Some Books Aren’t for Reading

by Howard Marc Chesley

  Beverly clucks impatience. “I’m going to have to restrain him.” True frowns.

  “Would ice cream help?” I ask Caleb. A bribe is brazen and bespeaks bad parenting, but we are past the niceties. Beverly reacts disapprovingly, catching my eye and shaking her head to the idea. Apparently ice cream is not allowed. My bad for inviting the possible interaction of pistachio (his favorite) and the hospital’s massive drug overdoses. While Caleb considers the scotched ice cream barter, I try to divert him with another option.

  “What if we play a game?”

  “It still hurts.”

  “I can’t make it not hurt, but if we play a game maybe you won’t think about your arm so much.” I am surprised at my own candor. Why didn’t I think of that before? Even a six-year-old can respond well to not being bullshitted.

  “It won’t help.”

  “What if you try?”

  “What game?”

  “What in the room starts with ‘A’?”

  He tries to resist what is a favorite car game, but I can see that he can’t. His eyes dart around the room full of stainless steel machines and electronic screens. He’s challenged and a little bit stumped. True encourages him.

  “I see an A-word.” she says.

  “Aspirin!” Caleb blurts out.

  “Do you see aspirin?” I say. There’s none in sight. He’s vamping and I’m calling him on it. That’s good because it’s engagement.

  “There’s aspirin in the room,” he replies.

  “You’ve got to see it. That’s the rules,” I reply. I have him now.

  “What if I can find some aspirin?”

  “You can’t find any aspirin because you can’t get up. If you could get up we wouldn’t even have to be talking about aspirin.”

  He smiles appreciation. I love that he gets the complexity of the joke. At around his age they are capable of some fairly convoluted thinking.

  “I see a astronaut!” He laughs. “I see a anteater!” “I see a art!”

  “A art?” No need now to nitpick about “a art” versus “an art.”

  “A art painting! I see a airplane!”

  “All right. What about ‘B’?” He’s wound-up excited and a bit manic and I let it slide that there are no paintings or airplanes in the room. It’s the drug talking.

  “I see a apple! It’s a big apple!” He makes exaggerated chewing movements. “Ummm! It’s so good.”

  He keeps on with his chewing pantomime. He’s totally in an agitated mode. I sneak a glance at the heart monitor that’s reading 170 beats per minute. I think of a washing machine spiked with electricity, spinning out of control, banging and beating on the floor. I want to dial him back to a comfortable normal cycle. Swish-swish, swish-swish.

  “There is no apple,” I challenge him.

  “There is! I am eating it! Can’t you see it?!! It’s red!!”

  He opens his mouth even wider to take an imaginary bite. This mania is starting to freak me out. We’re only at “A.” True intercedes in an effort to restore sanity to both of us.

  “I see something,” she says calmly and sweetly.

  “A apple?!!” he giggles mischievously.

  It could be that we are caught in an irretrievable apple feedback loop, stuck forever in apple-land. Perhaps that is what Caleb is trying to tell us. He doesn’t want to advance, because advancing brings the unknown. It is better to remain in the uninformed present. I completely understand. If you were to offer me a trade for an uncertain tomorrow or the unresolved and uncomfortable present, I wouldn’t know how to decide.

  “I see something else. I see another ‘A’. Do you want a hint?” says True.

  “I don’t want a hint,” he says. “It’s a apple!”

  “It’s not. But I can give you a hint. We all have one.”

  “A penis!” he shouts out with glee. Clearly his ability to censor himself is one of the casualties of the overdose.

  “I don’t have a penis,” True reassures him evenhandedly.

  “Yes you do!”

  “I do not and anyway it doesn’t start with ‘A’. What starts with ‘A’?” She’s measured and calm. Caleb could not help but be soothed by her steadiness. I admire her. As she leans over Caleb I see the smoothness of the back of her neck and I think of how it feels to touch. Perhaps all of this is an unexpected way to bring us all together again. Perhaps we will look back at this someday as a fated, mysterious intervention designed to reunite us.

  “What is between your shoulder and your hand?” she persists. I am sure that Caleb will just give another wise guy answer. But he answers seriously.

  “It can’t be something on me. It has to be something I see.”

  “You can see my arm,” True replies. But Caleb is right. It is a car game and the rules are that we can name things that we see only out the window. Transposing it to a room would naturally exclude parts of your own body. Yielding to our young logician, True looks around the room for an ‘A’ word. Caleb interrupts her process, however.

  “Air-conditioner!” he shouts, pointing to the air-conditioning console that sits at the base of the window. Perhaps his amped-up circulation stimulates his brain. I am impressed, and not only because he is mine.

  “That’s right. That’s really good,” she smiles with approval. “Now what about a ‘B’ word? Do you see a ‘B’ word?”

  Caleb squirms again, suddenly not interested in the possible ‘B’ word.

  A fortyish man in a Nike jogging suit and nicely coiffed salt-and-pepper hair appears in the doorway. Despite his outfit, he radiates gravitas.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Fourchette? I’m Harry Sanford. I’m cardiology chair here at Saint Mary’s. Excuse the get-up. I was out taking my evening run and got paged. Is this Caleb?”

  He steps in, addresses Caleb as he looks appraisingly at the monitors.

  “How are you doing, champ?”

  “Belt,” says Caleb pointing to the intruder’s midsection. “I see a belt.”

  “We’re playing an alphabet game,” True explains. “We’re just starting on the B’s.”

  “That’s good. I’m looking at the oxygen and BP on the monitor here. It’s high but it seems like Caleb’s still in an acceptable range. I just wanted to check in with you. I wanted to let you know that we’re all up to speed on what’s happening and the hospital is totally behind you on this. You’re in good hands.”

  We can’t help but be impressed with his seriousness. He studies the monitor again, flips a switch to change the range, and speaks to Beverly.

  “Look. BP’s trending down.”

  “Yes. It’s down another five from ten minutes ago.”

  “Borrow your stethoscope?”

  She offers it up and he puts it on and places the diaphragm on Caleb’s chest.

  “Levy talked to Rheinhardt?” he continues.

  Beverly nods.

  “I really can’t see we’re going to need to administer the nitroprusside. It was the right call to intubate him, though.”

  He turns to us. We are pulsating with relief at his upbeat assessment.

  “His vitals are fine and his numbers seem to be going down for the moment and I think we’re out of the woods. It’s still going to be a long night, though.”

  “We’ve got a lot of alphabet to go,” I say.

  “I don’t want to do the alphabet thing anymore,” says Caleb. Sanford rolls his eyes to us.

  “Good luck. My family is expecting me, but I still have my pager on.”

  He leaves. I look to True.

  “Do you want to take a break?”

  “I’m fine. You go.”

  I don’t want to be the one to leave first, but she offers me cover.

  “Maybe you have to go to the bathroom.”

  “Where’s my Gameboy?” says Caleb.

  “How are you feeling, baby?” True asks.

  “I’m okay. Is my Gameboy in the car, Dad?”

  I nod, look at True. We could both use the break the Gameb
oy will bring us.

  “I’ll spell you. You can get something to eat if you like,” True offers.

  “I’m not hungry. I can bring you back something.”

  “You can bring me a Coke if you can find one.”

  I remember times when a simple, uncolored request from True was ordinary. Now it seems peculiar but pleasing.

  As I exit, I reassure Caleb, “I’ll be back soon.”

  The elevator opens soon after I press the button. Inside is a dark-skinned couple, presumably visitors. The woman has tears running down her cheeks. They converse animatedly in what I take to be Farsi. There is also an old man in a wheelchair accompanied by an orderly. The old man wears a gray gown and has a short growth of white beard. An oxygen tank is attached to the wheelchair and a tube runs up and around his head to a nosepiece. His breath comes in short gasps. His teeth are yellow and his head falls toward his left shoulder. The orderly looks pointedly away from him. The old man seems calm and unconcerned as if in acknowledgment that the hospital is an accustomed habitat. That Caleb currently resides in the same ecosystem seems to me a brief and evanescent anomaly.

  I escape the elevator and hurry for the exit through the main lobby. I am relieved not to have to pass through the emergency room again. It is nearly midnight and the lobby is still. The information desk is eerily unmanned. I step through the automatic door to find the parking lot.

  Even though it is late, there are rows of cars in the parking lot. I find the Volvo and see that the door lock buttons are raised. In my haste I forgot to lock it. I open the door and reach inside to open the glove box. I go for the Gameboy and suddenly remember my book. I pull out the Gameboy, and reach to the floor under the passenger seat where I had hidden my copy of The Old Man and the Sea. Of course no thief save one would recognize it for what it is and I could have left it with impunity on top of the dashboard. I hold it gingerly, contemplating its value and what I endured to retake it. I think I will bring it along, too. It seems right. Something extravagant. Something special. I will be like a great, proud hunter from an African tribe who has slain a lion to lay before the bed of an ailing son in the belief that the power of the gift will bring strength to his progeny.

  And then I will read from it. Shall I start from the beginning? I haven’t read this book since I was in high school. I remember that it is about a simple fisherman who hooks a very large fish after a long run of bad luck. He perseveres and lands the big fish. This is most of what I remember. It is a story of hope and redemption.

  I am interrupted by a bright flash of light that streaks across the dashboard. I turn to find a flashlight in my face. I squint and the light moves down to my hand and the Gameboy. “Sir?”

  Now that the light is out of my eyes I can see that it is coming from the flashlight of a uniformed security officer. He is a black man. I don’t know what he wants or why he is shining the light.

  “Sir…?”

  Perhaps it is due to my state of mind, but the light in my eyes is the switch on my kettle.

  “Can I ask what you’re doing?” he continues, the light now shining on the Gameboy.

  “I don’t know. Can you?” is my terse reply.

  “Is this your car?”

  “I don’t have time for this right now.” I pick up the book and the Gameboy and I turn and brush past him, harder than I anticipated, and I bump his shoulder. He stiffens. I back-pedal a bit.

  “I’ve got a sick kid upstairs. I’ve got to go.”

  “May I see your ID?”

  “Really. I have to go.”

  “May I see your ID, please?”

  I see he has a gun in a holster on his side.

  “Shoot me if you want. Okay? Shoot me for pulling a Gameboy out of my car for my kid that your hospital just nearly killed. Okay? But I’m leaving now.”

  I start to walk away. He picks up his walkie-talkie, holds it close to his mouth and speaks into it.

  “This is James. I’ve got a possible 504 in the parking lot and I’m going to need SMPD to send an officer please.” Someone replies into an earphone and I don’t hear it.

  I continue to walk. He follows and calls after me.

  “Please stop, sir. If you don’t I’m going to have to arrest you.”

  I reach into my pocket and his immediate reaction is to unholster his gun and point it at me. I retrieve my keyring as he unsteadily points the gun at me. I press on the Volvo key fob and there is a chirp from behind him. I do it again and he turns to look and sees the lights on the Volvo flash and hears another chirp.

  “You see. It is my car. These are my keys. I want to go to my son.”

  He hesitates a moment. I look at him kindly and speak softly. “I am sorry.”

  “We had a bunch of car break-ins last month.”

  “Call the cops off. Let me go to my son,”

  He lowers the gun. I walk back to the hospital under the pale light of the vapor lamps overhead.

  Inside, I make my way to the elevators, press the button. I have the Gameboy in my pocket and the book in my hand. The lobby is empty except for a janitor who polishes the floor behind me.

  I am feeling relieved and optimistic about Caleb. The walk and the mission and even my encounter with the security guard have relieved me of some of my panic. We are through the worst of it. It was fortunate that True recognized the emergency and brought him here quickly. Among my many disparate feelings about True, I will remain grateful for that. And I will be grateful for the perseverant good care of Dr. Levy and Nurse Beverly. I know I have been racing for a long time, but in this moment I feel I can pause. I take a brief moment to examine the book.

  Hemingway’s iconic whiskered (and appropriately first-edition, blue-tinted) face stares at me from the back cover. The original three-dollar price beckons from the left fold-over of the dust jacket that has only a few small scuffs and no significant tears on the edges. The book is also remarkably clean and crisp for its 1952 publishing date. Once again I confirm that the first edition Scribner’s seal and coliform “A” are exactly where they are supposed to be. Across from the publisher’s page is a printed dedication page thanking Charles Scribner and Max Perkins, publisher and editor respectively.

  I turn to the title page and notice what appear to be ink stains—no it is a bleed-through from the opposing side. I turn the page over. Oh my God! Holy Jesus! On the reverse side of the title page are an inscription and a signature.

  “Hello to my good friend Ernesto. Thanks for all of your good advice even if I don’t always follow it. Ernest Hemingway”

  This book is signed and inscribed! The price of this book just tripled! This lowly picker who has always been thrilled to find a hundred-dollar coffee table book owns a signed Hemingway first edition!

  Wait. All right. But how do I know it is authentic? Maybe HH signed it in a fit of even deeper perversity. I examine the signature, but I don’t know what a genuine Hemingway signature is supposed to look like. I look at the ink, holding the page up to the light. It was clearly written with a fountain pen. The ink lacks gloss and appears to have aged. I suppose there are ways to confirm it. I would have to find out who Ernesto is. I would have to take it to an expert. If I take it to Sotheby’s I am sure they could authenticate that it was Hemingway who signed. But what if they say it is a fake? Maybe I am better off to put it on the market unauthenticated with a disclaimer. No. That would be a mistake.

  Who can I tell? This is too good not to share. Shall I call Nick? It’s too late. I can’t tell True. To her it would be evidence of assets yet to be recouped by her legal team. I won’t say anything. I will bring it up like it is an ordinary old copy and I will read it to Caleb.

  I retrace my steps to the elevator and press the call button.

  True’s Coke. I almost forgot. I go off in search of a Coke. A janitor tells me that there is a machine near a back entrance. His directions are imperfect and it takes me a few minutes to find the machine. I trust Coke still means Diet Coke to True and I fumble f
or a dollar and buy one.

  I make my way back to the elevator carrying the Gameboy, the Coke and the book. It ascends quickly, the doors open and I take a right at the hall to the monitored care room.

  As I approach I feel a chill. I realize that for a moment I have been displacing my fears about Caleb with my excitement about the book. Now that I am here I feel a cold wave of dread pass through me. It will only pass when I enter the room and see that he is all right and that True is entertaining him. Perhaps I have made a mistake in bringing the book. Perhaps Hemingway is not the right choice for a kindergartner. What a fool I am.

  I turn to enter the room but I see that it is empty except for one orderly. There is no Caleb, no True and no doctors. There is an untidy array of equipment and monitors with wires and tubes hanging to the floor. I look around to make sure I am in the right room as I ask the orderly.

  “My son was in here…”

  I don’t like the look of distress on the orderly’s face. He is very uncomfortable hearing who I am.

  “They just moved him over to critical care ICU.”

  “Critical?”

  “Third floor south wing.”

  “Caleb Fourchette?”

  “Sorry. I don’t know the name.”

  He walks to the door to show me where to go. I walk quickly. He points down the hall to the left.

  “Left in that corridor and then the first door on the right.”

  “What happened?”

  “You need to go to the nurse’s station at critical care. Tell them who you are.”

  Of course I’ll tell them who I am. All right. The room is empty. Caleb has been moved. I will follow this through and go to critical care. Why did they move him? Is there a development? Maybe it’s only a precaution. Maybe they need some kind of a monitor in the critical ICU that isn’t available here. I try to ignore the feeling that emanates from the pit of my stomach that something might have gone terribly wrong. I fast-walk out the door and turn toward critical care.

  There is a circular nurse’s station under a sign that says Critical Intensive Care Unit. I see a nurse at the station. She looks up to see me coming. My communication is simple.