Wolf

by Kelly Oliver

  Jessica was snuggling with Lolita on the pullout sofa bed at the Residence Inn, watching an old Hitchcock playing movie on TV. Since she’d refused to let Nick take her home, she was stranded unless Lolita gave her a ride back to Brentano Hall. But even the thin lumpy sofa bed was better than a desk in the attic.

  She moved her bare feet back and forth across the smooth fabric of the hotel’s cotton blend and realized how much she missed sheets. Sleeping in her dirty jeans and western shirt for the last week had been like sleeping in a straightjacket. Freed by a pair of Lolita’s silky pajamas, finally her body could relax, even as her mind kicked into high gear.

  “Nick was such a friggin’ jerk. I’ll never forgive him.” She rolled onto her side facing Lolita. “And I didn’t even get my revenge sex.”

  “Forget about sex, jerk or not, we need him,” her friend said. “You’ve got to get him to bring the Pope to the Monday night game. The Pope will jump at the chance to swoop in on my territory.”

  “Do you think that’s a good idea?” Jessica hadn’t enjoyed her recent encounter with Vladimir the Pope and didn’t relish another one.

  Lolita lowered her voice, “Just get Nick to set up a meeting with the Pope to buy my dad’s painting at the poker game and I’ll do the rest. I’m determined to get my dad’s Kandinsky back.”

  Jessica sighed and rolled over to watch the movie. Jimmy Stewart’s character had just discovered his beloved Judy wearing the necklace depicted in Carlotta’s portrait and realized she was an accessory to murder. Jessica always wondered how Hitchcock could make even mild mannered Jimmy Stewart into an abusive dickhead when it came to women.

  “Can you do it?” Lolita asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Get Nick to bring the Pope to the poker game. Haven’t you been listening to me?”

  Jessica never wanted to see Nick Charis Schilling again, but when Lolita stroked her hair, she knew she’d do whatever her friend asked. Jessica reached across the side table for the remote and turned off the television so she wouldn’t have to watch Jimmy Stewart throw Judy off the mission tower yet again.

  Eventually, listening to her friend’s rhythmic breathing put her to sleep. Fast asleep inside Lolita’s embrace, Jessica woke up to pounding on the hotel door.

  Lolita flew up, sprinted into the bathroom, grabbed a towel, and wrapping it around her naked body, answered the door.

  Jessica yanked on her jeans over the top of the silky boy shorts PJs. What the hell? It’s 5 a.m. Lolita peered out the peephole and shrugged, and then Jessica took a look. “What’s he doing here?” Detective Cormier was holding her satchel. Astonished, Jessica opened the door.

  “My book bag,” she exclaimed. “Where did you find it?”

  “May I come in?” Detective Cormier asked.

  Lolita ushered him into the kitchenette, turned on a light, and put on water for tea.

  “Please sit down, Ms. James,” Detective Cormier said.

  Jessica’s heart did a nosedive when she remembered she’d left her satchel in Nick’s Boxster.

  “Your friend Nicholas Schilling has been in an accident,” the detective said.

  Jessica blinked in panic and immediately thought of when her mother got the news. A blizzard had cancelled school and little Jessica came home early to find her mom screeching and sobbing. Scared, she ran and hid in the barn, cowering in the corner of Mayhem’s stall. Eventually, she got so hungry she snuck through the back door of the trailer into the kitchen. Her mom didn’t say a word but just stared at her with puffy red eyes and Jessica knew something terrible had happened to her dad.

  “Is Nick okay?” Lolita asked, putting her hands on Jessica’s shoulders.

  “He’ll be fine,” Detective Cormier said. “But his Porsche is totaled.”

  “What happened?” Lolita asked.

  “He ran a red light at the six way intersection at Milwaukee, North, and Kamen,” the detective said. “His blood alcohol level was nearly .2 percent.”

  “The vodka,” said Jessica. “I shouldn’t have let him drink and drive.”

  “He won’t be driving for quite a while with a DUI on his record,” Detective Cormier said.

  “It’s not your fault he can’t handle his vodka and is stupid enough to drive drunk.” Lolita turned Jessica around by the shoulders. “It’s a good thing you weren’t with him.”

  “When your bag turned up among his possessions,” the detective said. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  “How did you find me?”

  Detective Cormier gave her a knowing look. “I have my ways.”

  After the detective left, Jessica locked herself in the bathroom, borrowed some toothpaste, used her finger to brush her teeth, then splashed water on her face, and gave herself a speedy sponge bath. She looked longingly at the shower. Maybe later.

  As she emerged from the bathroom, Lolita was slipping into her leather pants and jacket. Tossing a confused Jessica a skidlid, her friend headed out the door.

  Following Lolita outside, Jessica inhaled the heavy perfume that hung in the sweet spring air, and her eyes started watering and her nose started running. She pulled a tissue out of her pocket. She loved the scent of lilacs, but it didn’t like her.

  She wondered if it was a fact of life that people are allergic to what they love most. Jessica remembered Tigercat, her first love. Every night, the kitten had slept on her pillow, purring her to sleep, and every morning, she woke up congested, but still smitten.

  Lolita started her motorbike and Jessica hopped on the Harley behind her friend. At least this time, she had on long pants. Still, the exhaust pipe was hot against her foot, and steam was rising from her damp high-tops. She clasped her hands around Lolita’s waist and held on with all her might as her friend screeched out of the parking lot.

  The roads were deserted, and since Detective Cormier was following them, Lolita made a point of staying within the speed limit, for once. Their police escort waved and sped past as they turned into the parking lot of Northwestern University Hospital. As soon as the bike skidded to a stop, Jessica tumbled off and dashed into the hospital.

  When she breezed through the sliding glass doors, the Starbucks inside the lobby was just opening and already the line was long. Nurses in zoo animal scrubs, orderlies in blue uniforms, and doctors with white lab coats, all waiting for their morning dose. Caffeine, the drug of choice for healthcare workers.

  Jessica ordered a Cinnamon Dolce Latte for herself and a double espresso for Lolita, who’d just joined her. With the help of strong coffee, the hospital was coming to life for morning rounds.

  Jessica had already forgotten how much she’d hated Nick last night when he’d accused Dmitry of forgery. Now, she ached to see he was okay. She asked a woman at the front desk for Nicholas Schilling’s room number, and then tried Charis.

  She and Lolita took the elevator to the fifth floor. As she walked along the antiseptic hallway, for some reason, Jessica remembered being sent to the principal’s office in grade school for giving one of the Dalton brothers a black eye. She couldn’t remember which one.

  When they reached Nick’s room, the door was shut and a nurse said they would have to wait. Jessica paced back and forth, and Lolita leaned up against the wall, one black boot firmly planted against the white wash. The hospital floor shone with polishing wax, but Jessica still didn’t want to get too close to it. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger… Unless it is flesh-eating bacteria. When she put her satchel down and dropped on top of it, her friend gracefully slid down the wall and sat on the floor next to her.

  “You have to convince Nick to help us get my dad’s painting from the Pope,” Lolita said. “We need to get it back before he tries to sell it.”

  “I’ll try,” she said. “But even if we can get Dmitry’s Kandinsky away from the Pope, what about the real Kandinsky?”

  Lolita pulled a tiny key from her pants pocket and held it up for inspection. “Any ideas of where this little guy�
��s lock might be?” she asked. “We’ve got to find out how to get my dad’s paintings.”

  When the door to Nick’s hospital room swung open, Hello Kitty was blushing and giggling as she exited the room. Slutty Kitty, more like it. Jessica sprung up, brushed off her pants, and knocked on the door. Nick’s single malt tenor bid beaconed her inside. She gasped and clapped her hand over her mouth when she saw Nick’s face. He had two black eyes, stitches on his lower lip, and cuts on his nose and ears.

  “You should see the other guy,” Nick said. When she approached his bedside, he patted the bedcovers, and she sat down beside him. She took his hand, and then with her free hand, absently stroked his soft hair, remembering Tigercat.

  “Nick,” she said softly, “I’m so sorry about your accident.”

  “No, I’m sorry, I was such an ass,” he said, sitting up in bed. “I should have known better than to drink vodka with Russians and I can afford a taxi.” He put his head on Jessica’s shoulder.

  “Yes, you were an ass. You shouldn’t have insulted Dmitry.”

  “It’s just the last time I tried to buy a Kandinsky,” he said, “I ended up in a Russian jail thanks to some Bratva double-dealing. I wanted to avoid a compromising situation, especially with you there.” She put her arm around him. “Dolce,” he said and closed his eyes, and she kissed his forehead. “Ouch,” he said meekly.

  Lolita cleared her throat. “Mind if I join you?”

  Jessica nodded for her to cross the threshold.

  “I was wondering if anyone had a clue about this safety deposit key?” Lolita asked, dangling the little key in the air again. “The real Kandinsky is in a vault somewhere in this city and I was just asking Jessica if she had a clue about the location of the professor’s vault.”

  Nick bolted upright. “The real Kandinsky? You have Kandinsky’s Fragment 2 in a vault?” When his cheeks colored, his expression changed from wounded to wonder.

  “It’s in a vault,” Lolita said, “but we have no idea where.”

  Chapter Forty

  Dmitry strode through the garage to the hospital elevator and pushed the down button. As the elevator went down, his heart followed. His emotions were a jumble, his body one raw nerve. He stepped out into the hospital lobby and realized he didn’t know his father’s room number. He took a crumpled paper from his pocket and texted his mother. She texted back with the number, and he stopped at a reception desk to ask directions.

  His father’s room was in the ICU in a wing separated from the rest of the hospital. The illuminated signs for the ICU had blocky blue letters, and he turned corner after corner following them to his final destination.

  As he rounded the last corner into a dimly lit corridor, his mother emerged from the shadows, an apparition floating on air. Her long flowing dress wasn’t what he had expected. He always pictured her in her Ermine fur hat and coat, standing on the frigid train platform. In his memory, she was encased in ice. Now, she was moving towards him, amethyst gown and white hair fluttering behind her as she walked. Unchanged by the years, he saw before him an older version of Lolita, elegant, lovely, and regal.

  When she held out her hand to him, he fell into her arms, a boy again, reunited with his beloved mother. They clung to each other until a nurse stopped to ask if they needed assistance. His mother took him by the hand and led him down the hallway. Her warm hand in his, tears welled in his eyes. On their way to his father’s room, in her soft familiar voice, she explained that Anton had advanced pancreatic cancer.

  “I brought him to the Mayo clinic as a last resort,” she said. “We have been back and forth to the best hospitals in Moscow and New York for the last several months.”

  Dmitry took her hand. “I’m sorry Mother.”

  “At this point,” she said with a quiet sigh, “nothing can be done except make him comfortable.”

  They were walking in silence down an antiseptic corridor when his mother stopped, turned to face him, and took his other hand.

  “I’ve been trying to find you since you left Russia, my love,” she said, holding onto both of his hands.

  “How did you find me?” he asked.

  “When Anton’s art agent told him Kandinsky’s Fragment was for sale, I knew if I followed the painting, I’d find you,” she said. The corners of her delicate mouth turned up slightly. “I contacted the seller, Vladimir Popov, who promised to get a message to you on behalf of Anton. No one in Bratva dares to cross Anton, not even on his deathbed.”

  “Not even on his deathbed,” he heard himself saying.

  “Your father is desperate to speak to you before he passes,” his mother said. “He regrets asking you to…. to do such horrible things.” His mother looked away, brushing a tear with the back of her hand. Clearly, she wasn’t over Sergei’s brutal death and his father’s cruel command that forced Dmitry to leave the country.

  “I don’t want to see him,” he said. “I can’t bear to see him.” He was ashamed he’d disappointed his father years ago, ashamed he didn’t want to see him on his deathbed now. Even though his father had treated him cruelly, he was besieged by guilt. How was it possible to have such contradictory feelings? Perhaps what truly made him afraid was he loved his father. His affection was more baffling than his abhorrence.

  “Dimka, your father has changed,” she said. “See him and you’ll know. Like a snake, he has cast off his old skin.”

  “Even with a new skin, a snake is still a snake,” he said.

  “That may be,” she said, “but his dying wish is to see you, my son.”

  “Why should I grant his last wish, when he wouldn’t grant even my first?” he asked. “He told me to…to…” He couldn’t say it. “How can I forgive him for the enormity of suffering he’s caused? Especially to you.” He gazed into his mother’s bloodshot eyes.

  “He is a dying man, my son,” she said. “If you won’t do it for him, do it for me, Dimka.” He never could refuse his mother. Some things do not change and some things never disappear.

  Dmitry knew they were nearing his father’s room when he saw two Byki standing in the hallway flanking a door. The bodyguards were familiar, loyal bulls had been with his father all these years. As he drew closer, he recognized Yuri. Same craggy face, same St. Christopher’s medal around his wrinkled neck. Yuri nodded at him, but neither of them spoke.

  This was it. With his mother behind him, he was standing in front of the curtain across the door to his father’s hospital room. Willing his legs to move, he staggered forward. His mother reached out and put her hand on his shoulder. “As the call,” she whispered, “so the echo.” His mother pulled open the curtain and gently pushed him towards the entrance to the room.

  The sun was rising and orange rays spread from the window across the ashen floor, but the room was dark. Birdsong accompanied the beeping and clicking of the medical machines. His father’s heavy breathing, each inhalation a rasp, each exhalation a rattle. He slid along the polished linoleum, soundlessly, trying not to pick up his feet. His chest tightened as he reached the end of the hospice bed. He saw a shape under the blankets, like a pile of bones under a napkin.

  His mother was right. Physically, at least, his father had completely transformed. He had gone from the portly, even obese, man he had defied years ago to this skeleton lying before him. He might already be dead, if it weren’t for the inescapable noises. Cold sweat streamed down his armpits and across his ribs, and he felt ill. When he turned back towards the curtain, he spotted his mother standing just inside motioning for him to continue towards the bed.

  Everything moved in slow motion as Dmitry sat in the chair next to the bed. He stared at his father’s face until it came into gradual focus in the hazy light of dawn, a death mask, chalky and dry. If he hadn’t known this was his father, he would not have recognized him. He searched for signs of his father in that sunken face, that shrunken body, but he couldn’t see any.

  “Father,” he whispered. He wished the unnerving rasping and rattling so
unds would stop. “Father,” he repeated. “It’s me, your son, Dmitry.” He waited for what seemed like hours. “Father,” he said again, “Can you hear me?”

  His father’s eyes opened and the uncanny death mask lying on the pillow came to life. A beam of sunlight shot into the room, and when it doused Anton’s face, Dmitry saw what remained of his father in the glassy orbs gleaming through the frail facade. His father was still in there somewhere, inhabiting this inanimate alien body.

  A shriveled hand appeared from under the covers. Its fingers twitched, searching for something. The hand was grasping at the air, gasping like a fish out of water. Fighting the urge to recoil in horror, he forced himself to take the horrific hand. It felt like parchment, and his sweaty palm stuck to it like a cigarette paper to a lower lip.

  “Father,” he said. “I’ve come as you asked.” After all these years, he was still compelled to obey his father.

  The hand pulled him closer. It was stronger than he would have guessed. Struggling against his instinct to run, he leaned forward until his face was nearly touching the eerie mask. The smell of ammonia stung his nostrils. He could practically see vapors escaping from his father’s mouth. The hand held him close, and the mouth started sputtering, misting his face with spittle. He involuntarily closed his eyes and tightened his lips. He tried to hold his breath to stop himself from inhaling those deathly emanations.

  The mouth was moving faster now. The hand was pulling harder. The dark glassy spots in the mask pleaded with him. He didn’t know what to do. He wanted to scream and run from the room. Maybe he should call a nurse. The rasping finally gave way to sounds, and the sputtering and popping finally gave way to voice, and his father murmured, “Dima, forgive me.”

  Then, the hand relented, the rattling receded, and the sheen disappeared from the two dark holes in the mask. Vapors floated up into the beam of sunlight piercing the room, and he realized this cloud of mist was all that was left of his father.

  “Father,” he cried. “Wait. Father. Please.” Tears sprouted from his eyes and wrapped around his chest. They wound themselves tighter until he could barely breathe. They climbed over the form under the blankets, vines binding him to his father’s corpse.