by Lewis Shiner
“I want you to count backwards, starting from a hundred.”
“What are you going to do?” Cole said. Everything was moving too fast. What if they made a mistake? What if they amputated the entire finger?
Another male voice said, “Just be quiet and do what the man says. The sooner you stop arguing, the sooner we can get this over with.”
The surgeon. The drunk, according to Pete. The kind of bullying authority figure that left Cole intimidated and resentful. “One hundred,” Cole said bitterly. “Ninety-nine.” He got into the lower eighties before he lost his concentration. Instead of drifting off to sleep, he found himself strapped to the side of a giant metal spiral hundreds of feet long. It turned slowly as it moved through the absolute cold of interstellar space. He saw himself as if from a great distance. His entire body was frozen, and he was terrified and alone. He tried to scream and nothing came out. The nightmare went on endlessly, the turning spiral, the deadly cold, the fear.
It seemed like hours before he floated free and rose upward into warmth. The warmer he got, the more nauseated he felt, and by the time he got his eyes open his stomach was heaving.
“Help,” he said. “Throw up.”
A nurse, from a chair beside the bed, handed him a beige plastic basin and said, “Take it with your left hand. No, the left. Now try to turn on your side.” She was merely heavy above the waist, while her hips and thighs were gigantic. It cost her an effort to stand. She took Cole’s right shoulder and gently pulled him toward her. The top half of the bed was cranked high, making it awkward. His stomach convulsed and he vomited into the basin, got a breath, and vomited some more, all viscous, sour liquid. The nurse wiped his mouth with a wet washcloth and put a sliver of ice into his mouth. “Suck on it, hon,” she said. “It’ll help.”
She emptied the basin in the toilet and then took his pulse and blood pressure. Her nametag, Cole noted, said jacqui. “Better now?” she asked.
Cole nodded, then shook his head and pointed at the basin again. Though he heaved repeatedly, only a trickle came up. His right hand burned, and his head spun and ached at the same time. Jacqui had him rinse his mouth and spit it out, then emptied the basin again. He lay back, the sweat cooling on his forehead. As long as he stayed completely still, the pain and the nausea were bearable.
Then it hit him. His hand. His right hand, his picking hand. Smashed. How was he going to play guitar?
He held his right hand in front of his face. Plaster from palm to elbow, Ace bandage and metal brace above that. The ends of his index and ring fingers purple with bruises and orange from disinfectant. Between them, a heavily bandaged stump. The first joint of his middle finger was gone. At the end of what was left was a button on the outside and, sticking out of the bandages on the inside, a long pair of wires as thin as high E strings. The wires appeared to go all the way through the remains of his finger. The thought of it made him dizzy and made the pain in his hand flare as if he’d held a match to it.
“You need something for the pain, hon?”
“Please.”
She rang the nurses’ station for more Demerol.
“I can’t move my fingers,” he said.
“You ain’t supposed to move them yet, so don’t be trying.”
“I have to know how bad it is.”
“Doctor’ll discuss all that with you when he makes his rounds.” Her tone was not unkind.
As soon as he started to relax, another thought hit him. “My parents. Somebody needs to tell my parents.”
“They’ve been notified. They’re on their way. Now settle down and put your hand on those pillows, fingers up, elbow down.”
An orderly came in with the needle and Jacqui gave it to Cole in his hip. He felt it almost immediately, a warmth that spread into his gut and chest and out to the ends of his arms.
Two in the afternoon. The other bed was empty, and the big tinted window next to Cole’s bed looked out onto a parking lot and a pine forest beyond. A black-and-white tv hung from the ceiling, and a bulletin came on, something about a sniper in the Tower at the University of Texas. Cole watched grainy footage of the Tower as a voice said that at least ten people were dead, dozens more wounded. They thought the police had killed the sniper.
The Demerol made it all unreal. He couldn’t make an emotional connection to the fact that Susan was at ut. The idea was incomprehensible, in the same way that Kennedy’s assassination had been. It was not something that could have happened in the world he’d known as a child, and it felt like a premonition.
He couldn’t hold the thought. He turned away and within a few minutes he began to drift in and out of a light doze, watching the wind move the tops of the pine trees outside his window.
“Jeff?” His mother’s voice.
He rolled onto his back. She had a bouquet of carnations and snapdragons in one hand and an old brown suitcase in the other. The reds and pinks and purples of the flowers clashed in a vaguely unpleasant way with the floral print of her dress. “They said it wasn’t too serious, but then they said you lost part of a finger?”
Not my fault, he started to say, before he remembered that he didn’t have to justify or excuse himself this time. “Is Dad here?”
“He went to the company office. He’s going to find out what happened and who’s responsible, don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried, Mother. It was an accident. It wasn’t anybody’s fault.” After a second he said, “A man died out there this morning. One of my friends.” I could have been killed too, he wanted to say. If some stranger hadn’t yanked me out of the way.
“You saw it?”
“It happened right in front of me.”
“Well, I…” She was clearly confounded. “I guess these things happen on oil rigs, don’t they? That’s why they’re so dangerous…”
Cole saw that she only wanted the unpleasantness to stop. If she let herself feel too much empathy, it would only become more real. How wonderful to have all that Demerol inside him, and to not be emotionally involved with this conversation. To not be angry with his mother or devastated by Jerry’s death. To not be worried about his hand or disappointed that his father had to be somewhere else.
“I brought your pajamas and toothbrush and some books that were by your bed, in case you wanted to read…”
“That’s good, Mom, thanks.”
“Did you talk to the doctor?”
“He hasn’t come by yet.”
“The nurse I talked to said he’d already left.”
“Figures,” Cole said.
“What, dear?”
“Nothing.”
She put the flowers on the tray table and the suitcase on the floor and perched uncomfortably on the edge of the bed. “They certainly did a professional-looking job.”
Cole hated to admit that a knot of anxiety in his chest had let go when his mother arrived. He sent her to the nurses’ station to find him something to eat. She came back with two cups of orange sherbet, turned up the sound on the tv, and settled into a lounge chair to watch. Cole had to let the sherbet soften before he could manage it left-handed. Afterward his mother left the room while a new nurse helped him use the urinal, a humiliating and not entirely satisfactory experience that felt like wetting the bed. Those efforts wore him out, and he slept until 5:00, when his father arrived, right behind the nurse with Cole’s dinner. He wore a white short-sleeved shirt, wilted from the heat, and a narrow tie. The first thing he said was, “I talked to the company, and they’ve agreed to cover all your hospital expenses.”
And if they hadn’t, Cole wondered, were you planning to hand me the bill?
The nurse, one he hadn’t seen before, put a plastic tray on his rolling table. She was in her twenties, with brown hair and freckles. As she fussed with raising the angle of the bed and getting the table in position, his father said, “It doesn’t look like there was negligence on the part of the company, though I’ve arranged to get a copy of the police report. We’ll know more t
hen.”
The nurse took a metal cover off the tray. Roast beef, gravy, mashed potatoes, green beans. Red Jell-O for dessert. “I’ll just cut this meat up for you,” she said.
Cole thanked her and said, “There wasn’t any negligence. It was an accident, is all.”
When the nurse finished, Cole’s father took her place and said, “Let me see your hand.”
Cole held it out and speared a piece of meat with his left. It took two tries.
“This doesn’t look so bad,” his father said.
“The end of my finger is gone,” Cole said.
The nurse said, “If you need anything, just ring.”
“Thank you,” Cole said.
“Compared to what could have happened,” his father said. “You could have lost the entire hand, or a foot. That chain could have killed you.”
“It also,” Cole said, “could have missed me entirely.” He saw it falling, sparkling in the sunlight, saw his hand reach out. Sweat broke on his forehead.
“You won’t get far with an attitude like that,” his father said.
“Now, you two,” his mother said.
His father took a step back. “Are they treating you okay? The surgeon, does he seem like he knows what he’s doing?”
Safe in his Demerol haze, Cole saw that he was on his own. That he always had been. He stood on top of a mountain. The air was cold and clear. He could see a long way.
“It’s fine,” Cole said. He’d lost his appetite, but he understood the need for show. He ate a couple of green beans and a bite of potato. The beans were overcooked and tasted of the can they came from.
“Good. I hope it’s okay, because the company’s insurance will only cover this if you stay here in Tyler until they discharge you. Now if there’s a problem with the hospital, we’ll pull you out and take you to Dallas…”
“No,” Cole said. “No need.”
His mother, Cole saw, had not heard this part of it. She looked hurt and confused. “Are we staying?”
“I have to be at work tomorrow,” his father said. “You can stay if you want, I suppose. You won’t have a car or a place to stay or a change of clothes.”
She looked helplessly at Cole.
“Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll be fine. It’s not that big a deal, right? Like Dad said.” He thought he’d kept the bitterness out of his voice. He shoved another piece of meat in his mouth. The gravy was quickly losing its heat to the hospital air conditioning. “In fact,” he said, “you’ve got an hour and a half drive back, and you’ll need to get something to eat before you go. You should probably get started.”
“Are you sure?” his mother said. “Are you sure you don’t need anything?”
“You can call me in the morning and check on me. Now let me finish my dinner in peace before it gets cold.”
His mother kissed him on the cheek and his father nodded stiffly. “I mean it about moving you to Dallas,” he said.
“Try Gringo’s Steakhouse,” Cole said. “They can give you directions at the desk. I eat there… I ate there all the time. With Donald and… and Jerry.” He managed a smile.
As soon as they left, Cole pushed the tray table away and curled onto his side and pushed the call button.
“Nurses’ station.”
“Can I get some Demerol in here?”
*
Seconal kept him in a restless sleep all night, and in the morning an orderly walked him to the bathroom and back. He was shocked at how unsteady he was. After breakfast, he talked to his mother on the phone and then Pete the intern came by. Today his badge read caligari. “Did Granbury ever come by yesterday?”
“Is that the surgeon?” Cole asked.
“Alleged surgeon, yes.”
“No.”
“Bastard.”
Cole didn’t know you could talk about surgeons that way. “Is he really a drunk?”
“No,” Pete said. “Just an asshole.”
Pete unwound the Ace bandage. When he saw Cole wince, he ordered more Demerol. Jacqui arrived with the needle, out of breath, and asked which cheek he wanted it in. “The last one was in the right,” he said.
“How long ago?”
“I don’t remember,” Cole lied. “It’s been a while.” Almost two hours was a while, if you looked at it right. The warmth hit him as soon as the needle went in. Pavlovian reaction, he knew, a preview of the real thing to follow.
Pete touched the tip of Cole’s right index finger with the cold metal bell of his stethoscope. “Can you feel that?”
“Yeah.”
“Now?”
His ring finger. “Yeah.”
“He didn’t do too bad a job, for once,” Pete said. “You got lucky.”
“Listen, I play guitar.”
“Right handed? With a flat pick?” Cole nodded. “You should be all right. There’s a little hematoma on the fingers on either side—that’s bruises, to you—but they’ll heal pretty quick. You should give yourself four weeks. You won’t, but that’s what you should do.”
“Is that button what I think it is?”
“The wire is holding your tendon in place.” Pete gently wrapped the Ace bandage around his fingers. “And yeah, the button is holding the wire that holds the tendon that came from the house that Jack built. That’s why you’re not supposed to move your fingers yet. If that tendon pops loose, you’ll need transplant surgery, and you don’t want that. You especially don’t want Granbury to do it.”
The Demerol had been another double dose. Cole was sinking fast. “You got one of those name tags says moreau?”
“As a matter of fact.”
“’M on to your game,” Cole said.
“Too late, Mr. Holmes. That shot was drugged. I’ve eluded you again.”
Granbury came at 1:20. Pete trailed him, carrying a clipboard. Cole was still flying. Granbury was probably forty, wire-rimmed glasses, long brown hair slicked back from his forehead. He took a cursory look at Cole’s hand and said to Pete, “I want him up and moving around this afternoon. Between the drugs and the inactivity, his bowels will lock up. Get him Milk of Magnesia at bedtime, too.”
“Yessir.”
Cole said, “How long do you think I’ll need to stay here?”
Granbury looked at him as if he’d disobeyed a direct order by speaking. “Until I decide you’re healed enough to leave.”
“Can you give me an estimate?”
“I’ll let you know when you’re ready.”
Behind Granbury’s back, Pete stuck the clipboard crisply under his left arm and stuck the right one out in a Nazi salute, left middle finger under his nose like a mustache. By the time Granbury turned back, Pete was writing on the clipboard as if nothing had happened.
“Keep up the antibiotics for at least another day or two,” Granbury said. “That hand was filthy—oil and dirt and God knows what all else.”
“Yessir.” Pete followed Granbury out without another word.
*
Drugs gave Cole a heightened appreciation of daytime television. He flipped idly between Let’s Make a Deal and As the World Turns and an hour and a half of Ben Casey reruns. Pete showed up at three, wearing a name tag that said hackenbush and towing an aluminum walker. They walked the halls, wheels squeaking on the pale, worn linoleum, Cole resting his cast on top of his head to keep the hand from swelling. Cole told him about The Chevelles and the drummer that Alex had described over the phone. Within ten minutes he was sweating, and after 20 he was exhausted and losing his high.
The nurse with the freckles gave him a sponge bath and a clean surgical gown and sheets. He’d barely gotten settled when Elton and Donald came in. They’d knocked off early for the occasion and they were still dirty from the rig.
It was awkward from the start. Cole told them the injury wasn’t all that bad, and they all nodded. Elton said Jerry’s funeral was the next day, Wednesday, and all three tours were getting the day off, with pay, if they went.
Donald said, “I reckon i
t ain’t really gon’ hit me till the weekend. Till I’m sitting at that there Wagon Wheel all by my lonesome.” Cole saw that, despite his bloodshot eyes, Donald had been raised not to cry. Not as long as he was sober, anyway.
They were glancing toward the door. Cole said, “Somebody… when Jerry fell, somebody grabbed me and pulled me back. I could have died too.”
“Weren’t me,” Donald said.
Elton shook his head. “Somebody from the graveyard tour, I think. I didn’t see it.” After a silence, he said, “You’ll be headed on back to Dallas, I guess, when they let you out.”
“Yeah. I’m not supposed to use this thing for four weeks.”
“We’ll try and get by again,” Donald said. “But if we don’t…”
“I understand. You guys were really good to me.” Now Cole was choked up, and over a job he’d hated. “I appreciate all you did. Both you guys and Jerry too.”
“No,” Donald said, “that ain’t what I meant. Whoever it was yanked you out of the way, they give you a second chance. You know? Don’t fuck it up, that’s what I was going to say.” He nodded to Elton and they started toward the door. “And get a hat,” Donald said. “Jerry always wanted you to get a hat.”
*
Seven pm and Cole was still floating, thinking ahead to his next shot. The tv and the overhead lights were off and the daylight was fading.
Cole heard the door open and close. “Hello?” he said. No answer, just footsteps on the other side of the curtain that divided the room. He came fully alert.
“Turn the light off,” a voice said.
“Corrina?” Cole put his book on the nightstand and turned off his reading light.
Corrina went to the window and closed the blinds, leaving the room in deep twilight. She held her finger to her lips and walked slowly to the edge of the bed, one foot directly in front of the other, making her hips sway. She was wearing a dark T-shirt and a light denim skirt and sandals. The cold hospital air made it clear she had nothing on under the shirt.
She picked up his cast and studied it. “Oh, my poor baby,” she said. She kicked off her sandals and climbed carefully onto the bed, straddling him.
Like the sniper in the tower, Corrina seemed not quite real. When she kissed him, though, gently and repeatedly, and he felt himself getting hard, the drug let him relax with it, let him lie back and follow her lead.
