by Walter Marks
I know damn well what the migraine triggers are — MSG, red wine, sodium nitrite... So why don’t I avoid them? I know damn well what caused that migraine at the strip club. That night at Fine & Schapiro, I blithely chowed down two Hebrew National hot dogs, made with "the highest quality ingredients". Yeah, they were kosher, but any rabbi knows you can't make cured meat without sodium nitrite. And so do I.
Physician, heal thyself — or at least stop screwing thyself up.
I punched in the car radio. I was back in range of the classic rock station. In plaintive harmonies Simon & Garfunkel, were singing about “The Boxer.”
“...such are promises/All lies and jest./Still a man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest.”
I sang along — “Lie la lie, Lie la lie la, Lie la lie...”
CHAPTER 33
“My God, what happened to you?”
That was the general reaction of people at Vanderkill when they saw my banged up face.
“You shoulda seen the other guy,” I said to Kim as she looked at me in shock.
“Who was the other guy?”
I told her about my rumble with Hagopian.
“You got his DNA?”
“Yes,” I said. “When he got shot, he hemorrhaged — his blood spurted all over me.”
“And of course you tended to him, stopped the bleeding, right?”
I nodded.
“So...you saved his life too. That makes three lives in two weeks. What’s with you, Mister Knight-in-shining-armor?”
“Tarnished armor.”
She took a nurse’s interest in my injuries, reminding me that ice and non-steroidal anti-inflammatories would speed the healing.
“But emotionally, you must feel real good,” she said. “I mean — your greatest fear, physical confrontation. You stood up to the guy.”
“Yeah, but I lost the battle. It if wasn’t for the pistol packin’ Grandma...”
“But you won the war.”
She’s right.
I smiled, crookedly because of my fat lip. At that moment I was really sorry kissing was out.
Father Toussenel crossed himself when he saw me. “So much evil everywhere,” he said, after I explained my appearance. “...Like a plague visited upon the world. Still, we must never lose faith in the Lord. For in the end, Good will always triumph over evil.”
“Lie la lie, Lie la lie lie, Lie la lie...”
I told Ben about my encounter at the strip club. “If Hagopian’s blood matches the blood on the murder weapon,” I said, “My lawyer’ll get an order to exhume. If the tissue under the victim’s fingernails matches Hagopian’s DNA, that’ll prove he’s the real killer.”
“That’s a lotta ifs.”
“Ya gotta believe.”
“How long till you find out if the blood matches?”
“We’ll get the blood types within a week. DNA testing takes longer.”
Ben asked if I’d given any more thought to my resignation. I said I wasn’t sure.
“Well,” he said, “I interviewed the shrink from Brigham and Women’s. He’s an interesting guy — very bright, a former cop.”
I felt a pang of jealousy.
“Well, you’ve got a week and a half,” Ben said. “Why don’t you see how you feel being back, and how things play out with this Janko business?”
I didn’t know what to say, so I gave him the shrink nod.
At the group session that afternoon I told my patients I’d been mugged in New York but fought off my attacker. Most seemed impressed. A few looked dubious. It didn’t really matter; they had their own problems.
As I ran the session, I realized I was really on automatic pilot — my mind was on “this Janko business.” I tried to re-focus on my patients who looked to me for guidance and reassurance. It was a tough go. I was glad when the session ended.
When I got back to the motel, Mom Incaviglia got a little weepy when she saw my face.
Pop didn’t notice.
Neither did Ninja. She was her regular self again, chomping on the lettuce I gave her, and eager to take a stroll on my forearm.
As I watched the little turtle making her way through my arm hairs, which must have seemed like a forest to her, it struck me that I could never imagine her world, any more than she could imagine mine. And taking it further, I could never really imagine another human being’s world, which was exactly what my work required of me.
No wonder I was filled with doubt and insecurity, constantly asking myself — am I really up to the task?
I spent a restless night.
CHAPTER 34
"They’re what?" I exclaimed. I was sitting in Ben’s office the next afternoon, when Father Toussenel stuck his head in the door.
"They’re getting married,” he said. “Daisy called me this morning. She and Victor want me to perform the ceremony."
"Don’t we have to be consulted?" I asked Ben.
"No," Ben said. "They have to apply to the Warden’s office, but it’s just pro forma. See, the law can’t forbid marriage between inmates and free citizens. It would be a violation of their civil rights."
"When did Daisy and Victor decide this?" I asked Father Toussenel.
"Last night. On the phone."
This is a bad idea. Victor shouldn’t take a step like this — not now, when he’s still fragile and in shock from everything that’s happened. And as far as Daisy’s concerned, why the hell does she suddenly want to marry Victor?
"I think this is a big mistake," I said.
"I agree," Father Toussenel said. "As you know, I believe Victor Janko is evil and extremely dangerous
"Did you try to talk Daisy out of it?" I asked.
"As best I could," Father Toussenel said. "I reminded her it’ll be five years before there’s even a possibility of parole, and that given this violent episode, Victor’s chances are slim to none."
"What did she say?"
The priest spoke with disdain. “She explained that Victor had renewed hope and he needs the reassurance of her commitment and her love. And she’s willing to give it."
"True love," Ben said cynically. "How ya gonna argue with that?"
"Are you going to perform the ceremony?" I asked the priest.
"It’s my duty."
"When’s this gonna go down?"
"Thursday. It’ll take two days for the paperwork to get done. The wedding’ll be at the prison chapel."
"So basically,” I said. “All three of us think this is a bad idea. But there’s nothing we can do to stop them."
"I don’t think it’s necessarily a bad idea," Ben said, "Though I do think it’s ridiculous. But it can’t cause any real harm. If it cheers Victor up, that’s good. If the girl has some misguided martyr complex, and this makes her feel virtuous, so be it."
"What about their conjugal visits?" the priest asked. "Victor will be alone with Daisy, in a trailer without TV surveillance. He might..."
"They won't get conjugal visits," Ben said. "Janko's still considered an Ad Seg inmate. They’ll only be allowed contact visitations; in fact their first one will be right after the ceremony, their honeymoon if you will. But there's a video camera in that room. Janko couldn’t get a weapon past the metal detectors, and if he tried to get violent some other way, the guards would see it on the monitor, and be there in a flash."
"I still don't like this," I said.
"Look," Ben responded, "There's really nothing we can do. Except, of course, David, if you want to try and convince Janko to change his mind."
"I'll go talk to him now,” I said."
As I walked over to the hospital room, I heard that "Margaritaville" song going around in my head again — "Some people say that there's a woman to blame / But I know...it's my own damn fault."
I found Victor sitting in a chair, reading National Geographic. He was calm and in excellent spirits, greeting me with an amiable "Hi."
He said he'd never been so happy in his life, and even made a bit of a jok
e, saying Daisy had "finally popped the question." Then, before I could express my misgivings, Victor made a request.
"Dr. Rothberg," he said. "Do you think you could come to the wedding? I mean you’re like the only friend I got. And you, well, y’know...you believe in me."
“Listen, Victor,” I said. “I do believe in you, and I feel you trust me, right?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to suggest that you hold off on getting married. This kind of decision...”
“Hold off?” Victor said tensely.
“Just for a while,” I said. “You’ve been through a lot lately, and taking a major step like this...well, I just think we need to talk about it. We have to make sure...”
“I am sure, Doc. Are you saying you’re against this? You’re against the best thing in the world that could ever happen to me?”
I could see dissuading him would be impossible.
“No. No. I’m not against it,” I said. “If this is what you truly want, it’s fine with me.”
“Oh, thank you, Doctor. Your approval is important to me.
"Oh, and listen to this neat idea," he said. "Daisy's gotta have a wedding bouquet, so I'm gonna surprise her by calling the flower store and having them send over a big bunch of daisies. What do you think of that? Daisies for Daisy."
"That sounds great, Victor."
“And, Doctor, you’re gonna come to the wedding, right? So — you’ll be kinda like my best man.”
That idea threw me for a loop. But I just smiled, congratulated him and left.
At the end of the day, I walked across the prison yard. It was deserted and there was a surreal, exaggerated emptiness to the place. The looming concrete walls were grim reminders of what incarceration really meant; the abrogation of all personal freedom, the separation from the outside world, the total acquiescence of the captive to his captors. If, as Ben suggested, I'd taken the job at Vanderkill to punish myself, I'd sure chosen the right environment.
But at least I can leave whenever I want. Not like the men confined here, locked up in cages, yearning for freedom, dreaming of escape...
Uh-oh. What if Daisy’s come up with some elaborate escape plan for Victor. I assume Victor told Daisy about the DNA evidence that could exonerate him, but what if she doesn’t want to wait for the slow-moving wheels of justice? Or she’s afraid it won’t work out?
I wouldn’t put it past her. Yes, that would explain this wedding. The wedding ceremony might give them an opportunity to escape — the prison chapel can’t possibly be as secure as Ad Seg, or even the hospital. The room where they'd have contact visitation might be inadequately guarded. Or...do they have some other scheme?
Maybe Daisy has convinced Victor escape would be a solution to all their problems, but I know it would be a disaster. They have to be stopped.
CHAPTER 35
The next day I got back from work around 4pm. Entering my motel room I saw bubbles coming from Ninja’s mouth. I called Dr. Wang, and got his voicemail saying he’d be back at 5:00. I decided to drive over there.
I’d run out of Baggies, and while I was looking for something to transport Ninja in, there was a knock on the door.
“Housekeeping. I have towels.”
It was Mom (Mrs. Incaviglia) with her cart full of towels and cleaning stuff. She was a mousey, graying woman whose kind eyes had bruise colored circles beneath them. I told her what the problem was and she handed me a disposable plastic shower cap.
“Thanks,” I said. “This’ll be perfect.”
“Sorry she’s sick. Such a cute turtle,” she said. “My husband don’t allow no pets, but I din’t tell him.”
“I appreciate that.”
I poked holes in the shower cap, picked up Ninja and took her out to the car. The interior was blazing hot, so I put on the A/C and we waited till it cooled down inside.
Then I put her on the seat and returned to the room to get my shoulder bag. When I entered, I saw Mom bending over Ninja’s vivarium. She had a squirt bottle of glass cleaner, and was scrubbing the inside of the turtle box’s glass window. I could smell the ammonia clear across the room.
“Stop,” I yelled. She looked up startled.
“That stuff is poison to turtles.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I din’t know...”
“I think that’s what’s been making her sick.”
“I’ll wash the box out for you.”
“No. No. I’ll do it.”
“Oh, okay.”
“And no more chemicals of any kind in this room. Promise?”
“Dust. I’ll only dust.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Sure,” she said. “And I left fresh towels in bathroom.”
When she left I took off my clothes and carried the turtle box into the shower with me. For a long time I let the hot water pour down on it, flushing away all chemical contaminants. Then I let the shower water pour down on me, hoping it would wash away my doubts and anxieties. It didn’t, but at least it made me feel refreshed and clean.
After, I filled the box with new dirt and pebbles, fresh water, and a wafer. Then I dressed and went out to get Ninja.
She took a small nibble of a wafer; a good sign. And there were no bubbles forming at her mouth. She was going to be okay.
Feeling relieved, I left her there and drove to the prison.
I went to the contact visitation room to check out its security. It was located near the visitor's entrance, making escape a lot more feasible. When I asked a guard about it, he laughed and said no way. Still, I had my doubts.
I went up to the third floor to look at the prison chapel, but the door was locked. I found Father Toussenel and he said that besides the door, the stained glass window was the only way out and it had iron bars behind it.
I voiced my concerns to Ben Caldwell. He said not to worry; since the new high tech security system had been installed fifteen years ago, nobody had escaped from Vanderkill.
"But if it'll make you feel better," he said, "We’ll put Janko in leg shackles. How's that?"
Chaining up a man at his own wedding seemed dehumanizing. But, given the possible danger...“Okay,” I said grimly.
"Well, look at it this way," Ben said joking, "Daisy won’t be Janko’s only ball-and-chain...'"
I smiled, without humor.
CHAPTER 36
It was Thursday, the day of the wedding. I got to the chapel a little before noon. Ben was with me — he was required to witness the marriage ceremony.
The chapel had a makeshift quality. The pews were plain wooden benches, their kneelers covered with torn vinyl padding. The walls were nondescript grey, and the fluorescent lighting did little to set a mood for worship and prayerful contemplation.
There was a coin-operated vending machine next to the front door, selling electrical votive candles; Large 5 day candle — $5.00, Small 2 hr. candle — 50 cents. There were several shrines against the side walls of the chapel, where a number of "candles" had been placed; the shrines were card tables draped with black felt cloth, with garish portraits of the saints hung above them.
Two cleaning women were at work; one on her knees, scrubbing the floor, the other polishing the three-foot tall ornate bronze candle holders which flanked the altar. Ben approached the floor scrubber. "Ma’am," he said, "I know you’ve got a job to do but..."
The woman stood up and gave him a timid, apologetic look. "Dispensa me, senor," she said. "No hablamos inglés...no Engleesh..."
Ben nodded. "Ustedes no pueden trabajar ahora," he said. "Habra un matrimonio."
I'd never studied Spanish, but being a native New Yorker and working in a municipal hospital, I’d learned enough to understand — Ben had told the women to stop working because of the upcoming wedding.
The other cleaning lady had come over to us. "¿Podemos observar?" she asked.
"You wanna watch? Fine with me," Ben said. He pointed to the pews; the women smiled and took seats.
Ben and I sat down
in front of them. The altar was, like the shrines, a table draped in black felt. Behind it was a stained glass window. I couldn't see what it depicted at first, because the window was grimy from years of neglect. But after a while, I recognized a Crucifixion; I could make out the garnet colored blood running from the Savior’s hands, feet, and chest. Then I saw the crudely lettered sign tacked onto the cross above His head.
That image had puzzled me from the day I first saw it, as a ten-year old. When I transferred to the Our Lady of Martyrs Academy, I was given a laminated prayer card with a Crucifixion on it. It showed the mysterious sign over the head of Our Lord. It read: INRI. When I asked the priest, he explained only that it was Latin. I kept pressing him, till finally he told me it was Latin for "King of the Jews." I thought that was cool, because at age ten I hadn’t yet grasped the concept that Jesus Christ was Jewish. But I couldn’t figure out how INRI could possibly mean King of the Jews, even after the two semesters of Latin the school required. It was only years later at Harvard, when I asked my Comparative Religions professor.
"Oh," she said, "it’s an abbreviation; Iesus Nazarenus Rex Iudaeorum...Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews." She explained the Roman soldiers had stuck the sign up on the cross, to mock their victim.
I smiled, remembering my exhilaration at solving the INRI mystery...
Victor Janko entered the chapel, accompanied by the guard Brian O’Mara. Victor's leg-shackles clanked as he walked, giving him an odd, shuffling gait. At least they didn’t make him wear handcuffs. He had on neatly pressed army pants, a blue work shirt, and a tie I'd lent him,
because, as he’d said, "I gotta look sharp." When the groom saw me, he smiled and waved. I nodded.
Then the bride entered, with Father Toussenel by her side. Daisy was wearing a simple, white suit and white leather pumps. Her blond hair, still a mass of disorderly curls, cascaded down her back. I checked her fingernails. She’d finally painted them a traditional color — red. Daisy didn’t look at me. In her arms she carried a large bridal bouquet, the daisies Victor had sent her.
