“Right, right,” agrees Dewitt. “Anyway, I wanted you to read it and approve it.”
He holds out the paper.
Willie takes the note with some hesitancy.
“Sure, Doc, it’s just – I’ll get T. P. to read it. I got that, you know, Japanese car disease or something.”
Dewitt looks puzzled.
“You know,” intones Willie. “Dyslexus.”
Suppressing a smile, Dewitt nods.
“Oh, I see,” he says. “Okay, sure. Whenever. But, hey, I need to call pretty soon. Well, I guess I’ll go rest.” To himself he adds, “Go rest, young man! Where’s Horace Greeley and Wyatt Earp when you need them?”
T. P. comes into the room just after Dewitt leaves. He spies the note.
“Hey, what’s that, Willie? Can I see it, can I see it?”
Willie hands the paper over to T. P.
“The Doc’s gonna call someone and put everyone’s mind at rest,” he says. “Looks okay to me.”
“Why don’t you read it out loud, T. P.,” Willie continues. “Just so’s we can be sure how it sounds on the telly-phone.”
T. P. is excited and sits down and begins reading as Willie ponders each sentence, calculating how it sounds.
“Hello, David,” T. P. reads. “This is Doctor ‘D.’ I made it up her – up here, I guess it says – for my alum-, alumi-. Aluminum meeting I guess it says.”
Willie grabs the paper. He looks at it and hands it back.
“That’s alumni, idiot,” he says. “That’s the plural. You know, lots of aluminum.”
“Sorry, Willie,” T. P. says, with hurt feelings. “Hey, we should tell him we’re in the fender and hubcap business ourselves!”
“Keep reading!” commands Willie.
“... alumni meeting. We’re all going to watch football against our opposites from Penn State... ”
Willie interrupts.
“That’s a college,” he nods, knowingly. “They’re playing some team called the ‘Elements’ or somebody this weekend. Big game.”
“I didn’t know you knew football, Willie,” says T. P.
“Well, you know... ” Willie says with some modesty.
T. P. continues with the note.
“It’s the typical scene: big, tired hogs getting their butts kicked – Oh, he said butts!”
“Go on, for Pete’s sake,” says Willie.
“... big, tired hogs, uh, kicked, stand beside guards and tackles. Have a nice weekend. Bye-byes!”
Willie grabs the note and ponders it.
“It just says ‘Bye,’” he says, waving the note for effect at T. P.
“Sorry, Willie.”
Willie takes a deep breath.
“Sounds like the Doc don’t really like football so much,” he says. “But, yeah, I guess it will pass mustard.”
T. P.’s eyes light up, thinking.
“Willie, can I have a hot dog?”
“Huh? Whatever made you think-? No, you may not have a hot dog. Michael’s fixing us some of them special steaks.”
“Yeck!” says T. P. “Do we have to? Now I really want a hot dog.”
“Hey, what’s wrong? They taste great, don’t they?”
“Yes, Willie.”
“And they’re good for you. Mr. Nickels keeps telling us. He raises them, don’t he?”
“Yeahhh.”
“So you’re gonna eat it, and that’s that!”
T. P. pouts.
“Oh-kay, Willie,” he says, then adds quietly, “It’s the thought.”
“What you say?” asks Willie.
“Nothing, Willie. Uh, Willie? Can I make dessert?”
Willie sighs.
“Sure,” he says. “That’s about the only thing you do good.”
T. P. is thrilled.
“Thanks, Willie,” he beams, and starts a sprint for the kitchen, almost knocking over a houseplant that’s on top of an old piano in the corner of the living room.
“At least don’t run into anything in the kitchen, you idiot,” yells Willie.
“I won’t,” says T. P. as he happily begins gathering items to make dessert for the evening meal.
Chapter Twenty-Two
At David’s apartment, the table is beautifully laid and ready for Thanksgiving lunch, in contrast to David, who still wears his pj’s while sporting a two-day stubble on his chin. The clock shows three o’clock as he places a bowl next to the stove and picks up a baked potato he has boiled. It’s hot.
“Ooch, eech, ouch!” cries David, juggling the potato, and then putting it onto a dinner plate. Three other potatoes find their way there, too.
Working at the speed if not the adeptness of a short-order cook, David retrieves the fresh pasta container from the fridge, breaks open the wrapping, and dumps the contents into a plastic bowl. He grabs a cookbook and reads aloud.
“After boiling, blah, blah, blah, reheat oven. What? No, preheat oven. Preheat oven? I don’t have time for that sh-”
He spies the microwave.
“Preheat microwave. That’ll save some time!”
David sets the time and the power on the microwave: Eight minutes and mid-power.
“Boy, I hope that’s enough,” he thinks, pursing his lips.
Pausing for a moment, his eyes slowly close. Then, he shakes his head to awaken and opens his eyes wide.
“Shower time!”
A short time later, the loud splashing of the shower drowns out his telephone ringing. The answering machine picks up.
“Hello, this is David. I’m not in right now... ”
At the ranch Dewitt is holding a telephone receiver and looking at his “script.” David’s answering machine announcement ends and when it does he pretends to put two quarters into an imaginary pay phone, while smiling to Willie and T. P., who are closely monitoring the event.
“Ding! Ding!” Dewitt says, mimicking his “quarters” dropping. He laughs a little nervous laugh and the boys do, too. Dewitt begins reading, deliberately and in a flat monotone.
“Hello, David. This is Doctor D. I made it up here for my alumni meeting. – Everyone bets on football against our opposites, uh, State Pen. – It’s the typical scene: big tired hogs getting their butts kick stand beside cars and tackles. Have a nice weekend. Bye!”
Dewitt looks at Willie and shrugs a “How was that?” expression as he hangs up the telephone. Willie and T. P. smile at each other, satisfied.
“See,” Willie says to T. P., “he didn’t say ‘Bye-byes.’”
Willie looks at Dewitt and gives him a smile.
“Hey, good performance there, Doc.”
“Thank you,” says a somewhat breathless Dewitt.
“I hope they get it,” says T. P., excitedly.
Dewitt chuckles and takes a deep breath. He looks out the living room window. The entire ranch is tranquil. There is the sound of a few farm animals emanating from the barn. Overhead, there is blue sky, a few puffy clouds – and the faint noise of a jet engine fading in the distance.
In a clearing near the front porch, sits the big Harley-Davidson “hog” motorcycle, its big tires, kickstand and sidecar gleaming under the high Western sun.
“Yeah,” Dewitt says to himself. “I sure hope they ‘get it!’”
Chapter Twenty-Three
It’s now four o’clock sharp at David’s apartment. The doorbell rings and a freshly showered and shaved David, neatly clothed, walks confidently through a tidied living room, stopping to throw a looming white medical jacket from the floor to behind a couch.
Trey, Sylvia and Eddie enter, bearing little housewarming gifts and exchanging handshakes, with an added air-kiss from Sylvia to David. They exchange some warm ad-libs of friendship and hospitality. Everyone looks around the living room.
“Why, David,” says Sylvia, “this is lovely! I just know you’re going to enjoy yourself here.”
David is shyly proud.
“Thanks, Sylvia,” he says, then adds seriously, “Have you guys heard anything new?”
The other students look at each other with concern and shake their heads.
“We just figure we have to keep on keeping on for now,” expresses Eddie.
David relaxes.
“Well,” he beams, “let me give you guys a tour, a nice tour.”
They head for the kitchen and go in.
“Man, I just wish I could think of something,” David says aloud. “You know, I just keep getting a feeling like I’m forgetting something. Oh, well.”
The kitchen is spotless, with various foods and utensils at the ready. In the corner is a telephone answering machine, its red light blinking to indicate a new message. But no one notices.
David points with pride at his kitchen counter top, sparkling, with twelve dinner rolls glistening with butter, ready for the oven.
Sylvia speaks in a big sister-like voice.
“David,” she says, “I’m giving you an ‘A-plus’ so far. Is your oven hot for the rolls?”
“Yep,” replies David, “very hot. Just as soon as I take out the tur-”
He freezes on the spot and blanches.
“Yeah,” nods Trey, “the turkey out of the oven. We know.”
David doesn’t move.
“David!” says Sylvia. “What is it?!”
David slowly looks at her.
“I forgot to put the turkey in.”
The three students look at each other in disbelief. No one laughs. No one speaks. David begins to walk slowing toward the dining room and, entering, sits on a side chair, slowly shaking his head. The two young men follow and sit in nearby chairs.
Eddie speaks.
“Hey, you know, we all forget stuff. Why, I remember once... ” His voice trails off.
“Yeah, David,” agrees Trey, “I mean, you’re only human... What, uh, did you, uh, do with the, uh... ”
“Dishwasher,” says David.
Trey and Eddie look at each other with raised eyebrows. David begins to speak but intones his words more and more slowly.
“Mom said clean it good, you know... So I put the bird in the dishwasher... to do like she said and... ”
He sighs.
“... that’s the last I remember.”
Eddie gives a small whistle. There is a pause. The three drop their heads.
“You didn’t put... ” says Trey.
“No, no detergent,” says David in a weak voice.
From the kitchen there comes the voice of an upbeat Sylvia. The boys listen intently.
“David! – Trey! – Eddie! Come on in here and help me with the final touches.”
The young men look at each other, puzzled. They slowly rise and enter the kitchen.
Sylvia greets them with an upraised serving fork in her hand. She has an apron on and motions them forward.
“David,” she says with just the right amount of diplomatic admiration and awe, “I don’t know how you come up with your ideas, but the idea of cooking your Thanksgiving turkey in the dishwasher has made it... Well, see for yourselves, fellas!”
She points to the top of the stove. There sits a glimmering, fully-cooked turkey, a few slices already cut, resting in a baking tray.
“Now all it needs is browning, which I am starting to organize now,” she says. She then adds:
“You boys go on out and have a beer or whatever guys do while we Southern belles toil away in the kitchen. I’ll call you in about twenty minutes!”
Trey and Eddie look at Sylvia, who cocks her head and holds out an arm toward David.
“Gentlemen,” she says, “our chef has done us proud!”
David looks around at the others in wonder. Then he shrugs his shoulders.
“Hey,” he says, smiling broadly, “good ol’ Mom. Good ol’ Mom and her recipes. I told ya!”
Trey and Eddie give each other high-fives and Trey winks at Sylvia. He puts his arm around David as the three boys head for the living room.
“David,” he intones melodramatically, “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship!”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Dewitt, Willie and T. P. sit around a large dining table, having just finished a big meal. They are relaxed and satisfied and voicing appreciations to Michael as he clears the table.
Dewitt extols the evening meal.
“That was good! Yum!”
T. P. looks at Willie and gives a confidential chuckle.
Michael returns and announces, “I bring dessert now. We have special dessert, fixed by Mister T. P.!”
T. P. jumps up from the table, excited.
“I’ll get it; let me get it!” he says.
Michael smiles and holds the door to let T. P. pass into the kitchen.
Willie asks Dewitt, “Doc, you like dessert?”
“Yeah, man, of course. You’re telling me... ?”
Willie nods.
“T. P.?” he says. “One of the best pastry and cake makers this side of the state. Learned everything in the pokie. – Who says you can’t re-habitate people?”
“Well,” laughs Dewitt, “I see he’s still at it. The criminal side, I mean.”
“We ain’t got no down payment to open up a shop, Doc,” says Willie, sadly.
Dewitt looks towards the kitchen door.
“Hey, no file in the cake, I guess,” he wonders.
Willie laughs.
“Right. No file in the cake. You can’t escape. You’re funny, Doc. I hope Mister Nickels likes you when you and he meets.”
Michael swings open the kitchen door and T. P. enters triumphantly, carrying a beautiful coconut cake.
T. P. smiles toward Dewitt.
“Hope you like coconut!” he says.
Dewitt assures him he does.
“I wish it was somebody’s birthday!” extols T. P.
“Yeah,” says Willie, “Then I could play ‘Happy Birthday’ on my mouth harp. You know, Doc, my harmonica.”
Dewitt answers wistfully.
“Bet you play ‘The Blues,’ Willie. You know, the twelve-bar blues,” he says.
“You kiddin’?” replies Willie. “I’m there! – You play, Doc?”
“Well, I did see that ol’ piano in the living room. Looks like it came out of a brothel,” laughs Dewitt.
“It did,” says Willie. “Mister Nickels won it in a poker game, I heard. Years ago in Nevada. – We’ll play, like, a duet or somethin’, okay, Doc?”
Dewitt gazes out toward the living room and sighs. He rubs his chin. He finally answers Willie.
“Uh, what’s that you said?”
“Willie asked if you-” starts T. P. but is warned with a small wag of the finger from Willie.
Willie drops his head, as do T. P. and Michael. Dewitt rubs the fingers of each hand together, silently.
“It’s been awhile,” he says, a bit choked up. “You know, I... I’m just afraid I’d be rusty, that’s all.”
Dewitt swallows hard. Willie nods his head and reflects.
“Doc, my daddy once told me, once a man plays ‘The Blues’ he never will forget. Nor will he ever be without friends the rest of his days.”
Dewitt brightens.
“Hey, why not? I’m not going anywhere. Let’s do it!”
“Okay, Doc,” beams Willie. “Doctor Deee-witt! You and me’ll play away them blues till them blues is played away!”
Everyone looks at the cake again. Willie turns toward Michael.
“Michael,” he says, “let’s eat our cake in the living room. You join, yes?”
Michael happily replies, “I
join you, yes.”
Michael reaches to pick up the cake but notes, “Cake very big, Mister Willie. I cut in two.”
“Hey,” says T. P., “then it’s not like the old saying after all.”
Dewitt and Willie look at him, questioning.
“You can half your cake and eat it, too!” says T. P. in all seriousness.
Dewitt and Willie chuckle. Neither T. P. nor Michael “gets” it. They look at one another to see if the other knows what’s funny. They shrug their shoulders.
The four men head for the living room, Dewitt wheeling nicely along, his head swaying to some yet to be played blues number.
In the living room of the ranch, Dewitt sits in his wheelchair at the piano, with T. P. along side on the piano bench, his foot resting on the piano’s sustain pedal. Willie is off to the left, sitting in a chair, as Michael listens, fascinated, from across the room.
Dewitt starts in on the blues, a slow twelve-bar blues. His eyes are first on Willie, who is nodding in time with the rhythm. But soon his eyes are closed and he plays without a wisp of effort.
T. P. keeps good time on the sustain, looking silently ahead, his head ticking like a grandfather clock to the steady rhythm.
And Willie? Willie just plays his harmonica, listening to the rhythm. Listening to the rhythm and playing.
The Blues.
T. P. said later, you just had to be there, but it was Willie who captured it best: It was just one of them Kodiak moments.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The next morning breaks bright and early on the ranch. Dewitt sits in his wheelchair, looking out of his bedroom window at the panoramic view. Michael is making the bed.
“You sleep well, Mister Doctor?” he asks.
“Fine, thanks, Michael,” says Dewitt as he stretches himself. “I feel great. It sure is beautiful out here in the wild, wild west. – Michael, did you ever think there would still be marauding Indians in this day and age?”
“Sorry, Mister Doctor,” replies Michael. “I don’t know Mister Willie tribe name.”
Michael finishes straightening the bedroom and asks, “You come for breakfast now?”
“Uh, soon,” says Dewitt. “I’m just going to look out the window for awhile; so peaceful, so quiet. – Hey, Michael, you reckon I could have some eggs?”
At Dewitt's End Page 7
