by Ellen Hart
“Thanks,” said Jane, feeling overwhelmed by the seriousness of the situation. “One more question. Will he be able to walk when all is said and done?”
“I wish I had more firm answers for you.”
Jane was hoping for a simple yes.
“Dr. Schulman is the one to ask about your uncle’s prognosis.”
“When can we see Uncle Nolan?” asked Cordelia.
“He’s being transferred to a room on Five West. That may take some time. I’m sure he’d like company while he waits. Why don’t you follow me back?”
Jane felt Cordelia’s hand slip around hers, grateful for her best friend’s steadying presence.
7
Avi Greenberg was an emotional mess. One minute she might be depressed, sitting in the bathtub watching the faucet drip; the next she might be pissed as hell and ready to throw the nearest heavy object through a window. At the moment, she was propped up in bed, hands poised above her laptop, urging the words to come. She’d written through depression before, but this was more like writing her way out of a block of cement. She had money in the bank, a cool car parked out on the street, a reasonable job, a decent apartment in which to hide—on those days when she felt like disappearing—and yet if she had to say how she felt at this moment, at this juncture in her train wreck of a life, only one word came to mind.
Terrified.
Always the optimist—believing in hope over reality—she’d begun a new novel. This would undoubtedly become her seventh unpublished book. The first six had been pure dreck. She suspected that “dreck” would be the perfect label for this one, too. So why did she keep the dream of becoming a writer alive? Simple. It was all she had.
Writing, even under the best circumstances, had never been an easy road. She remembered a quote she’d heard when she first entered an MFA program in creative writing. “There’s nothing to writing,” Red Smith had once said. “All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.” She figured that, since she was already bleeding, maybe this book would have a better chance.
Avi was a bartender, a job that suited her needs. After moving to Minneapolis, she’d been lucky enough to find an opening at a strip club downtown. It was a scene she knew well, a place where, for better or worse, she felt comfortable.
Bartending, especially for a woman, was a sexually charged profession. Not that she minded. The money was good, and the people were, if nothing else, entertaining. Bar customers ran on a continuum from fascinating to dreadfully boring, from slightly tipsy to totally hammered. Avi enjoyed the up-close-and-personal, liked digging out people’s stories. Preparing drinks, especially when the bar was buzzing, felt like an alternate state of reality. It was actually kind of peaceful. Her hands and feet moved, her brain calculated, all without much conscious thought. She had a few flashy moves and she was a good listener, both of which helped with the tips. She wasn’t one of those “cooler than thou” types. Her bar persona was more wised-up good girl. She still played it that way—decent, friendly, occasionally even salty—though underneath, the innocence it took to stay that good girl had long ago melted away.
After another few fatalistic minutes of staring at the empty page on the computer screen, she finally gave up, stripped off her clothes, and went to take a shower. It was getting late. Once she was dressed—all in black, her usual bartending drag—she grabbed her coat and purse, wrapped a scarf around her neck, and headed to the front door. A framed photograph on the end table next to the couch stopped her. Picking it up, touching the glass, she gazed at the child’s face, the sweet, impish, gentle expression. For just an instant, Avi had the sense that she was going to lose it. She placed the frame carefully back on the table, took a deep breath, mentally stuffing her feelings back behind the protective wall she’d erected inside her mind, then headed down the hall to Dorsey’s apartment.
Dorsey had been working as a bartender at the club a couple of months longer than she had. He usually took the bus to and from work, but one sweltering, stormy summer night, she’d been moved to pity and offered him a ride. When she dropped him off at his apartment she noticed a FOR RENT sign in the front yard. She asked him what his place was like. By then, she’d pretty much had it with the cheap motel thing. He’d said his apartment was okay. Not exactly high praise, but she decided to check it out.
Right off, Avi had pegged Dorsey as a loner, though over the course of the next few months she’d come to see that it was more than that. He might have a yen for engaging in the odd bit of idle gossip, the sleazier the better, but at other times he seemed more like a covert CIA operative—secretive to the core. She was certain that he didn’t want her to move into the building, although he couldn’t seem to work up the guts to come right out and tell her to find another place to live. The strange thing was, they’d become friends. Weird friends. She knew nothing about his personal life, his history, which was dandy with her. She wasn’t big on telling tales of yore either. They never got together outside the club, but little by little, they had started to connect at work—not over trivia, like she did with the other employees, but honestly. Every now and then they would tell each other the truth. It felt like touching a light socket. It would happen and then they’d both back away.
After knocking on his door, number 203, Avi slipped into her fleece-lined leather gloves. A moment later the door opened a crack and Dorsey edged out. Maybe he wasn’t CIA after all. If he was, he needed to be terminated immediately. He sucked at spycraft.
Jason Dorsey was extremely skinny, with a trendy scruff, light brown razor-cut hair, and narrow, dark-rimmed glasses. His clothes were always fashionable, worn in layers, tended to baggy, and were pressed and creased to within an inch of perfection. She figured he was gay, although she’d never heard him say it out loud.
“Thanks for giving me a lift me tonight,” he mumbled, following her down the stairs. “I wasn’t supposed to work, but Erin wanted the night off and I can use the extra money.”
They stepped into the frigid night air, making quickly for her car.
“Man, you must have been rich in an earlier life,” he said, climbing over a mound of snow to get to the street.
“Just because I drive a Porsche doesn’t mean I’m rich.”
“It does in my book. I looked this thing up online. You know the base cost?”
“It was a gift.”
“Right.”
After glancing in the rearview, Avi looked over her shoulder and then pulled out onto Colfax Avenue. She drove along for some minutes, lost in her own thoughts, before realizing that Dorsey hadn’t said another word. Although never exactly loquacious, he did know how to make small talk. “You’re kind of quiet tonight.”
“Am I?” He tugged at the front of his leather jacket.
She gave a shrug and switched on the radio. A while later, after taking a right onto Hennepin Avenue, Dorsey reached over and turned down the sound. “That guy who got knifed outside the club on Sunday night. I saw you talking to him.”
“A few times.”
“He say anything that, you know … made you think he might get killed?”
“We just talked ordinary stuff,” said Avi.
“I can’t get his face out of my mind. Never been around shit like that before. I mean, why would someone want to murder a guy like him? I hope they find the douche and put him away forever.”
“You haven’t heard?”
He turned to face her. “Heard what?”
“Georgia texted me this afternoon. She said one of the kitchen staff had turned himself in to the police.”
“Kitchen staff?”
“Elvio Ramos.”
A stunned expression froze on his face.
“You were friends with Elvio, right?”
“Yeah. No. Sort of.”
Occasionally, after the kitchen closed, Avi would notice Elvio wander out to the bar to have a beer before he went home. He usually sat down wherever Dorsey was pouring.
“Hey? Are you crying?”
she asked, watching him scrape a hand across his face.
“Of course not.” He shifted in his seat and turned an impassive gaze toward the street.
When he offered nothing more, Avi decided it was best to let the subject drop. They rode the rest of the way listening to KFAI-FM.
* * *
Jane paced outside Nolan’s hospital room door. She’d been banished by a nurse who had closed the curtain and was going about doing whatever nurses did. Cordelia had left around six, saying she needed to get back to work. She’d been the artistic director at the Allen Grimby Repertory Theater in St. Paul, one of the most prestigious regional theaters in the country, for the past ten years. She could take time off when she needed to, but some evenings were a command performance. She made Jane promise to call if she learned anything new.
“You can go back in now,” said the nurse, stepping out of the room studying a clipboard.
“Do you have any idea when the doctor might be coming?” asked Jane.
“Sorry. But your uncle is resting comfortably. I’ll have someone stop by to pick up his dinner tray.”
Dinner, such as it was, had been a rather watery affair. Coffee. Jell-O. Broth. She assumed it might be in preparation for his possible surgery tomorrow. No solid food need apply. People in hospitals were kept alive on nasty, bland bilge, as far as she was concerned. It was obvious why a person had to go home to get well.
Standing at the edge of the bed, Jane held a cup of water steady while Nolan sipped from a straw. Her state of nervous frustration had morphed into something more akin to nervous boredom. She’d been watching TV for the past couple of hours while Nolan slept. “How’s your blood pressure?” she asked. “Your temperature?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“On a scale of one to ten, what’s the pain like?”
“That kind of question has never made sense to me. My back hurts, although the painkillers help. It’s worse when I move. I wonder when that doctor plans to show up?”
Sitting down on a blue plastic chair, Jane felt like a deflating balloon. Before she could offer another nonanswer, a gray-haired man in an equally gray three-piece suit with a metal folder tucked under his arm swept into the room. He stuck out his hand to Jane, then to Nolan. “Robert Schulman.”
Jane introduced herself and thanked him for coming.
“I’ve looked at the X-rays,” he said, adjusting his glasses and opening the folder. “I’m afraid it’s not good news. Gunshot wounds to the spine are often stable and don’t require surgery. That was Dr. Padderson’s diagnosis eighteen months ago. Unfortunately, in the interim, you’ve developed neurologic deterioration and inflammation due to migration. The serial neuroimaging showed that the fragment has lodged itself between two vertebrae. In my opinion, it needs to come out.”
“When?” asked Nolan.
“I’d like to do it tomorrow. The decision to remove a bullet is a tricky one. If I schedule you for a surgery tomorrow morning, there are some further tests I would need to do tonight. Also, I’d need to start you on methylprednisolone.”
“Talk about the risks and benefits,” said Jane. It wasn’t a question Nolan was likely to ask. She needed answers.
Schulman slipped a hand into the pocket of his jacket. “I won’t lie to you. Results are often mixed. We could remove it and you might regain full use of your left leg and be pain free.”
“Or?” said Nolan.
“Or you might have some degree of residual pain and numbness.”
Some degree, thought Jane. In other words, the surgery was a gamble.
“If we don’t remove the bullet,” continued the doctor, “the prognosis is unquestionably bad. In my opinion. You do have a number of things going for you. You’re not a young man, but you’re in generally good health. I would recommend that you quit smoking.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Again, if you’d like to get another opinion, I’d be happy to suggest another doctor. Or you can always contact your health provider directly for a referral. However, I would suggest that you don’t wait too long to make a decision.”
“I want the operation,” said Nolan flatly. “Set up the tests.”
“Are you sure?” asked Jane. She’d assumed she would get to talk to him about it before a final decision was made.
“I know what I want. I’ve never felt comfortable with that bullet in my body. It needs to come out.”
So that was it. Jane understood Nolan well enough to know that she couldn’t change his mind. It was his decision to make. His body. His future.
“All right,” said Dr. Schulman. “I’ll set everything up. We’ll give you something to help you sleep tonight. I want you rested. I’ll stop in to talk to you before the surgery. Any questions?”
“How long will the surgery take?” asked Jane.
“A few hours. I can’t be more specific until I get in there and see what’s going on. Are you planning to be at the hospital?”
“Absolutely. I’d like to talk to you when it’s over.”
“Give your name to the receptionist in the waiting room. I’ll call for you when I’m finished. Surgery will be scheduled for 9:00 A.M.” He handed her a card, then nodded to both of them and left.
Jane stepped to the edge of the bed.
“Time for you to head home,” said Nolan. “It’s been a long day.”
“I’ll stay and keep you company.”
He patted her fingers. “I need some time alone. By the way, don’t feel you have to be here for the surgery tomorrow. I’ll be fine.”
“That one’s my call. I’ll be here.” They talked for a few more minutes. Before she left, she he kissed him good night on his forehead, hiding her worry behind an encouraging smile.
8
“What are you reading?” asked Vince, drying his hair with a towel as he walked into the bedroom wearing nothing but a T-shirt and boxer shorts. His wife lay on the bed on her stomach, a book propped up against a pillow. Her Pekingese, Emperor Po, lay next to her, half chewing, half slobbering on a rubber chew toy.
“You’ll just make fun of me.”
“No, I’m interested,” he said, sitting down next to her. He rubbed her back.
The furry Emperor gave a soft growl, picking up his toy and plopping down closer to Shelly’s hip.
Vince had to give his wife credit. During dinner, she’d tried to make nice. She’d prepared his favorite deep dish pizza. Opened a good bottle of Pinot Noir. He felt he owed her for that, and for not starting another argument. On the other hand, it cheered him that he had his own chip to play if she went running to Daddy, blabbing about what a miserable husband he was. Daddy might have had plenty of affairs himself during his multiple marriages, but the women in his life, and that included his daughter, weren’t allowed the same latitude. Shelly had no idea how often Vince strayed, nor was he about to enlighten her. “Where’s my shirt?” he asked. “Dark blue with gray pinstripes? I laid it on the bed before I went down to take my workout.”
“I assumed it was dirty,” she said, turning a page, “so I tossed it in the hamper.”
“Perfect.”
“I thought I saw you wearing it yesterday.”
“Must have been one of your boyfriends.”
“For God’s sake. Give it a rest.”
He couldn’t help himself. Torturing her was so easy.
“Why is everything such a big deal?” she asked. “It’s just a shirt. You’ve been in a total funk ever since you came home last night.”
He could hardly give her details about Rudmann’s murder. He rose and ducked into the walk-in closet. “I’m just worried about money.”
“And I’m worried about us. What’s more important than that? As far as I can see, you have no respect for me at all.”
“I never said that.”
“I work sixty hours a week running my company, and when I come home, I try to make a beautiful, comfortable home for you. I try to better myself constantly. I do yoga. Meditate. Journal
. While you’re at the club every night, I work on learning about stress management and relaxation. I’ve been spending a ton of time lately trying to understand how to communicate with you better. You know—Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus? And I just signed up for a class on Mindfulness.”
“Good for you.” Eyeing his shirts, all hanging neatly on wooden hangers, he chose black silk. His ran his hand down a row of suits, finally settling on a Hickey Freeman cashmere. He always dressed up for the club. As he tucked the shirt into his pants, he caught sight of himself in the long mirror. Leaning closer, he noticed that his eyes were bloodshot. “Have we got any Visine?” he called.
“You’ve haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”
“I told you. I think what you’re doing is admirable.” Emerging from the closet, he repeated, “The Visine?”
“In the medicine chest.”
At fifty-nine, Vince admitted to a certain vanity about his looks. He’d been a rough-and-tumble kid, growing up dirt poor. A baseball scholarship had been his entrée into college. Sure, he coveted what money could buy, although, over the years, he’d figured out that it couldn’t buy him peace of mind or a young man’s body. Grabbing a pair of socks and shoes, he forced a smile as he sat back down on the bed. “Truce.”
“Whatever.”
He tried to snatch the book playfully out of her hands, but she wouldn’t let go.
“What I’m reading is my own business.”
Probably something like Self-Empowerment Through Origami. Squinting over her shoulder, he read the actual title at the top of the page. Sexual Self-Esteem in Marriage. “I’m all for that.”
“You’ve got a one-track mind.” She turned and pitched the book at him. Emperor Po started yapping and yipping, leaping up and down. “I’m trying to make our marriage a success, even if you don’t care.”
“I do care.” He did, too, in his own way.
“You work with those whores all day long. You’ve probably slept with all of them at least a dozen times.”
