The laughter was one thing, but that word nigger … Before he could stop himself, Tyrone reached out, grabbed Flat Nose by a fist ful of shirt and shoved him forward so hard the shoulder belt engaged. Then he dragged Flat Nose out from behind the taut shoulder belt and pulled his face close.
“Don’t ever laugh at me!” hissed Tyrone, spitting the words into Flat Nose’s face. “I said I’d tell you what’s funny! I said I’d tell you what’s funny, and when I do, then you can laugh! What’s funny is that you could ever find a woman, no matter her fuckin’ race, color, or creed, who would let herself be diddled by a piece of shit like you!”
After Tyrone let go of Flat Nose, he could hear Flat Nose breathing steadily as they watched Mrs. Babe walk up to her apartment building. At first Tyrone thought maybe he’d scared Flat Nose. If this were true, he’d be in control. He’d take care of things if he had to, but he’d also be sure to take care of himself first. Maybe he’d even put down Flat Nose and DeJesus and DeJesus’ mother if he had to.
But Flat Nose’s breathing neither slowed nor quickened, and when Tyrone glanced toward him he could see that Flat Nose was staring out the windshield, his face in profile against the glare from a nearby streetlight. The flat-nosed face was pushed forward aggressively as if staring down an opponent during the referee’s instructions. And below the face, fists took turns doing slow nervous warm-up punches into open palms.
Tyrone wondered if he’d pushed it too far. Flat Nose’s fuse was lit, and this time he wondered if he’d be able to put it out.
Shit. Only way to deal with the little bastard was to joke with him. Shit! Why the hell did he have to deal with this stuff?
And so, as Mrs. Babe disappeared inside the apartment building, Tyrone got ready to joke with the crazy bastard sitting next to him, but also resolved that next time he’d take care of things himself, prove to DeJesus, and even to Flat Nose if it came to that, he could be tougher and smarter than both of them put together.
CHAPTER
TEN
As Steve waited for Jan to pick him up the morning of Marjorie Gianetti’s funeral, he couldn’t help thinking of the words im paired and crippled and disabled. After putting on his trousers over the brace, he sat on the edge of the bed and used his handgrip exercisers. Instead of alternately squeezing one grip with each hand like he was supposed to in order to get his bum right hand to respond, he paired the grips in his left hand and squeezed the two of them repeatedly and angrily. As he did this he thought of the black dude from the janitors’ closet and imagined he had the guy down on the floor of the closet and that his left hand was around the guy’s neck. But trying to take out his frustration this way didn’t work because the guy resembled Percy, one of the physical therapists here at Hell in the Woods.
He put aside the handgrips, finished dressing, wheeled himself to the alcove of the television lounge down the hall from his room, parked his wheelchair at the window, and looked up at the sky. It was sunny after days of overcast. The weatherman on the television at the far end of the lounge was saying something about enjoying the weather while you can because there was a cold front on the way that would bring a couple days of cold rain. The winds would be from the southeast dur ing the rains and he knew that meant planes from O’Hare would be taking off directly over Hell in the Woods, giving yet another reason for the place to deserve its nickname. But at least for today, until the cold front came closer, there would be some sun and poor Marjorie wouldn’t be slipping in any puddles on the way to the funeral.
He hadn’t mentioned his suspicions concerning Marjorie’s death to anyone except Jan, partially because he wasn’t one-hundred percent sure, and partially because if he did try to say something to anyone but Jan, they’d figure half of what he said was simply lingering verbal apraxia from his stroke. They wouldn’t be completely wrong. Jan was the only one who understood him. Even Georgiana in speech rehab wouldn’t understand what he was trying to get at because Georgiana’s job was to help him communicate on a basic level. Jan was the only one who knew him and could ask the right questions. When he and Jan were alone seemed the only time he could really communicate. In public, like at a funeral, he best keep his mouth shut.
Because it was bright outside he couldn’t see his reflection in the window. He hoped he wasn’t smiling. Sometimes, since he’d become such a cheerful son-of-a-bitch, he’d catch himself smiling or even laughing at the oddest times and he hoped to hell he wouldn’t do it today. He recalled reading a piece by Mark Twain recently in the Hell in the Woods library, a piece about etiquette at a funeral, Twain say ing something about not stepping on your neighbor’s toe at an inop portune time during the eulogy. Now he knew he was smiling, he just knew it. So maybe it would be best to let Jan do the talking and trail along behind like … Yes, like his sister Renee trailed along behind his mother when they visited.
Although he had no idea who the two women were when they first came into his room, he now knew his mother lived in Cleveland with his retarded thirty-year-old sister. Crazy. A guy loses his memory and people come into his room and want him to believe his name is Babe and he used to be a cop, that he became a cop because his girlfriend was killed during a robbery years earlier, that he once studied for the priesthood, and that most recently he’d been a private detective who once had a bomb thrown through his window by the mob. Who in his right mind would believe it? If it wasn’t for Jan, he wouldn’t have believed it. But Jan had a way of bringing it all back. And now, after weeks of fishing around in his noggin with Jan’s help, he actually thought he could remember some of it.
Like recalling that summer Dwayne Matusak was after him and he watched Joe Friday on Dragnet and tried to make himself cool and collected like Joe when it came to dealing with Dwayne. Now, as he thought about Joe Friday, he could see the 714 badge blown up to screen size at the start of the show and in walks the woman who visited the other day. In walks his mother and says he can’t watch the show tonight because they have to go to a wake. Can’t remember whose wake, but now he remembers being there. Not much about it, just that at one point, after the priest finishes reciting a bunch of prayers and touches the body like he’s saying a personal goodbye, a woman in one of the cushier front seats runs up and leaps into the coffin so that it takes both the priest and the funeral director to get her out. It was one of those childhood memories you can’t forget. And now he remembered it!
He’d be sure to tell Jan about the woman leaping into the cof fin. But he’d wait until after Marjorie’s funeral. Better to wait until the appropriate time to tell some things. That’s what he’d been tell ing himself when it came to the episode in the janitors’ closet. Better not to tell Jan about it right now because she’d only worry about him.
And, because of his inability to explain the subtleties, she might jump to conclusions and think he thinks the bastards in the closet killed Marjorie. And if she thought that she might do something that would put her in danger.
The guys in the closet might have killed Marjorie, but even if they did, there was more to this than a couple of scumbags caught in the act by an old lady. There was simply more to this. He knew so because lately there’d been other things going on. Like that new aide named Pete with his out-of-style long sideburns who happened to pop into speech rehab one time too often. It was a gut feeling he had, some thing from his past. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he knew Pete was there not only to help folks out, but also to get information and to give it to someone else, someone on the outside.
According to one of Steve’s therapists in rehab, the stroke had caused him to have trouble keeping his mind focused. He’d see some thing and this would remind him of something totally unrelated, and that would remind him of something else, and so on. Case in point— down in the parking lot below the window, he sees an old car drive in and park. It belongs to one of the housekeeping staff, a woman he’s seen changing bed linen. The car is maroon, but the maroon is faded. This reminds him of the heat from the sun, and that
reminds him of someone being burned on the beach, but the burning doesn’t show up until that evening when the burned person is going to bed and rubs against recently-laundered sheets. This reminds him of sheets hang ing on a line in a stiff breeze. That reminds him of the wind off a car passing by quickly as he stands at a curb. A faded maroon Chrysler Corporation car passing by quickly as he stands at the curb somewhere in the past. In this vague memory from the past, if that’s what it is, he’s not the only one standing at the curb. There are men in busi ness suits on either side of him. Men who should know better than to manufacture a car that will fade so easily, or men who should know better than to pollute the air so heavily when they made the steel for the car, men who pollute the air and get a President to call what they do the Clear Skies Initiative, men who should know better than to stand by while the ozone layer is depleted …
Yes, that’s the way it was in the stroke world. Things popping into his mind at key moments and making him forget his original train of thought. He was thinking about Marjorie’s death and the incident in the janitors’ closet and the new aide named Pete who seemed to be nosing around in rehab a little too much. No, he couldn’t tell Jan about the closet just yet. Outside the window, down in the parking lot, the sun glinted off the finish of another car, this one shiny and bright red. Jan’s Audi had turned into the entrance of the parking lot. Jan arriving to take him to Marjorie’s funeral. And then there was an other car. But this car parked farther back in the woods where all the employees parked. A Hispanic woman he’d seen talking to nurses on his floor hurried toward the building.
Was the woman following Jan? Of course she was following Jan, you crazy bastard. Both Jan and the woman who worked at the damn place wanted into the building. So why wouldn’t they both be headed toward the nearest entrance?
Steve spun his wheelchair around and headed back to his room for his jacket.
The casket had been selected by Marjorie Gianetti’s son. It was fin ished in West Indian mahogany. A subtle but intricate motif of grape leaves and bunches of grapes was carved into the fishtail just below the lid panel and on the lugs to which the pallbearer handles were mounted. The handles themselves were gold-plated.
The mattress, lid overlay, pillow, and interior panel were done in antique cotton linen. The embroidery on the interior panel depicted a peaceful garden scene that seemed three-dimensional. Within the garden, surrounded by hedges made up of elaborate loops of various green threads, were several small trees and an arbored bench. The bench, within the shadows of the arbor, was empty. A winding path led to the interior of the arbor, apparently inviting the departed, who would have to look at the inside of the lid for a long time, to come in side and sit down for a much-deserved rest.
The cloth that had been draped over the open casket to keep dust from settling on Marjorie’s face had been removed, but the overhead pinkish flesh-tone recessed lights had not yet been turned on. Several flower arrangements late in arriving were being set up by two funeral home workers. The legs of the many easels holding the arrangements crisscrossed at the front of the parlor as if the flower arrangements were the bodies of a flock of birds and the legs of the easels were the legs of the birds.
“I never seen so many flowers,” said the younger of the two funeral home workers.
“That’s because you haven’t worked here as long as me,” said the older worker. “I was here when old man Gianetti had his funeral. There were twice as many flowers then. We had to borrow Slone’s flower car ‘cause ours didn’t have enough room.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Must be over twenty years. Man, time sure flies. Things were different back then. I remember they had the casket closed because of all the bullets in his head. I saw the body downstairs. His head looked like a spaghetti strainer. The irony of it was everyone knew the guy who put all those holes in his head was probably at the funeral.”
“Yeah, I heard about it. I think I was in grade school at the time.”
“Don’t rub it in.”
“It was something about drugs, wasn’t it? Maybe South Ameri cans got him.”
“I doubt it. With these people everything’s a family affair. And I don’t mean family like sons and daughters. Even though she probably had nothing to do with what her husband did for a living, they’ll come to her funeral because of her connection to him.”
“Yeah, I was watchin’ last night at the wake. You could tell who was important by the number of soldiers lined up behind him. Espe cially that Lamberti guy.”
“He’s the old lady’s nephew. I’ve seen him here with the boss lots of times over the years when a vet’s gone down. Of course those times he didn’t have such a big entourage. I guess he had to be backed up last night because there were so many others in his line of business here. Couldn’t afford to take any chances.”
“Is it true he always pays for the flag and banner when it’s a vet?”
“I guess so. He also pays for the plots.”
“I thought vets got free ones.”
“Yeah, because Lamberti paid the cemetery for the whole damn grove. At Resurrection, the cheap grove out by the highway is covered by contributions, but at Chapel Grove, the vets get laid to rest in prime plots up on the hill in the oak grove.”
“In his own way, Lamberti must be a good guy.”
“I wouldn’t want to cross the guy. I don’t even feel comfortable talking about him.”
“You see that one crony of his?”
“Which one?”
“That younger guy. His name’s Dino. I know him from high school. His old man got out of the rackets, but Dino jumped back into it even though the old man tried like hell to keep him out. One thing I remember about Dino was that he never liked girls too much, if you know what I mean. We all thought he’d end up doin’ what we’re doin’.”
“In the funeral business?”
“No, arranging flowers. When I saw Dino here last night, it made me wonder about Max Lamberti’s relationship to the guy and whether there’s a Mrs. Lamberti. Made me wonder whether Lamberti is like the old lady’s son but puts on a good show of bein’ a tough guy.”
“I don’t think so, but that’s none of our business.”
“I hope her son doesn’t have too many of his friends here during the funeral.”
“Why?”
“It’ll be uncomfortable seeing these guys huggin’ one another the way they did last night. For a while there I wondered whether they were just using the occasion as an excuse to dry-hump one another in public.”
“I don’t think you should be talkin’ like that in here.”
“Nobody’ll hear. The doors are still locked and the boss is in with those black folks.”
“It doesn’t matter. I just don’t think you should talk about people who come here to pay their respects.”
“What’s wrong? You think the place is bugged?”
“No, I don’t think the place is bugged. But I do think there are things that shouldn’t be said unless you’re at home behind locked doors.”
“Well, there sure are a lot of fuckin’ flowers.”
“Yes, there sure are.”
For a moment Steve imagined he and Jan were riding in a horse-drawn Gypsy caravan and in the back of the caravan someone was trying desperately to play a violin and having a difficult time because of the rough ride. It was a strange feeling, like he was back there instead of up here in the front seat next to Jan. He wanted to tell this to Jan. He also wanted to tell her she looked great in her black dress and gold hoop earrings glittering in the sun. But then the car changed direc tion and Jan’s keys, swinging back and forth where they hung from the steering column, drew his attention.
Something about keys. Marjorie saying something about the keys to the kingdom while speaking about her family. When Marjorie spoke of the keys she became confused, not the usual confusion, but a melancholy confusion, a turning inward. Yes, there was something about keys. She had said it more than once.
And now he recalled other phrases Marjorie had gotten hung up on during her melancholy periods. She’d say, “Dead issue,” and wave her hand as if to say she did not want to talk anymore about it. Or she’d say, “Dead seed.” Or she’d say, “Carter smarter,” whatever that meant. Sometimes she’d even repeat the name “Chernobyl” again and again. One time, after saying these things, she got hung up on the two phrases, “Fly in the ointment” and “Max the fly.” That was in speech therapy the time Georgiana managed to get from Marjorie that “Max the fly” was the title of a children’s book she’d read to her son when he was little, and “Fly in the ointment” referred to the son of her dead sister, the nephew she considered one of the “Black sheep” in her family.
Steve looked away from the keys hanging from the ignition and looked out at the road. Roads. Something about roads. Yes, Marjorie had this litany she’d go through. Georgiana had figured it out one day in rehab. Georgiana had gotten out a road atlas and figured out that a bunch of letters and numbers Marjorie recited actually consisted of the names of road routes in the road atlas.
Steve felt confused by this. A bunch of road routes. What good was that? He looked for something in the car on which to focus his attention. He stared at the cell phone in its holder between the seats. Then he turned toward Jan.
“Black dress,” he said.
“You like it?” asked Jan.
“No … Yes.”
“Okay, you like it, but that’s not what you meant to say.”
“Right. Black something other. Animal.”
“Black bird?”
“No. Four shoes.”
“Oh, four feet. Black cat?”
He felt the frustration bubbling up inside. At least that’s the way one of his first speech therapists described the frustration of not being able to come up with a word. He had to force the frustration back down and take his time because Jan was helping, and with her help the word would eventually surface and be there plain as day, right side out and right side up, and he’d be unable to figure out how he could have gotten it twisted around.
Final Stroke Page 13
