by Jake Hinkson
THE POSTHUMOUS MAN
Jake Hinkson
Copyright © 2012 by Jake Hinkson
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, except where permitted by law.
The story herein is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover image from iStock (www.istockphoto.com); Design by dMix.
PO Box 173
Freeville, New York 13068
CONTENTS
Chapter One - In My Moment of Dying
Chapter Two - The Nurse with the Black Star
Chapter Three - Exodus
Chapter Four - The Twins
Chapter Five - Felicia's Room
Chapter Six - Stan the Man
Chapter Seven - The Truck Job
Chapter Eight - The Old Stuff
Chapter Nine - Chief Among Sinners
Chapter Ten - Dirty Work
Chapter Eleven - Divisions of Labor
Chapter Twelve - Garbage
Chapter Thirteen - The Thickroots
Chapter Fourteen - Audrey
Chapter Fifteen - Section 16
Chapter Sixteen - Cleaning
Chapter Seventeen - Lucky
Chapter Eighteen - Something Underneath
Chapter Nineteen - The Damnation of Brother Stilling
Chapter Twenty - The Mercy Seat
About the Author
Other titles from BTAP
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For Heather,
Who dwells in Possibility.
In a murderous time
The heart breaks and breaks
And lives by breaking.
It is necessary to go
Through dark and deeper dark
And not to turn.
--from Stanley Kunitz's "The Testing-Tree"
-CHAPTER ONE-
In My Moment of Dying
From the darkness, something stabbed through my face.
I tried to grab it, tried pull it out, but I couldn't find it. A woman shouted, "His arm is loose—"
A hard red light sheared the top off the darkness and peeled it back like skin. Far above me, a red hole opened.
I tried to say something, but my body didn't seem connected. I couldn't see, couldn't hear clearly, couldn't make my arms work. I was conscious of movement around me, flickers of light and speech, but I couldn't find my voice.
The red light got brighter, closer, and dark blobs darted in front of it. The blackness shook around me.
A man barked out, "Is that endotrach—"
They shoved the tube through my face and down my throat. I gagged, tried to get at it again, rip it out.
"Loose—"
"For God's sake, restrain his arm correc—"
I got hold of the tube and yanked on it. Above me the red light swelled and brightened, pressing down and pushing against my eyelids. The center of the light burned white.
"Restrain that goddamn arm," someone yelled.
I ripped the tube out and my eyes popped open. Masked figures in green crowded around me. Above them a huge white lamp beat down like a cold winter sun. I tasted plastic and vomit and blood. Gloved hands stinking with the dry smell of latex worked just above my face.
The hands moved away, and I saw her.
A nurse, her face worried and concentrated on saving my life, stood over me, and her blue eyes lifted for an instant and met mine. She blinked and raised a hand toward my face. On her pale wrist I saw a perfect black star. I grabbed the star, but they strapped my arm down and somebody shoved the tube up my nose again.
"We're losing him—"
I gagged and my vision yellowed and bubbled over. The nurse drifted away.
My whole body plunged, like a stone dropping to the bottom of a well. Soft, painless black welcomed me. I slowed, floating downward now, the blackness spreading up to the top of my pit and choking the light.
The white circle at the top got smaller and smaller, until it was only a pinpoint.
Then the blackness sealed shut.
* * *
I dropped the phone and ran. Out my office door, down the hall, down the steps.
My car was parked in my usual space. Right where I'd left it. Tree limbs bent in the wind and leaves slapped at a sky drained of color.
* * *
When I opened my eyes, I was in a hospital bed.
I lay in a calm room under cool sheets. A short, fat nurse stood beside me, but she didn't have a star tattoo or blue eyes. The eyes tucked back in her doughy face were as bright and green as apples.
"Well," she said, "you're back."
I took a deep breath and felt my septum throb.
When I groaned, she said, "After your jaw locked up they had to put the tube in through your nose. It may hurt for a while." She patted my arm. "You can get some more sleep if you want. Once you're feeling a little better some people are going to want to talk to you."
"Okay."
It was odd to hear my voice.
She put a hand on me as if to heal me with her love. "You're going to be okay," she ordered.
I didn't know what to say to that.
"I guess so," I said.
"You are going to be okay," she told me, even more firmly, like you would tell a kid he was going to eat his veggies. "It's none of my business, but not everyone gets a second chance. That many pills ..." She caught herself and issued a terse smile. "All I'm saying is, life is too precious to throw away."
When she left, I lay there in bed with what was left of my precious life.
And thought, Goddamn it.
-CHAPTER TWO-
The Nurse with the Black Star
I stared at the turquoise curtain pulled halfway around my bed. To my left was a Plexiglas partition. Blurred figures moved on the other side, and I heard the conversation between a couple of male nurses. I didn't pay them much attention, though. I just lay there and let my senses slowly come back to me.
My mind felt like a handful of photographs scattered on the floor. I knew I was Elliot Stilling. I knew I was in Little Rock, Arkansas. I knew that I had climbed through my ex-wife's bathroom window and washed down a bottle of pills with a bottle of whiskey. I remembered her bathroom floor, the cool tile, the pink bathmat. I remembered the soft descent into sleep.
Had Carrie come to see me yet? Was she waiting outside to see me? Had they told her I was awake? The thought of seeing her didn't frighten me. I don't know if it was a residual effect of the drugs, but I had trouble feeling anything at all. I wasn't angry or sad. I wasn't embarrassed. I wasn't suicidal. I was just a body on a bed. I leaned back into my pillows and closed my eyes, listening to my breathing, feeling the air in my lungs.
I was still listening and feeling when the young nurse with the black star appeared in the doorway to my room.
She wore teal scrubs, and though she was probably only in her late-twenties her cropped, punk-black hair was streaked with gray. Standing in the doorway holding a plastic pitcher, she announced bluntly, "Well, you're damn lucky to be here."
"So I've heard."
She strolled over to my bedside and picked up a plastic cup and filled it. Closer up, she looked rougher. Her blue eyes turned as hard as sapphires, and her mouth settled into a default skepticism. When she noticed me watching her, her spade-shaped jaw seemed to set, and lines formed around her mouth as she smiled.
Her name tag read: Felicia Vogan.
"Felicia ..."
"That's my name," she said, handing me the water. "You need hydration. Can't have enough."
I drank the water in a gulp
. "Thanks. May I have some more?" As she poured me another cup, I said, "You were in the emergency room."
She handed me the water. "Sure was."
"Are you the one who's supposed to be looking after me?"
"Nope. Just came to check on you."
"Is that the usual procedure?"
"No."
"So why'd you want to come see me?"
Amused she said, "You're pretty direct, aren't you?"
"I tried to kill myself yesterday. Ate a bottle of Dolophine. Now here I am. I don't have much left to be indirect about."
Those sapphires rarely blinked. "I suppose that's true."
"So why are you here if you don't have to be here?"
She leaned over the rail. "Well you made quite an impression, Reverend Stilling."
"Reverend?"
"That's what I hear," she explained. "The ER is required to document the contents of your wallet when you come in. They said there was a business card for Reverend Elliot Stilling."
"That's old."
"Oh."
"That was another ... me. A year or so ago. I forget. Time's become kind of hard to keep track of. But I haven't been a preacher for a while."
"That makes sense."
"Why?"
"Well, we don't get many preachers trying to kill themselves."
"I suppose not."
She said, "I should probably go. Just wanted to say hello."
"That's it?"
"Should there be more?"
"No pep talk? The last nurse who was in here pretty much demanded that I acknowledge how wonderful life is."
We shared a smile for a moment before she said, "That's Tess. For Christmas one year she gave me a copy of Chicken Soup For The Nurse's Soul."
"Nice."
"I thought it was a cookbook."
"So you're not here to force a positive perspective on me?"
"I wouldn't have one to force on you even if I wanted to, Mr. Stilling."
"Call me Elliot."
"Elliot, I ... you want to know the truth?"
"I do."
She held out her palm and pointed at the black star tattooed on her narrow wrist. "You grabbed me back in the ER."
"I know."
"You remember?"
"I remember seeing that star and grabbing your wrist. I remember seeing your face. You're the only thing I can remember."
"You grabbed me and looked right at me and right at the tattoo. Kind of freaked me out."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I was startled, of course, but I was happy you were back. Well, you were back for a while ..."
"I passed out after that."
"No." She shook her head. "You died."
"I ..."
"For three minutes."
A wave of dizziness came over me, as if I'd wandered too close to the edge of a long fall. It was what I had wanted when I ate that bottle of pills, of course, but I still had to shut my eyes to stop my head from spinning.
"Scary," she said.
I opened my eyes. She had moved closer.
"Hey, are you okay?" she asked. "I didn't mean to ... I can be a little indelicate."
"I'm fine," I said. "It's just not everyday someone tells you that you successfully killed yourself."
"No," she said. "I guess not."
Outside the door to my room, announcements barked over a loudspeaker, orderlies pushed carts, families asked questions, and the whole machine of the hospital whirled and clanged and spat.
Inside my room Felicia asked me, "How do you feel?"
"Alone," I said. "But less so since you walked in here."
Felicia Vogan took a moment to think about that. She sucked in her lips and then pushed them back out again before she said, "I'm glad, Elliot. I really am."
The doughy nurse walked in and said, "Hey, Felicia."
Felicia straightened up. "Hey, Tess."
Tess walked over to my bed and patted Felicia's back. "You checking on our boy?"
"Yep. Just wanted to tell him we're all pulling for him."
"Absolutely," Tess said. To me she said, "You feeling okay, sweetie? You need anything?"
"My clothes would be nice."
With an emphatic shake of her head, she told me, "Doctor Yaccoby wants you to stay in bed for just a little bit longer."
"Is that a fact?"
"Yep, and considering she saved your life yesterday, I'd think about taking her advice."
"You didn't lose my clothes, did you?"
Tess smiled. "No, baby. Your clothes are over there." She motioned vaguely to my right. "But for now you need to rest. You've been through a traumatic event, and your body needs to heal itself. You also need to talk to some people. Doctor Yaccoby will want to talk to you, as will a really nice specialist named Judy. We all just want to help you."
I mumbled something affirmative.
Satisfied, she turned to Felicia. "You on your way home, girl?"
"Yeah."
"Okay," Tess said. "I'll see you next week."
When she'd left, Felicia smiled at me. "I should go too," she said.
"Okay."
"It was nice meeting you, Elliot."
"It was the best part of my day," I said. "Of course, it's been a profoundly shitty day, but still ..."
With mock self-effacement, she said, "Nothing a girl likes to hear more than she was the best part of a day that started with being dead."
I laughed at that—and the sound of my laugh seemed like the faint echo of some forgotten time. It nearly made me cry.
She placed a warm hand on my shoulder. "Anything I can get you before I go?"
"Your phone number."
She withdrew her hand. "I don't think that's a good idea."
"I know," I said.
"I would get into a lot of trouble."
"I know. Can't blame a guy for trying."
She searched my face like she was trying to find something important there. "I just ..."
"Really," I said. "I know. You don't have to explain why you'd turn down a digit request from a guy who killed himself last night."
She smiled. "Digit request?"
"I was one of those really cool preachers."
"Take care of yourself, Elliot."
"I'll try. You take care, too."
She leaned down and kissed my forehead. I hadn't smelled a woman's skin in almost two years. It made my mouth water.
"Isn't kissing the patients against some kind of hospital code?" I asked.
"I'm a really cool nurse."
After she left, I lay there a moment.
The room lightly hummed in climate controlled stillness. The humming started to squeeze my head. I felt the first burst of energy I'd had in months. I was damned if I was going to sit there and wait to be lectured by a doctor or some specialist. I'd be damned if I was going to wait until Carrie showed up.
I got out of bed. Getting my balance was a chore at first. The cold hospital floor was like an ice rink under my wobbly legs. I grabbed the end of the bed and just stood there for a while, letting my legs turn solid again. Once I was sure I wasn't going to fall over, I took a step. It was like trying to walk without any shins, and I damn near fell on my face. I waited, and then I took another step. It was a little better. I took another step and let go of the bed. My knees settled into it, and I pulled back the curtain. The room was empty. There were three other beds waiting for customers and a big green clothes cabinet against the far wall. Next to the cabinet, a large chart listed various types of choking hazards.
I walked toward the cabinet, still a little uncertain of my legs, but I could feel them again, and it felt good to be up.
I got to the cabinet and eased open its creaky door. Glancing over my shoulder, and feeling satisfied no one was back there, I opened it all the way and scooped out my clothes and shoes. I shut the door and hobbled back over to the nearest bed and pulled the curtain.
Once I investigated the clothes I realized the pants, socks and shoe
s were mine, but the shirt was not. It figured the ER people would have cut my shirt off in the operating room, but there were two shirts mixed in with my stuff. One was a white T-shirt three sizes too small for me. The other was a clean khaki work shirt with a name badge reading: Juan.
I opted for Juan's work shirt. I don't know if it was the drugs or not, but my fingers had a difficult time with the buttons on the shirt and a nearly impossible time with the button on the pants. But once I got warmed up, it was like walking. I got my shoes on.
"Let's get out of here," I said.
Good. Talking in the first person plural. That's normal, Elliot.
I cracked open the door and peered out. I didn't see Felicia or anyone else. I was about to step into the hall when I glanced over and saw a small phone book mixed in with some papers on a wooden table by the door. I picked it up and walked out.
In the hall, I kept my head mostly in the book, peering up enough to navigate down the hall. My gamble was that I could blend into the causal bustle in the hallway, but there wasn't really any bustle to be found.
Still, no one bothered me. At the end of the hall, I crept by the nurses' station while two nurses worked to extricate a cartridge from the busted printer below the desk. I headed for the exit. When I was almost there a young couple burst in—the boy moaning and clutching a bloody hand, the girl being a little too loud about it—and I tucked the phone book under my arm and strolled right out the door and into the dripping afternoon heat.
-CHAPTER THREE-
Exodus
My face hurt. Or, to be more precise, the inside of my face hurt. Breathing felt like a crime I was committing against my head, so I tried inhaling slowly, gently. I walked, taut and awkward, past patients and families in the unloading area, waiting to hear someone yell my name and tell me to get back to bed. But no one did.
I hadn't recognized the hospital from the inside, but once I'd waded into the humidity outside and had my bearings I realized I was at the UAMS hospital in Little Rock. It sat at the top of a long drive, its buildings and auxiliaries scattered over a couple of hills. I'd have to clomp down the hill to busy West Markham Street, and I wasn't quite up for that yet. In fact, after escaping the hospital, I wasn't quite up for anything. I ditched the phone book, walked over to a bench and plopped down next to a couple of sweating, middle-aged guys in jeans, work shirts, and boots. It had just rained and the bench was wet, but neither of them seemed to notice.