Bone

by George C. Chesbro

  Peel off!

  "Give me a break, partner. It just seems to me that it's not going to do anyone any good for two city workers and a psychiatrist to catch pneumonia waiting around for a man to decide if he wants to come in out of the rain. Bone's been here two days already, and there's no telling how long he intends to stay. If Ali will sign the papers, let's at least get the guy's body inside the van, out of the rain, and worry about his head later. As it is, he must be half dead by now. It's freezing out here."

  He judged the man with the deeper voice, the one off to his right who had just spoken, to be in his late twenties or early thirties. Under six feet, heavyset, he wore a bright blue wind-breaker with a New York Giants logo over a black, woolen turtleneck sweater, jeans which were stretched tight by heavily muscled thighs and tucked into the tops of laced leather boots with rubber soles. His close-cropped black hair with its widow's peak was matted down over a broad forehead. His nose seemed too small for the rest of his face, which was dominated by a broad chin thrust out as if in defiance of the rain beating down on his uncovered head. The bright green eyes, now focused on him, with the rest of his features and the set of his body, revealed a mix of emotions—curiosity, wonder, caution and perhaps not a little hostility and fear.

  The features of the other two people were hidden in the shadows beneath the hoods of bulky, gray rain slickers that came down to their knees. The man off to his left had a slight, even frail, build, and seemed almost lost in his oversize slicker beneath the large black umbrella he held over his head.

  The woman, about five feet five or six, was standing directly in front of him, very close, no more than two yards away.

  "Anne, don't—!"

  But the woman ignored the burly man's warning as she abruptly stepped forward and crouched down directly in front of him, less than an arm's length away. The sudden movement caused her hood to slip off, but she made no move to pull it back up. Before the rain darkened and matted it down, he saw thick, shiny, dark brown hair, shoulder-length and prematurely gray around the temples. He judged her to be in her early thirties, attractive if not beautiful, with an aura of both toughness and tenderness. She had a full mouth, with an exaggerated cleft in her upper lip, a thin, aquiline nose, high cheekbones, fair skin, bright hazel eyes that now glistened with tears. He saw yearning in the reflective pools of the hazel eyes, hope and a great deal of anxiety; but he sensed that the anxiety was not for herself, but for him.

  Suddenly the woman reached into the deep pocket of her slicker, drew out what appeared to be a sandwich wrapped in waxed paper, held it out to him in a trembling hand. The rain spattering on the waxed paper sounded like machine-gun fire.

  "Please, Bone," the woman said in a quavering voice that was close to a sob. The tears that had glistened in her eyes now welled, spilled over her lids and ran down her cheeks to be washed away by the rain. "At least take the sandwich. You haven't eaten anything in two days, and you must be starving. You'll die."

  He stared at the waxed-paper package in the woman's outstretched, trembling hand, watched the fat raindrops splatter and pop on its surface. Rat-tatta-tatta-rat-tatta.

  Dreaming?

  The woman withdrew the sandwich, lowered her head and breathed a deep sigh. Then, without straightening up, she twisted around and spoke to the short man standing under the black umbrella. "You've got to give us the okay to take him in involuntarily, Ali. It's why we dragged you out here."

  "I understand that," the man replied easily in his lilting, singsong voice. "But on what grounds? Who is he hurting?"

  "Himself, Ali! Damn it, you know that!"

  "It isn't really that cold—certainly nowhere near freezing, which is the critical temperature. After all, it's springtime."

  "Ali, he's been out here two days He's going to catch pneumonia, if he doesn't have it already!"

  "I'll be told that's not sufficient grounds for involuntary incarceration. Your perception of what's happening here is relatively unimportant, and you know that. The increase in tuberculosis among this population is mushrooming, as you also know; but even the fact that a man or woman is dying of tuberculosis and infecting countless others—is not, by itself, considered grounds for involuntary incarceration. We'll be asked in all seriousness by some half-assed young lawyer how we could be certain he wasn't just trying to wash himself."

  "Now you sound like one of those goddamned lawyers!" the woman snapped. Her voice was growing husky, as if she might be sick herself.

  "You know which side I'm on, Anne," the man under the umbrella replied evenly. "But I'm the one who has to answer to those lawyers and judges, and it's my time that will be wasted answering questions and filling out forms that could eventually lead to a court order freeing him again, anyway. You talk as if you've never been through this business with me before. What is so special about this man? Without too much difficulty, I believe we could find fifty other homeless people here in the park, out in the rain."

  "No, Ali! Not like Bone! Not squatting out in the open, unprotected! And not for two days!" She paused, sighed heavily again, and then resumed speaking in a tone that had become plaintive. "At least we can get him inside for a few hours, Ali; get him dried off and put some food in his belly."

  "Maybe, maybe not. He might resist—violently—any attempt to undress him, give him medication or food. It's bad professional practice to make a move we know will probably be blocked, Anne—bad for me, bad for you, and bad for the cause we serve. It's the responsibility of the city and the courts to set the guidelines, which they've done. We may know they're totally unrealistic, but all we can do is advise change and keep working within those guidelines. In this instance, we'll probably be told in no uncertain terms that just because a man doesn't know enough to come in out of the rain is no reason to deprive him of his civil liberties. I'm sorry, Anne. I want to help this man you call Bone as much as you do."

  "I doubt that," the heavyset man said tightly. "Anne has a thing for Bone."

  The woman shook her head impatiently. "Ali, you're the psychiatrist on call, and HRA needs your written authorization to shelter this man against his will. Give it to us, and I promise I'll deal with the lawyers. I think you're being unreasonable.

  Bone looks like he's about to keel over from exhaustion, anyway, so why can't you just sign the goddamned papers?!"

  Bone? he thought. This was the name of the stranger whose body he haunted?

  "I think it's premature, Anne. He's not physically acting out, overtly endangering himself or others. I'm sorry."

  He abruptly stood up.

  "Anne, watch out!" the burly man in the blue windbreaker shouted as he started forward, his large hands balled into fists.

  The woman twisted back around to look up at him, then quickly straightened up and stepped even closer, as if to shield him from the other man. She stood so close that, even through her heavy parka, he could feel the distinctive softness of large breasts pressing against his left arm. "Wait, Barry! Don't touch him! It's all right! He won't hurt me!"

  The man with the bright green eyes and short black hair stopped; but his hands remained clenched into fists, and he was balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to leap forward. The man under the umbrella hadn't appeared to react at all.

  "I'm responsible for your safety," the man said in a low, tense voice, impatiently swiping at the water collecting on his broad chin. "It's why they send me out with you."

  "I'm safe," she replied, and then slowly turned her head to look into his face. There was no fear in her hazel eyes, he thought; excitement, hope and compassion—but no fear. He was still very conscious of the feel of her breasts against his arm, the confident gentleness of her voice. "We're not going to hurt you, Bone. Please don't try to hurt any of us."

  Then she slowly lowered her gaze, to his right. He looked down and was startled to see that he was holding a large bone in his right hand, and that his arm was half raised, as if to strike with the strange object, which, now that he was aware
of it, felt as heavy, cold and hard as stone; he could understand the burly man's concern, and was struck anew by the woman's confidence and fearlessness.

  He was the one who was afraid.

  He lowered his arm—but did not release the bone. He wondered why anyone would carry a bone around with him, yet realized that the stranger whose body he inhabited did—had. Indeed, these people seemed to know the stranger, called him "Bone." Where had the stranger carried the bone? Why?

  He was afraid. And, suddenly, he was ravenously hungry.

  The woman stepped away and once again, slowly, held out the sandwich to him.

  Tat-tatta-rat-tatta.

  He transferred the bone to his left armpit—slowly, deliberately, so as to show he was not threatening anybody—and then took the sandwich from the woman's outstretched hand. His own hands shook as he fumbled with the wrapper, and he finally tore it off, dropping the pieces of waxed paper into the mud at his feet. He bit into the sandwich and groaned aloud with satiated need and pleasure at the taste and texture of the bread, ham, cheese, lettuce and mayonnaise. He wolfed down the first sandwich, accepted a second, which the woman, beaming with pleasure, had produced from the deep pockets of her gray parka. When he had finished this he felt better, if a bit dizzy. He licked mayonnaise off his fingers, then glanced up to find that the two men had moved closer, and now stood on either side of the woman. At this distance he could see that the slight man under the umbrella had a dark brown complexion, accented by a thin, very dark moustache that matched the color of his hair, and very large, limpid black eyes that were now staring at him with intense curiosity.

  "Who the hell are you?" he asked, looking from one face to another.

  The dark eyebrows of the frail-looking man under the umbrella lifted slightly. "I am Dr. Ali Hakim," he said, his lilting voice now carrying more than a trace of amusement as well as surprise. "This is my colleague, Miss Anne Winchell, and her assistant, Mr. Barry Prindle. And who the hell, may we ask, are you?"

  He searched his stranger's mind for an answer that wouldn't appear. His fear, which had been forgotten as his terrible hunger had been recognized and partially assuaged, now returned, and was worse. "I . . . don't know," he said hoarsely, looking around him at the mud and wet grass, the trees, sidewalks and lampposts, the tall buildings that rose like a circular mountain range all around them. "Where am I?"

  The woman's broad smile vanished as she frowned with concern. "You're in the Sheep Meadow. Don't you remember coming here?"

  His stomach muscles tightened as his fear continued to grow in him. Reflexively, he took the bone from under his left arm and gripped it tightly. The heavyset man to his right tensed, and the woman quickly put her hand on his arm.

  "Sheep meadow? What sheep meadow? Where?"

  Still frowning, the woman exchanged glances with the brown-skinned man under the umbrella, then looked back at him. "The Sheep Meadow in Central Park—New York City. Don't you know who or where you are, Bone? Don't those names mean anything to you?"

  Again, he searched the stranger's mind, and again found no answers. He studied the faces of the people standing in front of him—the woman's, anxious and pensive; the burly man's, cautious and suspicious. The expression on the face of the man under the umbrella was impassive, with only the brightness of his limpid, expressive eyes revealing his continued keen curiosity.

  "Not at the moment," he replied at last, glancing down at the bizarre object he held in his hand. "You call me 'Bone.' I presume because of this." He paused, looked hard at the woman. "But you also talk as if you know me. Do you?"

  "Yes," the woman replied softly, in a strained voice that clearly reflected dismay and disappointment. "At least, I feel as if I do."

  "For how long?"

  "A little over a year—since Barry and I approached you over on Eighth Avenue."

  He swallowed hard, found that his mouth was very dry. He licked rain from his lips, then closed his eyes and probed desperately into the stranger's mind for some feeling, however vague, of recognition or familiarity. There was none, and he opened his eyes. "I've been here a year?" he said to the woman as he gestured around him, making no effort to hide his fear. A year!

  The woman nodded. "It was about a year ago that we first spotted you on the street. You were mute; this is the first time any of us have heard you speak. Since you were always carrying that thing around with you, it just seemed natural to start referring to you as 'Bone.' You can't remember your real name?"

  He started to search the stranger's mind again, but gave up quickly; there were no answers there, only fear, bewilderment and frustration. He slowly shook his head.

  "Look, Bone—oh, I'm sorry if that bothers you."

  Despite himself, despite his fear and the surrealistic nightmare he found he had awakened to, he suddenly laughed. "You've got to be kidding me, lady," he said as the laughter quickly died and left a raw feeling, a bitter taste, at the back of his throat. He suddenly felt flushed and very dizzy, and he had to concentrate on remaining steady on his feet. "I don't know who I am, where I am, where I came from or how I got here, and you think I'm going to worry about what you call me?"

  That received a faint smile and slight nod from the brown-skinned man under the umbrella. The younger man's expression of caution and concern remained unchanged, while the woman laughed uncertainly.

  "Bone," she said, tentatively reaching out and touching his hand, "obviously, we have a lot of things to talk about, but there's no reason for us to stand out here in the rain. Is there? Will you come with us?"

  He stepped back, away from the woman's touch and the soul-deep chasm of loneliness the touch had opened in him without warning. "Where?"

  "To a place where we can get you dry clothes, proper food and a thorough medical check. Right now you don't look too good, and we don't want you to get sick."

  "I don't think I have any money."

  Again, tears welled in the woman's hazel eyes. "You don't need any money, Bone."

  "You said you first saw me on Eighth Avenue, wherever that is. Where else have you seen me before?"

  The woman wiped water off her face, pushed her rain-matted hair away from her eyes, then shrugged and gestured around her. "All over the place, Bone; you liked to walk. But I think you spent most of your time in midtown and lower Manhattan."

  "Manhattan?"

  "It's where we are now. That name really doesn't mean anything to you?"

  "Right now, lady, nothing means anything to me."

  "Manhattan is a borough—a part—of New York City. It's really a big island, and I wouldn't be surprised if you've walked over most of it."

  "Where have I been staying? Where do I sleep at night?"

  "I don't think anybody knows, Bone," the woman replied quietly. "You've been seen at soup kitchens at a number of locations, but you've never signed in to any of our shelters or clinics. Nobody has ever—"

  He held up his left hand, and the woman stopped speaking. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said. "I don't know anything about shelters, soup kitchens or clinics. I don't remember anything."

  "We've approached you on a number of occasions, Bone," the heavyset young man said as he walked forward and stood next to the woman. The change in his voice and demeanor was striking; the tension and vague hostility reflected in his body language was gone, and his voice had become soft, even gentle. This man was deeply protective of the woman, Bone thought, and perhaps even loved her. For whatever reason, he had apparently decided that this stranger with his bone posed no threat to her. "Like Anne said, you never talked—but you obviously knew how to take care of yourself. You always looked clean when we saw you, and you knew the locations of the soup kitchens, churches and Salvation Army centers where you could get food and clothes. You never bothered anybody, at least not that we know of. Sometimes you'd be carrying things—"

  "What things?"

  Barry Prindle shrugged his broad shoulders. "Just stuff you'd apparently picked out of tras
h piles—clothing, old blankets, odds and ends you must have felt you had some use for. The one thing that never changed was that bone in your hand; you always had it with you." He paused, squinted slightly. "You don't remember where you got it?"

  "No."

  "It doesn't mean anything to you?"

  "No. You say I've been out here for two days?"

  Anne Winchell nodded. "Somebody called in and told us you were here; it seems you plopped yourself down on this spot the day before yesterday, Thursday, around dawn. You've been squatting here, just staring off into space, until now. This is the fourth time Barry and I have been here."

  Dr. Ali Hakim abruptly walked forward, cleared his throat. "This is a very intriguing conversation, lady and gentlemen," he said wryly, "but, considering the rather adverse weather conditions, I suggest we get to the point. Mr. Bone, my colleagues and I work for the city's Human Resources Administration. What we try to do is convince those of the city's homeless who are without any visible resources to accept the city's offer of food, shelter, medical care and employment counseling. However, the fact of the matter is that we can't force anyone to accept our help against that person's will—unless he poses a clear and present danger to himself or others. I'm a psychiatrist, and it's my responsibility to make that kind of determination. At the moment, you obviously don't appear to fall into that category. You have a decision to make."

  Anne Winchell suddenly reached out with both hands and clasped Bone's hand, gripping it tightly. It was a gesture that made Barry Prindle stiffen perceptibly. "Bone," she said, "what Dr. Hakim is saying is that you must choose to come with us and let us help you. How about it? We've got a van parked not far from here. Wouldn't it be nice to get into some warm, dry clothes, eat some hot food and get some proper sleep?"

  Without warning tears sprang to his eyes and rolled down his cheeks, and he had to stifle a sob. This woman's face and voice, her words and the strong yet gentle feel of her hands around his seemed to offer so much at the same time they made him feel even more vulnerable and lost. Lost. He was so cold, tired, hungry. And sick. Now, suddenly, he felt fever heat blazing in his body. His vision was beginning to blur, and he was afraid that his legs would collapse under him. "I want to go home," he whispered, his voice breaking.