Alex dropped to the floor and snapped his head against the plastic handrail. “No way,” he said, “no fucking way!”
HE JUST sat there for a while, angry with himself, angry at the world, missing Lester. Nobody bothered him while he sat and cried, not caring to wipe his eyes. He tried to appreciate the totality of Lester’s death and the loss it signified, but his thoughts kept going to the morgue, as if it held some dark magnetism.
Alex hardly knew what he was doing when he rose from the floor and went over to the nurse’s station. The same attendant was writing in a chart. A petite nurse with burgundy hair sat nearby. He remembered her from the previous night when he’d pressed the call button. She was all business, but not in a rude way. And she liked to chew gum. Behind the counter she was chomping away while peeling labels and placing them on urine sample cups. “I want to see him,” Alex said.
The nurse stopped chewing and looked at him. Then she peered over at the attendant, who gave a nod. She got up and said, “I’ll take you myself.”
Alex struggled against his tears as he entered the elevator with the nurse, and he said nothing all the way down to the basement level. The only sound was the gum-smacking nurse. The door opened, and he followed her down a hall. She stopped and pressed a button. A bearded man in aqua scrubs opened the door.
“Closest kin needs to identify Lester Bray,” the nurse said.
The man gave a double-take as he appraised Alex, but then said, “Fine with me.”
The room was cold—not exactly a meat locker but close. A sheet-covered body lay on a gurney. It had to be Lester, because it was the only horizontal body around. It was silly to be afraid of a dead man, Alex told himself, but the fear remained. The bearded man didn’t give Alex time to adjust. He went right over and flipped the sheet down to expose Lester’s head and torso.
Alex felt a surge of fear as he got closer and stood next to Lester’s shut-eyed face. The bandage was gone, and there weren’t any tubes connected to bags, no gowns and no beeping machines. If there was anything good about coming down here, that was it. Lester wasn’t a patient anymore.
The nurse was kind enough to stop chewing her gum, making the room totally silent. Alex placed a hand on Lester’s chest and tried to remain perfectly still. He was keenly aware of the breath coming in and out of him and the lack of breath coming from Lester. And that’s when it hit him.
Lester’s final words in the Cadillac. The only clear word was promise, but there was more. Even as Lester had struggled with a brain-bursting headache; even as he fought off an urge to vomit; even as his left arm succumbed to paralysis; even as he cried, knowing that death was near, he didn’t think of himself. He thought of Alex.
Last thing Lester had said was, “Don’t forget your promise.”
Alex broke down crying again. He looked at Lester’s face and whispered, “I won’t. I’ll never give up on myself.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Right smack in the middle, between Lester’s death and funeral, Alex had an appointment with the shrink. In the spirit of reasserting her role as power broker, his mother had arranged the session. But, ironically, he was perfectly willing to go.
He had stayed up most of the night working on two speeches—one for Lester’s funeral, the other for Dr. Kruger. On the ride over in his mother’s Lexus, Alex didn’t wear his baseball cap, and he didn’t try to distract himself with New Yorker cartoons in the waiting room. He merely sat there, mentally rehearsing what he would say.
“Come on back, Alex,” Dr. Kruger said. Then he looked at his mother and said, “Patricia, give us five minutes before joining us.” It was an unexpected move on the doctor’s part. Alex would have to adjust accordingly.
“So, Alex,” Dr. Kruger said as he closed the office door, “I won’t pretend not to know what’s been going on over the past two weeks. Your mother and I had a few conversations.”
“I’m sure you got an unbiased account.” Alex sat down.
“I’m not here to reprimand you. In fact, I think I can understand the motives for what you did.”
“What did I do?”
Dr. Kruger chuckled and said, “Where do I start?” He leaned forward. “You ran off without telling anyone—”
“Not true,” Alex interrupted. “I wrote a note.”
“Okay,” Dr. Kruger said. “But then you took off from Florida instead of going with your mother.”
“Well, that part is true. But I don’t regret anything. I’d do it exactly the same again.”
“So you don’t mind putting your mother through hell?”
“She’s fine,” Alex said. “She and Bill had a nice little vacation on the beach. She even got herself a much-needed tan.”
“She wasn’t fine when she called my home after midnight. Twice.”
“So maybe you need a vacation.”
Dr. Kruger shook his head and took a long breath.
“I’m not going to apologize to her, if that’s what you want. And I won’t apologize to you for missing a little beauty rest.”
Dr. Kruger actually laughed at that. “None needed,” he said. “Shall we hear what your mother has to say?”
“Not yet.” Alex reached into his back pocket and pulled out a couple of folded pages. “There’s something I need to bring up with you.”
“Sure,” Dr. Kruger said, “anything at all.”
“Last time I was here, you practically called me a murderer.”
“I was expressing a degree of concern.”
“Well, that’s good, because I’m here to do the same for you.” Alex unfolded the pages and placed them on the doctor’s desk. The headline read: Massachusetts girl’s fatal overdose raises questions about psychiatric drugs for children. Alex had gotten the article off the internet. It was four months old—not as timely as the newsprint Kruger had shown him. But it would serve the purpose.
“I’m aware of this case,” Dr. Kruger said, reclining away from his desk.
“The girl was four years old,” Alex said. “Four years old and diagnosed with ADHD and Bipolar Disorder. She was forced to take drugs by one of your shrink colleagues. When those didn’t do the job, she got more drugs and higher doses.” This might have been the longest thing Alex had ever said to the man, but it felt good. Really good. He kept going. “The girl’s preschool nurse described her as a ‘floppy doll’ before she dropped dead from overdose.”
Dr. Kruger nodded and said, “You raise a good point. This may indeed turn out to be a case of malpractice.” He was still reclined and looking casual, but his fidgeting right leg gave him away. “For my part,” Kruger continued, “I don’t medicate four year olds.”
“Nice defense,” Alex said. “And I don’t shoot my classmates. I don’t own a gun. I don’t know how to make a bomb, and I suck at violent video games. Between you and me, who do you think is more likely to end up a murderer?”
Dr. Kruger didn’t answer. And he didn’t need to, because someone saved him by knocking on the door. He sat up a bit straighter and said, “Come in.”
The receptionist opened the door. “I have Patricia Riley.”
“Fine, have her come in.” Dr. Kruger refolded the article and tucked it under the medical chart. “We can revisit this,” he said, almost whispering to Alex.
“I’m sure you’d like that.”
Alex’s mother came into the office and sat in the chair next to Alex, placing her purse on her lap.
“We were just having a very productive conversation,” Alex said to his mother.
She looked at the doctor and said, “Is that so?”
“In a way, yes,” Dr. Kruger said. “We were talking about medication.”
“So you told Alex what I found?”
“Not exactly. It was more a discussion about the dangers of overmedication.”
“Well, I don’t see the relevance of that.” Alex’s mother looked from the doctor to Alex, “Especially in light of what I found.”
“Perhaps you could tel
l him,” Dr. Kruger said.
Alex was starting to worry. This had the makings of a two-on-one fight.
“All right,” Patricia said, still looking at Alex. “You haven’t been taking your medications, at least not since your absence. You left all three bottles in your bathroom.”
Shit, Alex thought. Stupidest oversight imaginable. He had been so caught up with packing the things he actually needed that he hadn’t even thought about the meds.
“Tell me,” Dr. Kruger said. “And don’t lie. When was the last time you actually took your prescribed medications?”
“Why does it even matter?” Alex said. “I don’t need them. I stopped taking them a long time ago. I’m fine without them.”
Kruger raised his clasped hands to his mouth as if to remind himself to think before speaking. Alex’s mother cut right through the silence. “Anybody who does what you did is not fine.”
“What about you?” Alex said. “Mail theft is a federal crime! And you’ve been doing it for years. All I did was visit my father, because you wouldn’t take me.”
“You did far more than that!”
“Let’s cool down for a moment,” Dr. Kruger said. And it appeared as though the shrink had already taken his own advice. He actually seemed calm for a man whose patient was totally noncompliant and whose same patient nearly called him a child killer. “I think I can understand Alex’s perspective here,” he continued. “And I think this may be an appropriate time for a change. Considering Alex’s good grades and the positive friendship he recently shared, I propose something new. I’m going to discontinue all current prescriptions.”
“Wow,” Alex said in disbelief. He sat up a bit straighter, suddenly wishing he would’ve called the man a murderer long before now. He looked at Kruger and said, “You won’t regret it.”
The shrink returned eye contact. “I trust not,” he said, which seemed to cover more territory than the immediate situation.
“Wait a minute,” Alex’s mother said. “That’s it? After everything I’ve told you, that’s all you have to say?”
“I guess there is more, Patricia.” Dr. Kruger hesitated, and then he said, “I’d like you to stop taking your son’s mail.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Lester’s funeral was held four days after his death on a cloudy Saturday in Schenectady, New York. Alex had insisted on driving the Cadillac, and he insisted on keeping Lester’s stick behind the front seat instead of the trunk, which was where his mother had wanted to put it. She sat in the backseat, prodding it away from her as if the thing was someone else’s used handkerchief. Rebecca sat up front, instructing Alex where to make his turns.
The funeral home was across the street from a park with tennis courts. The building looked like a Dutch mansion. “Looks haunted,” Alex said as he searched for a parking spot.
Rebecca smiled. “It’s the nicest funeral home in Schenectady. Mr. Bray had a lot of class.”
One thing Alex hadn’t yet learned was how to parallel park, and he wasn’t about to try it now with Rebecca in the car. He drove on to the next block and found an easy spot. He looked back at his mother and said, “Hand me the stick, please.”
She brought it forward. “I hope you’re not planning on putting this in his casket.”
“Yup,” he said, “I am.”
“You can’t do that.”
“It’s his stick, and that’s where he wanted me to put it.” Alex began walking and poking his way along the sidewalk. A big tuxedoed man held open the door for everyone. Last time Alex received such courtesy was at the Hilton in Charlotte. He let his mother and Rebecca pass before him.
The room was filled with approximately equal parts black and white people—all wearing suits or dresses. Alex wore khakis and a short-sleeve red shirt. It was the same combo he’d worn on the day he picked up Lester from jail and sat across from him at the truck stop in Brunswick. He had chosen the attire out of nostalgia, not realizing that he would stand out like a pimp at a Lutheran church. It made him feel nervous and judged.
With the exception of his mother and Rebecca, he didn’t expect to know anybody. It would have been great if Selma and Earlene had made the trip, but Rebecca said they couldn’t. He nodded pleasantly at a few people while stepping his way around the crowd. His goal was to get into the chapel before everyone else and put the stick in Lester’s casket. If the old man’s fingers were clutched around it, no one would have the nerve to pull it out.
The casket was glossy black with brass inlay near the edges, and it was surrounded on three sides by a cascade of flower bouquets. As he came closer, he could see the flared tip of Lester’s nose. The same anxiety from the morgue returned. He couldn’t imagine seeing dead people on a regular basis. Lester’s face was made up nicely with some kind of powder or paste, and his expression looked peaceful, like he was simply indulging in one of his marathon naps. It didn’t fit that he was dressed in a fancy suit, but at least it was respectable. The stick would make it even better. Alex glanced back at the front of the room. Everyone was still out in the lounge.
His innards clenched as he reached for the old man’s hand. It was cold and stiff, and it gave him a terrible chill. It didn’t seem at all like the hand he had sketched five days earlier. If he tried to bend the fingers, he’d risk snapping them off. The easiest thing was to lay the stick under the old man’s forearm.
So that’s what he did. He took one final look then drifted back to the first pew. He tried to picture Lester in the afterlife, possessing all the things lacking in his prior existence—vibrant health, a loving wife and even a couple of kids. In a little while, a line formed in front of the casket. Alex closed his eyes. A woman played something slow and depressing on a portable organ while a string of people passed before him.
The music picked up a bit and then stopped altogether. Everyone was seated except for an old black man with chaotic white hair. He let a moment pass. Then he said, “Today we celebrate and honor the life of Lester Bray.” He opened his hand toward the casket. “Here was a man who grew up with nothing. He came from a poor town in Alabama. He struggled to make a place for himself in this world. And let me tell you, folks, he found a place.”
Alex was too nervous to continue listening. And he wouldn’t allow himself to cry. He had already honored Lester with an abundance of tears. Today he would honor the old man with words from the heart, spoken publicly. He had written his speech on Hilton stationary. Putting his thoughts to paper was the easy part. The prospect of actually reading it out loud in front of all these people put him on the verge of terror.
Three more people got up to speak on Lester’s behalf. One man, a former co-worker, recounted the glory days at GE and how valuable Lester still was to the diesel locomotive industry. An elderly woman spoke of being neighborly as one of the finest virtues of mankind and how helpful Lester was as her neighbor. Then a middle-aged white man, a lawyer, declared Lester a beacon of community service. He recounted how Lester had pestered the mayor into condemning a row of crack houses and allocating more funds for the downtown library expansion.
Alex’s nerves were a nonstop crescendo. The fact that these other people expressed themselves so eloquently made it even worse. He craved for at least one of them to screw up, take the pressure off. This would have been an ideal time for the Father Mind Game. Alex could have gotten a major lift knowing that his father was there in spirit, guiding him to oratory perfection. But the game had spoiled into something childish and stupid. The wild-haired man regained the pulpit and said, “Is there anyone else who would like to share in Lester’s memory?”
A spell of silence. The moment had come. Alex was approaching spontaneous combustion, but he cleared his throat and said, “I’ll say something.”
“Come on up,” the man said.
He stood, pulled his speech from his back pocket and took a wavering route to the podium. The man gave him a gentle pat on the back and said, “Say what’s in your heart,” which didn’t help, becaus
e Alex’s heart was choked off by all the anxiety. He was alone, staring at a kaleidoscope of people.
“Hello,” he said, “my name is Alex Riley.” Just then he remembered a technique an English teacher had given his class. She had insisted that you should always direct your voice to a person in the back row. So he picked an oval-faced black woman who was standing near the door. She was wearing a fancy hat and a royal blue dress that shimmered when she changed position. And as she waited for Alex to speak, she changed position a lot.
“It’s okay, honey.” It was a different woman, third row center. “Just say what’s on your mind.” Suddenly it occurred to him that he could play the game one last time. Just the thought of it helped him relax.
He brought the calm wisdom of his father to the center of his mind and started reading the speech. “Friendship isn’t measured by the amount of time you spend together. It isn’t measured by how many things you have in common, like sports teams or political parties. True friendship, I’ve recently discovered, goes a lot deeper.”
The woman from the third row said, “That’s right.”
“I know this because of the brief time I spent with Lester, traveling around the country. What I found is that friendship can happen between an old black man and a scrawny white punk like me.”
An eruption of laughter filled the room, and it seemed to warm the chilly cavity of Alex’s chest. He continued reading: “And I discovered that the best thing about Lester’s friendship was that he didn’t judge me.” As he said this, he realized it wasn’t totally accurate. “Well,” he continued, disregarding his notes, “not unless I needed it. And he didn’t pin labels on me. But he did listen to me for hours and hours. And I listened to him the best I could.”
He paused and glanced down at his notes. He had written down some of the highlights of their trip, but he didn’t feel like covering all that. He decided to go a different direction. Looking at the iridescent woman, he said, “Lester wasn’t afraid to break the rules. In fact, he and I were never supposed to travel together—he wasn’t even supposed to drive. Lester took naps in the backseat without his seatbelt on, and he stole a couple of hand towels out of a motel room to keep his car from getting dirty. So he wasn’t perfect.” There was some chuckling from the audience. “That’s probably why I liked him so much.” More chuckles.
Cadillac Chronicles Page 20
