by John Farrow
“That’s all right to me.”
She returned her attention to the distant view. She thought she’d explain one reason why it was attractive to her eye. “My people built this city,” she stated quietly.
“New York?” Luc challenged, doubtful. “Indians?”
She smiled. “People always laugh when they think of us selling Manhattan for beads. But it wasn’t such a bad deal. Who do you think built the bridges and skyscrapers? Mohawks. Men from my reserve. My father was one of them. More people do the work now, but it used to be just us Indians who walked the high girders as if we were out for a stroll in the park. We lived pretty well off Manhattan.”
Luc liked her story, she could tell by the subtle change in his expression. He was staring out at the city now, letting his imagination travel with her story.
“The Mohawk Warriors began as high riggers. Way up there, above Fifth Avenue, looking down on Central Park or Broadway, men from my reserve would discuss the ways of the world and the lives of Indian people. The men decided to change things. I’m not against the Warriors. God knows, I have a Warrior heart. What happens to a high rigger when buildings aren’t going up, that’s a tough question. The first Warriors asked tough questions like that. I don’t think anybody shouted out, ‘Let’s call Bingo numbers!’ But I bet somebody said, ‘Look out for the red man first, and fuck the white man’s ways.’ Oh yeah, that was said.”
They were quiet awhile, and even Luc appeared appreciative of the sun rising above the winter haze into a pale sky.
“Can I ask you something, Lucy?”
“Go ahead.”
“What do you have in the back of this truck I drive?”
She reached across and touched his wrist. “You want to know what kind of trouble you’re in?”
He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter to me if I get five years or ten. The man can’t take those years out of me because I don’t got that many left to give him. But I would like to know the true nature of die wrong I’m doing.”
Lucy stretched her muscles, stiff from the night’s travel. “Luc, you’re going to see some things you haven’t seen before. Some sights won’t be so pleasant, unlike the one in front of us now. Prepare yourself. Some things might disturb you. Even you, an ex-con. But we’ll makea deal.If at any time you’re not comfortable with what you’re doing, let me know, all right? We’ll talk about it then. For now, just drive.”
“All right,” Luc agreed. “I’ll drive.”
“Follow the signs to Paramus, New Jersey. We’ll find a motel there.”
The density of traffic increased on their drive down to the city and the sea. The buzz of the metropolis reverberated to the outskirts, where cars raced and trucks rumbled, and the tall, pear-shaped clerk at the motel desk looked up at them with disdain for interrupting his next bite of a morning omelette.
“May I help you?” he asked, and coughed. Lucy studied him, and felt quiet inside, because she knew he didn’t mean or want to be offering help. And yet it was men like him, men of no particular distinction, who wore lesions on their foreheads like him, wore them as medals, yes, men like him that she had come to save, rescue from the dusty destitution of their lives brought on by the most menacing plague of all time.
“Yes,” she said. “We’d like two rooms. One for me. One for my friend.”
He shook his head. “Housekeeping won’t have two rooms fixed up this early.”
“That’s not my problem,” Lucy told him.
“You have to come back.”
“Or—” she suggested.
“Or what?”
“Or there’s another way.”
“Lady—”
“Two rooms,” she said. “Cleaned up, sheets changed. Twenty minutes. Where do I sign?”
Tourists, he was probably thinking, hating them all. “Sign here, lady.” He indicated the visitor’s card and offered a pen. “Your rooms will be ready soon. I’ll fix them up myself.”
“That’s the spirit.” After she had signed in, she looked at him again. “I have something for those sores on your face.”
He laughed her off. “No, lady, you don’t.”
“Yes. I do.”She smiled and accepted the keys.
“We’ll talk.”
The next day, early Wednesday morning, January 12, 1999
Camille Choquette lived with her daughter in a modest bungalow in a town that took its name from the adjoining lake, Lac des Deux-Montagnes. The location offered the advantages of a small town in the country, and yet, thanks to an expressway and a commuter train, she had ready access to her job at Hillier-Largent on the edge of the city. In winter, if she wanted to drop by the ice-fishing village or visit friends where she used to work at BioLogika, she’d speed across the lake on her Ski-Doo.
Awakening in the dark, Camille groped around for her nightgown, tossed off in a moment of passion. When the lost was found, she slipped the wisp of fabric, patterned with vines and dashes of colored flowers, over her head and down her torso. Then she tucked her feet into bedroom slippers, the ones with lambswool lining. She went through to the bathroom, where she took a long drink directly from the tap. Anytime she made these nocturnal strolls to fend off dehydration, she reminded herself to buy a humidifier, but somehow she never remembered when she was out shopping. Too many things on her mind, and the minutiae of daily living bored her silly. Drudgery wore her down. Everything must change, she thought to herself. Everything will, she vowed, as though a second voice had answered the first.
She flicked on the light and gave her short hair a hasty fluff. Camille had never been considered a beauty, but she made the best of her sharp features.
Given that she was already on her feet, she went through to her daughter’s tiny bedroom to confirm that the little girl was warm enough, and adjusted her covers slightly. According to the child’s careful count, Carole was seven and three quarters years old. She had a habit of kicking the covers off while she slept, but tonight was resting calmly. Perhaps she had fallen asleep intent on sounds from the other room, which had kept her still.
Gently, Camille removed Carole’s thumb from her mouth and gave her a gentle kiss on the forehead.
Back in her bedroom, her guest for the night had roused himself. “Leaving?” she asked.
“Pretty soon. If I can wake up.”
“Just as well.” She crawled under the covers and snuggled up against him. “I wouldn’t want Charlie to pop in on us.”
The caution took Werner Honigwachs by surprise. “Are you expecting him?”
She patted his shoulder. “He’d call first. But you never know, there’s always a first time.”
“You’re living dangerously,” Honigwachs teased.
Her right hand drifted south, finding his softened penis to tug. “What would you do if Charlie waltzed in here, wearing his gun?”
He chuckled. “My fast-talking skills would be put to the test.”
“What would you say?”
“I’d tell him the truth.”
That intrigued her. “What truth?”
“That I was doing him a favour, sparing him a lifetime of misery with you.”
“Wrong move, Wiener,” she said, using her pet name for him and giving his testicles a rub. “He’d shoot you dead if you said that. Charlie believes in me.”
The conversation and her attentions were helping Honigwachs wake up. “What would Charlie-boy do to you?”
“I’d promise to do that little thing he likes. He’d spare me.”
“What thing;?”
“I’m not telling.”
“Have you done it to me?”
“Want me to? Turn over on your tummy and raise your butt.”
“Forget it.” He threw the covers off himself while Camille giggled at her own sauciness. Exposed to the chilly air, he moved quickly to dress. While he was tucking his shirt into his trousers, Honigwachs asked, “You’re off soon, to the States?”
“In a few days. Lucy just got started. I like
to check results after six days.” Camille squatted on the bed, bunching the blankets around her. She was bobbing her chin and shoulders as if hearing a distant dance music.
“You’re set? It won’t be a picnic. I still think you should go with someone.”
“Too risky. I can handle this myself.”
“It’ll be different this time.”
“I’ll manage.”
Upon his arrival that night, Honigwachs had gone straight to her bedroom, so he found his overcoat there.
“See yourself out, okay, Wiener? It’s too cold to get up.”
He leaned across the bed to give her a kiss. “Take care, babe.”
“Give your wife a hug for me, will you?” She laughed again.
“Say hello to Charlie. I’d still like to know what you’re doing with a cop.”
“What are you doing with a wife?” She hugged a pillow for warmth.
“She takes care of my home. My family. She’s an asset in many ways. We have fun together.”
“Ditto Charlie,” Camille said. “He’s an asset in so many ways. I’m probably going to have to break this off with you, Werner, sooner or later. Just so I can be more faithful to the boy. At least on the surface, if you know what I mean, until everything works out. When I’m super-rich, when I’ve outgrown him—I’ll dump him then.”
He leaned down once more and kissed her. “And Lucy? She no longer puts the two of us together?”
“I took care of that. She believes I’m utterly devoted to Charlie. Charlie thinks so too. Nobody can connect us.”
“Be careful in New York, Camille.”
“Wiener! Don’t worry. I know what’s ahead. I can handle it.”
The same day, Wednesday, January 12, 1999
In the morning they drove onto Amsterdam Avenue in Upper Manhattan. Luc appeared to know his way around, although he was reluctant to give details of time previously spent in the city.
“I assume you weren’t attending Columbia,” Lucy said.
“What?”
“Never mind. I’m just being snobby. Hard-Knocky U probably gave you a well-rounded education. Did you get an athletic scholarship, at least?”
“What?” Either his morning coffee had been too weak or he really couldn’t grasp the language when she teased him. Lucy was thinking that the trip could turn out to be an endurance test in one another’s company.
“Sorry, Luc. Forget it.”
When she reached the address on 126th Street Lucy was pleased to discover that not only were they expected, but a welcoming committee had prepared for their arrival. A skinny black man with a wide grin, a salmon shirt and grape-coloured pants was the first to greet them, and he did so with a sense of occasion.
“Saint Lucy herself, in the flesh, come from the clouds in a big, bad truck. Virile trucker-man beside her. Girls are always trying to kid us that size is not important. Pocahontas-child, that’s a big mother truck. What does a big truck say to me? Bigger is better and you’re all for it.”
“Hiya, Wendell. How’s it hanging?”
“It’s still attached, Saint Lucy, which I owe to you. Who’s your darling friend?”
“Wendell, this is Luc.”
“Luc! And Lucy! A tag team! I love it! Luc—darling!—I’m pleased to meet you. Come inside and meet the boys. You’ll have to get used to us, sweetie, we’ll be keeping your Pocahontas-child busy busy busy.” He gathered up both visitors by the arm and strutted between them to the door. Wendell’s head was elongated, narrowing at the top. The shape was accentuated by his haircut, which shaved the sides to a mere shadow while allowing the hair on top of his head to grow straight up, rising three inches above his scalp. He whispered to Lucy, loudly enough for Luc to hear, “Is he one of us? He seems so, I don’t know, severe.”
“Luc’s HIV-pos,” Lucy said. She hoped that it was all right with Luc to say so.
“Oh, darling, I’m so sorry. You poor thing!”
“But he’s not gay.”
“Sorrier still! Oh, sweetheart, the gay man’s plague and you haven’t enjoyed the fruits from the vine? That’s heartbreaking!”
“Wendell.”
“I’m devastated. Watch the step now, precious, the concrete is not as concrete as one might hope.”
Inside the apartment, the full welcoming committee was equally pleased to see Lucy again, but considerably more sedate. Sadness prevailed for those lost since her last visit, as well as happiness for those whose lives had been preserved. Luc stood off to one side and observed the proceedings, quietly impressed by the number of people who treated Lucy as a saint. Men touched her arms, or her fingers, with a delicacy that struck him as unnatural, as though they were desperate for the touch but genuinely believed themselves unworthy to commit the simple act. Lucy, on the other hand, kissed the men’s foreheads and gave them robust hugs. Tears flowed. The residents related how their lives had improved. Two were back at work, and three claimed to have been symptom-free for months. “You’ve given me back my life, my hope, my reason to live.”
“You’re a brave man, Jack. You didn’t want to do it, at first.”
“I was a ‘fraidy-cat! But it’s paid off.” Jack had always carried weight, but now his skin hung on him sadly, the extra pounds gone. He wore a midriff girdle to keep himself looking trim.
“That’s great. Still no guarantees. None last time, none now.”
The man put up his hands and would not hear another word. “We’re all at war, Lucy, like you told me. If I don’t benefit, someone else will. The beauty, though, is that I have benefitted.”
“Don’t hog every last speck of her time!” Wendell butted in. “Who among us is not enthralled? Share, Jack, share!”
Down a dark corridor, in the back rooms, sick men awaited her. They smiled, and valiantly raised their heads to the sight and sound of her. Luc’s stomach turned to see these ravaged bodies, the skin of one man a mere membrane over bones, the flesh gone. They smelled. The house smelled. Of disinfectant. Old vomit. Urine. A few had open lesions. These men also praised Lucy and what she had done for them, or for their friends. “My doctor told my lover a week. Here I am, Saint Lucy, three months since then. Not good months, but I’m here. I love beating the odds.”
“Stick it out, Garrett. Maybe this time we can do better. Who knows?”
“Whatever it takes, Saint Lucy. If it’s good for me, good. If it helps science, better. My doctor says, ‘What are you doing, how are you staying alive?’ He thinks he’ll win the Nobel Prize if he can figure me out.”
“But your lips are sealed, Garrett?”
“With bright pink paraffin! Not a peep escapes from me!”
After she had shared a word with everyone, and reminded each man again that she was offering no promises, Lucy addressed them as a group, offering the assurance that they were placing themselves at the leading edge of medical knowledge, dodging the ass-dragging government agencies, both American and Canadian. The men nodded, murmured a litany of complaint. Being on the edge, Lucy reminded them, meant hope. “As I’ve told you before, better to be a guinea pig for a new drug, with its risks, than taking the safe ones and dying. The day we have a cure will be months before it’s generally available. What’s the point of dying in that interval when you could get help? But it means taking a chance. You’re the guys who take the risks. For that, you get to sample the latest drugs, and by letting us see them in action you help us move faster, so you’re helping everybody who’s sick. Our knowledge increases, and knowledge is what this race is all about.”
She changed her tone after her speech, and became their physician. “I’ll need a blood sample from each of you. We’ll do that indoors. Later, in an orderly fashion—and that means no pushing and shoving in line, Wendell—come outside to the truck, one at a time. This will take a while, so your patience is appreciated.”
“Patience? Time?” Wendell questioned. “Who has time? We’re dying here, Pocahontas-child! You jabber jabber, we die die die. Will you get a move o
n? Or do I have to wait another lifetime to see any results around here?”
“Wendell, I have an especially long needle for you.”
That had everyone laughing.
“There you go with that size fixation again. Bigger badder better, that’s all you girls think about.”
“Is that why you became one of us?”
The comment elicited a series of groans from the motley collection of lab rats. Expecting Wendell to give her one right back, to catch her on the hook of his wit, they waited, their breathing hushed. He seemed flummoxed, standing with his hands on his hips in a posture of irate indignation, chin high.
“Well,” he gushed finally, “I suppose.”
Which won the day, and the dying men whom Lucy had come to save enjoyed a laugh.
Luc’s job, which he did faithfully, was to keep the vials of blood intact and together with the paperwork for each patient, without error. “Handle with care,” Lucy warned him.
“I know why I am here now. A healthy man might infect his own blood.”
“There’s that. A cut could be dangerous,” Lucy agreed. “Also, Luc, I need someone who won’t freak out with these people. Who won’t be scared to touch them, or be afraid to be in the same room, afraid to breathe the same air.”
“You be careful yourself,” Luc warned her.
“Yeah, yeah,” she intoned, and waved off the danger.
“No,” Luc said. “With the blood, be careful yourself.”
She was touched by his obvious concern. “Thanks, Luc. I will. Don’t look at me like that! I’ll be careful. Go! Bring me the black bag from the truck, please.” She crinkled her nose for him. “I get to be Doctor Lucy today.”
Wendell was the first to offer his arm, and Lucy Gabriel drew his blood with care. Not trained as a nurse, she had nevertheless learned how to do this and to administer drugs intravenously. “What’s your schedule like, Lucy? Got time to socialize?”
“I’m around, but this is strictly a working trip. Tomorrow and Thursday I’m in the Village. Friday’s Newark.”
“Newark! You are a saint. Thank God for the bodyguard.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Famous last words. Knock on wood, immediately!”