Buddy Cooper Finds a Way

by Neil O'Boyle Connelly

  Lowering the mirror, I say in my clearest Bull Invinso voice, “I’m ready to go home now.” I picture Asgard. “Let’s call my wife.”

  Karmichael digs his pinky into his ear and twists. “Home,” he repeats. “Listen. Mr. Quinn asked me to bring you up to date on a few things. There have been some changes.” He sits on the edge of my bed and sighs, then begins.

  The day passes: All-New Family Feud. Turkey noodle soup. Restless napping. Waves Will Crash. When Alix finally appears, I’m halfway through an above-average Jerry Springer. Today’s smile is the same as yesterday’s, so I’m guessing she wasn’t intercepted by Karmichael. Alix has no idea I’ve been debriefed about the state of our union.

  “Hi,” I say.

  Her eyes take in my unveiled face. “You’re looking more yourself.” She glances at the TV, where twins Cindy and Sally have got each other by the hair. They’re twirling in that spin common to cat-fights. “What’s with them?”

  I explain what I’ve learned, that both women claim to be Sally, wife of Frank, now seated center stage. Both Sallys make the same claim: Cindy wants my car, my job, and my man, so she’s pretending to be me and sleeping with my husband. Frank, who has obviously slept with each woman on many occasions, can’t tell the difference. At least that’s the story he’s sticking with.

  “Screwed-up world,” Alix says as she pulls a giant bag of Twizzlers from her purse. We do our usual routine and she smiles, settles into the pink chair.

  I aim the remote control at the TV and bring the sound down, but leave the set on—the local news has promised an update on the Chaos at the Civic Center. Alix hands me a bright red gift bag. “Brook sent this.”

  I reach into Brook’s bag and pull out the vsaji. Playing my part, I ask, “What is it?”

  “Some kind of New Age necklace. That’s what she told me at least.”

  “When did the Old Age end?” I ask.

  “They’re into it at the dance studio these days. That Jhondu guy I told you about.”

  “Right. Sounds creepy. Like black magic.” I slip Brook’s necklace over my head. “Maybe when I get out I could talk to her about it.”

  “This thing’s just a phase. I’m sure I’m overreacting. I doubt she really believes any of this stuff, it’s just pretend.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Pretend.” I reach over for Alix’s hand and she puts it in mine. I feel the great altering power of what I’m about to do. Part of me wants to go on forever just living in this hospital room and watching TV, getting daily visits and sharing Twizzlers with my wife. But with my release, this bubble is about to burst, so now my top priority has to be damage control. “Al,” I say, “they told me about us.”

  The words are a live wire, and she twitches her hand free and stands straight up. She turns her back to me and says, “Aw hell. Aw hell. I’m sorry, Coop. Aw, Coop.”

  “It’s OK. Sit down.”

  “I should’ve told you myself. I should’ve. Aw, Coop.”

  “It wasn’t a surprise,” I say. “I knew something was different.” I don’t need to see her like this. I don’t want to see her like this. I should feel guilty.

  “I should’ve told you myself.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up. This must be really weird for you.”

  “You have no idea. There is so much you don’t know, Coop. Even before you got shot there were things I should’ve told you.”

  “What kind of things?”

  She turns and puts her hand back in mine. “They don’t matter now. Let’s just forget I said that.”

  I nod.

  “Can we please promise to forget that I said that?”

  “OK,” I say, “forgetting is my specialty.”

  “’Cause we’re still friends. We stayed friends for Brook, y’know? That’s important. You need to understand that.”

  “I understand. You’re still my friend.”

  “That’s right. That’s what we both wanted. Friends.”

  We linger in the silence. On the TV the twin sisters are embracing now, apparently reconciled. Frank sits off to the side, elbows to knees, face in hands.

  “Just tell me one thing,” I say. I wish I could stop myself. “Was it me? Did I cheat on you or something?”

  “No. Nothing like that. It just got to be too much, you understand? Too much.”

  “Too much what?”

  “Too much not knowing.”

  Though this is a mysterious answer, it is the clearest one I have ever got. Back in the days when things started to sour, long arguing nights and fights that rattled pictures from walls never brought about this insight, and I am desperate, crazy to know more about what she means. But in the here and now Alix is not going to give me any more.

  There’s a knock on the door and before I can say anything Alix lets go of my hand. She swipes her eyes and in seconds flat seems composed. She shouts out, “C’mon.”

  Quinn strides in. “How’s the world’s toughest hero?”

  “Good,” Alix says. “He’s great.”

  “Just heard the news. Tomorrow you’re a free man.”

  “That’s the word,” I say.

  Alix snatches her purse from the chair. “I need to go.”

  “Why the sudden egress?” Quinn asks. “I thought we might update Buddy on the specifics of the studio project.”

  “Later,” she says. At the door she pauses, looks back at me. Our eyes hold each other’s. She says nothing and steps into the hallway, leaving us in a vacuum of awkward silence. This lasts until Quinn notices the muted Springer Show and says, “Hey, twins. Does the volume work?”

  I click up the sound and Quinn takes a seat. Both sisters now claim to be Cindy. Neither wants to live with Frank. This is because Frank has confessed to sleeping with Cindy when he thought she was Sally and Sally when he thought she was Cindy.

  “He wanted it all and ended up with nothing,” Quinn says. “There you have it: the story of life.” He turns to me. “In the morning, I’ll be here to pick you up. I have to be at a burial service across the river around noon but I can drop you off on the way.”

  I picture poor dead Barney the ref. I’d figured he was already buried, but I suppose they had to do an autopsy or something. I’d like to pay my respects.

  “If it’s at all possible,” I say, “I’d like to go.”

  Quinn grins, does some strange reconfiguring in his head and says he’ll have Alix get a suit from my apartment for me.

  “Thanks,” I say. “Now tell me about these other projects. I figure it’s that wrestling match you talked about before.”

  “The Beach Bash is small potatoes. I’ve entered negotiations with a vice president at ReelWorld. Any problem working with Trevor?”

  “No problem,” I say.

  Quinn hesitates. “Uh, you understand that he’s, uh, he’s—”

  “I understand everything. Tell me about the project.”

  Relieved, Quinn goes on. “Trevor’s directing a pilot show—Under the Gun: True Crime Mysteries. Everyone’s very enthusiastic about a segment based on what happened at the Civic Center. A dramatic re-creation. But before they’ll commit, they want to guarantee the authenticity of the product—they want you. We’ll utilize a stuntman for most of the actual wrestling on account of your injuries, of course. We’ve already signed up Snake and Hardy. There’ll be money, real money, for all of us.”

  I picture the three sisters Grace and the other potential investors. Quinn’s fattening the chicken before he offers it up. He asks, “So B. C., can I count on you?”

  I think hard about what it will be like playing myself on film. For a moment, my bed tilts and rolls.

  “Alix is helping coordinate the stunt work.”

  “Absolutely,” I say. “I’ll help any way I can.” Quinn shows his teeth. His right ear is a different tone than the rest of his skin. It could be his tanning bed is malfunctioning.

  The thrill-a-minute music for the five o’clock news turns both our heads. To the rapid sh
ot of quickening drums, a montage flashes past of exciting Wilmington places: the beach, the river, the courthouse. From behind her news desk, Mandy Fielding greets everyone with the same sunny smile she shines every day at this time. A graphic box appears over her shoulder. A giant rock hangs in space, trailing a whooshing tail. The rock is aimed at Earth, a fragile blue marble in the corner. “Our top story,” Mandy says. “Scientists at NASA have issued an official Asteroid Watch, claiming that Asteroid X may indeed pose a threat to the planet depending on its progress in the next seventy-two hours.”

  Quinn’s pocket makes a beeping noise and he whips out his headset. “Quinn here. Go.”

  Mandy’s eyes hardly move as she reads from the teleprompter. “NASA officials stress that this is not as serious as an Asteroid Warning, which indicates the potential for an actual impact, or an Asteroid Alert, which indicates a high probability of impact.”

  “Achtung!” Quinn shouts into his headset. “Nine-nine.” He continues in German, but my Hogan’s Heroes only gets me so far.

  Mandy says, “For those of you tracking Asteroid X with the KPBC Quicky Chicken Doomsday Asteroid Tracking Chart, the most recent coordinates are 07X by 63 by 87.4. Speed is estimated at 5,000 miles per hour. You can pick up your own chart free with any Quicky Bucket at all participating Quicky Chickens or here at KPBC.”

  Quinn rips the headset off and says, “Gaps in intelligence are what turn whole wars.”

  On the screen behind Quinn, the graphic with the asteroid disappears and a picture of the gray-haired man-child takes its place. Quinn says, “I got to go. Some Wrightsville Beach commissioner is claiming we need another permit for Saturday.”

  I point at Mandy. “Don’t you want to hear the update?”

  “I’ll stay current. Expect me in the morning. Recuperate.”

  I nod my head and Quinn leaves, folding his hi-tech phone into his pocket as he steps out into the hallway.

  Mandy leads in to a taped interview with Lieutenant Tyrelli. He says, “Recent discoveries seem to contradict our initial theory. We are no longer advancing the notion that this individual acted alone. We have indications in fact that this person may have been acting in collusion with another figure or figures. We have not at this time ruled out the possibility of cult activity.”

  They cut back to Mandy, who polishes off the report by saying that the suspect is expected to be moved to a more secure facility sometime soon as his condition has stabilized. “Coming up next,” Mandy says with a look of deep fake sadness, “tragic death in Paducah. And the Beanie Babies are responsible.”

  I click to QVC. They’re selling green face creams. No Buddy. I shut the TV off.

  I stare at the ceiling and try to take in all that’s happening. I wish I had a commanding officer to report to. Or someone else was in the field with me here. I’ve gathered a lot of good intelligence; I just have no idea how to begin to decipher it.

  Following a dinner of baked ham and mashed potatoes, I settle in for my last night of TV viewing here in the hospital. Clicking often to QVC in search of my AWOL alter ego, I watch the national network news, which ends with an interview with a science-fiction author who is an expert apparently on Killer Asteroids, having written three novels with them as main characters. Behind the closing credits they run an impressive series of computer graphics illustrating the effects of a direct strike. These include mile-high tidal waves, planet-wide earthquakes, and an ashen “death pall” which will cut off all living things from the sun. As the computer-simulated world is laid waste, the author states ominously, “What we human beings face now is nothing less than the end of life as we know it. The meteor doesn’t care if it passes by or blasts us all to oblivion or worse. I’m talking about chaos here. Anarchy. Cannibalism. And now it’s just a matter of chance.” The last computer image, of the pyramids being vaporized, fades to black, and from the darkness fades in the bright spinning rainbow of Wheel of Fortune, which is broadcasting this week, according to the cheery voice, “Live from Las Vegas!”

  I’m distracted from Pat and Vanna’s introductory banter by a sound at my door. It opens but no one enters.

  I lean forward in the bed. “Hello?”

  A low voice whispers, “Sir? Is that you, Mr. Cooper?”

  “That’s affirmative, soldier.”

  Hardy barrels around the corner like a St. Bernard and lunges into me, wraps his arms around my head. He pins me deep into the mattress, igniting my shoulder. With my one good arm I pat him on the back. “It’s good to see you, Hardy.”

  He pulls up and looks ready to cry. “Sir, I thought you was dead. I been having terrible dreams all week that you got shot and died and nobody told me on account of they were mad at me.”

  “I’m not dead, Hardy.”

  “I know. That’s great.” He smiles at me and pulls a card from his back pocket. “I was worried awful. I bought this for you.”

  He hands me the card, on the cover of which is a pastel drawing of a simple church. I split the card open and read the printed message: “The Sisters of Saint Guadalupe De La Riviera will remember you in their prayers this week. May God see you through this time of crisis.”

  Hardy beams. “It didn’t cost but fifty dollars.”

  I recall the foggy memory of the nun at my bedside. Hardy paid for her, bought me heavenly blessings with cash. “Thanks, Hardy. That’s very thoughtful.”

  “They were selling novenas too, but I didn’t want one of them ’cause it sounds too much like hyenas, you know?”

  “It sure does.”

  “Mr. Quinn told me I could come and see you finally. When they were telling me I couldn’t see you I was afraid you was dead.”

  “I know, Hardy, but I’m not dead. Tomorrow I’m going home.”

  “Mr. Quinn told me you might not recognize me, but I knew you would.”

  As with Brook, my amnesia had slipped my mind. Innocence and deception just don’t go together.

  “How could I forget you, Hardy? You’re my good friend.”

  “Yessir. I missed you awful. It’s been a bad week. Mr. Snake’s hurt real bad. Mr. Barney is dead.”

  “I know, Hardy. We’re all going to his funeral tomorrow.”

  Hardy frowns. “I was just at his funeral today. Is he gonna have another one?”

  Before I can answer, Hardy asks, “Can I have some Twizzlers?”

  I nod and he reaches for the bag on the table, peels off a couple. Hardy must have been at Barney’s wake today, and doesn’t know yet there’s a second part.

  “Hardy,” I say. “Has anybody talked to you about what happened in the ring?”

  “Yessir. Everybody. Sometimes I’m supposed to say No comment, and sometimes I tell them the story Mr. Quinn helped me remember.”

  “Helped you remember. But what do you remember? You can tell me. I’m your good friend.”

  “Well, bits and pieces.” Hardy chews his licorice contentedly.

  “Hardy,” I say, “tell me the story.”

  Hardy nods, swallows. “Well, Mr. Snake’s mean snake got away from him, and that crazy boy come in the ring and started shooting out into the crowd. Mr. Snake tried to stop him but got shot. So me and you teamed up on him. Like we was tag-team partners. Did Mr. Quinn tell you he’s gonna have us be tag-team partners?”

  “No, Hardy, he didn’t.”

  “So anyway, we attacked the crazy boy and he tried to shoot me only he couldn’t. He just missed me and missed me. That was the spirit of the Lord. Those bullets passed right through me. Like a miracle.” I remember burying my face in the canvas when the kid aimed that gun at Hardy at point-blank range.

  Hardy chuckles, “But those bullets didn’t pass through you though, that’s for sure.” He laughs and nods at my left arm, still strapped in the immobilizer. I’m not laughing. He goes on with his story. “So we saved everybody and now we get to be on TV.”

  “Hardy, did you tell everybody about the miracle?”

  “You bet. I told them about t
hat crazy boy standing right in front of me with his gun. I remember him pointing it right at me and a loud, loud bang. I thought I was gonna be killed. But I was saved.”

  “And you told people this?”

  “Yessir. I told Mr. Quinn and the nice black policeman and the pretty lady reporter. But she didn’t say nothing about it on the TV. And the newspaper guy too. None of them did. That got me mad at first, but then I figured it out.”

  “Tell me what you figured out.”

  “Well, the miracle’s not for everybody to believe. Just for some folks. That’s part of God’s plan.”

  “I understand.”

  “You remember God’s plan? We was in the locker room and you didn’t believe it, I could tell. But I knew there was a reason God wanted us to be in that ring together. We had to save all those people. Mr. Cooper, I been waiting to say ‘I told you so.’”

  “You told me, Hardy. You told me.”

  Both our heads turn to the hallway, which is suddenly alive with the rapid clatter of footsteps, people running hard in heavy boots. The door explodes inward and two cops leap in. The young one lands in a kneeling position and the older guy slides to a halt with legs spread for stability. Both have their guns drawn and aimed at us. Hardy throws himself on me, covering me like a blanket just as they yell, “Police, freeze!”

  A gun backfires and I tense, but feel only Hardy’s weight.

  “Hold your fire!” I yell at the same time the older cop yells, “Jessie! Jesus!”

  Jessie says, “I thought he was attacking him.”

  “We’re clear! We’re clear!” the older cop shouts into the hallway. “All clear! False alarm.”

  “It looked like he was attacking him.”

  “Hardy,” I say, “you can get up.”

  He climbs off me and scowls at the cops, “What’d you try to shoot us for?”

  “Honest mistake,” Jessie explains. “We thought the patient in this room might be in a danger zone. And what are you doing in here, sir? It’s after posted visiting hours.”

  “Jessie,” the older partner says, then shakes his head.

  I turn to my headboard, which has a spiderweb splintered into it. At the center is a tiny bullet hole, not six inches from my head.