by Robert Ward
“It’s going to be all right, miss,” he said. “It’s going to be just fine. Don’t worry … everything is going to be just fine.”
She began to cry, her tears running down her face, spoiling her makeup, wetting the roots of her red hair.
“Jesus,” she said, “I feel so damned afraid. I’m sorry. I can’t believe this is happening to me.”
The attendant, a tall boy named Gerald who looked more like a basketball player than a med student, tried a smile. But he looked so unconvincing that she began to panic and started to cry louder.
Quickly they got her through the doors and began wheeling her down the hall. As they did, she sobbed loudly and then groaned.
Peter Cross came out of the canteen, where he was sitting, drinking some grapefruit juice. He saw her go by, saw her pale red face, the pain in her eyes.
He spied one of the attendants.
“Hey, Garrison, who’s the girl?”
“Good-looking,” Garrison said. He smiled a bit and shuffled his feet, which pointed in opposite directions. He was a dull boy from Arkansas and liked nothing better than racing home after he got off and playing his entire collection of Patsy Cline albums.
“Yeah,” Cross said. “Very attractive.”
“She’s a dancer, named Martha Boston,” Garrison said. “Modern dancer … with the Joffrey. Or to be technically correct, I should say, ‘was’ a dancer. She’s had some kind of stroke and her entire left side is paralyzed. They’re going to have to operate on her in the morning.”
“Is that right?” Cross said.
In his stomach he heard a rumbling so loud that he was surprised the farm boy couldn’t hear it as well.
He moved slowly down the dark hallway, feeling as though at last he had arrived somewhere, that he had been dreaming all his life and knew it, but now, at long last, he had managed to part the curtain and walk through the other side … no longer was he a dreamer but the dream itself. This was all his, the white walls, the patients, the nurses looking like nuns. They were all his, to do with as he would. He came upon her lying with her eyes closed.
“Hello,” he said softly, ever so softly, for he felt at that moment so compassionate, so in touch with her, that no words needed to be spoken at all.
“Hello,” she said waking and smiling at him.
The red hair, the fullness of her breasts, the absurdity of it. He wanted to laugh out loud … not at her, but at the common stupidity of it all. If there was a God, he would spit in his eye.
He moved to the end of her bed and picked up her chart, pretended to check her blood pressure and the other details. Again he wanted to laugh, simply tell her there was no reason to worry, none at all, for everything that really mattered had already been decided. The chart with its “vital signs,” the hospital with its oxygen tents, its laser beams, its sophisticated gases, its knives, its smug golf-playing suburban doctors … all of that was history now.
“How do you feel?” he said. “How are you?”
“I don’t know,” she said. Then a tear came down her cheek, and she put her hand up to her face.
“They say I may be paralyzed for life,” she said. “I’m a dancer … I can’t afford that.”
He moved around to her side of the bed.
“No,” he said, sitting down on the chair next to her. “No, of course you can’t. You dance … Tell me how do you feel … dancing?”
“It’s wonderful,” she said, moving her head toward him, the tears still coming.
“Your body feels wonderful?” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “Sometimes when you are really there … it’s almost as if …”
He put his finger over her lips.
“It’s almost as if you don’t have a body.”
“Yes,” she said. “How did you know?”
“I know about those kinds of things,” he said. “It’s my business to know. I’m a doctor.”
“Yes,” she said. “But now. Oh, God, I can’t believe this is happening to me.”
He sat down on the chair next to her bed. He took a deep breath and smelled her perfume. He felt lightheaded, as though he could float away.
“It’s going to be all right,” he said, offering her a handkerchief. “It’s going to be all right. Where are you from?”
“Philadelphia,” she said. “I’d been in this town for a year. I couldn’t get any work. Then I got this part in ‘Romeo and Juliet’ and I got to sign on with the Joffrey. It was going to be my big moment. Oh, shit …”
He looked at her with total compassion. The tricks the body could play. If people had any real sense they would never feel safe. Never.
“You shouldn’t be upset,” he said. “It’s going to be fine … There’s an operation that is almost 100 percent sure. I’ll make sure I’m your anesthesiologist. I’m on tomorrow. Trust in me, and the other doctors, and try to sleep. That’s just what you need. A nice, long sleep.”
“Yes,” she said. “I know it. Oh, God. I’m so scared.”
She reached out and grabbed his hand, and he took hers and felt her soul pass from her own body to his. He wanted to bare his teeth, to howl, but he merely smiled.
“I’ll check in with you before the operation,” he said to her. “Sleep … just sleep.”
25
Beefy Sloan sat in his battered pale blue Pinto beneath a dying elm in front of Sig’s Bar and Grill. In his huge hands were a pair of binoculars, which had been splattered with red paint by his five-year-old son who had been trying to help him redecorate their old house in Queens. Beefy was looking at the Doc’s house, waiting for some movement, but all that ever happened was an occasional shadow on the lime green curtains. Beefy didn’t understand what the point of it was anyway … they already had the other guy, the muscleman. He’d like to see that jerk’s corpse after the lab boys got done with it. So what was Lombardi doing putting him down on this case … watching this other guy. It was chilly out … and worse, it was boring. Beefy longed to be slouched in a booth at the Sage Diner, hoisting a few with Ding Dong Delbert and the others … maybe watching the Knicks on TV. Though the Knicks wasn’t as good as they used to be on account of the whole team was made up of Jiggs.
He picked up the glasses again and waited. Goddamn, it was boring here. He looked over at Sig’s. Through the open window he could see two guys jawing and drinking down Miller’s. Jesus! It was obvious nothing was going to happen. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred on stakeout you came up with nothing. Fuck it! He put down the glasses and got out of the car.
He walked through his living room, looked up at his Hopper painting, “Rooms by the Sea.” He had always liked that painting, always cherished it … a room opening into blue water, no steps … just like stepping into the wakefulness of a dream. Which is how he felt when he killed them. As though he had completed a picture of his own, the outline of which was traced faintly in his mind the night before. It was like a performance that any great artist could understand. Certainly, a great musician, or even an athlete. He had read accounts of athletes imagining themselves running the 440 in record time, and then going out the next day and doing it, and when it was done, they said they felt they had simply acted out their dream. The problem was, of course, they dreamed so pathetically small. They understood nothing of the alleviation of human misery, of the higher calling of the spirit. They were tied irrevocably to the petty, the banal, the whole boatload of stupid, trivial earthly cares.
He walked over to his brown bag, unzipped it, and pulled out the needles. He transferred the potassium into one syringe. He held it up in his hand. So small, so clean. It was like a delicately carved work of art, and he thought it more beautiful than any sculpture; it made more sense. And better yet, it was utterly disposable. The end product of a shit-heap civilization with its taco stands, burger kings, insults to the beauty of the human spirit. Yes, and practical … not merely decorative. It worked. It did the job. As Martha Boston would find out tomorrow morning. He thought of her
there, waiting for him, her face ringed by red. She looked like she was on fire … and he would be there soon to put it out.
The doorbell rang, and he jumped … placed the needles back into their case and jammed the empty potassium bottle into the case.
“Who is it?” he said, trying to sound calm.
“Peter, it’s me … Debby.”
“Debby?”
His breath was taken away, and he wanted to turn and run … yet she was there … he had missed her so …
“Peter, let me in. Really … I’ve got to see you.”
“All right,” he said, though he wanted to say, “No, get away.”
He moved toward the door and opened it. She was there, her blond hair frizzed out in a million curls, her green eyes and impossibly perfect mouth. He wanted to stop it before it got out of hand, but it was too late; she was in his arms, holding him.
“Peter,” she said, “Peter, I’ve missed you.”
“Me too … God, Debby, you feel good.”
He kissed her deeply and felt her tongue in his mouth, and suddenly he felt that he might cry. He pulled away from her, held her by the shoulders.
“I’m sorry about the fight,” he said. “God, that was silly of me.”
“It’s all right,” she said. “All that matters is that we’re together again. Really.”
“Yes,” he said. “Of course.”
Then he kissed her again, and he felt as though what she had said was true. For those few moments all the rest was gone, and he felt a perfect peace.
“Listen,” she said, holding him and walking him to the couch. “I’ve been thinking … Both of us are overwrought. You know? It’s really true. We need to get away from the hospital … from the city all together … this damned place gets so crazy.”
“That would be nice, Debby, but …”
“No buts,” she said, sitting down next to him and hugging him tightly. “My uncle has a place up the Hudson. It’s a wonderful old cabin. I used to go there as a little girl. We can stay there, sit out on the screen porch and just relax. It will be wonderful.”
“But, Debby …”
She kissed his ear and ran her hand across his leg.
“It’s all set anyway,” she said. “I know you have to work. Oh, Peter don’t be mad … I called Chung and asked him to take your place. He said he’d be happy to. He’s getting ready to go in … tomorrow morning.”
He thought of Martha Boston, sitting there waiting for him, and he felt a panic, but Debby was holding onto him tightly and kissing him and whispering his name, and he felt fulfilled, strangely fulfilled, and that scared him as well. But, God, it felt good … Besides, there was plenty of time for Martha … After her operation. It would even be safer then. Certainly, if he had tried anything during the operation he might have been caught. Yes, maybe Debby coming was his salvation. He had to plan carefully. There could never be any mistakes. Quickly, he turned and kissed her on the nose.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes … I want to go with you. When do we leave?”
“Right now,” Debby said. “Right now.”
She laughed and ran across the apartment and opened the front door. On the landing in the hall was her overnight bag.
“Pretty sure of yourself,” he said.
She smiled at him, picked up the bag, and brought it in.
“Start packing, Peter,” she said.
Beefy Sloan staggered out of Sig’s Bar and Grill, his head feeling like the Goodyear Blimp. Those five quick bullshots had done the job. Not quite the man he used to be up in Queens. He shoulda eaten his lunch, but lately his favorite bar had been changing their meats … serving stuff that tasted like Spam, and he was too much a man of habit to find a new one. Now he started across the street, his car hazy and warm-looking in the late afternoon haze.
Suddenly, he looked down the street, and there in front of him, walking toward his car was the Doc and some girl. He couldn’t believe it. He started for his car, realized that he was parked facing the wrong direction. Quickly he ran to the door, leaped in, smashing his head on the Pinto roof. Shit, they were getting away. He turned and looked back and saw the girl getting into the car, but the Doc was standing there staring at him. Oh, shit, maybe the guy spotted him. He had been nosing around the hospital … If he had, he might not go back to the goddamned room and fall for the game they were playing. Jesus, he thought of reporting that to Lombardi … It was impossible … He’d kill him, eat him for dinner, cut off his balls and hang them from the World Trade Center.
Beefy looked in the rear-view. The Doc and the broad were pulling away … Nah, he hadn’t spotted him … They were just going for a drive … Maybe for fucking dinner, right? It was dinner fucking time, right? Sure … It was all right … He’d tail them … Yeah, they thought they could get away from old Beefy, but there was no way … no way at all. Quickly he gunned the little car forward and then started a tight U in the narrow street. A woman with a Gristede’s shopping bag was coming up the block, and he was aiming right at her. “Out of the way, bitch,” he mumbled under his breath. The woman threw up her arms and dropped her groceries on the ground, then fell down amid them. Beefy laughed to himself, a deep, piglike moan which came from the back of his throat. Then the laugh turned into a belch, and the belch into a curse. “Fucking broads,” he said to himself, “always fuck you up. The world would be a whole lot better wifout ‘em.” He made the run and started down the street, two blocks behind Peter Cross.
They drove in his Mercedes up the West Side Highway, Debby chatting amiably about the glories of the countryside, but Cross could scarcely hear. Reflected in the sinking sun behind him was the battered Pinto with the huge-jowled man behind the wheel. His face looked like a piece of raw fish, and Cross knew that he had seen the face somewhere before … the hospital … he was sure of it. And the guy was not a patient … no way. No, he was a cop … He had been with Detective Lombardi the day they had come to take away Harry. He stepped hard on the gas, and the car shot ahead of the Pinto like a pinball.
“Peter,” Debby said, “aren’t we traveling a little fast? I know you’re tense, but the whole idea of this trip is for the two of us to relax.”
He looked over at her and smiled, then reached across and stroked her cheek.
“I like to drive fast,” he said. “It relaxes me.”
She took his hand and rubbed it on her cheek, then kissed his fingers. He felt the tip of her tongue, and the wetness of it traveled through his arm, to his brain, heart, and lungs. He took a deep breath.
“Debby.” He felt himself get hard. His thighs trembled a bit, and he left his hand there, so she might kiss it again.
In the rear-view he saw the Pinto moving up behind him once again.
“Jesus,” Beefy said out loud.
He had brought out his binoculars and was busy zooming in on the Doc. He couldn’t believe his eyes. The Doc was getting his fingers sucked by that chick. These Jap cameras was the real McCoy. You could see even the tip of her tongue, lashing in and out, the way her mouth made a perfect little O … Oh, shit, this was too fucking much. The Doc was a car freak. Beefy had seen them kind before, oh, yessir—remembered a guy who could only get it up if he was dressed like a Yankee catcher and his girl an ump. Another one who had to have his room covered with Big Macs, and him dressed like Ronald McDonald—but who woulda figured the Doc. Oh, shit, now he’s putting his hand on her breast … Jesus, I don’t believe it. Beefy looked down at his own crotch and noticed a mighty bulge … He shut his eyes and thought of dinosaurs coming out of a primeval ooze.
Then the Mercedes cut to the outside lane, blew a black puff of smoke in his direction, and was quickly five car-lengths away.
“Peter,” Debby said, “this is crazy … there are cars all around us … oh, Peter.”
She started to laugh a little self-consciously.
“I can’t believe we’re acting like this,” she said. “This is like something out of a porno flick. But, oh, Chri
st.”
His hand was rubbing her breasts, and his eyes were on the rear-view, watching, waiting for the Pinto to move up. There … he’s coming … yes …
He saw the Pinto move out into the left lane, cutting off a Porsche … and he held her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. He felt his body jerk a little, as if he had been electrocuted, shocked … and he thought this was it, this was what made it all bearable … the shocks. Anything less, and you were not quite alive.
Beefy didn’t need his glasses anymore. He was right up behind the guy. Christ, he could see her breast … He could see her eyes close and her body sink down on the seat.
“What I would give,” he said out loud.
He shut his eyes again and thought of his wife’s body … like a morass of swamp mire … shit … Then he opened his eyes, ready for more … but the Doc was gone.
He stepped on the pedal, cut to the far left lane.
Then he heard the diesel engine blow. Loud and long, like a shrieking mother-in-law on the crab-grass lawn.
“Peter,” she said, “oh, Peter, are there any cars around us … Jesus … I feel like a pervert. I do … Christ … that feels good … oh, shit …”
“Debby … Debby …” he said.
No Space now … never any Space … as long as you were out of the body, never any Space … but full, full, warm all over.
Beefy didn’t have time to look. But he heard a sickening shearing sound and saw the truck barreling down on his front side … The warm beer shot through his throat, and he screamed out and wheeled the car to the far right. The North Western Van Lines clipped his back fender, bashing it loose … Beefy’s car was pushed forward as though a giant hand had descended from the sky. He looked to his right and saw the tan Porsche, only a few inches away. The driver had dropped his Glen plaid racing cap, and his eyes and mouth were the same size. Beefy stepped on the gas as the Porsche slammed on the brakes, and the Pinto went skidding across the last right-hand lane, hit the macadam doing ninety-five, and went off a four-foot curved shoulder, across a rocky field toward a huge gas tank which lay fifty feet away.
