Black Water

by Bobby Norman

  Minutes later they entered the doctor’s office. Wade was seated behind his desk. “There you are,” he said, rising, “Sorry, Hub, but we need t’do your tests again.”

  “How come?”

  Wade motioned him to the counter, picked a tourniquet and syringe from a tray. “Roll ‘er up.”

  Hub unbuttoned his shirtsleeve and rolled it up. Wade snapped the tourniquet tightly around his arm, tipped a bottle of alcohol on a cotton swab, rubbed it across the inside of Hub’s arm, and harpooned him with the subtlety of a bull dyke with a turkey baster. To Wade, it wasn’t an arm connected to another human but a job connected to a paycheck. Hub watched it fill up with what used to course through his veins. After a bit, Wade pulled the tourniquet loose and tossed it to the counter, letting the syringe fill. Topping it off, he pulled it out, set it on the tray, and stuck a cotton ball on Hub’s arm. “Hold that.” Hub pressed on the ball while Wade pulled a piece o’ tape off a roll.

  “How come we had t’do it again? I got TB?”

  Wade laid the tape across the ball and pressed the ends down. “Just a p’caution. I doubt it’s anything. Most times it’s just a tainted test.”

  “If I had TB I’d be coughin’ ’r somethin’ wouldn’ I?” Hub asked while he rolled his sleeve down and buttoned it.

  “You don’t have TB,” Wade said, as he filled out the form to go with the blood.

  “How d’ya know?”

  “’Cause I went t’doctor school half my God Damn life! That’s how I know.”

  Hub wanted to say and you ended up workin’ in a prison, but instead o’ pissin’ him off, he nodded to the form and the syringe. “Then what’s ‘at for?”

  “I said it was probly nothin’! You don’t have TB, so don’t worry ‘bout it. The first test come out a little funny’s all, and I’m just makin’ sure!”

  “What was funny ‘bout it?”

  “If I knew that I wouldn’t be doin’ it over, would I! God Dammit, Hub, I’m the doctor and you’re the prisoner. I’ll act like one ‘n tell you what t’do, ‘n you act like th’other and do it!” He handed Hub another little bottle. “Don’t ask so many God Damn questions, and fill ‘er up this time.”

  Hub started to turn his back to Wade, but that put him facing Pickering so he turned back. He’d rather pee in front o’ the doctor than Pickering. Wade stepped up uncomfortably close and squinted in Hub’s eyes, first one, then the other. “Your eyes look a little yella. How ya been feelin’?”

  Hub’d just got the waterworks started when the question pinched it off. “You ain’t makin’ this easy. Other’n havin t’do this shit, I feel awright.” Hub tried to get it goin’ again, but it was difficult with Wade starin’ him in the eyeball and breathin’ raw-onion breath all over him.

  Wade pulled a flat stick from a little box settin’ on the counter. “Open your mouth.”

  Hub opened his mouth. He couldn’t have felt any more conspicuous. One hand gripped the little bottle and the other stuffed his dick head in the bottle’s mouth so he wouldn’t pee all over hisself.

  “Say Ahhhh.”

  “Ahhhaaaaa...”

  Wade looked all around, pulled the stick out, and stepped on a little foot-pedal doohickie stickin’ out the bottom of a can. The lid flipped up, and he tossed the stick in. He slid his foot off the foot-pedal and the lid slapped back down. Then he looked at the bottle. Hub hadn’t done much more than moisten the bottom.

  “Hub? I don’t have all day, come on.” Hub closed his eyes, hopin’ that would help, but just as it started to dribble, Wade asked, “You havin’ reg’lar BM’s?”

  Hub opened his eyes in time to detect Pickering tryin’ to squelch a smile. “How th’Hell would I know. What’s reg’lar?” He’d run out o’ pee and patience. “You know what? That’s it.” He shook the dew off the lily. “You shoulda told me you’s gonna need it”—set the bottle on the counter—“’fore I come in, ‘n I would’nta”—stuck his dick back in his pants—“drained it first”—and zipped up.

  Wade picked up the bottle, helt it to the light, and examined it. “Hmmm…” he said, dubiously. “What little there is looks cloudy. You go ever day? You always have this much trouble gettin’ it goin’?”

  “What if I’s watchin’ you?”

  “Don’t get smart,” Pickering warned.

  “Well, Hell,” he said, exasperated, “it ain’t somethin’ I keep records on. Why’re ya askin’ me this shit? You didn’t bring nobody else back? Mine the only one you fucked up on?”

  Other than shooting Hub a nasty look, Wade ignored the question and set the bottle on the counter next to the blood sample. “Notice any blood in the stool?”

  “Stool? What stool?’

  Wade’s patience had run out, too. “God Dammit, Hub, when you push one out, do you notice any blood in it?”

  “You mean when I take a shit? Why didn’t you just say that? Uppity son of a bitch.”

  “Hub?” Mr. Pickering warned.

  “No, I don’t…didn’t…I don’t know. It’s shit! Why th’Hell’d I look at it ‘cept t’check f’worms?”

  The presence of worms was a distinct possibility. As were lice. And fleas. And ticks. But those were just the varmits you could see. A prison was a pharmacopoeial supermarket of parasitical probabilities.

  “Your gut ever burn?” Wade pushed on.

  Hub looked to see if he was kidding. “On prison food? Whada you think?”

  “Don’t get smart-alecky, Hub,” Pickering warned again, “just answer th’man.”

  “Yes,” Hub said, very pointed. “Like a fuckin’ clock, three times a day. After breakfast, after lunch, ‘n after dinner.” He thought he heard Pickering tryin’ not to giggle.

  Wade opened a glass-fronted cabinet above the counter and removed a small pill bottle. “Now, listen t’me good,” he warned, holding the bottle so close in front o’ Hub’s face his eyes crossed. “I’m gonna give these to ya just t’be on the safe side. I want you to take one a day, but only if you really need it.”

  Hub squinted at the bottle, mullin’ over ‘just t’be on the safe side.’ “What is it?”

  “Dammit, Hub, you are one o’ the most argumentative sons o’ bitches I ever met!”

  “I ain’t argeein’. I just asked a simple question!”

  “Somethin’ to ease your stomach,” Wade chirped. He tapped his fingernail on the new test’s paperwork. “If these results come back same as the first, I think ya might have the beginnings of a stomach ulcer.” He said it with all the warmth of tomorrow’s weather report. He reached for a glass and started to fill it at the faucet. “I’m gonna have ya take one right now.”

  “Ulcers? How th’Hell’d I catch ulcers?”

  Wade shook out a pill, handed it and the glass to him. “I didn’t say you did, I said you might, and you don’t catch ulcers! They sprout from a guilty conscience.” Hub eyed the pill suspiciously. “They work better,” Wade said, “if ya swallow’em. Come on, Hub, I got better things t’do than stand around jawin’ with you all day.”

  Hub popped it in his mouth and washed it down. Wade took the glass, set it on the counter, and helt the little bottle in front o’ Hub’s face again. “One a day! No more.” He stuck the bottle in Hub’s hand. “If it does start t’hurtin’ more, you still don’t take more than one. You understand?” Hub nodded, concerned. Wade looked to Pickering and jutted his chin to the door. “He can go.”

  Pickering helt his hand to the door as if to say, After you, and Hub exited.

  CHAPTER 29

  Mr. Pickering escorted Hub back to Wade’s office. Upon entering, they noticed the doctor seated behind his desk and another man in an official doctor’s white lab coat sittin’ ‘longside the desk. He had an open folder layin’ on his crossed legs, rubbin’ his chin, studiously perusing the contents. When Hub entered the room, he closed and tossed the folder on the desk, then he and Wade stood up. Wade made the introductions. “Hub, this is Dr. Ball. He’s a...specialist.”

/>   “Mr. Lusaw,” Ball said, extending his hand, “I’m pleased to meet you. Have a seat, please.”

  Hub looked at Pickering, not just a little suspicious—a specialist and all the pleasantries. Prisoners didn’t often hear words like please, less often pleased to meet you and never have a seat. Never introduced to, or shook hands with. Belief was if you shook hands with a prisoner, you just might find the next day you got worms in your stool and/or little tight-clawed bugs in your dickie hairs.

  Wade, Ball, and Hub sat while Pickering remained standing beside the door, his arms crossed over his chest. Ball scrunched his eyes up, conveying doctorial concern. “Dr. Wade asked me to take a look at your tests. Unfortunately, the second set confirmed his suspicions.” He leaned toward Hub, his elbows on his knees. “Now, I want you to know that at this point, there’s nothing to get overly….”

  “I got ulcers?”

  Taken aback, Ball sat up and blinked. “Ulcers? What would make you think you have an ulcer?”

  Hub fired a finger in Wade’s direction. “He said I did!”

  Wade jerked back. “I did no such thing! I said there was the possibility and no more!”

  Ball jumped in. “Mr. Lusaw, it’s all right, you don’t have an ulcer. The tests were concerning your blood. That’s why I was called in. I’m a hematologist.” Then, from the look on Hub’s face: “My specialty is blood. Your white cell count’s a little haywire, and I believe it would be a good idea, purely precautionary you understand, if we took some X-rays. Just to be on the safe side. To try to determine what might be causing it.”

  Hub got his hair up. “Whoa whoa whoa, pull up a minute!”

  “Take it easy, Hub,” Pickering threatened.

  “No, that’s all right,” Ball jumped in, “he’s got a right to be concerned.”

  “What’s this cell count stuff,” Hub wanted to know, while he’s got a right t’be concerned ran around in the back of his mind right beside the ever-lingerin’ just t’be on the safe side.

  “Everyone has red and white blood cells,” Ball explained. “The white cell’s main function is to counter infection. The first test’s low white-cell count being off could’ve been caused by any number of common things. Something you’d ingested, a drug, even a stressful day. But after a second test, with the same results…it warrants looking into.” He shrugged and followed with the second, “Just t’be on the safe side.”

  Hub’s heart rate picked up dramatically thinkin’ about the one “he’s got a right t’be concerned,” and now two “just t’be on the safe sides”!

  Ball picked up and leafed through the folder he and Wade had been looking over when Hub first entered. “Now, I see here that Dr. Wade’s already given you something.” He looked at Hub. “Did it help?”

  “No.”

  Ball took a deep breath, and he and Wade shared a look of concern. Ball then looked back to Hub as if mulling something over. Finally, he made a decision and slapped the desk top with the flat of his hand. “Dr. Wade? I don’t want to wait on this. I want the X-rays done today; in fact, if we can, right now! The clock’s ticking. I want more urine and blood samples, also. And it wouldn’t hurt to make a couple of follicle and dermatological tests. I want to get to the bottom of this!” He turned his attention to Hub. “It’ll take a couple of days to get everything back, but in the meantime, if the pain increases, I’ll authorize the use of two pills a day. But I can not warn you strongly enough, no matter what, you do not, under any circumstances, take more than two in a twenty-four-hour period. Have you taken one yet today?”

  “You want more blood ‘n I gotta pee in ‘nother bottle?” Hub asked, astonished. “And what’s that fockel ‘n dermawhatchamacallit shit?”

  “Yes, Mr. Lusaw,” Ball said sharply, “I want more blood, I want more urine, and I want it now! I’m sorry, but this could be important. Now, answer me, have you taken one of those pills today?”

  “One, early this mornin’,” Hub replied. He nodded in Wade’s direction and added, tersely, “He gave me one yesterdee ‘n I upchucked last night, ‘n I hadn’t done that ‘fore I took th’damn pill.”

  “No no no no,” Ball said, shaking his head. “You can’t do that. Dr. Wade did the right thing. The timing of you taking the medication and vomiting was purely coincidental. If anything, it confirms our suspicions. The last thing I want to do, Mr. Lusaw, is frighten you…but we need to move on this. Now.” He stood up, crossed to the counter, and poured a glass of water. He pulled another pill bottle from the cupboard, shook one out, and handed it and the water glass to Hub. “I want you to take another one right now.”

  Hub reluctantly helt his hand out, and Ball placed the pill in his palm. Hub took the glass, and Ball watched him wash it down.

  “I apologize for being short with you,” Ball continued, “and I know you think this is all happening too fast, when actually, it’s probably been coming on for some time and it’s just been so gradual you didn’t notice it ‘til it’s too late.”

  If he thought that was gonna help, he was badly mistaken. The only thing Hub heard was, “til it’s too late.” Somethin’ else to add to “he’s got a right t’be concerned” and the two “just t’be on the safe sides.”

  “Sorry,” Ball said, “bad choice of words,” but it was too late to yank ‘em back. It was like when Judge Parks told the jury to forget what Sam Dimwiddie’d said about a hammer handle bein’ shoved up between a young pretty girl’s legs. Ball took the glass and set it on the counter. “There are actions that can be taken to fight it, but until we get the results back we don’t really have anything concrete to discuss.” He stood up and nodded to Pickering. “X-ray, now, please.”

  Pickering stepped to Hub’s chair and tapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s go.” Hub rose, trance-like, and he and Pickering went into the next room.

  Forty-five excruciating hours later, Pickering ushered Hub yet one more time into Wade’s office. Wade wasn’t there, but Ball was behind the desk. He stood and offered his hand. “Hub, come in, come in, sit down.” Pickering took his customary position beside the door. Ball looked Hub over, doctor-like, and asked, “How’re you feeling?”

  “Awright,” Hub replied, worried-patient-like.

  “Is the discomfort better? About the same? Worse? What?”

  Hub’d always been reluctant to let his feelings show, but that was before he’d been told he could possibly be in a world a shit. “I b’lieve it might be a little worse.”

  “Yes, well, nature o’ the beast.”

  “Listen,” Hub said abruptly, “you didn bring me back here t’yammer about th’nature o’ th’beast, whatever th’Hell ‘at means, so let’s have it.”

  Ball took a second to sift through his thoughts and then, “No, you’re right. I didn’t.” Then, right smack between the horns, he clobbered him. “You’re out o’ road, Hub. You got a cancer.” He swallowed nervously. “A bad one.”

  Hub woulda sucked in an involuntary lungful of air if he hadn’t quit breathin’ altogether.

  Then Ball hit him with the capper. “A real bad one.”

  Naturally, Hub hadn’t known what to expect when he walked through the door, but whatever he’d imagined, it wasn’t any shit like that. He thought maybe he’d have to take more pills, or possibly get whittled on—some little blackened, malfunctioning hoomahotchee somewhere in his guts, somehow gone bad and had to be removed. But…out o’ road? Cancer? A bad one? A REAL bad one? His heart was poundin’ like a bass drum. His bunghole twitched like it was gonna unload on him, and he was afraid he was gonna fall off the chair and smack his face on the floor. Finally, he remembered how to make his mouth work. “I’m dyin’?” It was a desert-dry croak.

  “Yes,” was all Ball said. It was all he could say. It didn’t seem sufficient, but he didn’t have a lot o’ leeway. It was definitely a yes-or-no thing.

  “How’s ‘at happen?” Hub asked, swirling in a tornado of confusion.

  “I could give you a hundred answers, Hub,
” Ball said, compassionately, “but cancer isn’t that simple. Other than this, you’re as healthy as a horse. You see, everyone has cancer cells. It’s a natural part of the system. You could go your whole life, and they don’t mean a hill o’ beans. Then, for some unknown, unfathomable reason, they’ll turn on you. Some do—some don’t.”

  “Me…,” Hub started.

  “They did,” Ball finished. “Hard.”

  “You’re really sure,” Hub pushed. He hadn’t heard much o’ what Ball said after “Yes” had followed “I’m dyin’?”

  “I ran the tests every way I could.” He gestured at Hub’s file layin’ open on his desk. “There’s absolutely no doubt. Not a whit.”

  “How long’ve I got?”

  Ball looked back over his shoulder at Pickering. “Sir? Could I ask you to leave us alone for a bit?” Pickering wasn’t supposed to leave a prisoner unattended. “I won’t tell if you don’t. Please.”

  Pickering, the soft-hearted humanitarian that he was, mouthed that he’d be right outside and exited. The door clicked shut.

  “The way it works,” Ball almost whispered. Both of ’em were leaned for’ard with their elbows on their knees and their hands clasped, one looking like a preacher and the other, a man who needed one. “It’ll get progressively worse. Slowly at first, for three or four months.”

  Hub sat up real quick, bug-eyed, this bein’ the first he’d heard of an approximate time. The dark at the end o’ the tunnel. The finish line. Literally. “Three ‘r four months,” he mumbled, another shade lighter. He felt like lookin’ for a clock so he could watch his life tick away.

  “At most,” Ball continued. “After that…it’ll pick up dramatically. But the last month….” He just shook his head slowly, imagining the pain-riddled end. He was reluctant to go on, but it wouldn’t be fair to Hub to drag it out. “The last month, Hub, you just won’t die quick enough.”

  “Oh, shit,” Hub hissed through bleached lips. Tiny little muscles twitched all over his face. “Oh, shit!” He slid down in the chair, leaned his head over the back, put the heels of his hands to his temples, and pushed. Then he quickly sat back up and pounded his knees. “Shit! Shit! Shit! God Dammit!”