Murder at Willow Slough

by Josh Thomas

  And this handsome man, looking like death warmed over and life overjoyed.

  Prettyboy, relax now, you’re making me nervous.

  Jamie tried to smile, tried to remember the man’s name; but his skin felt like sandpaper, all taut and wrinkled too and nasty.

  He thought of his mother for a long time. His feelings wanted to cry, but his eyes were so dry, even blinking hurt.

  His side ached. His stomach felt folded in on itself. His back was on fire. He tried to shift but couldn’t manage it.

  He had a tube down his throat, a plastic lung machine. His throat was raw and dry, had been invaded. His throat wanted to scream from the pain.

  He remembered the forest. Lots of people. Bad people.

  You came. I knew you would. You came.

  The murders somehow. A wave of horror passed over him. He didn’t know what happened. Something terrible. I prayed, though. I love you.

  We slept on a pallet and I fell in love with you.

  His head clicked. He knew exactly who the man was.

  Then he knew what to say, what would help him. But it took minutes to work up to a single word. He got his lips apart; he couldn’t get any breath to go out. He had to breathe more deeply, and that hurt.

  Like this man hurt. “Com-mand-er.”

  Kent stared, eyes like saucers.

  Jamie’s voice was strange, weak, raspy, slow, disembodied. But it was his somehow, he knew it was, so he visualized pushing words and breath out of his mouth, like Sisyphus up the mountain, past the ventilator tube. “How man-y, did we, get?”

  Kent’s heart burst. “Oh, Jamie! Thirteen on the scene, four higher-ups. And maybe more, it’s not done yet. My God, you’re alive! Oh Jamie, you’re alive! We did it, man. You did it! Welcome back!”

  Jamie sighed, felt incredibly tired, knew he’d conk out soon. That scared him; what if he never woke up again? Commander wouldn’t like that. Jamie concentrated like Sisyphus near the summit. “Fan-tas-tic,” he said, in his wispy, grating voice. He pointed his finger shakily at the trooper. “You, big, s-tud.”

  He gasped and fell into a stone cold sleep.

  Kent dashed for the nurse. “He woke up! He’s alive, he woke up, he talked to me!”

  Nurses ran, gathered, celebrated, stared at the TV monitor on Room 9 while two hurried in to check. “What did he say, what did he say?” Kent told them, glorying in every word.

  “A complete sentence? Two of them? Ten whole words?” Nurses stared at each other; no coma patient starts out in sentences. Most take days for words.

  It was lost on Kent. “Yes! He’s out of the coma! He talked! Two whole sentences!” He laughed, wanted to run, clap, sing, turn handsprings the length of the corridor. “He’s out of the coma. Thank you Jesus. Thank you Jesus. Oh God, thank you Jesus!”

  Major Slaughter happened to arrive then, carrying flowers for the nurses, a sandwich for Kent; he saw the commotion, set down his bags.

  There in the hallway, Sergeant Kessler told him all about it; then clung to a macho shoulder and, without warning, cried his goddamn guts out.

  46

  Flashcards

  They tried removing the ventilator; Jamie breathed okay. His brainwaves were always very active; indeed, Kent could set his Timex by Jamie’s REM-sleep erections. His urine output was moderate, his blood pressure was good, his pupils reacted to light, and he didn’t like it when they stuck a pin in his arm to test his spinal cord. He was never decorticate or decerebrate, and easily tolerated nurses’ repositioning him flat on his back—an improvement over his withdrawal into the fetal position. These were all crucial readings. His stab wounds, though severe, were relatively easy to sew up; but when he lost so much blood, his brain started to die for lack of oxygen.

  There was talk of removing the tiny tube inserted into his right front brain to relieve swelling. But still he slept, didn’t wake again.

  The next day the neurologist removed the tube and briefed Kent, the major and the nurses. Without being rude, the doctor basically called Kent a liar. If Jamie had in fact awakened, much less recognized him and spoken ten whole words, he was highly conscious. All tests were favorable. So why couldn’t they wake him up today? “We can’t get any response.”

  “I didn’t imagine it,” Kent said hotly. “He talked, he was lucid. Please remember, sir, I’m a state trooper. I deal in facts.”

  The doctor apologized. “But he’s off the charts. I don’t know whether to worry or be optimistic. I’ve got calls in to Harvard.”

  Slaughter said, “Maybe his brain’s wired differently. He does have an abnormal brain, doctor. This is a very intelligent individual.”

  “You’re telling me,” Kent muttered.

  Slaughter said, “He was tested in junior high, shipped off to Purdue and tested again. One of our crisis psychologists ran the tests. Jamie’s got an IQ in the 99th percentile.”

  Kent asked, “Would that make a difference in your charts, doc?”

  “This isn’t a question of intelligence, it’s brain physiology.”

  A nurse suggested, “Maybe he’s got so many brain cells that when some are knocked out, the others take over.”

  “Come on, little guy,” Kent prayed.

  Slaughter looked into space. A feeling started up in his gut. He let it grow, closed his eyes, emptied himself, tried to tune into what Jamie needed.

  For some reason Slaughter’s testicles moved. He tried to puzzle out a sexual motive. Finally he smiled. He opened his eyes, which rested on his young sergeant. “Kent, you try this time.”

  The doctor and nurses gathered around the monitor while George stood outside Jamie’s door. “Go ahead, son.”

  Kent swallowed, went to the side of the bed, looked down at the pasty-white, bruised face. He crouched, picked up a hand, held it. “Jamie? Can you wake up, man? I need you, partner. Will you wake up for me, Jamie? I need you.”

  Kent breathed. Nothing happened.

  Then Jamie’s green eyes blinked open. There, at eye level, were Kent’s beautiful browns.

  A peaceful feeling settled over Jamie. Maybe it was wrong, he wasn’t supposed to feel what he felt; but he felt it anyway. He loved those eyes and that face. “Com-mand-er.”

  Kent burst into a grin. “Oh, Jamie! Wake up, partner. Wake up!”

  Jamie tried to clear his throat, couldn’t. “Uhh. Wa-ter.”

  Kent straightened, poured, tried to be calm about it, kept hold of that hand. He brought the tumbler; Jamie stared at his cold little hand in Kent’s big warm one. Kent got the straw to Jamie’s lips. “Don’t gulp, just sip.”

  Jamie sucked in slowly, and tasted water. “That’s the best stuff.”

  He nodded slightly, and Kent withdrew the water, crouched again. “The doctors want you to stay awake as long as you can.”

  Jamie groaned, tried to shift. “I, hurt.” An unseen nurse charted his every word; those two qualified as a complete sentence. The doctor frowned at the TV screen.

  “I know, man. But you’re alive, Jamie. Thank God, you’re alive.”

  Jamie looked into brown eyes. My body feels like it’s dead.

  Oh, look at you. I want to live.

  He felt again his hand in Kent’s, and tried with a mighty effort to squeeze. Kent must have felt something, because he squeezed right back. “Do it again,” he said excitedly. “Squeeze my hand.”

  Jamie did it again. “Cool,” Kent cried. “Another rep. Let’s work out!”

  Jamie squeezed. This was fun. What a wonderful guy.

  “Danny’s coming, he’s on his way.”

  “Dan-ny. My big, Bro.”

  “Jamie, I’m so overwhelmed I don’t know what to say.”

  Jamie squeezed. “Just… hold my, hand?”

  Kent squeezed back. “I will, partner. I will. Now stay awake for me.”

  A woman came in, introduced herself, asked what she could do to make Jamie more comfortable. “Ack,” he coughed, trying to tell her. Coughing was excruciating. She did
n’t understand. He pointed at his catheter, forced out more words. “Take… this out.”

  She smiled, turned into a nurse. “Do you know this man’s name?” “Com-mand-er.” Jamie’s brow furled. “Makes Dil-lin-ger’s mo-ther, sing like, cana-ry.” Kent chuckled proudly. “You’re very close,” the nurse encouraged, “Commander is his title. His name is Kent.” Jamie smiled for the first time, at big brown eyes. “Ser-geant Kent Kess-ler. Indi-ana State, Police. You, take down, bad guys.” “Man oh man!” Kent yelled, so excited he made a fist in front of his chest. “You know my name!” Jamie stayed awake for twenty whole minutes, and Kent held his hand. They squeezed back and forth the entire time. ***

  Jamie was tested for balance, coordination, motor control, his mother’s maiden name. He was told that functionally, his condition was similar to a light stroke. What one half of his body could do, the other half might not for awhile. “But we’re amazed at your verbal skills.”

  He smiled, “The mouth, al-ways did, work, pretty well.”

  He read first-grade flashcards and did a thousand stupid tasks, pointing at his ear, his nose, his chest, and finally caught on to a mean nurse’s game. It was the same one he’d gone through years ago in school; nobody ever believed he was smart. He pointed between his legs, “My dick!”

  She stopped playing, went away in a huff. Kent high-fived George. Jamie told the major, “The Times.”

  George went to the lobby, bought The New York Times, laid it before him on the pull-table. Jamie read, haltingly but aloud, “Pro-gress On AIDS, Brings Move-ment, For Less Sec-recy. More Re-porting Urged. The Med-ical Benefits, of Early Detec-tion, May Outweigh, Some Privacy Concerns.”

  He was proud of himself, but frowned at the headline. “No, they don’t. Wait till, Casey and I, get hold of, this. Start with, Ry-an White’s, moth-er. Doc-tors can be fasc-ists. I want, this cath-eter, removed!”

  Slaughter tossed the paper at the doctor and walked out.

  The fascists waited a day, but finally Jamie sat in a chair, shakily fed himself Jell-O, even demonstrated his remarkable ability to pee without plastic jammed up his urethra; so he made another request.

  That gave Kent an idea. “Tell me what to bring you, just name it. Something to comfort you or entertain you, something that tastes good, anything you want.”

  What would comfort him? “A toy, basket-ball? Or lit-tle weights?”

  Kent got excited. “I know exactly where to get ’em.” That night he presented Jamie with two one-pound dumbbells covered in plastic.

  “Pink,” Jamie frowned, “for la-dies. Sor-ry. But use-ful. Th-ank you.” He did a curl or two.

  And then the crown jewel, a six-inch foam rubber basketball marked PURDUE BOILERMAKERS, with Boilermaker Pete waving his sledgehammer. “You can squeeze it, see? It’ll help your hand strength.”

  Jamie, eyes shining, rubbed it against his cheek and squeezed. “Wonder-ful.” “Man oh man, you’re gonna come back!” ***

  A different doctor sat quietly with Jamie, asked a bunch of questions. “I can’t believe you remember Officer Kessler. You only met him a month ago. The same part of the brain that goes into coma knocks out short-term memory. It always happens that way, the parts of the brain are directly connected. But not with you. Do you have any idea why you remember him?”

  I’m in love with him, that’s why. But this doctor wore a wedding ring and bragged about his baby daughter. “He has, a great deal, of emo-tional, signif-icance, to me. Per-haps I, stored his f-ile, in my longterm, mem-ory.” The doctor looked doubtful. “He is not, just some, off-icer. He is an, im-portant, friend.”

  “And it was an intense case.” The doctor showed him the photo of Glenn and Gary that Glenn kept on his desk. “Do you know these people?”

  Jamie studied them. “No.”

  A picture of Trooper Julie Campbell elicited a shrug. Mr. and Mrs. Walker with son LeRoy were just a nice-looking Black family. Jamie couldn’t identify Lt. Jack Snyder. The only person Jamie’d met recently and remembered was Kent. The doctor seemed encouraged. “What do you remember of the night it happened?”

  Jamie described the image in his head: bright sunlight, several people, lots of trees. That was all. Nothing happened.

  “How does it make you feel?”

  Jamie frowned, “Not good.”

  “Do you feel frightened? Angry? Are you worried or anxious or happy?”

  “Scared, may-be. Ang-ry. Yes. But also, some-how, in control? They were, bad guys, weren’t they?”

  The doctor didn’t say. “What can you tell me about Sgt. Kessler?”

  “He played, Ma-jor, League Base-ball. Tall, mus-cled. A skilled, investi-gator, cert-ified, in some-thing. He thinks I’m, shorter, than I am.” Kent, listening in at the nurses’ station, laughed delightedly. “He’s from, farm country, up north. But not, Kentland. He drives, a big, pickup truck. Shiny wheels. A… studmobile.” George elbowed Kent. “He’s, very, thoughtful. Kind. Funny. Smart. Eats a lot of, fat, though.” Jamie pointed his finger. “But no one, will ever, out-commit him!”

  Kent suppressed some emotion over that.

  “That’s a lot to remember about somebody you just met.”

  “He sat with, Arn-ie. He brought us, food. And a, pie.”

  “Anything else you remember about him?”

  Jamie scowled. “He, ad-justs himself, in front of, women.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  “Hate it. But he said I, should have,” Jamie grinned big, “insur-ance, on my, hair.”

  “Anything else?”

  Jamie thought of the pallets, but shook his head no.

  “Okay, good job, get some rest for me.” The doctor left, went to the nurses’ station. “Well, was he accurate?”

  “Accurate, very detailed, in everything but the sunshine,” Kent said. “It was nighttime, those were camera lights he saw.”

  The doctor propped his butt on the desk. “You drive a studmobile and adjust yourself in front of women?”

  Kent laughed.“He just… never mind.It’s a pickup, not a studmobile.”

  Alone in his room, Jamie thought, When you fall in love, you don’t put him in your short-term file. You pray he stays in your long-term life.

  Lord, a Straight man. What have I done?

  47

  Hospital Tree

  When next he woke up, Jamie got his wish. He wanted desperately to go outside. Kent pushed the wheelchair into sunshine, a warm day.

  Jamie’s skin felt every ray. He sank into the warmth, pulled on the sleeve of his gown, trying to get it to stay up so more of his arm could drink. The sleeve wouldn’t cooperate, so he absorbed sunshine through the cloth.

  The whiteness was so bright it hurt his eyes. But he didn’t want anything getting between him and his sun. He wanted to be naked in it.

  He asked Kent, “Would you, untie, my gown? Help me, get it, off?” Kent got the gown off his shoulders, down to his waist. It made Kent think of Sarasota.

  For the the first time Jamie got warm. How his body craved heat. He remembered sun baths, grateful for every one of them. He exhaled, soaked.

  He shut his eyes, dreamed, imagined, smelled, listened—to birds sing, and traffic buzz, and grass grow; he could hear that too because growth has sound, it’s active. Grass’s sound is mostly water rushing through tiny living pipes, and cells expanding.

  Far from him, small children squealed at play, human animals communicating uncensored. He loved those children, tried to figure out what their game was. He decided they were little girls, Black girls, jumping rope, having a wonderful time at play.

  A machine bap-bap-bapped at building something or destroying it, the two necessities of life. He heard a basketball dribbled on a concrete driveway, and a motorcycle rev—Japanese, he thought, a Honda or a Kaw.

  He imagined a fountain, he wanted to hear water run loud and fast; then he heard the seashore. Hip-hop snapped loudly out of a passing car, rhythm-perfect.

  His fingers w
anted texture—the sun was working on them, healing them—so he opened his eyes,slowly pointed.“Could we,go to,that tree?”

  It wasn’t a plastic tree, a concrete one; it wasn’t a video of a tree or a memory of one. “Sure.”

  Kent pushed as near as he could get on sidewalk, then slowly eased the chair onto the earth. It was bumpy, because it was earth and hadn’t been smashed by a machine lately. It had a smell, it was earth. Jamie slumped but held on, didn’t fall out, but if he had, the earth would have caught him, held him up.

  And they were there, and he looked up at a magnificent centenarian ahead, a hundred feet tall, a wise old maple.

  They looked at each other silently, respectfully, for quite some time. Jamie’s neck strained from looking so high, but even the hurt felt good.

  The tree gazed down at him and prepared itself.

  A tree’s wisdom, its strength is in its rootedness; while every other foul thing locomotes. Sometimes life should be looked at from just one spot.

  Of rooted species, a tree is the highest form; the human its equivalent, though not its equal. Trees know they are superior; their expirations are pure oxygen, keeping every body and thing alive.

  Vulgar adolescent trees poke each other in the branches and claim, “My poop is better than vanilla ice cream.” But tree superiority comes with age, and with age comes silence.

  Trees do not speak, but they communicate. How else would a bird know which of all possible trees was the right one for her nest? The tree has to find the right bird, invite the right bird.

  But in the daytime trees are open for business, completely democratic, the more the merrier, no fee ever, come and perch a spell; tell everyone what you’ve seen and where the good bugs are.

  Trees are quite proud that birds fly away from humans and to them. Every creature of the forest uses the tree, though chipmunks are particular, pesky favorites.

  Jamie raised both his hands, showing them, and silently asked if he might touch. A breeze stirred only the treetop, a lovely shh, for quietness and yes.