Martin, Crook, & Bill

by Donna Nitz Muller

  Clara completed a few stitches. “We need paper,” Crook said to the obese woman. She rolled her eyes.

  The guard brought over a hospital form. He gave the form and a pen to Clara.

  “Father’s name,” Clara asked.

  “Martin Webster,” Crook answered.

  Martin felt the guard gape at him.

  “Mother’s name,” Clara looked at Crook. Crook looked at Sandra. Sandra shook her head. She didn’t know what to say.

  Crook answered, “Put Loretta for the first name, unknown for the last name. List her as deceased, died in child birth.” Crook’s expression never changed, nor did his tone. Clara wrote as she was told. Clara signed as the attending midwife. Crook signed as a witness.

  “We need a name for the baby,” Clara sounded tired.

  All eyes turned to Martin. Martin barely noticed them as he was wiping Sandra’s neck and arms with a cool cloth.

  “A name,” Crook ordered, looking at Martin.

  “Kirby Puckett,” Martin answered, quickly, first thing that came to mind.

  “Kirby Puckett Webster,” the orderly smiled at Sandra. “That is a fine name.”

  Sandra’s eyes were glazed so Martin gently pinched her arm. She nodded at the orderly.

  Clara said to Martin, looking directly at him, “Take this form to the court house in Lincoln County and get it filed. They will register the birth and give you a birth certificate, and then you have to get a social security card. Understand?”

  Martin nodded. He understood. He had to swallow the bile that rose in his throat merely from looking at Clara. She was hideous. He again covered Sandra’s eyes.

  “I want money,” Clara said to Crook.

  “Money, Martin,” Crook said to him.

  He pulled out his credit card.

  Bill said to him, “Use your cash, Martin. That’s for stuff not on the credit card list.”

  Everyone shuffled nervously. Crook moved away from Clara and snatched the wallet from Martin’s pocket. Martin saw that he gave Clara a twenty. Clara frowned, and Crook shook his head.

  Without another word, or even a sound, she opened the door, put her head into the hallway and her bulk followed her head with amazing agility. All Martin could see was her fingertips as she held the door from clicking shut. She was gone.

  The orderly gave Kirby a fast scrubbing, running water on a towel to muffle the sound. Kirby wailed a baby wail that was both quiet and piercing. The orderly dressed the tiny baby in an adult-sized t-shirt that he wrapped back around his body. Kirby looked like a tiny mummy. The young man weighed him and measured him and printed the information on the form. Then he handed Kirby to Sandra.

  Sandra in turn handed the baby to Martin.

  “He has to eat,” Martin told her. He knew he sounded stern. At this moment, Sandra was no longer the child. Shock showed in her eyes as she looked at Martin, but she did not resist as Martin helped her to feed Kirby.

  Martin said, “He is a handsome lad.”

  Sandra turned her face away.

  Martin did not care that Crook handed out money from Martin’s wallet to his helpers. Bill found a hoarse whisper in which to say, “Add that to your cash list, Martin. Miscellaneous health.”

  When Martin noticed a white-green line around Bill’s mouth, he clutched Bill’s upper arm with one hand. He hoped to comfort Bill but he couldn’t speak. Both men turned away while the orderly helped Sandra. Martin gazed at the baby curled inside his elbow.

  A wheelchair appeared beside Sandra’s bed. Bill and Crook gently helped her into the chair. They used a white square bed pad with blue plastic backing as a pillow beneath her. Martin held Kirby. Kirby weighed six pounds and eleven ounces and nearly disappeared in Martin’s hands. Martin was at ease with Kirby, and Kirby blessedly did not cry.

  Chapter Ten

  Sandra felt relief, tremendous relief and exhaustion. In a week she would be home and back at practice with no one the wiser. She struggled to hold her head upright as the guard whispered hurried instructions to Bill on how to drive to the back entrance. Bill walked quickly from the room, and tears gathered in Sandra’s eyes as she watched him. These men helped her. They were with her, and she was with them.

  As Crook wheeled Sandra to the service elevator, she glanced briefly to verify that Martin followed with Kirby. It shocked her how much it mattered that the baby was okay, that he was with Martin. That was all. She felt no need to hold him or care for him, only that he was safe and cared for.

  The service elevator was beyond the regular elevators around a corner and down another hallway. It was a wood platform without sides used to haul heavy supplies and equipment. About four inches of air outlined the platform from the elevator shaft, and the pulleys and cables were also open.

  The platform was obviously not intended for human cargo, but this elevator would take them to the back loading docks and not to the front lobby. Onto this platform Crook wheeled Sandra, carefully lifting the wheels across the open space. She watched Martin overcome a reluctance to step over. He covered Kirby with his hand to protect the baby. Cool air drafted over them as they descended.

  The noise and metallic rattle startled them all. “Oh, man!” Crook gripped the wheel-chair and cursed under his breath.

  “Uncle Crook forgot about the noise,” Martin whispered to Kirby.

  “So did daddy,” Crook said over the noise. “The elevator running at this time on a Saturday will raise alarms.”

  Sandra wondered what that would mean. Even if she was discovered, they couldn’t keep her. Then she gasped as she realized they could keep Crook, maybe even Martin. They would call her parents. Her parents would know she had a baby. Her fingers clutched the sides of her chair as she struggled to breath.

  And it was slow, the elevator lurched down at a snail’s pace. It was too late to go back, so they descended. She glanced up at Martin. He was frozen like a statue. Still he looked at her and said, “Don’t worry.” He nodded his head toward Crook. His balance appeared precarious, and his bundle was held with utmost care.

  Finally the platform halted about six inches above the cement dock. Martin had to use one hand to help Crook lift the wheelchair from the elevator. For a second Sandra felt herself pitch forward but she balanced her own weight and held on.

  Crook pushed the wheelchair to the platform steps located a few yards away. She stared into the dusk for Bill while clutching Martin’s shirt. “I can walk,” she said.

  So Crook helped Sandra to descend step by step while Martin lifted the wheelchair off the side with one hand. He stepped past his friends, and righted the chair. Sandra sat back down, breathing heavily, and Martin carefully moved her hair from her face.

  Security lights were not on in the early evening dusk. The three of them moved like thieves into the dusk with hesitant steps. Her mouth was dry, and she kept swallowing. Where were Bill and the car?

  He appeared like a spook in the dim light, apparently too traumatized to talk. He gestured toward the Lincoln, idling along a bend in the delivery road, nearly invisible from where they stood. In minutes, Sandra rested in the back seat, leaving room for Crook. Martin sat in front with Kirby, and Bill sat behind the wheel.

  They would make it undiscovered. They would make it. She heard Bill sigh and Martin talk softly to Kirby. She closed her eyes. Then Crook said something that stopped everything, Sandra’s heart and Sandra’s hope. Leaning into the back passenger side door, Crook said. “I have to go back. Pick me up at the front door.” He was gone.

  Chapter Eleven

  Crook re-entered the hospital by a seldom-used maintenance entrance. Inside he glanced at the big, white-faced clock. It was 6:40 PM. He had twenty minutes until lock down and lockdown was tight. Even he could not move around after lockdown. Two things propelled him up six flights of stairs: he would walk out the front door or he would not walk out at all, but he had forgotten his suitcase in the surgery, and his carving piece was in that suitcase.

  He thought a
bout the baby. Now there were two lost souls who knew no other life than inside these walls. Not exactly a silver spoon for the kid, but a false identity was better than no identity. Martin would take care of the baby, Crook knew that. His mother couldn’t love him, Crook saw that.

  Rape, he thought. A mother who could not even look at her newborn had suffered beyond forgiveness. He would find out how she came to be in Martin’s care, but it helped Martin, pushed him to work harder to be well.

  At last he saw the large number “6” painted on the door at the top of the steps. The stairs stopped here. Crook pushed open the door into a dimly lit, deserted hallway. No one waited there. He soundlessly ran the corridor, passed the regular elevators, and ran for the surgery room. In front of the locked surgery room door sat his suitcase.

  The security people would be in the dining room counting heads. They would not be counting his anymore. Bag in hand, Crook strode to the elevator that would take him to the lobby. The elevator landed gently and quietly and the doors swooshed open and there stood Dr. Durkson, facing him, arms crossed.

  Crook’s heart raced and his hands were wet, but nothing showed in his expression, nothing flickered in his eyes. “Forgot my suitcase,” Crook said. He noted the empty receptionist desk and the glass doors across the entrance way. Since the doctor did not move or speak, Crook started to go around him. He would not run.

  “Crook,” Dr. Durkson called him. Crook turned. Obviously the receptionist reported to Dr. Durkson that Martin went upstairs. So, likely he waited for Martin to come down. “I am here well past my time to be home on a Saturday. I told my wife this morning that I might be late. I just knew that your exit would not be routine.”

  To Crook, the doctor looked reconciled, almost sad. Crook forced himself to hold his bag loose in his hand, no clutching. Two janitors emerged from a side door with bucket and mops. They began moving the chairs and mopping the floor where Sandra sat.

  “Why are you here?” the doctor asked him, still without moving and in his calm doctor voice. Crook saw in the man’s eyes that he hoped for a lie good enough to be believed. He did not want to investigate anything. He did not want to know why Martin went up and Crook came down.

  For a second Crook thought the place was a science fiction novel where zombies awoke to come out at night and do their mopping and then return to some invisible, unknown hideout. To the doctor, he repeated, “I forgot my suitcase.”

  From the doctor’s glance to the elevator lights, Crook knew the doctor was waiting for help. Had he expected Crook, he would have had Security in place in the hallway. “I asked Martin to get it for me, but he couldn’t find it. So, I had to come back inside and get it.”

  Dr. Durkson pondered this answer for several seconds. He glanced toward the sitting area where the janitors were finishing their work. One man pushed the large, wringer bucket by the handle of his mop. He pushed it on squeaky wheels towards the maintenance door. Then Dr. Durkson let it go. Crook saw it, the release of control, like a physical cloud in the atmosphere vaporizing.

  “Good answer,” the doctor said.

  The elevator doors opened and two security guards stepped through. They shook their heads at Dr. Durkson, indicating that no one was missing, nothing out of place. Crook gave no more indication of relief upon observing that report than he registered alarm at seeing the doctor.

  Again, they waited while the Doctor thought about it. He said, “I called security to check on a Saturday service delivery. Nothing was scheduled.” He sighed. “I should ask you if you have any knowledge of why the service elevator was used. I am interested in what you would say about that. However, my curiosity is outweighed by my reluctance to open that can of worms. I guess that Martin left the building via the service elevator for some unknown reason and you used the elevator so he could exit out the front door.”

  He looked hard at Crook. “Don’t say anything,” he said.

  Crook had no intention of saying anything.

  “Goodbye, Crook,” Dr. Durkson said and turned to his office, dismissing the guards with a wave of his hands. Then he turned back; the guards again stood still. “May I check your bag, Crook?” he asked.

  Crook wondered why he had never liked Dr. Durkson. He liked him now. He handed his suitcase to the security guard who opened it and held it for the doctor to look through the humble contents.

  “Another chess piece,” Dr. Durksen asked while turning a six-inch square piece of wood in his hands. “How you can carve without knives allowed is thought for another day.” He used his hands carefully. Crook thought he did not want to dig too deep.

  “A Queen,” Crook said.

  “I could use one for my new desk. A whole set would be nice.” Dr. Durkson snapped the bag shut and returned it to Crook. This time Crook sprinted toward the door, grabbed the garbage bag containing Martin’s coat, came to a complete stop, looked outside for several seconds and then slowly, head high, he stepped through.

  In less than a minute he sat in the back seat of Bill’s Lincoln. Bill sped away as fast as he could without causing suspicion. They did not stop, or talk, or move until the hospital was well behind them, and then the city.

  Chapter Twelve

  Inside the big Lincoln, silence reigned. Only the sound of Sandra’s deep sleep could be heard, a rhythmic sighing in the far distance. In the rear-view mirror Bill saw that her knees bent and her feet rested on Crook’s thigh. Bill adjusted to the experience, testing it for reality. Kirby snuggled in Martin’s arms. A small sucking sound came from the baby at intervals and verified that he lived.

  The headlights bent through the deepening dusk. Bill’s grip on the steering wheel relaxed and he eased back in his seat, sighing. As the last vestiges of city drifted past, no one spoke of what just happened. Certainly Bill had no words, not even for himself.

  At last, Martin said, “K-mart,” gesturing to the right as a final, almost isolated, shopping center emerged. Bill nodded. As the car halted, rocking gently when Bill jammed the gear shift into park, Martin placed Kirby in Bill’s arms. Martin moved around, jerking his large frame in the cramped space.

  Bill as well as Crook observed Martin’s movements, waiting, watching. Martin pulled Nancy’s list for his credit card from his pocket and held it aloft. Bill rolled his eyes, and Crook sat back. Martin then rooted in the glove compartment until he found a pen and carefully printed at the bottom of the list the word “Items.” They needed some items.

  Sandra, still sleeping, bled through her jogging pants. She did not look comfortable with her head at an awkward angle against the door and her body across the seat with her long, bent legs nearly to Crook’s door. In a sudden image flitting through Bill’s mind, he recalled scolding his own daughter for spilling soda on the upholstered seat. He shook himself, realizing how much it did not matter. He did not care about the seat. What he felt was an overpowering surge of protectiveness. That and exhaustion.

  He was not accustomed to plodding through life’s underside. He laid his head back to rest while Martin went to shop, but could not close his eyes. Kirby whimpered against his chest. Then he felt wetness on his shirt. “Of course,” he thought. “What else is there?”

  It took Martin a long time. Crook was preparing to go in after him when they heard cart wheels rattling across the black top, and Martin’s bulk emerged under the parking lot lights.

  Not an inch of space remained unused. Not even an aspirin could fit inside the car or in the trunk. Sandra woke to feed the baby. She fumbled around for awhile, embarrassed even in the darkness, but eventually Kirby sucked. She said nothing about the uncomfortable wetness of Kirby’s make-shift wrap. Bill wondered if she did not notice or if she did not care.

  After Sandra returned the infant to Martin’s outstretched hands, she again slept and Bill drove through the darkness. In Norfolk they found an all night diner and Bill went inside to buy food, damp shirt and all. When he returned, on his seat was a basketball that had fallen there when he got out.

/>   “For Christ sake, Martin,” he said. “why did you buy a basketball? Couldn’t Kirby wait until after we got home?”

  “It’s not for Kirby,” Martin answered, taking the ball from the seat and waiting to position it until Bill was sitting.

  Bill had no answer for that. He began handing out food. He said, “Sandra has to go home. Her parents will want to help her through this. God willing that we get home. You can do nothing more for her.”

  Crook, leaning forward to take his soda from Bill’s hand, said quietly, almost in a whisper, “Who did this to her?”

  Kirby began to cry as though in answer to Crook. Martin opened his car door and with the dome light he began to arrange a diaper and wipes, a blue sleeper and three blankets. He opened the new packages with precise care and carefully took what he needed. He positioned the infant on his lap with almost comic softness in contrast to his own strength.

  Bill said, “Come on, Norton!”

  Martin said, “It was a man named Hauk.”

  “We need a plan,” Crook said. No more words were spoken. No more words were needed. In that instant, all three men clicked on a single cylinder.

  Martin completed his task and handed the big eyed infant to Bill while he again adjusted his body into his space. He reached one arm for Kirby and pulled the baby into himself.

  “Sandra will want to help,” Martin said.

  “Whatever it takes,” Bill said.

  Bill drove on. The lights along the Missouri Bridge greeted them like a warm embrace. The dashboard was littered with containers, opened plastic packages, baby wipes and assorted Martin things.

  Bill’s only thought was to get home. He would clean the car another day. He had to get home, and the miles passed beneath the car in an exhaustive blur. Crook sat silent in the back while Martin held Kirby and talked to him. Martin spilled more words in his chatter to the baby than Bill had heard since Martin’s return.