by Bill Scheft
People will go on and on about the convenience of cash machines and they will never get to what College Boy liked best. Here it was: No tellers. No, not no tellers to transact with. No tellers to ask out.
College Boy grabbed the five crisp twenties, leaning back briefly to see if she was working inside today. Yeah. Window 4. S. Torres. Whew. How close had he been to that grab bag of distraction? Close, but just close. But he hadn’t. He had stayed on point. He was here taking care of his uncle. He was “Oh hello, Mr. Sussman. What can I do for you?” Every time he stopped at the ATM machine, at least three times a week, he would glimpse her on his way out. If she caught him, he’d probably wave. But he always kept walking. And when he was safely away from S. Torres, just before he started the engine in the Buick Century station wagon, he would always smile into the rearview mirror and ask himself, “What have you done with College Boy?”
He turned off the engine in the Buick wagon. He grabbed the basket of laundry he’d done that morning, before he’d headed for Route One Fun.
“Hey, what have you done with College Boy?”
A car door shut that wasn’t his. He hadn’t seen her when he pulled in. He hadn’t noticed. She was early. No, he was late. Shit.
“Sheila. Shit. I’m sorry.”
“Did we say three?”
“Yeah.” Three-forty. Shit.
“Laundry, huh?”
“Laundry and, ah, batting cages.”
“So, College Boy lives. Good, I was worried.”
“Why are you waiting out here? Why didn’t you let yourself in?”
“The key under the mat? Didn’t work.”
Christ Jesus, did she look great. Holding up the laundry with one hand he fumbled through his pocket. He worked out a key. The one to Vinnin Estates.
“Ahh. Unbelievable. I left you the key—”
“—to Mort’s apartment?”
“Yeah.” College Boy lives. He handed Sheila his key. She walked ahead of him up the flagstones. “Can I tell you you look, ah, incredible?”
She held the door open. “You look like shit.”
He dropped the laundry basket on the front hall floor. “So, you ready to go to the hospital and see him?”
“Not right now.” She squeezed his neck and saw the reflection of her tears in his. “You ready to stay here and make a huge mistake?”
“Not right now.”
“Me neither.”
“How about we just lay down for a while?”
“Take a nap?”
“Yeah.”
She smiled and wanted to say, “What have you done with College Boy?”
“Good idea,” she said.
19
Just after her workout and just before she left New York, Sheila phoned Meyer Levitz, Mort’s psychiatrist. The call lasted thirteen minutes. Or minus the time she was on hold, forty-six seconds.
“Dr. Levitz, this is Sheila Manning. I’m calling on behalf of Morton Spell.”
“Are you an attorney?”
“No.”
“Okay, go on.”
“Mort is dying. He fell and was taken to a hospital in Boston. Whatever they gave him for the pain might have interacted with the Parkinson’s medication he’s on. He had a serious neurological reaction. Is there anything we can do?”
“You’re the attorney. I think you got a hell of a case.”
“I’M NOT AN ATTORNEY!”
“Don’t shout at me, young lady, or you’ll meet my attorney. I haven’t seen Mort Spell in nine months. I didn’t even know he had Parkinson’s. Bad break.”
“But you diagnosed it!”
“Is that the kind of basement intimidation they taught you in law school?”
“I’M NOT A FUCKING LAWYER!”
“And I’m not the Reverend Al Fucking Sharpton. What’s your point?”
“What’s my point?”
“You don’t know either? Look, my next twisto is waiting out there. I’m hanging up. Call back and tell Bernice to pencil me in for shiva.”
No Parkinson’s patient is the same after a fall, let alone a fall and whatever the medication had put Mort through. That said, Mort was as much of the way back as you could be. But for Sheila, who hadn’t seen him in six months, this was a man who was more than diminished. Even asleep, which was how she had viewed him Tuesday night and twice Wednesday, this was not Mort Spell. This was a container for Mort Spell, and this was unacceptable.
Dr. Craig Coulter had returned from his first vacation in eighteen months Thursday morning. He was brought up to speed on Mort Spell’s case and the malpractice bullet Hawthorne Hospital had dodged. He had called Dottie Sussman around eight to remind her that her brother was being released and to ask if she might want to chat when she came by. Dottie Sussman told him she was late for tennis and to talk to her son. College Boy and Sheila were there by nine-thirty.
Despite how many times you’ve been told to sit and wait, a physician really isn’t allowed the choice of avoiding people with whom he has to talk. There are exceptions, most notably when the people with whom he has to talk don’t want to talk with him. One look from College Boy, the look that came after, “Excuse me. Harvey, is it?” was all Craig Coulter needed to know it might be good to move on. In this case, move on to the woman who lingered behind after College Boy ducked into Mort’s room to help him get dressed. “Can I speak with you?” Sheila said. “I’m Sheila.”
“Sheila Sussman?”
“Good one.”
“What’s your relationship to Mr. Spell?”
“I took care of him for seventeen years.”
“You were his nurse?”
“No, cleaning woman.”
At that point, College Boy ducked back out. “Sheila, don’t come in yet. He forgot you’d be here.” He looked at Dr. Coulter. “Yeah. Talk to him. Good idea.”
Sheila had wanted to talk with someone, anyone, since 11:43 A.M. Tuesday. Someone, anyone other than College Boy. Preferably a doctor. Preferably a real one.
“Look, Dr. Coulter.”
“Craig.”
“Right.”
“Let me start. Mr. Spell has to have his medication reevaluated immediately. By a geriatric pharmacologist. This is urgent. I’m not saying we didn’t screw up here—”
“He’s alive, which I understand was not necessarily the case a few days ago. I’m glad you brought up the reevaluation thing. I need to talk to you about something.”
And Sheila told Dr. Coulter, Craig, about the phone call she had made to Levitz Tuesday morning. She left out the Al Sharpton/twisto/Bernice/shiva section of the conversation. Too distracting. If there was one thing she’d learned in her years of cleaning apartments for Jews, it was to keep the word shiva out of the reach of gentiles.
“That’s some story. And this Dr. Levitz really acted like he had no knowledge of Mr. Spell’s Parkinson’s?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“No, I’m lying,” Sheila said. “I know how turned on you guys get when a woman tells you another doctor fucked up.” Dr. Coulter blushed. Between him and College Boy and the waft of hospital disinfectant, Sheila was feeling quite desirable.
“Well, then,” shuffled Dr. Coulter, “we really have to get on this. There’s a wonderful doctor at Mass General. Ross Copely. I’ll set up something for tomorrow.”
“Great.”
“Let me go make that call. You better tell Harvey.”
“Who? Oh, Harvey.”
There is nothing funnier than a man desperately trying to act like he’s not jealous. Okay, maybe a man trying to act like he’s not jealous when all he is actually jealous of is the fact that you don’t need any help taking a shit. So, being among both types must be downright hysterical. Sheila had inherited this jackpot just by showing up at Hawthorne Hospital that morning.
College Boy had not witnessed Mort from the luxury boxes of time and distance. His uncle looked maybe 11 percent worse. He was uncharacteristically quiet, but
Sheila had that effect on a lot of guys. Not on the young doctor who couldn’t stop talking to her, but a lot of guys. Before he jogged off, Sheila had intently hush-toned with this white lab coat and matching teeth display, and any time College Boy had walked over to let her know Mort’s release was almost being processed or actually being processed, she gave him the smile and the index finger in the air. You next.
College Boy would let it pass. She had come here to help with Mort. This guy was a doctor. They were talking in a hospital. There was no need for a steward’s inquiry.
“So, who’s the greaseball?”
“Craig? Dr. Coulter?”
“Please,” said College Boy, “call him Craig.”
“Hey, College Boy, Dr. Coulter is going to help us out.”
“I, ah, figured that. Mort’s about to be processed out.”
“Good.”
“I’ll be over there.”
“You can stay here.”
“Nah, that’s okay. You’re already here.”
Dr. Coulter returned with his hair and teeth and athletic gait in a much too attentively short amount of time. College Boy, using the window on the door of Mort’s room as a mirror, saw him touch Sheila’s shoulder, and then saw Sheila grab his well-starched elbow and disappear with him around some corner. Wait a minute. The elbow grab. She’d done that with him at Mount Sinai. That was part of her act, like an opening number. “Come Fly With Me.” Very cute. Very cozy. Where had she and Lance Lancer, Doctor On Call, or whatever the fuck his name was, ducked away? Into some supply closet perhaps?
Ah, no. Seconds later, she emerged in College Boy’s window mirror.
“Hey!” Loud. Scared the shit out of him.
“What?”
“What was the name of the one doctor Mort liked at Mount Sinai?”
“Uh, Dr. Blair. No, Dr. Cahill. Dr. Blair Cahill. I think. Let me ask Mort.”
“No! That’s right. Thanks.” And then back out of sight. Okay, false alarm. Everybody calm down. A minute later, when the window reflected Dr. Coulter walking back down the hall, away and alone, College Boy, his rampant mind now cooling as his projection ran the last few feet of its leader, was okay with it all. Saw it all for what it was. Two people united in concern over his uncle. The only point of contention was, well, who was prettier? Amazing how pettiness just disappears when you let go. College Boy was grateful.
“Where’d Chad go? Sale at J. Crew?”
“I gave Craig the phone number at Mort’s place. He said he’d call before the end of the day.”
If this 6'-3" haircut hadn’t played soccer or lacrosse at Brown or some other faggot Ivy League burgh, then College Boy’s powers to stereotype had shorted. Well, good for him. Good for Chad, er, Craig. And good for him to help us out. Good for him to look past this gorgeous woman tilting her magnificent strawberry head his way and focus on his sworn fealty as a healer. College Boy was grateful.
“I hope he calls, Sheila.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you think he’ll call?”
“What?”
“Because I don’t want to sit by the phone all day and wind up being hurt. I’m very vulnerable now.”
College Boy was ready to apologize for that last remark if he had to. But he didn’t. Sheila laughed, touched his shoulder, and whispered, “I think he’ll call.”
It took a while to get Mort out of the wheelchair into the Century station wagon. His tremors were now so clear-air turbulent the best anyone could do was pretend he was just anxious to get home. But he was no longer dying at the moment, and evidently, that meant he was well enough for Hawthorne Hospital to release.
Sheila waited until after they were back at Vinnin Estates and Mort was safely shitted and sleeping before telling College Boy about her call to Dr. Levitz and the call they were awaiting from Dr. Coulter. Until then, she had thought it wiser to deal with College Boy as she dealt with any man, on a need-to-know basis. Dr. Coulter wanted Mort’s medication to be reevaluated immediately. Unfortunately, Ross Copely at Mass General was out of the country, and the one other geriatric psychopharmacologist he trusted in Boston was unavailable until Tuesday. That’s when Sheila grabbed his elbow, led him around the corner and said, “It’s Craig, right? This is bullshit, Craig. Get us somebody to see in New York tomorrow, Craig.” Mort’s home number and Blair Cahill’s name came moments later.
“Did you really say it like that? With all those ‘Craigs’?” College Boy asked.
Dr. Coulter called at four. College Boy answered “Oh hello, Craig,” and got a tremendously disapproving leer from Sheila before handing her the phone. Good news. Dr. Blair Cahill had come through. Dr. Michael Zing would just play nine and see Mort at New York Hospital tomorrow morning at eleven.
“Okay, boys,” she announced after hanging up, “we’re going to New York. We got three hours.”
Terrific. Except the way Sheila had said good-bye to Dr. Coulter, with all that giggling. Like ol’ Doc Craiggers had verbally prescribed some of that trademark Ivy League fag wit of his.
He definitely had some things he wanted to ask Sheila. Maybe later. Maybe after they’d been on their way for a while. And Mort, though calmer, had to have some questions. Questions other than “By the way, do you think I’ll ever take an unchaperoned crap?” Questions like, “I left the hospital eight hours ago. What am I doing in a strange car driving to New York?” and “Why is Sheila running things all of sudden?” and “If Sheila is running things, can she talk to someone, perhaps when we get to New York, about why I’m not capable of taking an unchaperoned crap?”
College Boy called the Yale Club and managed to get the last available room with a private bath at the weekend rate. Sheila went to China Sails and came back with all the stuff she hadn’t eaten in six months. They let Mort sleep while they napped on the living room floor. Everyone was packed and fed and ready to go by seven.
They left at 7:35. Mort wanted to watch Jeopardy, then see what Vanna was wearing. It didn’t go well. Jeopardy had those annoying teens and every question seemed to be about some event that had taken place while Mort had been unconscious. And then Vanna came out in slacks. This was what those bastards had revived him for? He was silent until College Boy wheeled him out to Sheila’s car, a light blue Hyundai or Honda. “Kid, I hope you’ve plotted out every men’s room built for two along the way,” he said.
“Hey, Mort, we’re going to New York for the weekend. What could be bad?” Bad question. He lifted his uncle into the foreign—foreign, like strange—car. Sheila pulled the chair out of the way.
“See if you could ask Sheila to get my cane.” She was standing right there, and left on cue. College Boy began to fold up the wheelchair. Mort meant to tap his wrist once, but the tremors made that impossible, like getting a stopwatch flush at 1.00. College Boy leaned in.
“Yeah?”
“I can’t take a crap on my own, fine. But I will not let myself be wheeled into the Yale Club like Tyler Rothchild, class of ’06.” His eyes filled. “You have to go along with your uncle on this one, kid. Be a nephew.”
It was the first time he had used the n-word. “No problem,” said College Boy. “And Mort, don’t think of me as your nephew. Think of me as your designated shitter.”
College Boy ran the wheelchair back up the flagstones to the house, crossing Sheila, who wasn’t expecting him. “Yale Club,” he mumbled. She waited for him to lock up and when they got back to the light blue Hyundai or Honda, Morton Martin Spell was shaking his head. Voluntarily. And smiling. His eyes were still wet, but trying to clear. Partly cloudy. “Nicely done,” he said. “Designated shitter. Pretty damn good.”
Mort was sound asleep before they’d reached the Salem town limits and climbed onto Route 128 headed for the Mass Pike. Maybe it was a good time to ask Sheila about the giggling, or if she’d really talked to him the way she said she had. Or about the elbow grab. Or the “I’ll definitely keep you posted.” Nah. No need. Silly. Who was sitting next to her in
her car, the light blue Hyundai or Honda? That’s right, College Boy. Who was driving with her to New York? Right again. Who had won?
“Hey, College Boy. Remind me to pick up a gift for Craig when we get to the city.”
“Who?”
“Craig.”
“Oh, Dr. Cutler. Dynamite.”
She giggled. “You’re too easy.”
Connecticut. He’d wait until they were in Connecticut.
20
In the last seven months, breakfast alone was the closest thing College Boy had experienced to a vacation. Mort Spell could still be good company, but his tremors turned any dining surface into a Jackson Pollock. He had been helped in the last few weeks by something Dottie Sussman had sent away for. A weighted spoon with a grippable handle, which steadied his motion enough to make eating a higher percentage game. “Kid, get the on-deck bat,” Mort would say.
The heavy spoon took care of most solid food. Mort resisted the use of a straw unless absolutely necessary, which meant all drinks that weren’t coffee or vodka. “What will the girls say if they see me sucking a martini?” he asked, even though it had been months since he’d dined anywhere other than Vinnin Estates or his sister’s house. And God knows how long since “the girls” had existed.
There had been one eating excursion on the drive to New York. Mort’s one (!) urine-related stop had been on I-84 just before the Massachusetts-Connecticut border at the Red-Art Mobil station. Functional, but not pretty. There’s a term in auto racing for a brief pit stop where the crew just tops off the gas tank. Splash and go. That term would apply here.
An hour later, his pants dry from a nap, Mort woke up again in the back seat. “Are we near Vernon Center?”
“Yeah. Next exit. That’s amazing. You gotta go?”