslinger-style twirl before re-holstering it.
“Why not?” He tosses Shane a pill bottle. “Here, knock yourself out.”