by E. B. Lee
“You’re looking better,” she said, as Grant paced quietly alongside her.
“I feel worse, like I just got the brains and body of a turtle. All I want to do is sleep.”
He wasn’t angry, simply cynical.
“You’re doing better, trust me. It takes a while.”
The street people were seemingly blind to his evolution. He remained adept at masking, of course. If she hadn’t known how he felt, how could anyone he visited know?
“Maybe you need a change of dose. Doctor Greenberg will know when you check in.” In truth, steadying his chemistry could be as much an art as a science, and every patient could be a study by trial and error.
By the following week, the shadows of depression had lifted further, and Grant’s manic upheaval had softened, making him more the person Carli had known in between extremes. No longer feeling fettered, even he applauded the doctor’s drugs. Carli and Grant celebrated with Chinese takeout. Canada had told Carli where to go for Grant’s favorite. The weight of the world was finally off her shoulders.
They sat in his storage room and ate in the company of sports talk radio.
“Ever listen to anything other than sports?” she asked.
“You mean music? Nahhh. This keeps me in touch with the lunch crowd.”
Carli rolled her eyes. “If you go to lunch, you hear everything anyway.”
“I like to hear the arguments and opinions. It’s the blood and guts of America. I mean, people actually stop what they’re doing to call in on this stuff because it means so much to them.”
“Must be the lawyer in you.”
“Bad subject.” He leaned forward to fiddle with the radio, moving past portions of pounding music, news, a scratch of static, before suddenly stopping to say, “Wait … shh. Hear that? Sounds like ...”
Carli became still, thinking the bin had company.
Grant tweaked the radio again. To many, the latest news story would mean nothing. To Grant, it was a special bulletin, which stopped his talk mid-sentence. A water main near the highway – Aquaman Harry’s highway – was broken. Streets were flooding. A gas explosion might have caused it. Grant and Carli exchanged panicked glances, nervously awaiting details.
“No one hurt,” the man’s voice reported. “Crews working to remove several from the scene.”
Carli sensed they were someone they knew.
“Harry.” Grant jumped up. “And Grudge.”
“The closest hospitals are Bellevue and NYU,” she said.
“Harry and Grudge won’t go unless they have to. I’m sure they’ll be moved for the night if it’s them. Housed somewhere – men’s shelter most likely. Harry and Grudge won’t like it.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked.
“I’m going.”
On their car ride toward the river, Carli dialed the hospitals. No admittance yet.
“That leaves us two to find,” said Grant, as he shifted forward in his seat.
Police barricades circled the broken main and several blocks around it. Fire trucks idled. Gas company trucks flashed yellow warning lights. Power and gas were off, and foot-deep water flooded streets and sidewalks alike, swishing against steps of several buildings and racing toward drains and the river. Harry’s reputation had suffered a blow with Sarah’s cart, but all Carli envisioned, as they eased up to the police line, was a helpless old man trying desperately to maintain his balance, while wading through a relentless torrent of water. Despite what he had told her, Carli knew he would do his best to survive for the sake of his granddaughter. She also knew he could easily go down if he caught a swell the wrong way.
“Where are they?” Grant didn’t waste a second.
A police officer turned abruptly. “We’re waiting for special units. An old man over there won’t come out. Says he won’t leave a grudge, or something like that. Think he’s a bit wacko; shouted and started to kick, so we’ve called for backup.” The officer seemed concerned.
Grant sloshed past.
“Hey! You can’t go in there.”
Grant kept wading until the woman caught Grant by the arm.
“Harry! Grudge!”
All was still while Grant waited for a response. “Harry! It’s Grant. And Carli. I need you out! Now!”
The street suddenly seemed as quiet as a cemetery. “Harry!” he yelled again.
A soft noise eked its way across the murky water. “Grant?”
“Harry!”
The officer loosened her grasp, and Grant sloshed freely forward. On Grant’s order, two first responders followed.
“Is Grudge with you?” called Grant.
“He’s hurt.”
Grant tried moving faster, sending a rippling current reeling around him.
“Grudge is a man, the name of a man,” Carli informed the police officer by her side. “He’s an amputee and needs a wheelchair. He’s probably stuck, and Harry wouldn’t leave him.”
Within minutes, Grant emerged from the shadows, with Harry clasping his side and Grudge riding half piggyback, half sidesaddle on Grant’s hunched over back. One first responder carried several bundles, and the other followed with Grudge’s wheelchair hoisted over his shoulders, well above the waterline. Harry and Grudge’s warming barrel remained behind.
“What happened?” Grant asked.
“I wasn’t here,” said Harry. “Came back and found him in six inches of water. It was running by fast. Tried to get him up but smacked his head.”
Grant looked at the gash, with the help of emergency lighting. Grudge was going to the hospital.
“You saved his life,” said Grant.
“Ah, for chrissake, I had to. No way I’d leave another Vet behind. Never. It was hell, pure hell back then, and we got them all out. Had to get Grudge. Now get outta here and take care of him. I gotta get some rest.”
“Where are you going?” asked Grant.
“Don’t know. Might try a safe haven for the night.”
“Good idea. They’ll get you some dry clothes. Say, let me have those. They’re wet and heavy. You trust me, right?”
Harry nodded and handed over his belongings. Grant promised to have them washed, dried, and returned by morning. It was better, Grant said, than leaving them soaked and muddy by his bunk, and far better than having to clean them himself or have someone toss them in the garbage.
“First bed he’s had in quite some time. Hope it feels good,” said Grant. “So good that he goes in more often. I know how he thinks. This could be the only chance for change.”
Carli’s thoughts had drifted. “Why didn’t you tell me about him?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, one day I’m walking Harry to his highway, hearing his story, and thinking he’s had it tougher than he deserves. Later that day, I hear from Sarah he’s the one who put Lenny in the hospital.”
Grant stopped abruptly and stared into the distance.
“Sarah said she told you. What gives?” asked Carli.
Grant chuckled. “Carli, the street can make you do things you wouldn’t otherwise do.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “How could you do that to Sarah? Ignore her and steal her trust?”
“I didn’t ignore her, believe me. I gave you to her … and she lied to you.”
“Huh?”
“I saw it all,” said Grant. “Harry didn’t do it. It was your good friend Sarah who gave Lenny the brick gift.”
Carli studied Grant carefully. Sarah barely crept out of her skin long enough to say five words, let alone clobber someone on the head.
“My guess is Sarah was trying to preserve her spot, preventing the new kid from moving her out. She knows Harry goes over there from time to time, so she framed him. In fact, he might have been there; I’m still not sure. I saw someone in the distance but couldn’t make him out. But I saw her, and I know she did it.”
“If you saw it, why didn’t you stop it?”
“Was over before I co
uld do anything.”
“Why didn’t you help Lenny?”
“I did. I left the scene and called for help. Actually, it arrived faster than usual. Better to leave an anonymous tip than to be dragged in.”
“You didn’t report her?”
“She belongs somewhere, but not in a cell. The way I see it is this: if she happened to see I was there, she knows I won’t turn her in if she ever happens to get in a jam. That can always be useful knowledge. You just keep working on her. I know you can do it.”
“So, that’s why you kept asking Harry about it?”
Grant nodded. “Seeing if he was the one I saw, and seeing if he planned on saying something to anyone. Don’t think he cared one way or another, if it was him who was there.”
“He must know. Why else would he steal her cart?”
“Stole her cart? Must have been looking for a wheel for Grudge’s wheelchair.”
“He what?”
“Was looking for a wheel for Grudge. Harry took the cart from Sarah, or bought it from her or traded her for it, for all I know, because it had wheels. He was trying to get one for the front of the wheelchair. Where was that old shopping cart, anyway? Didn’t see it out there.”
“Sold it. Said it wasn’t right.”
“Hmm. The wheel must have been the wrong size. Either that, or it was too rusted to remove.” Grant resumed walking.
Carli followed a couple of steps and stopped. “Jesus, Grant, I feel like an idiot. Here I was looking at Harry like a criminal. How the hell do you know all of this, and I don’t know any of it?”
“You were working on Sarah. Only saw her side. But it was good timing, you coming onto Outreach when you did. I was getting nowhere with Sarah.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You would have seen her differently.”
He was right, but it stung.
Hoisting Harry’s belongings onto an empty washing machine, Grant threw dark colors in one machine, light in another, and laid out papers, plastic bags, and assorted trinkets to dry on the row of empty washers. It was eerily reminiscent of Bert’s sidewalk store that Grant had introduced Carli to on her first days of Outreach. Ever since, she had seen Bert every time she passed by Thirty-Fourth Street. The difference was Harry’s trinkets – can opener, wet matches, and lighter fluid – were more substantial than Bert’s expired mailer coupons and outdated catalogs. Grant put Harry’s duffels and backpack into separate machines and started them washing, gentle cycle. Carli placed her hands on his arms. “Thank God, you’re here. Welcome back.”
Together, they dried and folded even the most ragged items and stuffed them back into Harry’s packs. Next morning, they provided “home” delivery to a safe haven shelter closest to his trestle.
“Better than the pricey dry cleaners,” said Grant, presenting Harry his goods. “By the way, how’d you sleep?”
“Bad. How’s Grudge?”
“Should be out today.”
“Where’s he going?”
“My guess? Here for starters.”
Harry raised his eyebrows. “You can give him my spot. And don’t go looking for nothing else for me. I’m not going in.”
“We’ll see,” said Grant. “We’ll see.”
Aquaman’s home took two days to fix with nonstop, around-the-clock, overtime workers. It had been a big one; Harry and Grudge were lucky to be alive. After tearing up a full block of pavement, the neighborhood was as good as new. Harry disappeared during the repair but moved right back in, clean clothes in tow, once things were back to normal. Grudge made the move back as well.
“I’m sure he was riding the lines,” said Grant, from inside his own room. Carli thought of Harry volunteering to find a spare part for his friend’s wheelchair and then huddled in a subway car, with lights flickering as it passed through station after station. It killed her. After all, he had saved Grudge’s life. She looked closely at Grant, from head to toe, wondering how close he had been, or might still be, to sleeping on a train. Every day still presented a delicate situation, forcing her to continue walking the silent tightrope hovering between support and hands completely off. What’s more, she now knew each one could be a full-time job, with no guarantee of success. Grant had long been her sounding board. She was on her own now.
Twenty-Seven
As August ended, Grant looked steadied in body and mind. Dr. Greenberg’s drugs and discussions were finally working. For the first time in a long while, Carli felt safe leaving him. He promised to pay special attention to Vera while Carli took time away. Carli believed him and freely packed for her two-week painting expedition to the western United States, many needed miles from the frazzled streets of Manhattan.
From the picture window of her cabin at Triple R Dude Ranch, Carli looked across grasslands to the purple craggy mountains of the Tetons. They were awe-inspiring; nearly ten times taller than Manhattan’s tallest skyscrapers. Broader and sturdier as well. Unlike Manhattan’s tallest buildings, known to sway several feet in high winds, the only things swaying in the mountains were the stately stands of evergreens and birds in their branches. The mountains stood firm. Had done so for millions of years, rather than a mere century or two. As they sat, framed by her window, the mountains of the west put Outreach in perspective. Carli thought about Lucy, Grant, and all the others now woven into her life. She thought of all that had to get done … when they were ready. Compared to the million-years-time frame of mountains, Outreach time flitted past in nanoseconds. But it was just as Grant said, time passed, nothing more. That’s what Carli learned, looking out her window at Triple R.
The next day, Carli brought her sketchpad up a moderately ascending trail and sat upon a rock bench of sorts – really only a convenient assemblage of rocks chipped from the mountain behind her. She looked down on a valley and across to another range. For the past months, she had worked hard to capture the allure of oceans, in some of their many robes. They had a multiplicity of personalities—choppy or calm, angry and furious, or soothing. As she sketched the range in front of her, she thought how strange that its peaks had likely risen from oceans. Then she wondered why oceans were always vast, but never majestic, and mountains were always majestic. Was it because they didn’t tower overhead? It was like two very different siblings, one staid and true, the other as variable as the moon and winds that manipulated its currents and stirred up its waves.
In truth, the western landscape was also vast. There was enormity in it; from the mountains to acres of forest and prairie land, to rivers that stretched for miles, and waterfalls that cascaded thousands of feet. Carli would have to make this sense of scale jump from her paintings when she worked from the day’s rough sketches.
She moved from a study of size and scale to a study of form. Whereas water and waves curled, mountains angulated; the Tetons in particular. It would be millions of years before water and wind softened their sharp edges. Carli couldn’t wait to highlight their juxtaposition of shape and form.
Color was next, also offering the yin to the ocean’s yang. The oceans lacked purple. Lacked the reds needed to bend them in that direction. The mountains, however, showed a bounty of purple-twinged gray rock faces and forested evergreens tempered by their lavender-gray shadows. The one element that ocean and land shared was a vast and changeable sky, with its many nuances of light. Yes, Carli knew light and lighting would be key, as usual.
As she continued to look across the grassland, Carli could picture the exhibit. No, she could feel it! The mountain color palette would hang on two of the gallery’s adjoining walls. The waterscape palette, on the two others. Working together, they would enclose the rectangular room with a flood of strong, deep, rich, and complex colors. Together, they would create a continuum of brazen earthy surroundings. Against the gallery’s white walls, they would be truly shocking, perhaps even overwhelming. Wasn’t that what they deserved? Like Carli’s waterscapes, the western visions would be big. Several would be six-feet by nine-feet each; m
assive, honest statements of her subjects. If you are going to brand, she thought, brand big. Carli set down her sketch pad. She couldn’t believe she was creating so freely again. It felt like a dream. If only time weren’t getting so short.
One night mid-expedition, Carli lay in bed, surrounded by the chirping sound of crickets in the mountain grasses. As kids, she and Grant had camped out in their backyard, entrenched in a nearly deafening cacophony of a similar late-summer choir. It wasn’t easy being tough with Grant, she thought. She had always looked up to him and had often deferred to him. It would be so much easier to let him get away with it – the fibs, odd tales, and continued assurances that everything was fine – but it couldn’t possibly end well. Softly encouraging him, ever so gently, without pushing so hard as to send him into a shell or an angry snap, was so damned difficult. But just as he was having to fine-tune his medications, she was having to fine-tune her relationship with her brother. Not stepping up to the plate would simply make her a codependent of sorts. Could a person really be a “sort of codependent,” she wondered? No, of course not. She faced herself—literally rose from bed and looked at her reflection in the two-foot square mirror in the cabin’s master bathroom—and said, “You can either be a codependent or a true sister and friend, tough decisions and all.” She closed her eyes, folded her arms across her chest, as though to protect herself with a hug, and said, “Dear God, please help me to see what is right and do what is right so Grant will be safe. Please protect him, as you have all the years, and keep him well. And please know how grateful I am for having Rocky, Mercy, and Dr. Greenberg here to step in and help.” She flipped the light switch and returned to bed for a night’s rest.
A week later, Carli filled her carry-on bag with her sketches, artist pencils, and notes. She added to it the gift for Grant. Finally, she slipped in a couple of sandwiches to tide her over during her airport time and flight back to New York City. With a last look around the cabin, she threw her carry-on over her shoulder and argued with her roller bag the entire bumpy trip over the gravel leading to her car. She had finally found a worse evil for luggage than Manhattan’s sidewalks. As usual, for as good as it was to get away, she was ready to return home.