A Different Kind of Blues

by Gwynne Forster

  Admitting to herself, that he was, for the moment at least, wiser than she, she headed back to Monterey. There, she turned in the car and, to her amazement, he insisted on going with her to the train station and staying with her until she boarded the train, five hours later.

  “You’re a great gal,” he said. “If you get there before I do, say a word for me.” His embrace, fierce and sincere, left her nearly breathless. He stared down at her, kissed her on the mouth, and walked off.

  She watched his long strides until he was out of sight. Good grief! She hadn’t asked his name. The conductor yelled, “Board. All aboard.” She knew the stranger had not fallen for her, but he cared about her well-being, and she was sorry for that and sorry that he would always be for her an anonymous face on a beautiful male physique. The train wasn’t half-full, so she had two seats to herself, put a pillow beneath her head, and was soon asleep. The next day, she changed trains in Amarillo, Texas, and, on a stormy Saturday morning around seven o’clock, arrived at last in Atlanta.

  At the airport, she booked a hotel, checked in, and crashed into bed. “I’ve never been so tired in my life,” she said aloud, forced herself to sit up and used the hotel phone to call her house. Krista answered the phone.

  “Fields residence, this is Krista.”

  “Honey, how are you? This is Mom.”

  “Mom?” Krista shrieked. “Where are you? You’ve got everybody going crazy. Are you all right?”

  “I’m in Atlanta, and I’m fine, except for a headache now and then. How’s Mama?”

  “Mama’s okay, but I wish you’d hurry back, because she stays on my case. I’m working full time, and I only go out anywhere on Monday nights, but she still finds things to nag me about. She’s on duty today, and that means I get some peace.”

  “I thought you’d be working at the store on a Saturday.”

  “I usually do, but I put in twenty hours overtime this week, so they made me take today off. When you coming home? Nobody would be surprised if I did something like this, but you’re always so…so sensible.”

  “I…uh…I’ll be back in a few days. You’ll be surprised at what I have to tell you.”

  She imagined that Krista rolled her eyes to the ceiling when she said, “Mom, from here on, nothing you say or do will surprise me. I’m still in shock from this.”

  “I imagine you are. Do you go to see your father?”

  “Yeah. He’s cool. Tell you about it when you get back.”

  “All right. Give my love to Mama. Bye.”

  She hadn’t expected such warmth from her daughter, but she was glad for it. Maybe in the time she had left, they could recover their loving relationship. With that thought, she dozed off to sleep. She awakened at five o’clock that afternoon, dressed, and went down to the lobby in search of a sandwich. Finding none, she bought a copy of the Atlanta Constitution and sat down to read until the restaurant opened for dinner, but couldn’t concentrate.

  Winston Fleet filled her thoughts, and in her mind’s eye, she saw every breath he took, every blink of his eyes, and every crease of his face as he made wild and passionate love to her. She folded the newspaper, rested her head on the back of the lounge chair, and fought back the tears. In her peripheral vision, she became aware that a man had sat down opposite her, remembered that she sat in a public lounge, got up, and went into the bar.

  “What’ll it be?”

  For reasons she didn’t question, she ordered a margarita, the drink she shared with Winston. She had sipped most of it before she realized that she was the only woman sitting at the bar. The realization gave her an uneasy feeling; she hadn’t previously been in a bar alone. When an older man took the stool next to her, she marveled at his resemblance to her grandfather.

  “You not from round here,” the man said in what was a statement rather than a question, and she sensed censorship in his tone.

  “No, I’m from Ellicott City, Maryland. Actually, I’m trying to see as many of the things I’ve always wanted to see, and do things I’ve missed.”

  “Another one?” the bartender asked her.

  “I think I will.” She savored the drink. “According to my doctor, I don’t have much longer to live.” She took another sip. “So I’ve decided to live while I’m living.”

  “Hogwash!” She stared at him, suddenly frightened. “You look the picture of good health. Nothing’s wrong with you; you’re just looking for an excuse for your sluttish ways.”

  “What?” She could almost feel herself shrivel up. Not only did the man resemble her late grandfather, but his words—especially the expression, “sluttish ways”—and his tone were those of her grandfather. Shaking with fear, she handed the bartender a twenty-dollar bill, fled the bar, and ate supper in her room. To her mind, she hadn’t done anything immoral. Besides, she tried to treat people right, and she paid her debts. Maybe Atlanta women didn’t go to bars, but how would she know? She decided that as soon as she saw the King Historic Site, she would take a plane to Baltimore and go home to Ellicott City.

  Thinking back on the past couple months, it seemed to her that she had taken selfishness to the limit. She had to tell her mother, Krista, and her friends about her condition, and she should train someone to take her job. I’m going home tomorrow night, no matter what.

  The next morning, she had a breakfast of grits, scrambled eggs, country-sage sausage, and coffee and headed for the corner of Auburn Avenue and Jackson Street, North East. She stood before Dr. King’s tomb for a long while, thinking that no matter how great we are and how many wonderful deeds we do, in the end, we are all equal. She didn’t feel power or the awesome reverence one experiences when beholding a mighty man, as she’d thought she would. And there certainly lay before her the remains of such a man. She released a sharp expletive, and cursed the soul of James Earl Ray. Elegant though it was, the memorial didn’t communicate what she had expected. Instead of a sense of great sorrow and loss, a strange peace enveloped her. She couldn’t understand it.

  She didn’t feel troubled or sad as she should have, for she revered Dr. King. Indeed, a feeling of contentment, of acceptance of life pervaded her while she walked back to the bus stop. Suddenly, she became aware of the hot sun bearing down on her and had to resist the urge to unbutton her blouse. “Why do I feel so lightheaded?” She rushed to get to the bench at the bus stop, so that she could sit down and regroup. When her self-awareness returned, she lay in a hospital bed gazing up at one sweet-looking brother.

  “Where am I, and how did I get here?” she asked the man who she took to be a doctor. “What happened? What am I doing here?” She gazed around her and verified that she was lying in bed in a hospital.

  “I’ll get the doctor,” the man said and turned to leave.

  “Is somebody going to give me something for this splitting headache?”

  The man turned, walked back to her, and stroked her forehead so gently that she hardly felt his touch. “Feeling better?” he asked in the deepest, sexiest voice she’d ever heard.

  “If I’m going to die,” she said, “I want to go right here and right now.”

  The man left the room and returned a few minutes later with an authoritative, Denzel Washington-looking man who wore a white coat. “I’m Dr. Hayes. How’re you feeling?” He removed his stethoscope from the pocket of his white coat and began to examine her chest.

  “How’d I get here?” she asked him.

  “I’m told that you passed out on the street near the King Historic Site. Someone called an ambulance, and the ambulance brought you to us.”

  “Don’t waste your time on me, Doctor. I already know that I only have about six weeks left, and I don’t want anybody performing heroic measures in order to keep me here.”

  Hayes stopped examining her and frowned. “Where’d you get that idea? We’ve done numerous tests, and the MRI and CAT scan show a small tumor that’s operable.” As if that settled the matter, he said, “I need to ask you a few questions. How old are you?”<
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  She told him. “Ever had surgery?” She hadn’t.

  “Wonderful. You have to sign this form giving permission for the surgery. Afterward, take proper care of yourself, and you should live a long and productive life.”

  “Sure, and King Kong was a real live ape that climbed to the top of the Empire State Building,” she said, because she didn’t believe that an operation would preserve her life. “But, what the heck! I’ll sign it.” He handed her the form, and she signed it without reading it.

  “Surgery is tomorrow morning at seven,” Hayes said, ignoring her belittlement not only of his advice but of his skills as well.

  “Who’s he?” she asked Hayes, pointing to the man who was with her when she awakened.

  “Connor. He’s your nurse.”

  Her eyes widened, and her lower lip dropped. “You’re joking. Now this is what I call hell. I have a good-looking man all to myself, and what does he do but wash my face, blow my nose, and change my soiled gown. There is no justice on this earth.”

  A grin transformed the doctor’s face. “If that’s payment for your sins, I’d say you got lucky. See you in the morning.”

  After the doctor left, Connor began taking her temperature and pulse. “Nobody jokes with Hayes. He’s the head honcho here, and you’re lucky. He’s the best brain surgeon anywhere around. When you get back home, you ought to sue that chicken shit doctor of yours, and get another one.”

  “I’m not counting on getting back there, at least not yet. But if I do, his name is Mudd.”

  “The thing for you to do now,” Connor said, “is think pleasant thoughts. You want to call anyone?”

  She thought for a minute. “I never told my folks I was sick, or what the prognosis was, so I’ll just let it go. My ID is in my purse. If I come out of this, fine.”

  “Your purse is in a safe. You want to read, watch TV?”

  “Just give me an aspirin or something, and I’ll go to sleep.”

  Unaware of the drama taking place in Petra’s life, Winston Fleet struggled to get his life back on track. He understood why she had left while he slept, but it hurt that he didn’t know where she went, how she was, or even if she was still alive. That Sunday morning, he teed off after his buddy and golfing partner and, for the first time in his life, he hit a hole in one.

  “Man, what’s wrong with you?” his friend, Ron Bailey, asked him. “You just hit a hole in one. Are you all right? I mean, you’re not sick are you?”

  “In a way, I guess you’d say I am. Yeah. Finish your round. I’ve had it.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Petra Fields, and I don’t know where the hell she is.”

  “That’s tough, man. Maybe your grandmother can help.”

  “Maybe she could, but I don’t want any bad news. I’d rather not know. Would you believe I don’t have Petra’s address or phone number?”

  “She must have given you a double whammy, man. You’re usually more meticulous than that. We may as well go. A man who doesn’t dance after he makes a hole in one is in no shape to play golf,” Ron said. “If you think over your conversations with her, you’ll find that she gave you a clue as to how you can reach her. Search your brain, friend.”

  Winston spent the evening doing precisely that, but the effect of three bottles of Pilsner beer was a befuddled mind, and he went to sleep mentally exhausted and with a heavy heart.

  In the meantime, unaware of Petra’s upcoming surgery, Goodman tried to give their daughter the support she needed. He put the boxes containing the computer and printer on the floor and rang the front doorbell. When the door opened, Lena Fields’s pursed lips and dark frown greeted him.

  “What do you want? I thought you’d gotten lost years ago.”

  “Proves you shouldn’t waste your time thinking,” he said, caught himself and smiled the smile that usually got him out of jams. “How are you, ma’am? I want to set up this computer and printer for Krista.”

  “She’s not home. She said she was going to some kind of choir rehearsal. Whether that’s true, I can’t say.”

  “That’s where she was tonight,” he said, remembering Petra’s frequent complaints about her mother’s constant negativity. “She’s sitting in the car talking on her cell phone.”

  “She shouldn’t have a cell phone. Who knows who she’s calling? I’ll be glad when Petra comes back here. Krista’s my grandchild, but I don’t enjoy being responsible for her. She’s just as uppity as she can be.”

  He ignored that. “Where’s her room?”

  He set up the printer and the laptop docking station, showed Krista how to operate both and, as soon as he finished, prepared to leave. A little of Lena Fields could last him indefinitely. He had avoided her when he and Petra courted. He suspected that if she hadn’t been so mean and judgmental, he and Petra would have had more privacy, and he probably wouldn’t have slipped up and impregnated her.

  “I’d better be going, Krista. Your grandmother is not one of my fans.”

  “Oh, she’s not so bad. You just have to ignore her when she starts preaching. I’ll see you next Monday.”

  She jumped up from her perch on the bed, hugged him, and kissed his cheek. “You’re the best dad I ever had,” she said, grinning. “You’re super.”

  He supposed he preened. Maybe that was the difference between daughters and sons. His sons gave him a sense of male pride, but Krista made him feel as if he were king of the world. He hugged her, and it surprised him that she seemed genuinely touched by it.

  “See you next Monday,” he said again and loped down the walk to his car. He dialed Carla to let her know that he was on his way home.

  “I should be there in about twenty minutes,” he told his wife. “Where’re the boys?”

  “I suppose you forgot that they have French tutoring tonight, so stop off somewhere and get your dinner. We ate.”

  And didn’t save dinner for me? he thought but didn’t say. “I’ll do that,” he said, his tone sharp and unfriendly. He hung up and dialed Jada’s number.

  “This is Goodman. Have you eaten dinner?”

  “Yeah, but if you’re real nice and come straight here, I can give you some fried chicken, stewed collards, candied sweets, and baked cornbread.”

  “Woman after my own heart. I’m on my way.” The only other person who fixed him a meal like that one was his mother, and she’d moved from Ellicott City to Shreveport, Louisiana. He knew, however, that Carla’s thoughtlessness did not justify his philandering. The first time he did it, his conscience hammered at him, and he felt guilty for days, but each time he betrayed his own principles, doing so became easier. Krista suspected that he was unfaithful to his wife, and he hated that, because he wanted her to see him in a different light. He parked around the corner from the building in which Jada lived and, within little more than an hour and a half, he filled his belly, emptied the seed of his loins, and headed home.

  She’d asked him for money she needed to eke out her rent, but he knew she had enough for that and more. “Babe, you know I’d give it to you if I had it, and I’d have that and plenty more if the students would pay up. I was going to hit you for a few bucks.” She gave him thirty dollars, and he didn’t even pretend that it was a loan. If she’d get the message that he was not going to give her money, he’d stop hitting her for money he didn’t need. As he put his key into the lock of his front door, he had a niggling, unpleasant feeling that, if he didn’t change course, he’d lose his self-respect.

  At that very moment, Petra regained consciousness in the intensive care unit of one of Atlanta’s largest and most reputable hospitals. “How do you feel?” Connor asked her.

  “Tell me you’re not an angel,” she said.

  “Why should I tell you that?” he teased. “A lot of women will attest to the fact that I am.” He took her temperature. “Good. You’re on your way, sweetheart.”

  She thought she felt a sharp prick in her hip. “Did you stick something in me?” she asked him.r />
  “Mind your mouth, lady. All I did was give you a pain killer.”

  Leaving Winston would be the most difficult thing she’d ever had to do. Soft brown eyes seemed to follow her. Now, those eyes had long legs, and a group of them sat on a big boulder by the Pacific Ocean and beckoned to her. She tried to run to them, but her feet did not obey her. Suddenly, it began to rain millions of brown, long-lashed eyes that dropped around her like snowflakes.

  “Wake up. You’re having a nightmare,” the voice said. “Come on. Think pleasant thoughts. You’re getting well, and you’ll soon be going home.” A hand stroked her arm and the back of her hand. “Come out of it, Petra. Now. Talk to me.”

  She’d never been so thirsty. Looking around, she saw that the sun cast a ray across the foot of her bed. Her hand went up to her head where a strange, tight feeling warned her of bandages. She looked at her left arm, but she wore no watch, only a yellow plastic tag that read Petra Fields and a long number. Water. She wanted water.

  As she looked around for a way to call a nurse, a doctor walked in, smiled, and said, “Do you remember me?”

  “Yes. You’re Denzel Washington…. I mean, excuse me…I mean Dr. Hayes. May I please have some water?”

  He poured a glass of water from the pitcher on her nightstand and handed it to her. “Your tumor was benign, the operation was clean, and you’ll be as good as new in a couple of weeks. Be sure and tell that doctor of yours that I said you can expect another sixty years.”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you,” she said, becoming more alert by the minute.

  “Absolutely. I suggest that whenever you get a serious medical diagnosis, especially one of this consequence, you should seek a second opinion.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you for everything, Doctor. I sure am glad I passed out near the King Historic Site. If it had happened somewhere else, I might have been taken to a different hospital.”

  “Relax and don’t strain your eyes too much,” he said. “By the way,” he went on, as if what he was about to say was not important, “why did you say I was Denzel Washington?”