by BL Miller
"Rose Grayson."
"Rose Grayson," Nurse Garrison repeated, as if the younger nurse didn't hear it the first time.
Veronica walked away from the charge desk and slumped down in one of the orange vinyl chairs to fill out what little information she did know and settle in for the long wait.
*********
By the third hour of surgery Veronica became very worried. There had been no word on the young woman she had hit and the lack of knowledge set the executive's nerves on edge. What if she died? Veronica shuddered at the thought. Then another thought came to mind. Daylight would arrive soon and the obvious damage to the front of her car would be noticeable. Noticeable meant questions, questions she didn't want to answer. She walked over to the pay phone. The woman who always granted favors now needed one. Veronica dialed the familiar number. On the third ring, a sleep filled male voice answered. "You'd better have a fucking good reason for waking me up."
"Frank, it's Ronnie."
"Ronnie?" the tone changed immediately. "Hey cuz, what's up?"
"I need…" she swallowed. "I need a favor."
"Did you get that idiot to grant the variance?"
"It's in the bag. Listen Frank, this is important." She heard the flicker of a lighter as her cousin lit a cigarette in an attempt to fully wake up. "I need you to come pick up my car and drop me off another one."
"Since when did I become your private tow truck service?"
"Since I had to spend an evening bailing your ass out with that jerk Grace," she growled. "It's in the emergency parking lot at Albany Med. Park the other car in the general lot and bring the keys to me in the emergency waiting room. Frank, you have to do this now. It can't wait until morning." She knew that the cost of asking the favor would far outweigh the actual favor but sometimes that was just the way it was. At least she knew who to turn to when she needed something done discretely. Her favorite cousin was nothing if not careful.
"The emergency room? Ronnie, you okay?"
"Quiet down, Frank. You'll wake Agnes up. Yes, I'm fine, just a big shaken." She looked at her watch. "I really need you to come down here and get the car."
"Is your car driveable or did you wrap it around a tree?"
"The windshield and front end are smashed up. You're better off driving it a couple of blocks and then putting it on a flatbed."
"Jeez, you don't ask for much, do you? You know I'll have to get John to help me. I can't drive a wrecker and a spare car."
"Put the spare on the wrecker, then you won't need another driver, just do it now." she hung up the phone and returned to the chair that had been making her ass uncomfortable for the last three hours. She picked up a four month old issue of People and had just begun flipping through it when Doctor Maise stepped into the room.
"Grayson. Anyone here for Grayson?" he asked loudly, although Veronica was the only person in the room.
"Here." She rose to her feet quickly. "How is she?"
"As well as can be expected, I guess. She's resting now. Are you family?"
"Uh…no, I'm her employer."
"Oh…have you contacted her family yet?"
"Not yet. My secretary is working on it," she lied. "How is she?"
"Well, both legs were badly broken and there was a hairline fracture to her skull, most likely from hitting the concrete. Other than abrasions and a gash on her face that required several stitches, there wasn't much else. No internal injuries anyway. She'll live, but it'll be quite a while before she's able to return to work, I'm sure." He took off his glasses and wiped them with the corner of his doctor's coat. "I'd say probably three months for the legs to heal, then maybe three to six months of physical therapy."
"Oh god." Veronica sat back down, unable to believe that in a split second she had ruined someone else's life for who knows how long.
"Did you see the accident?" he asked, pulling her back from her thoughts.
"Uh, no, I didn't," she said, praying that John hadn't fallen back asleep and was on his way with the wrecker and a spare car.
"Well, whoever it was hit that poor girl hard. Probably some drunk who didn't even realize he hit her."
"Probably," she repeated.
"Well, if you'll excuse me, I need to go check on her." He left the waiting room. She watched him go, then sunk back into the orange chair. The woman, Rose, would live. She breathed a sigh of relief at that but the guilt still weighed heavily upon her. In one brief moment she had destroyed the young woman's legs, in her mind possibly crippling Miss Grayson for life.
*********
The sky was still dark when Veronica closed her eyes, fatigue threatening to claim her. Minutes later they opened again when her nose was assaulted by the scent of far too much cheap cologne.
"Cuz."
"Hi Frank," she said wearily as he plopped down in the seat next to her. "Did you take care of it?"
"All done," he said proudly, holding out a set of keys. "Blue Mazda. Third level, dealer plates. Can't miss it."
"Thanks."
"No problem. Always happy to do a favor for my favorite cousin." He smiled, showing off teeth that were far too white to be real. "So what'd ya do? Hit someone?"
"Shut up!" she hissed through clenched teeth, amazed at the amount of stupidity that her cousin seemed to possess.
"Sorry." He held up his hands in a placating gesture. "Jeez, is it your time of the month or something?"
"Thanks for taking care of that, Frank. Do me a favor and make sure the Porsche is taken to my place. Park it in the garage. I'll have Hans come over and fix it."
"I don't understand why you go to him instead of having Michael work on it. You know he owns"
"Michael owns a Toyota dealership. He works on twenty and thirty thousand dollar cars, not Porsches. Hans is the best mechanic I know. Just make sure it's put in the garage, out of sight. Move the Jeep if you need room."
"Fine," he sighed, knowing that he would never win the argument. He looked around for something to occupy his interest.
"Is that it?" she queried, looking pointed at him and then at the door.
"You're not gonna tell me why you're here or why your car is all smashed up, are you?"
"Frank, what happened to my car or why I'm here, that's my business, just like where all the profits from the car wash go are your business. Got it?"
"Got it." He knew better than to piss off his cousin, knowing full well just how volatile she could be sometimes. He stood up. "You know my number if you ever need anything."
"Yup." She opened the People magazine and flipped through the pages, effectively dismissing him. She waited until he was out the door before heading to the nurse's station to inquire about the young woman's condition.
*********
Veronica stepped out into the dreary grey of another day. The snow had stopped and now the streets were full of people trying to make their way to work through the frozen slush. She reached in her pocket and pulled out the library card. Morris Street. She tried to picture where the street was in relation to the hospital. Certain that it wasn't far and that she could find it without a map, Veronica headed for the multi-level parking garage.
The small blue car was parked right where John had said it would be. The raven haired woman tossed her attaché into the passenger seat and folded her long frame into the small space of the driver's seat, fumbling around until she found the lever that allowed her to push the seat back so that her knees weren't kissing her chin. She had to turn the key several times before the 323
would sputter to life. Veronica gunned the gas repeatedly until the old car seemed willing to continue on its own. "Frank, you son of a bitch," she swore as the beat up excuse for a vehicle slowly put-putted out of the parking spot and headed down the ramp.
Veronica took a left out of the parking garage and drove up New Scotland Avenue heading toward the park. She went two blocks before the street sign she was looking for appeared. As she thought, Morris Street was a one-way, of course in the direction oppos
ite the way she wanted to go. A quick turn on Madison and another on Knox put her at the other end of the block and finally she was able to go up the narrow street.
Morris street was once home to doctors and families of wealth but had long ago changed to a street known more for the occasional drive-bys and roaches than anything else. The homes were packed tightly together, usually with less than a foot between them. Veronica pulled over at the only open space she found, ignoring the red fire hydrant prominently standing on the broken sidewalk. Veronica grabbed her attaché off the seat next to her and stepped out of the car. She briefly thought about locking the battered heap but decided that it wasn't worth the effort. If a thief wanted to fight with the stupid thing to get it running, it was fine with her. She climbed over the snowbank and looked around for house numbers. Most buildings were missing one or both digits but eventually she found the place that Rose Grayson called home.
Veronica climbed the rickety and slippery steps until she reached the outer doors that led to the first and second floor apartments. A look at the three wall mounted mailboxes showed that Rose lived in the basement apartment. She pulled the small stack of mail from the box and stepped back out onto the landing. Cursing at the thought of negotiating the snow covered stairs again, the raven haired woman placed her gloved hand on the shaky metal railing and slowly made her way back to the street level. Under the stairs she found a door missing most of its paint. A small card taped to the glass said simply "Grayson". Veronica knocked several times but received no answer. Perhaps the young woman lived alone. Reaching in her pocket, she pulled the key out of the worn sports wallet and wiggled it into the lock built in to the door handle. It took a few tries but finally the lock turned, allowing the executive entrance the small apartment.
To say that Rose lived in abject poverty would have been kind. The first room Veronica entered was most likely the living room, although no one would have known from the furniture. A lawn chair missing several strips sat in the middle of the room, books marked "Albany Public Library" piled up next to it. That was the extent of the furnishings. Not a single picture or poster hung on the walls. Not that a dozen pictures would have made a difference. The old, crumbly plaster was missing in several places, showing the dried out slats beneath. The ceiling was in a similar state of disrepair. Yellowed water stains formed jagged circles and in several places it sagged noticeably. Veronica doubted it would be long before the ceiling began to cave in. The apartment was extremely cool and a quick check of the thermostat showed why. Dust had settled on the dial, indicating that the temperature hadn't been changed in quite some time. It was set at 60 but with the drafts coming from the old windows the room felt more like fifty. She set her attaché
down on the rickety lawn chair, then reached into her pocket and removed the two letters that she had taken from Rose's mailbox. The first was nothing more than junk mail announcing that if the winning number matched the one in the envelope that "Dose Graydon" would be the winner of eleven million dollars. The other letter was a yellow envelope from the power company. Although she knew she shouldn't, Veronica slipped one well manicured fingernail under the corner and opened it. As she had suspected, it was a disconnection notice. She tucked that one back in her pocket and headed for the bedroom, hoping to find an address book or something that would indicate whom she should notify that the young woman was in the hospital.
The bedroom was just as revealing as the living room. A small rollaway bed was pushed up against the wall and a fold up chair served as a makeshift dresser. Two pairs of jeans that had long ago seen better days and equally worn sweatshirts made up the small pile of clothes along with a few pairs of socks looking more like Swiss cheese than footwear. A thorough search, not that it took much effort, failed to reveal any address books or other personal items. Not one letter from a friend, no pictures, nothing that indicated that Rose knew anyone…or that anyone knew Rose.
The bathroom was just another depressing stop on Veronica's tour. The medicine cabinet contained one nearly empty stick of deodorant and a flattened down tube of toothpaste, both sporting the Money Slasher brand name. Two tampons sat on the back of the toilet along with a half-empty roll of toilet paper. A worn towel was draped over the edge of the tub and three pairs of tattered underwear hung over the shower rod. "How do you live like this?" she asked aloud as she turned to leave the small bathroom. As she did, she noticed the one item that she had previously missed before. Sandwiched between the sink and the wall was a small litter box.
"Well at least you're not alone." As if on cue, an orange and white kitten no more than four months old came scampering into the bathroom, yowling quite loudly to announce its presence.
"Hello there."
"Mrrow!" Veronica leaned down to pet it but the cat took off toward the kitchen. "Come here. I'm not going to hurt you."
"Mrrow!" The cat remained at the entrance to the kitchen, refusing to come any closer. "Fine, be that way, see if I give a shit." She walked past the kitty and entered the kitchen, wishing quickly that she hadn't.
The stove was an old gas model that probably was quite efficient back in her grandmother's day. A small frying pan and pot sat on top while a well used cookie sheet rested inside the oven. She opened one drawer and took a step back as several roaches scampered about, trying to sneak back into the darkness. She shut the drawer quickly, but not before noticing the one mismatched set of silverware that it contained. The refrigerator contained a plastic milk bottle that had been refilled with water, half a jar of mayonnaise, a stick of margarine, and an almost empty bottle of ketchup. When Veronica reached for the cupboard door, her legs were quickly encircled by the anxious cat.
"Meow, meow, mrrrow?" Sure enough, the cupboard held within it one half empty box of Money Slasher cat food and a box of elbow macaroni. "Mrrow, meow?"
"Okay, okay, I get the hint," she said, pulling the box out. The orange and white cat scrambled over to her bowl, waiting none too patiently for the tall human to feed her. "How much do cats your size eat, anyway?"
"Mrrow?"
"Never mind." She poured the dry food into the bowl until it reached the brim. "There, that should keep you for a while." She looked at the water dish. "I suppose you'd like some fresh water too, your majesty?" The cat was too busy chowing down to answer. Veronica took the bowl to the sink and dumped the remaining water before turning the tap on. A horrid clunking sound came from the pipes and she quickly shut it off. "Looks like you get the water from the fridge." She set the bowl on the floor next to the food dish and was about to continue her search when she heard pounding on the door.
"Grayson, I know you're in there. I heard you turn the water on," the angry voice on the other side of the door yelled. "It's the third already and I want my fucking rent money now!" He pounded again. "God Dammit, I'm sick of your whining about your tiny paycheck. If you couldn't afford this place then you never should have moved in here…god damn piece of trash!"
The door flung open to reveal a portly man who reeked of alcohol despite the early morning hour. "Who the fuck are you? I told her that roommates cost extra."
"How much does she owe you?" Veronica queried, trying very hard to keep her temper in check.
"Four fifty. Six if I find out you're living here too," he growled. "So who the fuck are you?"
Veronica didn't answer, instead walking over to the lawn chair and rummaging through her attaché until she found her checkbook. "What's your name?"
"What's it matter to you?"
"If you want to be paid for the rent, I need a name to write on the check…or should I just fill in the word asshole?"
"I don't take fucking checks. They always bounce."
"I guarantee this one won't bounce. Give me a name."
"Cecil Romano, but I'm not taking any fucking check."
"Have you heard of the Cartwright Corporation?" She asked while filling in the various parts of the check.
"Of course, who hasn't."
"Well, I'm Veronic
a Cartwright. This check is from my personal account. If you want your rent money I suggest you take this." She handed over the check. Cecil looked at it carefully, certain that it was a trick.
"I'll need ID."
"Fine. Would you like to see my driver's license or would any major credit card do?" She asked, reaching into the attaché and pulling out her wallet. At that moment the orange and white kitty decided to come out and see what all the fuss was about.
"What the fuck is that?"
"Looks like a cat to me. Tell me, are you capable of forming a complete sentence without the word fuck in it?"
"I told her no pets. No pets means no fucking pets. No pets, no roommates, no…whatever the fuck you are." He folded up the check and stuffed it in his pocket. "I've had it. She bitches about everything from a little noise in the pipes to wanting to paint the walls and now this. When you see the little bitch you tell her that I want her out of here by the end of the week. She and that flea ridden thing can go live in the snowbank for all I care."
