by Greg Johnson
Only later would he ask what was wrong: had the fever overtaken him, had he stopped being fifth grader Thom Sadler of 156 Friar Tuck Road and become someone else? And who would that be? But only much, much later. After everyone had forgotten and even Thom thought he had healed.
The accident happened quickly and stupidly, as accidents do. Ordinary night had fallen, the fireworks were over. Mrs. Carson went inside to wash dishes, and Mr. Carson was cleaning out the barbecue barrel. There were only some plain firecrackers left—Red Devils and Black Devils—and even Kit was quieting down, lighting the fuses one by one and flicking them into the dark reaches of the yard.
“Come on,” he said, “dontcha even want to do some of these?”
Earlier Thom had asked for a glass of ice water, and now he didn’t seem as overheated, though he felt a layer of clammy sweat under his clothes, and his head still throbbed. He’d caught the disappointed whine in Kit’s voice, so he set the empty plastic cup down in the grass and came forward, shyly.
“OK,” he said.
For a while they stood there, Kit lighting a firecracker and tossing it out, Thom lighting his and doing the same, back and forth, a companionable rhythm, like two boys pitching a baseball from glove to glove. They didn’t talk but just watched the momentary flash against the darkness and winced slightly in anticipation of the loud pop and then automatically reached for another. There were twenty or thirty left. Thom kept glancing over to Mr. Carson whose back was to them, faintly outlined in the light from the back windows of the house, and he felt a vague hollow ache he couldn’t understand that had nothing to do with his fever, and that’s when Kit laughed and said, “Well, hurry up, throw the thing,” and Thom looked down and saw the little Red Devil in his hand, the fuse crackling, and for some reason he didn’t toss it forward as he’d been doing but reared back as if throwing a football, and the instant before it would have left his hand the thing exploded and there was a piercing scream that must have been his own.
The next couple of hours would be a blur in Thorn’s memory for as long as he lived, but there was a brief remembered time at the Carsons’ kitchen table, Thom sobbing as he held the shaking wrist of his bleeding hand with his good one. He sat on Mr. Carson’s lap while Mrs. Carson held a cold compress around his burning thumb and forefinger, and then there was the ride to the emergency room and the tetanus shot and his glimpse of the swollen thumb with its nail torn away, exposing a pulp of hideous purple flesh oozing blood, and the smiling words of the doctor—“You’re young, you’ll heal fast”—and then they bandaged him up and sent him home.
Of course, his mother was furious, blaming those “darn people” next door and vowing to march over there and give them a piece of her mind, but Thorn’s father and Abby calmed her down, and he basked in the sympathy that came mostly from his sister, who asked shyly whether it still hurt and later brought him a Dr. Pepper float, his favorite treat, once they’d all calmed down and sat in the den watching television. But it was the day after the accident when he woke with his fever returned and worsened, feeling he was beyond all help, beyond all sympathy, and he had his feverish waking dream that Mr. Carson had entered the room and lifted him out of bed and settled him onto his lap. Thom was crying out, bawling like a much smaller child, and Mr. Carson was trying to hush him, his long naked arms held close around Thom, whose body felt suspended in this adult male embrace that felt so powerful and complete he thought he might have died from the fever—it might be Jesus holding him—and then he heard the disembodied voice whispering in his ear, Don’t worry, honey, just give it to the man upstairs, that’s what we always has to do, and that’s when he understood he wasn’t dreaming any longer and that the voice was Verna’s.
She was sitting on the side of his bed, and yes, he sat in her big soft lap, and floating above him Thom saw the dim worried faces of his mother and Abby, and he supposed he would be all right. His face was wet with tears and he held up his bandaged, throbbing hand as if this were an explanation. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t tell about his fever dream or any of that but just kept listening as Verna repeated, “Just give it to the man upstairs, honey, you hear me? He won’t let it hurt too bad or too long. You just quiet down now, you hear? I promise, honey, it ain’t gonna hurt for long….”
In the months and years that followed, as his voice deepened and his body grew rapidly, Thom would occasionally think of Mr. Carson and dry-eyed, hard-hearted, he would study his right thumb and thumbnail. There was no sign of the injury, not even the tiniest scar. After living next door for a year, the Carsons had moved away, transferred to another city, and though Thom was relieved rather than saddened, he couldn’t quite forget in the way everyone else had forgotten, You’re young, you’ll heal fast, and so he repeated to himself what the doctor had said, and Verna, whenever he did remember.
He thought how kind and hopeful were such words and he’d decided, through his life, to believe them.
Thom woke, dry-mouthed. Blinked his eyes. He recognized but did not recognize this room. Looked to the left, wearily, and saw the familiar but not-familiar IV stand with its clear bag of whatever and the narrow tube descending out of sight. He turned his left wrist and felt the heaviness of the bandage, the little twinge of the needle in his arm. Slowly, everything came back to him as happened each morning he woke in this place, but he didn’t want to remember so he closed his eyes, thinking he might sleep again. But no. Once his brain clicked on, it stayed on, so he decided he would think of pleasant things and not remember what happened that day in that oversized house on Westminster Drive in lovely tree-shaded Ansley Park. As Connie had remarked last night, he and Abby sitting on either side of the bed, Thom should remember he’d displayed the good taste to collapse inside a million-dollar showplace. That was something, at least.
A little smile had creased Thorn’s lips, and now he heard a sly male voice.
“So what are you grinning about this morning?”
He opened his eyes, and there was one of the most beautiful sights of his life: a tall smiling man in his thirties who might have posed for one of Raphael’s angels. Dark, close-cropped hair; eyes a pellucid green, like water cooled in an ancient fountain; strong nose and chin; exquisite thin-lipped mouth curved slightly in amusement. Yes, Thom thought, an angel. As Connie might say, he’d died and gone to heaven. But instead of wings the man wore blaring bright-green scrubs.
“Was I…smiling?”
“Looked that way to me.” His tone almost flirtatious as he turned Thorn’s wrist gently and felt his pulse. Kept those cool green eyes, the color of just-emerged spring leaves, on his watch as he said, “Must have been thinking pleasant thoughts. In this place, that’s a good idea.”
“Are you—are you my doctor?”
The angel laughed as he tucked Thorn’s hand back beneath the covers. Now he laid his palm on Thorn’s forehead, then along his cheek. Kept it there for several long seconds.
My God, Thom thought. That feels so wonderful.
“You don’t feel warm at all. I wasn’t working the past two days, but they said you had a pretty vicious fever.” He brought the thermometer probe to Thorn’s lips. “OK, open wide.”
Thom knew his eyes must look desperate, but he kept his mouth clamped shut and stared at this vision, his heart convulsed in longing. He said, “Would you mind…doing that again?”
The angel in green scrubs looked perplexed but friendly. “I’m sorry? Do what again?”
“Your hand…you had your hand against my face…”
The angel blinked. Guiltily, Thom knew that his flesh felt clammy, cool, unpleasant; yes, the fever had broken, and now he lay here sodden, uncharming. He didn’t even want to think about his sleep-plastered hair, his stubbly jaw. Probably smelled, too. This lovely man at whom he stared unashamedly wore a brisk-smelling cologne, his dark hair glistened with gel, his skin glowed with health and youth. But he didn’t look displeased. He might even have been pleased, a little.
“It ma
de you feel better?” he said, his voice fallen to a murmur, and the instant his hand cupped Thorn’s face—this time more intimately, closely—Thom could feel the cool fingertips along his temple, the smooth heel of his hand along Thorn’s jaw, and in between, pressed close against his cheek, the warm balm-like flesh of the angel’s palm, and again Thom closed his eyes, and before he drifted off came the thought yes, he was healed; yes, he would be all right.
That afternoon, when Abby and Connie arrived, Thom was sitting up in bed, sipping a Diet Coke and watching Oprah.
Connie said, “My God, did you see that gorgeous nurse?”
Thom shrugged. “Already had him.”
“Ha, I’ll be glad to take sloppy seconds!” Connie laughed. “Or thirds—or fourths!”
Abby came to the side of the bed and pressed Thorn’s hand. “Hey, guys, there’s a lady in the room.” She gave her usual searching look into his eyes. “You look great. You really do.”
Thom set the Coke on the bedside table and gave her a tilted smile. “My nurse gave me a shave,” he said. “And a sponge bath.”
Connie put one hand to his forehead, an operatic gesture. “I think I feel a fever coming on.”
Thom said, “He just came on duty today, but I’ve already learned to discipline myself. Only three calls per hour, max. That’s every twenty minutes. It’s been eleven minutes now, and I’m already having symptoms of withdrawal.”
Connie put his hands on his hips. “No, you’re having symptoms of male lust. Which means they have to let you out of this place.”
In truth, he’d shaved himself, and a diminutive male orderly from Pakistan had bathed him. But he couldn’t tell Connie or even Abby about earlier this morning—those long healing moments, the smooth long-fingered hand caressing his cheek. That was sacred.
“I get out tomorrow,” Thom said. Oprah had said something witty, and the audience roared with laughter, so he grabbed the remote control and flicked off the set.
Connie said, “Tomorrow? Oh, my God, that’s perfect.” He was looking at Abby, wide-eyed, as Thom glanced back and forth between them. He knew Connie well: something was up.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing,” Abby said. “He means we’re glad you’re coming home. Connie and I just gave your place the once-over.”
“You didn’t have to do that…” Now he knew why Abby wore a plain blouse and jeans today; her hair could use a brushing.
“I helped, too,” Connie said. “I did the vacuuming, and I put some fabulous pink glads in your bedroom.”
Thom smiled. “Thanks, Connie. But something’s up, and I want you to tell—”
“Oh, Thom, guess what!” Abby said. Again she pressed his hand. “Mike called, from your office? That woman made an offer on the Westminster house.”
Despite everything, he felt a surge of his salesman’s adrenaline. “Really? For how much?”
Earlier today he’d been thinking morosely that he’d jinxed the sale. After all, if the agent collapses during a showing and a client has to call an ambulance, maybe the client would take this for a sign. Not today. Not this house. He remembered little from that afternoon except the intense heat flushing his cheeks, temples, ears, and how his eyes had ached. Then his vision blotched, and in dreamlike fast-forward he was lying on the living room sofa, then the paramedics were loading him onto a stretcher.
All that had happened day before yesterday, but it might have been last month, last year.
“One point one, I think he said. If you feel up to it, he said to give him a call, but he spoke to the owner and the owner said OK.”
Connie said, “You’re really going home tomorrow? For sure?”
“Almost sure. My doctor left town for the holiday, so one of the residents is going to check me. They said if I’m still 98.6 in the morning, I’m gone.”
Connie gave an impish smile. “I’ll bet you’re in good hands. It’s Easter, so the docs on duty are probably Jewish, and everybody knows they’re the best doctors. If they don’t have ‘man’ or ‘stein’ on the ends of their names, I won’t go to them.”
Thom rolled his eyes. “Great, Connie. I’ll remember that.”
He hoped Connie’s buoyant mood wasn’t chemically induced. He’d noticed a glassy sheen to those bright blue-green eyes, and there was a manic exuberance to Connie’s remarks that bothered him. But he was hardly in a position to judge; which one had ended up in the hospital, after all?
“What about dinner?” Abby asked. “Want us to bring takeout? We could go down to Rocky’s Pizza or—”
The door opened, and the three of them looked over: a small-framed man with dark hair and rimless glasses stepped inside. He wore a white coat over his crisp shirt and tie, and he was reading from a chart. Finally he glanced up, flashed a professional smile.
“Hello, I’m Dr. Friedman—I’m doing rounds for Dr. McIlhaney?”
Connie sputtered with laughter but managed to contain himself. Embarrassed, Thom said, “Sorry, we were just trading jokes. Stupid jokes.”
Dr. Friedman’s smile had become a little forced. “No problem, jokes are good. Jokes are good.”
Once Abby had steered Connie out of the room, Dr. Friedman examined Thom and said yes, he could go home the next day. But when Thom asked what had caused the fever, and whether it would recur, he hesitated.
“Hard to say. With your—your condition, it could be lots of things. A random virus, or maybe CMV.” He was flipping through the chart. “What tests did they run? I’m sure Dr. McIlhaney will go over it with you when she gets back.”
He was edging away from the bed. Thom suspected he didn’t often deal with HIV patients.
“Sure thing, doctor,” he said. “Just thought I’d ask.”
“No problem,” Dr. Friedman said, the smile back in place. From the door he added, “That’s what we’re here for.” He was gone.
The next morning Abby and Connie arrived promptly at nine o’clock to take him home. On the way down Peachtree, Connie chattered brightly. Thom sat feeling stiff, wooden, his discharge papers and sack of medications on his lap. Abby leaned forward from the backseat. The Saturday morning traffic was light, and Thom told himself there was no real danger, even if Connie was taking something. If anything he drove too slowly, more interested in talking than getting Thom home.
“…so it’s a good thing you got sick now instead of during Freaknik. Can you imagine trying to navigate Peachtree with all that nonsense going on? We really ought to go somewhere that weekend, Thom honey, if you’re feeling better by then. How about St. Bart’s? We could just laze on the beach and do nothing. My father was threatening to come ‘visit’ sometime soon—of course he’s decided to cozy up to me now, and you know why—but when I told him about Freaknik, he seemed to change his mind rather abruptly! Not that I blame him, really. I’m not a racist, you know, but sharing the city with 50,000 black college students, all with their rap music blaring at high volume, isn’t my idea of fun.”
Thom said, “I don’t want to go anywhere. I’ll just lie low that weekend, I imagine. Stay home and read.”
“That sounds good,” Abby said.
Connie glanced sideways at Thom. “By the way, I took your advice about the jewelry.”
“The jewelry?”
“My mother’s stuff. I sent Daddy a letter and told him he could keep it, if he wanted to. You know, for sentimental reasons. That’s when he called about coming for a visit, so I think it really helped.”
“That’s good,” Thom said.
“I just can’t figure out why he wants to come, unless it’s about the money. I mean, that scene after Wilma’s funeral was so awful…”
“Maybe you should avoid him,” Thom said, wishing they could change the subject. “Say it’s not a good time or whatever.”
Connie nodded vehemently. “Yeah, that’s what I think. Warren, being Warren, thinks Daddy and I should process everything, of course, but I say leave well enough alone.”
When Connie turned off Peachtree, he glanced at his watch and stage-whispered to Abby, as though Thom couldn’t hear, “Should we run an errand or something? We’re a little early…”
“No, it’s fine,” Abby said quickly.
Thom said, “Early for what?”
“Oh, I told Warren we’d get back around ten, but it’s a quarter till,” Connie said, glancing at Abby.
Yes, something was up; Connie was the worst person in the world for keeping secrets. Thom saw how he fidgeted in the seat, his fingers flexing on the wheel. He could hardly contain himself.
“Just watch your driving, OK?” Thom said. He smiled. “Remember, I’m an invalid.”
By the time they arrived home, Thom bending to acknowledge Mitzi and Chloe’s ecstatic yips and twirls, he wasn’t exactly surprised when he heard a sudden commotion and several voices loudly proclaiming: “Surprise!” What did astonish him, after Valerie and Warren burst from the coat closet, waving and smiling, and Pace rose with a sheepish grin from his hiding place behind the sofa, was the fourth person who emerged shyly, awkwardly, from the kitchen. There, next to the dining room table heaped with gift bags, a decorated cake, and stacks of plates, silverware, and napkins, stood his mother.
“Hi, Thom,” she said. “Welcome home.”
His face had contorted into what looked, he hoped, like an expression of pleased surprise.
“Mom, what an amazing… I mean, I knew there was something, but I didn’t expect…”
Both he and his mother stepped forward as if pushed, and as the others watched, they exchanged a long, ceremonious hug. Pulling back, he saw that his mother’s pale-blue eyes were damp with tears. He inhaled the long-familiar scents of her skin lotion, her hair spray, and though he felt almost nothing, not yet, he was glad she was here. At his side he was aware of Abby, hovering anxiously.
