The Odds of You and Me

by Cecilia Galante

  Charlie is lying on his back, his face turned toward the window, eyes closed. He looks smaller than I remember, shorter, too. One of his arms, resting atop his chest, is in a sling; just the tips of his fingers peek out from the hardened plaster cast. Beneath the swath of sheet around his torso, I can make out more gauze and tape plastered mummy-like up to his nipples. A brown bandage the size of a playing card covers the left side of his throat, and above it, his ear looks singed, the now blackened cartilage dented somehow, maybe even torn. Above the damaged ear, his whole head has been wrapped in white; tufts of hair peek out here and there like small black weeds.

  There is a chair at the foot of his bed, a brown makeshift table next to it. I take another step toward the chair, somehow miscalculating the distance, and when I bump into it, the chair skids noisily across the floor. I hold my breath as he stirs, hang on to the foot of his bed as he opens his eyes. He blinks for a few seconds, as if trying to decipher me underwater. I turn, ready to flee, but he struggles to sit up, yelps something from the back of his throat. “Hey!”

  I rush toward the door, three steps away, until I’m out in the hallway. The nurses at the other end of the hall are standing next to each other, pointing to a chart.

  “Hello?” Charlie’s voice hurtles out behind me. “Who was that? You want something?”

  What do I want? I don’t know what I want. Sitting there at the stop sign ten minutes ago, the thought had occurred to me that I might confront him, offer him a deal: I won’t ever say anything about the rape if you drop charges against James. Now it sounds ridiculous, like something a kid might say on the playground: “I’ll give you my blue marble if you give me your purple.” Who am I kidding? Life doesn’t work like this. People can’t bargain their crimes away! Or am I just looking for an excuse? I hadn’t considered that seeing Charlie again might start an involuntary trembling throughout my body. Is that the reason I won’t go through with it? Or can I get a handle on things, tell myself in no uncertain terms that I am the one in control now?

  I look away from the nurse, smooth the front of my shirt down with a shaking hand as I walk back into the room. Charlie is busy trying to sit up, but whatever part of his torso is injured makes it impossible. He does not see me yet, as he is otherwise occupied, grabbing two of his pillows and ramming them impatiently behind his lower back. Finally he stops and lifts his head, startling a bit as he catches sight of me again.

  His face pales as his eyes meet mine, the fear in his eyes fleeting, like a deer running across the road. “I thought that was you.” His voice is hoarse. “What do you want?”

  “I . . .” The words are lodged in my throat; my knees are shaking.

  Charlie’s hands dart across his blankets, pulling them up around his waist. He looks at me steadily, sensing my fear. “You have something to do with this? You get him to do this to me?”

  “No.”

  He peers at me curiously now, as if I am an insect under a microscope. “No, huh? Just a happy coincidence? After all these years?”

  I shake my head, try to shrug. My shoulders feel like weighted stones. It is not difficult to reconcile the broken and battered body before me with the memories from that night. Nothing about Charlie’s eyes have changed. They are still dead. Still empty.

  “I’ve been watching the news,” he says. “I know he ran outta that cop car. And now you’re here. You think I’m s’posed to believe that you two weren’t in on this? Together?”

  I shake my head.

  “You here for money?” Charlie asks suddenly.

  “Money?”

  “Yeah. Are you here for money or something? I don’t have anything.”

  “What would I want money for?”

  He studies me for a moment, his jaw tightening. “Oh, I get it. You’re here to tell me you’re gonna press charges. Is that it? Go tell the cops what I did? Five years later?” He snorts. “You’ve been waiting a long time for this day, I bet.” He’s crouched over a little, one hand clutching the sheet, a tiger ready to spring. “Say something!”

  He laughs when I jump, his front dead tooth displayed like a dirty shell as he opens his mouth, and for some reason the sight of it sends a new wave of fear through me. I take a step backward, Charlie watching me like a caged animal. Another step. His eyes flatten until they are almost black, and a sac of spittle rests in the corner of his mouth. Two more steps. No. I can’t do this. Not even for James.

  “Hey, if you could prove anything, maybe I could share a cell with Rittenhouse.” Charlie chuckles as I reach the doorway. “Wouldn’t that be sweet? You could come visit. Do the whole conjugal thing. With both of us.”

  I walk quickly, moving on legs I do not feel as Charlie’s taunts follow me down the hall: “You got anyone else out there? The sheriff or someone? Should I be expecting any more visitors today, Bird? Huh?”

  The nurse with the SpongeBob jacket looks at me as I rush past the desk, then leans over and says something to the smaller one. They exchange a few words as I stand in front of the elevator, and then the smaller one heads back toward Charlie’s room. My insides are churning like a washing machine; a rush of roaring static is filling my head.

  But it is not until the doors open, letting me inside the four metal walls with a flickering overhead light, that I start to retch. Over and over again, until the contents of my stomach splash against the silver walls, congealing in a heap inside one of the corners. For a moment, it feels as though I am choking on my own tongue, and I flail wildly at the sides of the elevator with my arms, gasping for breath.

  Finally, I slump down in a corner of the elevator. The closeted air is putrid; my arms are trembling. The white buttons on the wall glow three, two, one. The doors open again, and even though I can see the wide EMERGENCY door and the neat trees and hydrangea paths that will lead me out to the sidewalk and back to my car, I do not move.

  The doors close again, and then open.

  Close, open.

  Close, open.

  Chapter 33

  It’s a terrible thing to do, but I leave my mess in the elevator. It’s a hospital, not a funeral home; vomit on the floor is not an anomaly. Someone will clean it up. Besides, I can’t bear the thought of rushing around, looking for a bathroom with paper towels, or worse, having to ask someone to find me a janitor; it’s all I can do to drag myself outside and move in the direction of my car. The light, sharp as glass shards, hurts my eyes, and my legs are still trembling. I swallow over and over again, trying unsuccessfully to dissolve the sour knot in the back of my throat and then lean forward until my forehead touches the steering wheel and close my eyes.

  Charlie’s face leers at me, his eyes little slits, the warped, twisted mouth. “Maybe Rittenhouse and I can share a cell. You could come visit. Do the whole conjugal thing. With both of us.” His face had looked like that that night, only worse—the eyes black and glossy, the mouth like an angry slash above me, spitting saliva, epithets, hate. I squeeze my eyes tighter, willing the tears to stop, but they come anyway, hard and fast and furious.

  And then suddenly, like a faucet being turned, I am furious. I am more furious than I have ever been in my life, even toward Ma and Father Delaney. Maybe even toward God. The rage feels like a living thing inside me, an octopus with long, sticky arms, filling the recesses of my belly, pushing out the sorrow. I clench my fists as a scream emerges from the back of my throat, long and howling, and I open my eyes and lean forward and beat my fists against the steering wheel over and over and over again until it dwindles down and I am dizzy with grief. There is no more sour taste in my mouth. No more tears.

  Behind the windshield, the white sky looms.

  The day waits.

  I slide the key into the ignition and start the car.

  MR. HERRON IS ON his hands and knees out in the garden, feeling around again in the dirt. Same pressed pants, cardigan over a white T-shirt, soft moccasin slippers. Same tiny plot of ground, muddy, rutted yard. Nothing changes, I think. Until one day,
when everything does.

  “Mr. Herron!” I call from the back door.

  He gets up on his knees, turning his face toward me, as if sniffing the wind. “Bird?”

  “Yeah, it’s me. I just wanted to let you know I’m here. I’m a little late, but I won’t leave ’til I finish everything. I’m just gonna get started inside, okay?”

  “Hold on a minute!” Mr. Herron beckons with one hand. “Come here! I want you to see somethin’!”

  A low growling sound catches in the back of my throat as I walk across the yard. I’ve already wasted enough time with the whole debacle in the hospital; I just want to get my work done so that I can go over and see James for a few moments before heading over to Jane’s. I don’t have to go see him, of course, but I want to tell him about seeing Charlie in the hospital. I can’t imagine what he’ll say, but the need to share it with him feels overwhelming. The need to share everything with him feels overwhelming, as if I have been waiting to do exactly that for a very long time.

  I look down at the spot of garden Mr. Herron has been tending. There are several small shoots coming out of the earth, little fingertips of green. “Oh, they’re growing!” I try to muster a little enthusiasm in my voice. “That’s great, Mr. Herron.”

  He ignores my comment, pointing to a tallish green plant in the back. It has wide, thick leaves, and a few pointy buds. Set apart from the other plants, it looks regal nonetheless, proud. And weirdly familiar looking, too. “Look,” Mr. Herron says. “It’ll bloom soon, too. I’m countin’ on it.”

  “What will?” I lean in, peering at the glossy leaves, then stand back up. “Hey, is that the big ugly thing from your kitchen? What is it?”

  “It’s called a bird of paradise,” Mr. Herron says. “And it ain’t ugly, thank you very much. I’ve just replanted it. It’s my very first one. I’ve taken care of it all winter, and now I’m going to see what it can do out here.”

  “Bird of paradise?” I repeat. “That’s the name of the plant?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Tangerine parfaits, birds of paradise. Who comes up with this stuff?”

  “Well, the tangerine parfaits are called that because they’re orange. And the bird of paradise was named for the way the flowers look when they bloom. Kinda like big cranes. All orange and blue. Spectacular.” Mr. Herron nods his head. “Hard keepin’ ’em, too. They don’t like it here much. They’re tropical flowers. Native of South America. They need lots of sun. Warmth.”

  “Well, they’re never going to make it, then.” I glance at my watch. “April’s almost over and it’s still freezing!”

  “Just has to be above fifty,” Mr. Herron says placidly. “Long as we don’t get some freak freeze one of these nights, they’ll be okay.”

  “Well, good luck with it. I have stuff to do inside.” I turn to go back in. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Bird?” Mr. Herron sits back on his heels, scratches the nape of his neck with a gnarled hand. “You got a minute?”

  Shit. Here we go. The speech he didn’t give me earlier for being late today. “Sure.”

  “I been thinkin’ about what you told me th’other day. ’Bout leaving your mother. Gettin’ a new place and all that?”

  “Uh-huh.” I cross my arms, waiting. He’s probably going to fire me now. Tell me he doesn’t need me, since I’m moving, that Ma needs the money more. Well, let him. He’s right anyway.

  “Where you goin’?” he asks.

  “Moon Lake. I found a little place right on the water. For Angus and me. It’s really nice.”

  Mr. Herron nods. “Why so far?”

  “It’s not so far. Less than twenty miles. And I’ve always wanted to live on the water.”

  He nods again, a thoughtful expression creasing his face. “You gonna clean houses up there, too?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know yet. I’m still looking around.”

  “That what you want to do with yourself, Bird? Clean other people’s houses?”

  The question is so blunt that for a moment I am taken aback, stung as if slapped. “There’s nothing wrong with cleaning houses, Mr. Herron.”

  “Didn’t say there was. I asked you if that was what you wanted to do.”

  I suck in my top lip, press down on the soft earth with the toe of my sneaker. What’s he getting so nosy about, anyway? What does he care?

  “You don’t have anything else you been wantin’ to do? Something on hold that you waitin’ to get to when the time’s right?”

  “Maybe,” I let myself say, because what do I have to lose, telling this guy about my old hopes and dreams? He’s just shooting the breeze. Killing time.

  “Maybe what?” he asks.

  “I always thought I’d make a pretty good nurse.”

  He nods slowly, a soft smile spreading across his face. “You’d make a good one. ’Specially if you learn them hospital corners on the beds.”

  I grin, despite myself, shove my hands deep in my pockets.

  “Yoo-hoo! Mr. Herron!” A female voice floats across the yard as Mr. Herron and I turn around. “Hey there, angel baby! It’s Lucille!” She waves at him as if he can see her, puts one hand on a meaty hip. “I know I’m early today, but I have some things going on this afternoon that I absolutely cannot get out of. Will you come in, sweetie pie, so I can check your insulin and blood pressure?”

  Mr. Herron struggles to his feet, cursing under his breath. “I get tired of her talkin’ to me like I’m some kind of infant. I ain’t senile yet, goddamn it.”

  I let him hook his arm through mine as we walk back across the yard; he leans against me as we ascend the steps, his feet feeling each one. Lucille waits for us inside the door, smiling broadly. She is a short woman, overweight in a matronly sort of way with crazy black hair that sticks up all over her head as if she inserted one of her fingers into an electrical socket. Her skin is pale and soft like bread dough, and her eyebrows have been drawn on with a pencil. “And how are you, dear?” she asks, looking at me. Her sweatshirt has a large painted pumpkin on the front of it, little black beads for eyes.

  “I’m fine, thanks.” I sidle a glance at Mr. Herron and move toward the sink to get my bucket and sponges.

  “How’s your mother?” Lucille inquires. “I haven’t seen her here in a while? Has she retired?”

  “Oh, no. She’s still working.”

  “Are you—”

  “I’m waiting here,” Mr. Herron interrupts loudly, still standing in the doorway. “You just pulled me outta my garden and now you’re gonna make me stand here listening to you gab? I don’t got all day, you know.”

  Lucille laughs gaily, taking Mr. Herron’s elbow and guiding him into one of the kitchen table chairs. “You like to keep me an honest woman, don’t you, William? I’m sorry, punkin. I know you love to do your gardening early in the morning, and I’m sorry I have to tear you away from it. But I’ve just joined a folk group and we’re going to have our first practice later on today. I can’t miss it, since I’m one of the soloists.”

  “A folk group?” Mr. Herron repeats.

  “Yes!” Lucille giggles. “How about that? I bet you didn’t know your nurse had a singing voice, too, did you?” She pauses, withdrawing a tiny stick from inside a blue vinyl case and tapping the wiry point with her thumb. “All right, gimme that first finger of yours so’s I can get a drop of blood.”

  Mr. Herron’s face darkens as he turns his index finger over and rests it flat on the table. “Not so hard this time,” he says. “It hurt like hell when you did it yesterday.”

  “It hurt?” Lucille looks wounded. “Land sakes, I’ve never had anyone say that I hurt them. Was it the other finger? May I see it?”

  “Nah.” Mr. Herron taps the table with the extended knuckle. “Come on, let’s just get on with it. I got work to do outside.”

  I reach under the sink, pull out the pine-scented cleaner and three sponges.

  “So, what’s a folk group?” Mr. Herron asks. “You meet up with
a bunch of folks?” He grins, turning his head to gauge my reaction.

  “It’s a singing group.” Lucille’s voice drops from its nasal pitch. “We sing folk songs. You know, like Peter, Paul and Mary. Or Simon & Garfunkel.” She clears her throat, trills a scale.

  “Never heard of ’em.” Mr. Herron winces as Lucille stabs his finger gently with the little stick. A small drop of blood surfaces on the pad of his finger.

  “You never heard of Simon & Garfunkel?” Lucille’s mouth turns into a little o shape. She grips Mr. Herron’s finger firmly with two hands and squeezes the drop of blood into the well of a plastic instrument. Another few seconds and his sugar reading will pop up at the top of it. “How about Peter, Paul and Mary? ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’?” She clears her throat, attempts another verse. It comes out warbled and slightly off-key.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Mr. Herron says, waving her off. “Okay, I’ve heard of that one.”

  “Well, I should hope so.” Lucille leans in, examining the electronic number on the sugar reading. Her face brightens. “Eighty-six,” she announces. “Perfect. You’re right on the money.”

  I spray Mr. Herron’s eggshell-colored countertops, sponge them down until the streaks disappear. As annoying as Lucille is, I’m kind of glad she’s here. It means I don’t have to keep answering Mr. Herron’s questions. About my future, or anything else for that matter. It’s embarrassing, him quizzing me like that. And I’m ashamed of myself, when you get right down to it. Ashamed that I’ve gotten myself into the kind of situation where someone like Mr. Herron has to even think of asking me such questions. He knows I can do better. And so do I.

  “All right,” Lucille says. “Let’s check your blood pressure next, I’ll give your eyes a little peek, and then you can get right back out into that garden, all right? How does that sound?”

  I head upstairs, setting the blue bucket down in the hallway as I move into Mr. Herron’s bedroom. It’s Friday, which means that his sheets need to be stripped and thrown into the dirty clothes hamper. I gather his sheets in a large bundle and start back down the steps.