Michael’s amusement faded. “Yeah. They are.” He pushed away from the door. “I’m going to make a sandwich, then I’m going to bed.”
David stood and went with him. “We haven’t eaten yet either. I can warm up some spaghetti, or we can order pizza.”
Michael gave him an irritated look. “You didn’t have to wait on me.”
David looped his arm around his shoulders. “Yeah, we did. Come on. You can make the salad.”
“Oh, sure.” Michael nudged David with his elbow. “I can tear open a bag with the best of them.”
David gave him a small smile. It was a weak attempt at humor, but it was the best Michael had.
MICHAEL DIDN’T sleep well. Every time he dozed off, the vision of Gil falling replayed in his mind, over and over. He finally dozed off about dawn, then jerked awake an hour later when Jackson’s truck started up in the driveway outside his window. He sat up groggily, pushing at the hair twisted over his face. After slipping on a thick pair of socks, he opened the bedroom door and, lured by the scent of coffee, padded into the kitchen. David was standing at the counter, dressed in nice slacks and a neatly pressed dress shirt. He’d clearly already showered and shaved, and even so, he looked tired.
“Good morning,” he murmured around the cup he held near his lips.
“Hey.” Michael went to the cupboard and got himself a mug, taking it to the coffeepot. “You look nice.” Scooter came to lean against his leg, and Michael bent to pat her on the head.
“I’m going to go in to A.F.I. and tell them we’re leaving.” David straightened and reached for a Pop-Tart when it sprang up in the toaster. “I figure it’s the least I can do.”
“You aren’t going to give them two weeks’ notice?” Michael grabbed the other Pop-Tart. “The art department is going to shit.”
“They’ll get over it.”
Michael arched a brow as he leaned against the counter. “You better hope Delta takes off, big boy. If it doesn’t, you’ll never get a reference out of the brass at A.F.I.”
“It will take off.” David spoke decisively, as if he was trying to convince himself. “And you better be nice, or I won’t let them know you aren’t coming back either.”
Michael gave him an exasperated look. “I can do that.”
“Why? I’m your boss and I can handle it. Besides, don’t you want to get back to the hospital?”
“Well, yeah.” Michael frowned at the skinny pastry in his hand.
“Then get a shower and get dressed and go to the hospital. I can handle the rest of this.”
“That doesn’t seem exactly fair, somehow.”
David shrugged one shoulder, taking a nibble of his Pop-Tart that indicated he wasn’t much interested in it.
“How was Jackson this morning?” Michael asked, taking a healthier bite of his own.
“Exhausted. He was up calling the hospital every hour all night.”
“Is everything…. Did he find out anything?” Michael’s pulse kicked up as nerves skittered under his skin.
“Gil’s holding his own, which is about as good as we’re going to get right now, I’m afraid.”
“So he’s still unconscious.” Michael tried to ignore the sinking disappointment.
“The nurse, Pam, told Jackson it might take a couple of days for the swelling in his brain to go down.”
Michael stared into his cup. “Do they think he’ll have permanent brain damage?”
“They haven’t ruled it out.” David’s hand curled around his forearm. “But they haven’t said it’s indicated either. Let’s take it one day at a time and not jump to scary conclusions, okay?”
“Yeah, okay.” Michael wanted to believe it but doubted he could.
“Okay, I’m going to go.” David walked into the dining room, taking a jacket off the back of one of the chairs. He made a noise of irritation and picked up a soft-sided red lunch bag from the table. “Jackson forgot his lunch. Again.”
“He’s got a lot on his mind today.”
David’s frown immediately changed from irritated to melancholy. “True. I’ll run it by the mansion on my way downtown.”
“Why don’t you let me take it?” Michael offered. “I can’t get back into the ICU until eleven anyway.”
David turned to him. “You don’t mind? They won’t have moved the scaffolding yet.”
It was a slight shock to his system to understand what David wasn’t saying. They hadn’t moved the scaffolding yet. Which meant there was probably still a big red stain from Gil’s compound fracture on the cement. He forced himself not to react, with his expression at least. “It’s okay. I don’t mind dropping off Jackson’s lunch.”
“You’re sure?” David looked anything but convinced.
“Don’t fuss, David.” Michael grabbed the lunch bag and started back to the kitchen. David caught his hand, stopping him. He felt like a jerk when he saw the genuine concern in his friend’s eyes. “It’s fine,” Michael reiterated. “Now, unless you plan to call to tell them you’re going to be late on your way to quit, you’d better go.”
David slipped into his coat, then kissed Michael on the cheek. “I’ll see you at the hospital later.”
“Yeah.”
Michael watched him until he left the house, then returned to the kitchen to throw away the dried-out Pop-Tart. He’d completely lost his appetite too. Scooter eyed it, though, and Michael broke off a tiny corner with no frosting or filling. “You can have this.” He handed it to her and tossed the rest into the can, then went to shower.
MICHAEL PARKED in front of the massive house and walked up the driveway with Jackson’s lunch bag in his hand. The weather had turned mild, with temperatures in the low sixties and blue sky above dotted with white clouds. There seemed to be a lot of cars in the long driveway. He recognized Jackson’s truck and Vern’s Mustang, but the cute little red BMW and a large dark sedan didn’t belong to any of the guys he knew.
He saw scaffolding being set up on the driveway side of the house, Manny and the new guys stacking the tower, Vern on the ground directing them. Michael walked up to him and watched for several minutes before he spoke. “Aren’t you concerned about someone messing with it if it’s sitting out here in the open like that?”
Vern turned to him, brows lowered over his eyes.
“We aren’t going to be leaving it up.” Vern’s voice was gruff. “We’ll be taking it down each night and storing it in the carriage house.” He gestured toward a garage off the back of the drive, its doors standing open. “Richard said we could lock it up in there.”
Michael turned and looked at it. “Isn’t that a huge inconvenience?”
Vern’s mouth twisted. “You could say that. But I won’t take any more chances with these guys.”
Michael studied him, frowning. “Vern, Gil’s falling wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”
“Yeah, well, we’ll wait to see what the cops have to say about that.”
Surprise widened Michael’s eyes. “The cops? Who called the cops?”
“Jackson did. Something about the whole thing got his back up. He’s got Mitchell out there now with a couple of other guys, poking around. Like I don’t have anything to do without the fucking cops hanging around. No!” he shouted and Michael jumped, then realized he was yelling at the guys setting the towers. “The pins go on the inside. How many times do I gotta tell you that?” A cell phone rang, and Michael recognized Gil’s ringtone. Vern pulled the phone out of his pocket, looked at the screen, and cursed. “Son of a bitch.” He sighed, then answered. “Gil Chandler’s phone—” He stopped to listen, and Michael saw his face darken and his nostrils flare. “She doesn’t have authorization to do that. Goddammit, I’m telling you. Check his file. The only person who can do that is Gilbert. Okay, okay. I’ll get there as soon as I can.” Vern punched the button to disconnect the call.
“What was that?”
Vern turned to Michael after shoving the phone back in his pocket. “Gilbe
rt’s sister is up at the home, trying to get old Gil to sign some papers.”
Michael remembered the conversation about Gil’s sister, and anger spiked in his chest. “Let me go.”
Vern made a face and shook his head. “I’ll take care of it, Michael.”
“Vernon, you can’t do everything. It’s two hours before I can get into the ICU. Let me do this.”
Vern stared at him for several seconds, his eyes narrowed. “Do you even know where it is?”
“No, but you can give me directions, you old fart.”
Vernon put his hands on his hips, but Manny climbed down, smiling. “Brookline is up on Sixty-Sixth behind the grocery store. Just drive past it and make a left at the gates, then follow the road through the entire complex. The memory care units are in the very back. You go into a small lobby and ring the doorbell. They’ll let you in. Just tell them you’re there to see old Gil.”
Vern glared at him. “Thank you so much, Emanuel.”
“Anytime, Vernon.” Manny smacked the old man on the butt.
“Boy, you’re turning into one big pain in my ass,” Vern grouched at him.
“You love me.” Manny turned to Michael. “Take orange-and-vanilla popsicles. The old man will love you, and everything else will sort itself out.”
Michael held the lunch pail out to Vern. “Give this to Jackson, will you?”
Vern sneered at him. “I’m not your servant boy.”
“Oh, for God’s sakes, you obnoxious old shit.” Manny rounded on him, his own brow furrowed. It was as angry as Michael had ever seen Manny. “We’re all worried about him and we all feel bad. You don’t have the market cornered on feeling guilty. Stop taking it out on Michael.” Manny held out his hand, taking the lunch pail. “I’ll give it to him.”
“Thanks.” Impulsively, Michael threw his arms around Vern’s neck, hugging him tight. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Vern,” he whispered near his ear. “It’s not on you, okay?”
Vern hugged him fiercely for a moment, then pushed him away, sniffing, looking more irritated than anything. But Michael knew what a big heart beat in the old chest, and he gave Vern a small smile before he turned away.
“Orange-and-vanilla,” Vern shouted after him as he walked to his car.
“Got it.” Michael waved without looking back.
HE STOPPED by the grocery store, less than a block from the assisted-living place, and bought a box with twelve orangesicles inside; he even bought one of those foil-lined bags so the ice cream treats wouldn’t melt. When he left the store parking lot, he followed Manny’s instructions, found the open gates, and pulled through. Trees lined each side of the road, and lawns that were greening up nicely surrounded the buildings. The whole place looked like an upscale apartment complex with two-story buildings on one side and duplexes on the other. He drove through the buildings that looked like a vague blend between Victorian and Craftsman, all painted butter yellow with a darker yellow trim. There was another set of gates, and just like Manny had said, there were two buildings at the end of the cul-de-sac. They looked like one-story residences, homey with flower beds and lots of large windows. Michael didn’t know what he’d expected a memory care place to look like, but this wasn’t it.
He parked and got out of his car, nervous for the first time. The old guy had never seen him before, and the staff had no reason to listen to him; he could only hope they didn’t throw him out.
He opened the door into the enclosed entry and signed the book next to the locked interior entrance before ringing the bell. It made him feel sad, that Gil’s dad had to be in a locked unit. Voices approached from the other side of the door; then it popped open. A very pretty Asian girl wearing a burgundy smock with a name tag that said Chow answered, giving him a friendly smile.
“I’m here to see Gilbert Chandler?”
“Are you family?”
“No, I’m actually a good friend of Gil Junior.”
She gave him a compassionate look. “We heard about his accident. Is there any word?”
“He’s holding his own.”
Her smile was bright. “Oh, good. I like Gil. He’s a good son.” She stood aside. “Come on in.”
Michael entered a room that looked like the living room in a comfortable home. Two long couches hugged the walls and four cushy chairs sat across from them. Several older residents were dozing or watching what looked like an episode of Gunsmoke on television.
“I brought popsicles.” Michael held out the insulated bag.
She laughed. “He’s going to have enough of these for a month. Vernon brought some last night. Mr. Chandler is in the dining room.” She started to lead Michael through the room, then paused, her smile fading. “His daughter is here.”
“So I understand.”
She nodded. “Vernon told you we called?”
“He did.” They exchanged a knowing look.
“Let’s go see if we can interest him in a popsicle.”
She walked ahead of him into a large dining room with several cloth-covered square tables, small vases with a few spring flowers in the center of each. At one sat an older gentleman, his white hair combed back and his mouth set in an obstinate line. A woman stood next to him, hovering near his shoulder.
“Malarkey!” Mr. Chandler said, shaking his head.
“Dad, just your name. Right there.” She pointed, then tried to hand him a pen. “Someone needs to be able to look after you, and right now Gil can’t.”
“Malarkey!” he announced again. “Malarkey, malarkey, malarkey!”
Chow smiled. “He saw Vice President Biden on the TV use that word, and ever since it’s been a favorite.”
“And appropriate,” Michael muttered under his breath, and the aide smiled.
“Mr. Chandler,” Chow announced, “aren’t you popular today. You have another visitor.”
The old man didn’t turn, but the woman did, and she frowned as she eyed him. “Who are you?”
“My name is Michael Crane. I’m a friend of your brother’s.”
Her cool gaze moved over him from his head to his toes and back again. She sniffed. “I’m sure you are.”
Michael gave her a level look. “Charming.” He walked around her and smiled at Gil senior. “Hi, Mr. Chandler. I’m Michael.”
His hazel eyes, so much like Gil’s it was startling, moved over him. “Malarkey.” He crossed his thin arms over his chest. At one time he must’ve been Gil’s size; Michael could tell he was tall, but now his rangy frame was very thin. He searched for something to say, unaccustomed to talking to someone Mr. Chandler’s age, let alone one with his issues. Finally, inspiration struck.
“Balderdash,” he announced clearly. “Now, would you like a popsicle? I brought some, and I understand they’re your favorite. Orange-and-vanilla.”
Gil senior’s face brightened. “Popsicle.”
Michael took the box from Chow and took out an ice cream bar. He pulled off the wrapping and handed it to the old gentleman.
“I’m trying to speak with my father,” Gil’s sister—he thought her name was Heidi—said, clearly annoyed.
“I noticed.” Michael thanked Chow when she handed the older man a paper napkin. “But your dad seems to want a popsicle.”
Gil senior took a bite of the popsicle, then looked up at Michael. He swallowed the ice cream.
“Balderdash.”
Michael grinned. “Poppycock.”
Chow laughed, the old gentleman smiled, and Michael decided he wanted a popsicle too.
CHAPTER TWELVE
MICHAEL SPENT about ninety minutes with Gil’s dad. Heidi finally got really irritated and stormed out after about twenty minutes, but Michael found, to his total surprise, that he was enjoying sitting with the older man. They each ate two of the orange-and-vanilla popsicles and came up with increasingly outrageous words for silliness. Michael pulled up an online thesaurus on his cell phone. His personal favorite was flummery. Old Gil had a few moments of consideration for
twaddle and tomfoolery, but ultimately he returned to malarkey. God love Joe Biden.
He left Brookline at ten thirty and drove straight to the hospital, parked in the lot, and carried in his messenger bag. He rode the elevator to the fifth floor, then entered the ICU quietly. New nurses were on duty, and Michael noticed someone had finally found Gil a gown that fit, but he was just as still as he’d been the night before, and that concerned him. The neurologist, Dr. Pillai, came in and checked Gil’s pupils, reporting that the pressure in his head was within normal ranges and his blood pressure and pulse were still good.
“When will he wake up?” Michael asked, looking back at Gil’s face. The bruises now were truly spectacular, green and purple among the black and blue. There didn’t seem to be a spot on his body that wasn’t discolored or swollen, so Michael confined himself to touching the back of his hand.
“It shouldn’t be too much longer,” the doctor answered kindly. “The CT this morning looked promising, and there’s little drainage. All head injuries are unique, and each patient responds differently.” He patted Michael on the shoulder. “All indications are positive at this point. Try not to worry.”
He left the room, and Michael exhaled in irritation. “Try not to worry.” He studied the swollen half of Gil’s face and the bandage on his head, the tube coming from behind his ear that attached to a machine. They’d pulled the breathing tube that morning and told Michael he was breathing well on his own, but he remained unconscious. Looking at the big man lying so deathly still made Michael’s chest hurt. How in the world could he do anything but worry?
Vernon and Manny arrived at six, entering the room on quiet feet.
“Hey, baby boy.” Vernon spoke quietly, then walked to the edge of the bed and looked down at Gil. “Damn, I hoped he’d be awake by now.”
“Me too.” Michael closed his laptop and slipped it into his bag. He’d spent the afternoon working on procurement samples for the mansion and texting with David. The fact they were both quitting had been received at A.F.I. about how they expected—not well at all. David put in his two weeks’ notice and told management Michael would not be returning at all. Fortunately the O’Banyon job ensured they could put Michael on salary, so he could at least afford to pay his bills.
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