“I’d like to have a place by myself.”
I can’t imagine why. Before judges are allowed to order someone to stay in conditions like this, they ought to have to live here themselves. The room is picked up, even neat, but it must be fifty years old and smells of bug spray.
“How long have you lived here?” Rainey asks, apparently testing her for me.
“Almost a year,” Delores answers promptly.
“I came here last November.” She sits down on her bed beside Rainey.
Thanksgiving, I think, wondering if Delores sees the irony. How can she have managed to stay here for an entire year without shooting herself? If I don’t get out of here in a minute, I am going to start screaming.
“Have you got your conditional release papers signed by the judge?”
Delores hops off the bed and opens a drawer on the table in front of me. She points at a piece of paper.
“That’s it.”
I unfold the creased paper and read the boilerplate language. She is ordered to take her medication as directed.
She can’t leave Blackwell County. She has to attend a day treatment program. She is required to live at Confederate Gardens. The order is good for five years.
“Do you mind if we all go sit in my car?” I almost beg. I feel suddenly depressed. If this is the best the law can do, why bother with it?
“Okay,” Delores says.
“But I have to go for a med check in ten minutes.”
Before leaving, I glance around the room. The sole possessions consist of a black-and-white TV that must be at least twenty years old, a clock radio, and a picture of Bill Clinton. As I stand up to leave, I ask, “How much does President Clinton owe you?”
Delores stares at his picture.
“Five hundred seventeen dollars and eighty-five cents.”
The recitation of this precise amount is unnerving. I wish she had picked anyone but Clinton, but I am not surprised. Delusions of grandeur can come with the territory of schizophrenia. I once represented a man at an involuntary civil commitment hearing who was convinced that he had written the words to “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain” and was owed half a million dollars. I walk out the door ahead of Rainey and Delores and look across the street at another row of identical motel rooms. How can anyone call this place a residential care facility? It even looks like a warehouse. As we walk toward my car, I ask, “Delores, how do you figure Clinton owes you money?”
She is wearing a cheap pair of sandals that she has trouble keeping on her feet and she reaches down to ad just a strap. Rainey and I stop to wait for her. She looks up at me.
“One day he came jogging into McDonald’s downtown and needed a loan. He didn’t say why. I figured he was just hungry.”
It is hard to resist smiling. With that skimpy little pair of shorts he wears, he couldn’t have been carrying a lot of money. But even he couldn’t eat five hundred bucks’ worth of Big Macs. I ask, “When you tried to collect, did you threaten him or have a gun or anything like that?”
“No!” she says emphatically.
“I hate guns. I just wanted my money. I kept going to the Governor’s Mansion and finally they arrested me.”
“You don’t have any plans to go to Washington to try to collect, do you?” I ask. I have learned from experience it does no good to argue with people who suffer from this form of mental illness.
She looks at me as though I am one who is sick.
“It’s not worth all the hassle.”
“Good idea,” I tell her. Her attitude will be important.
If the judge is satisfied that she is no threat, we shouldn’t have any trouble getting her order amended. We sit in my car for ten minutes talking, until she tells us she has to leave. I am reasonably satisfied that she has no more delusions, and I drive Rainey back to the state hospital, optimistic I can help her. Rainey has declined my offer for lunch, pleading work. She had always been too conscientious for her own good.
As I pull up in front of the administration building, Rainey thanks me profusely and asks me to turn off the motor for a minute because she has something to tell me.
I do, knowing that she wants to start dating again. I have missed her. Amy, as cute as she is, can’t hold a candle to her. Rainey is solid gold and is worth whatever effort it costs to get her.
“I’m glad to help,” I say, wondering if I could get away with kissing her in front of the state hospital.
“What’s up?”
She pauses for a moment and holds up her left hand.
“I’m getting married!”
Finally, I see the ring. What an idiot I am! She practically rubbed my nose in it. My mouth goes dry, and there is no concealing my shock.
“You are?” I say, unable to utter anything intelligent.
Her blue eyes round and serious, she nods.
“December twenty-sixth.”
My mind is racing. I can’t seem to focus. Shit, why not make it Christmas Day? Kill two birds with one stone.
All these months I have assumed she hasn’t been seeing anyone in particular. When years ago we first began to date and had become serious, Rainey broke it off temporarily because an old boyfriend had resurfaced a big, hairy psychologist at the state hospital by the name of Norris Kelsey. Then, within weeks, she had ditched him and resumed our relationship, until one thing after an other seemed to kill it. The hard part is that I didn’t even realize she was seeing a guy. I feel utterly devastated. She and I have talked occasionally, but too late I realize that none of the conversations have been about her. Numb, I ask, “Do I know the guy?”
She smiles and reaches over and pats my hand.
“I don’t think so. Dennis Stanley. He’s never heard of you.”
About to explode in the heat, I unroll the window and rack my brain in vain for the name. The only Stanley I’ve ever heard of is the explorer. Dr. Livingston, I presume?
“What does he do?”
Rainey twists the ring on her finger. It is huge, now that I look at it.
“He’s a pediatrician. He’s five years younger. Never been married. He doesn’t care about having kids.”
A doctor who is younger! I could picture her with a guy that much older. This is too weird. It won’t last six months. She’ll go nuts worrying that she won’t be able to hold on to him.
“How long have you known him?” I can’t bring myself to congratulate her.
“Only for a couple of months,” she says, smiling.
“But I’ve never been surer of anything in my life.”
This is outrageous! Nothing could be more out of character Rainey agonizes over things.
“Did you meet him at Christian Life?” I ask, knowing I sound childish. Her conversion to fundamentalist Christianity was the final straw as far as I was concerned. I could never understand how she could close her eyes to reality.
“He’s a Presbyterian,” she says, with just a trace of irony.
“He’s very tolerant.”
“You’ll never see each other,” I say, knowing I sound like an old curmudgeon.
“Gideon,” she commands, “be happy for me!”
I try to get a grip.
“It’s a little difficult at the moment since until two minutes ago I was thinking that you and I might try to get back together.” I know this is not the cool tiling to say, but I feel as if I had been kicked in the stomach by a mule.
“I’ve got to go,” she says, and puts her hand on the door.
I summon my best fake smile. I don’t want the whole damn staff of the state hospital feeling sorry for me.
“I’m real happy for you, Rainey. We’ll always be friends.”
Whether she believes me or not, she pretends that she does. Her lips come back from her teeth, and she says, “I know we will.”
I drive off, and get to the corner before I let myself feel anything. Damn her! On again, off again, on again, off again. She jerked me around like a yo-yo. I wipe my eyes and decide to go home
instead of back to the office. I could stand a drink.
At the house, after getting into some shorts and taking Woogie out, I call the office and without any explanation tell Julia to see if she can postpone my four o’clock appointment.
I ice down a twelve-pack, and Woogie and I go into the backyard. It is delightfully warm. If I start drinking bourbon, I will be sick tomorrow, and I don’t want anyone to think I am bothered by this. I can hear Julia reminding Clan when she hears I’ve been dumped:
“He was a no-show the day after she told him.” Fuck all women, I think. I haven’t met a decent one since Rosa.
What made her so special? Guts. She had guts. Left her mother, learned English, came to Arkansas, passed the state nursing exam, got a job. Rosa was a class act. Instead of putting the empties back in the box, I drop them in the yard by my chair. To hell with what the neighbors think.
“Come here, boy,” I say to Woogie, who is sitting in the shade staring at me. Reluctantly, he gets up and ambles over toward me. I stroke his warm back. So warm. I take off my shirt. It is wonderful out here today.
In the eighties, a record for this time of year. Rosa never would have finked out like Rainey. When things got tough, Rosa didn’t run. I know I am getting drunk, but so what? It’s easier to remember Rosa when I’ve had a few…. I wake up and look at my watch. Almost four-thirty. I have been out here almost three hours. My face and chest feel on fire. I look down and see my stomach is pink as the inside of a salmon. Woogie, seeing I am awake, comes over to me and licks my hand. I must be a total idiot I will look like a lobster tomorrow. I count six empties, glad I have a six-pack left. Inside, I can hear the phone ringing and push myself up out of the cheap nylon webbing and lurch toward the house, Woogie at my heels. Rainey, I think stupidly, calling to say she has changed her mind.
“Hello,” I say, grabbing the phone in the kitchen and trying not to sound drunk.
“Dad?” Sarah says.
“Are you okay? I tried to get you at your office.”
“Rainey’s getting married!” I blurt.
“She is?” Sarah asks, her voice sounding far away.
“Dad, you must feel terrible. Who is she marrying?”
“Some doctor whose last name is Stanley,” I say, un able to keep tears from sliding down my face.
“I don’t know him.”
“Promise me you won’t drive anywhere tonight,” Sarah says.
“Get something to eat and go on to bed, okay? It will be all right.”
Do I sound that bad? I sigh, “I’m fine.”
“Check and see if there is a pizza in the freezer and fix that,” Sarah says.
“I’ll be home in two weeks. Remember, we’re going to Bear Creek, okay?”
Why? I think. I can’t wake up.
“Okay,” I say.
“Remember to feed Woogie and make sure he has water before you go to bed.”
Bed? It’s not even dark.
“I will,” I say irritably. It seems as if all the women I know treat me like a child. I hang up and look for Woogie’s dog food.
At six, after trying to get through a few bites of some stuff that tastes like frozen glue (it doesn’t seem cooked enough), I decide to call Amy. I know I shouldn’t, but damn it, I want to.
“You sound skunked,” Amy says cheerfully.
“Does it take that much nerve just to call and say you’re wrong?”
I try to choose my words carefully.
“You remember saying that you were jealous of Rainey McCorkle?”
There is silence on the other end for a moment.
“Yes?”
Amy asks, her voice no longer so friendly.
“She’s getting married,” I say casually, “next month.”
“Poor Gideon!” Amy says instantly.
“No wonder you’re shit-faced. Who’s she marrying?”
“I’m not shit-faced,” I say shakily.
“A doctor who is five years younger. Some guy named Dennis Stanley.”
“I know Dennis!” Amy says.
“He’s a wonderful man and a fantastic doctor. A hunk, too! God, I’m impressed with your old girlfriend. She’s getting a real prize. Cheer up. It’s not like you lost her to a vacuum cleaner salesman.”
“Was he your boyfriend, too?” I ask sourly. If he’s so great, why doesn’t he have a better name?
Amy laughs.
“You sound so pitiful! He was the head resident at St. Thomas and testified in a couple of rape cases when I was at the prosecutor’s. He didn’t go to medical school until he was in his thirties.”
I crumple me empty beer can I am holding. I couldn’t have gotten into med school even if I owned it.
“A late bloomer,” I say, as though this were a terrible indictment.
“Gideon, would you like for me to come over and spend the night?” Amy asks.
“Yes,” I say.
“That would be very nice.”
Amy laughs again.
“I’ll be there in an hour.”
“I’ll time you,” I say, looking at the clock over the kitchen sink.
“That won’t be necessary,” Amy giggles.
“Why don’t you take a shower?”
The idea of anything touching my skin, even if it is cold water, makes me wince.
“Do you have some ointment for sunburn?” I ask, bringing my left hand to my chest. It feels like pie crust.
“I fell asleep for a little while outside.”
Amy’s reaction is swift.
“Oh, Gideon, you didn’t pass out in this sun, did you?”
“Just took a little nap,” I whimper. I feel terribly thirsty.
“Have you got some juice or something like that?
All I’ve got is beer.”
“I can tell,” Amy says.
“You’re probably so dehydrated that you’re about to go into shock. Drink as much water as you can. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
She hangs up before I can answer her. I ease over to the sink and rinse out a glass and fill it up with tap water.
Good of’ Amy. I haven’t been very nice to her lately. I should have called her when I wasn’t drunk. Poor women. They’re such suckers for us. They deserve to be in a better species. The water tastes good. I wish I had thought of it a couple of hours ago. I look through the kitchen window and see the beer cans scattered around the lawn chair. They look terrible. Get that white guy out of the neighborhood before he turns it into a slum. I laugh at my little joke and look at Woogie, who is lapping up his own water.
“Hey, boy, are we having fun or what?”
He won’t even look at me and goes off to the couch after he finishes. At least he had enough sense to lie in the shade.
Amy arrives about thirty minutes later with a quart of orange juice and an overnight bag.
“Oh, Gideon!” she wails.
“You look like you’ve been electrocuted!”
“Damn, it’s November! It shouldn’t be this hot.” I look down at myself again. My knees look like stoplights.
While I take off my clothes, Amy runs the tub full of water and helps me get into it.
“This is what it must be like to be old,” I complain.
“If you keep this up,” she says, taking my arm, “you’ll never find out.”
The water feels good. It is cool but not freezing. I lie back against the porcelain and sigh.
“Maybe we can make love later.”
Amy looks down at my shriveled penis which is limply floating in the water.
“Unless you can think of a way to detach it,” she says, giggling, “I don’t think you’re going to be terribly interested.”
Thirty minutes later Amy turns down the sheet and helps me into bed. Amy has rubbed so much Benadryl cream and Aloe into my skin that I feel like a greased pig.
Grateful beyond words, I watch her while she arranges the water and juice on my nightstand. Why is she here?
This hasn’t exactly be
en my finest hour. If the situation were reversed, I don’t think I would be playing her nursemaid. I sink back onto my pillow.
“This Florence Nightingale business is a side I haven’t seen before, Gilchrist. I think I like it.”
She sits down on the bed beside me and rubs cream into my feet. Even the soles are tender.
“I have a masochistic side. Most women do. I think it must be genetic.
Here I am doing everything but changing your diapers while you’re trying to turn yourself into a brisket because of another woman.”
What do I say? She is correct, of course. If I had a decent bone in my body, I would have called anybody except her.
“I could have called Clan, but I don’t think he would have been of much use.”
Amy laughs at the thought. From long acquaintance, she knows Clan is as helpless as I am.
“He might have brought you a gun, so you could have done the job right.”
I look down at my cooked flesh and wonder if I’m the one who has the masochistic streak. Rainey and I haven’t had a real romantic relationship in more than a year. Still, true feeling dies hard. I admit it to myself outright for the first time: I did love her. Yet, we could never make a commitment.
To her credit, she has moved on to another man who obviously inspires more confidence.
“What bothers me,” I admit to Amy, “is that I didn’t really even know she was seriously dating somebody. I just kind of figured everything would finally fall into place some day, and we’d end up together.”
A melancholy expression comes over Amy’s face.
“You miss the boat mat way. Even the dumbest dog will leave if you won’t feed it.”
“I know,” I say, growing more sober by the moment. I know she is telling me that she isn’t going to take care of me indefinitely. I don’t even know if I want her to try.
“You don’t know shit,” she says, putting away the Benadryl. She bends down and searches through her bag and withdraws a pink nightie with poodles on it.
“Don’t even think about saying a word about this gown. I grabbed the first thing I saw.”
I grin. Poodles aren’t Amy’s style. Yet, how do I know?
I haven’t given her a chance. For all I know she may sleep with a security blanket and her thumb in her mouth.
Gideon - 04 - Illegal Motion Page 22
