Just In Time

by Joan Lindstedt Jackson

“What will we do about dinner with no kitchen?”

  “I’ll bring home chicken tonight, how’s that? Actually, the favor is about Danny.”

  “Oh. Danny.”

  “He and Becky had a fight and—”

  “They fight a lot, don’t they? I’ve heard you on the phone before. I wonder what they fight about.”

  “Money mostly. She’s never happy,” Nancy said. “And she wants him out of the house, but he has no place to go—”

  “How could she do that? He can barely get around.” Steve’s eyes widened. “She sounds mean.” When he met her last Thanksgiving, she was so quiet and serious, shy even. And Danny seemed the opposite— always joking around, kind of loud. Steve couldn’t imagine she’d have the gumption—his dad’s word—to demand anything. “I feel sorry for him.”

  “Me, too. He has it so hard.”

  Steve sat quietly a moment. “I have an idea!” He seemed ecstatic with himself. “We have the whole upstairs. He could sleep there! Maybe he wouldn’t want to, but for a few days it might be okay.”

  Nancy felt like she could cry. She was touched by Steve’s sympathetic ear, his big heart. Who said schizophrenics aren’t capable of empathy? Or feeling sorry for another’s plight? Maybe Steve was the exception rather than the rule. She never imagined he’d come up with this on his own, but maybe he’d never had the chance to offer help to someone else, to feel like he was in charge. Doing this big favor for Danny (and her) might be just what his self-esteem needed. He rose to the occasion without even being asked.

  “What was the favor you wanted to ask me?”

  “Oh, right.” Nancy took a sip of Coke. “I was going to ask you if Danny could have dinner with us tonight, but you’re a step ahead of me. He’ll be staying with us anyway!”

  “Tonight? Oh, right. He’ll be staying upstairs.”

  Nancy pulled out a five-dollar bill and put it on the table.

  “What’s that for? I’ll get this.”

  “Let’s just say I appreciate your kindness and generosity with my son. Order yourself something to eat, on me.” Nancy thought better than to ask Steve to pick Danny up. She left the restaurant and went straight to her son’s house to tell him the good news.

  Nancy forgot to ask Steve not to mention the new arrangement to his sister or brother. Bill, the contractor, might pose a problem too, since he and Sylvia kept in touch regularly on the progress of the kitchen remodel. If she said nothing at all, it might look like she just didn’t want to bother them with her family’s problems. If they found out about Danny, she could act innocent about it. I’m sorry I didn’t think to ask you. Probably because it was a temporary situation and I didn’t want to burden you with my stuff. Blah, blah, blah. And I thought Steve might enjoy the company. Besides, it’s not like they’d throw her out. They really did need her.

  She pulled onto Danny’s street, Madison. Like so many neighborhoods, the streets were named after former presidents or maybe states-men—from Ohio? She didn’t know. Adams, Van Buren, Tyler, Hayes, Monroe. The sixty-year-old homes were modest bungalows on small lots, but well maintained, the trees full-grown and plentiful. Danny’s house was a two-story with wood floors and a separate garage. He and Becky had been so excited to be able to purchase a house two years ago. They’d worked hard to save the money for a down payment and were so happy with the location: school within walking distance, sidewalks, and lots of young families. Such big plans, and all gone to hell in a hand basket.

  She parked the car at the curb and wished she’d thought to bring him an Egg McMuffin. She peered in the window from the front porch, but saw no one. She knocked hesitantly, waited, and then rang the doorbell. Danny was probably asleep. She might have to call him from work. She heard movement and slowly the door opened. Danny stood there bent over slightly, posing on his arm crutches, his robe open, in his underwear, his prosthetic leg exposed. It hurt her every time to look at it. She wondered if it would hurt less had he been wounded in a war instead of a car accident, but there was no war going on then. She went inside.

  Toys were scattered throughout the living room, an infant swing sat in a corner, and a full baby bottle nearby on the floor. A pillow and blanket lay rumpled on the couch. Squeals of delight burst intermittently from the game show on TV. Danny’s round face looked puffy, his eyes were a little bloodshot, and he needed a haircut, but he was still handsome as ever, over six feet tall when he stood up straight. “What are you doing here, Mom?”

  That was the second time she was asked that this morning. She told him excitedly about Steve’s invitation. “Pack a bag!” she said.

  He hesitated, turned, and sat down on the couch, staring at the TV.

  “You don’t seem very happy about it,” she said.

  “I’m barely awake.” He lit a cigarette. “Getting kicked out of my own home doesn’t really make me happy, you know.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. At least you have a place to stay for a while. Better than hanging at one of your friends, isn’t it?” Nancy thought of his friend, Bud, who was such a bad influence. He meant well, asking Danny to get out and have a little fun, hang with the guys to make him feel better, but he never held a job for long, and she knew Becky couldn’t stand him. Nancy honestly couldn’t blame her.

  “Yeah, it’s better. Bud offered to let me stay at his place, but yours is closer. Do you want me to go with you now?”

  Nancy looked at her watch—it was already eleven thirty. “I have to get to work. I just wanted to tell you the good news.” She also didn’t want to show up with Danny in tow while Bill was still there. “How about if I get you on my way home tonight, say, around eight?”

  “Can’t you leave work a little earlier? Becky will be back with the kids, and I don’t want to be here.”

  She thought better of asking Steve. “Let me see what I can do. Can I get you anything before I go?”

  He grinned at her in his teasing way. “Scrambled eggs?”

  She sighed and tilted her head at her son. He looked like he could use a good breakfast. Guess she’d be fixing eggs after all. “Oh, what the hell,” she said. “How many times do I have the chance to look after you?” She set her purse down and went to the kitchen. She quickly called work and said she’d be a little late due to traffic problems. Dishes were piled in the sink, and plates with meal remnants sat on the table. She grabbed a dish towel to protect her blouse, warmed the slightly dirty frying pan still sitting on the stove, and took out half a dozen eggs. The bread wasn’t securely tied, so it was stale. Perfect for toast. She popped in two slices. All was ready in only ten minutes. She checked for orange juice, but no luck. “Do you want coffee or something cold to drink?” she called out.

  “Just grab me a cold beer.”

  She reluctantly took the can of Miller’s out of the fridge and noticed the trash can in the corner, full of beer cans. She went back to the living room and handed him his breakfast. “You drink beer in the morning?”

  “Shoot, Mom. That’s about all I drink.”

  10

  Steve chatted with Marge, the waitress, between her comings and goings with other customers, about the weather (August was always too hot), the upcoming election (he didn’t vote but if he did he’d vote Republican, since his dad always told him to), his roommate (Nancy took good care of him and he liked her dog), and the house upheaval (the painter was coming soon to paint the whole inside). “Oh! And Nancy’s son, Danny, will be staying for a few days.” He tapped his cigarette to knock off the ash.

  “Sounds like you have a lot goin’ on,” she said, setting the “Two of Everything” bargain breakfast in front of him. Two eggs scrambled, two slices of bacon, two sausage patties, two buttermilk pancakes, and two slices of white toast.

  “Wow. This looks great,” he said. “All this for three bucks!”

  “We serve it every day from nine to eleven. Didn’t you know that?”

  Steve shook his head. He rarely ordered food here unless somebody else was pa
ying, like his dad or mom or his case manager, and today— he had the five dollars Nancy left him. Fast food was always the best deal, but today he could splurge. He wanted to dig in, but he didn’t want to eat in front of her. Not polite.

  “You and your iced tea,” she laughed and walked away.

  Most of the waitresses were nice and talked to him like he was a regular guy. Sometimes he wondered if he had a chance with any of them, but the ones he found attractive were in college, probably too young, and they never stayed at the restaurant for very long anyway. He’d share stories about his college days, how he ran track and hated the grueling daily practice, how hard he studied and still couldn’t get good grades, the riots on campus in the early seventies, the fraternity hell week when he got so worn down he had to drop out of school. Sometimes he said he’d been in and out of psych units for the past thirty years and took meds. If they got a serious look on their faces and became real quiet, he thought maybe he’d said too much. Dr. Nora had told him it might be better not to mention his psychiatric experiences—it was too personal, his private business. So he’d learned to ask them questions rather than talk about himself. He found they liked talking about themselves, where they were from, their boyfriends, their majors in school, sports they played. He liked to hear their stories, but mostly the hard luck ones like the waitresses who married right out of high school, had kids, got divorced, had to work hourly jobs (sometimes more than one), or ended up living with guys on drugs and weren’t even married. He was surprised that lots of people had it even worse than him. Where he grew up, everybody he knew graduated from college, had a good job, married their college sweetheart, and had a family, like his own brother and sister. But come to think of it, his sister divorced her first husband and had to work. Still, she wasn’t like the waitresses here.

  Steve finished eating and pulled out his wallet, overstuffed with bank withdrawal slips, old and new appointment reminder cards from his doctors, prescriptions for his meds, his Social Security card, driver’s license, pharmacy discount card, AAA, proofs of car insurance—expired and current—and a picture he and his dad had taken last year for the church directory. Going through his wallet made him feel important, like everyone else who had business to take care of. He hardly ever threw anything away, unless his wallet wouldn’t fit in his back pocket, and he always carried everything with him, just in case. He liked to look through it all when he had nothing to do, check and double check that nothing was missing, or inspect the dates for his next appointments. As he looked through it now, he saw the reminder for his appointment with his psychiatrist, Dr. Pandi. He mumbled the date and time to himself, August 20, 1999, at 2:30 p.m. He repeated it several times. Today! He looked at his watch. It was only two hours away. He’d better not go home and take a nap or he might not wake up in time. He shoved his empty plate across the table, counted the number of smokes he had left, tallied his money—nine dollars—ordered another pitcher of iced tea, and sat and watched and smoked and sometimes mumbled to himself.

  A baby in a highchair at the table next to his started crying. Oh, brother. Just my luck. The father, if it was the father, just smoked his cigarette. Steve shot him a glance and the man looked back at him angrily. What did I do? Why would you bring a baby to a restaurant anyway? The mother picked the baby up to calm it down, but it didn’t stop crying.

  “What did you say?” the man asked.

  Steve realized he was asking him. “Nothing. I didn’t say anything.” Or did I?

  “Yes, you did. Mind your own business.”

  I’m trying to, Steve wanted to say. Asshole. He got up without looking at the guy, grabbed his check, and hurried to pay the cashier. He checked his watch and saw that he was ten minutes late. By the time he got into his car, he was breaking out in a sweat, which only got worse. He couldn’t figure out why the air-conditioning wasn’t working. Hot air blew in his face when he turned on the fan. Then he noticed he only had a quarter of a tank of gas and wasn’t sure it was enough. A least the doctor’s office wasn’t far. When he pulled into the parking lot, sweat was running down his face, and he wiped it with the back of his sleeve.

  The receptionist sat behind a glass partition. He signed the clipboard and waited until she finally looked up to acknowledge him. “Hi, Steve. How’re you doing?”

  “I know I’m late.”

  “Not to worry. Dr. Pandi’s running behind today. Have a seat.”

  He was alone in the waiting room. He sat on one of the cream-colored vinyl couches with chrome arms and legs. Posters on the walls and brochures in cardboard stands advertised the latest medications for mental or mood disorders—Zyprexa, Risperdal, Clozaril. “Prohibits hallucinations, promotes clear thinking, improves concentration, reduces negative symptoms such as lack of motivation or emotion,” the advertisements promised. In fine print, a list of possible side effects—weight gain, high cholesterol, restlessness, nausea, vomiting, constipation, diarrhea, sleeplessness, chronic fatigue, increased blood sugar, liver damage. Steve never read the advertisements. He was depressed enough that he even had to be here. He wondered if he’d ever “snap out of it” and be his old self again. Probably not. Not after twenty-some years, or was it thirty? He opened his wallet and looked at his driver’s license photo—he wasn’t smiling. I look like a criminal, he thought. When the doctor came out, he told her the same.

  She laughed, placing her hands on her stout belly. She wore a navy blue, floral-patterned polyester dress and black, thick-soled shoes that reminded Steve of his grandmother’s. “But you are not a criminal, yes?”

  “Yes,” he chuckled nervously, tilting his head. “I mean, no. I’m not a criminal.”

  “Driver’s license photos are not so flattering for anyone, Steve,” the doctor reassured him.

  He followed her plump frame down the hall, into her office. Dr. Pandi sat in the swivel chair near her desk, turning to face Steve. He sat in his usual armchair to her left. Immediately, he told her he never missed taking his meds. Twice a day. Once in the morning and once at night.

  She rambled off a list of questions, barely waiting for his response. Was he still working at Clean Sweep? Sleeping too much? Unable to sleep? Hearing voices? How was he doing without his dad?

  “I don’t hear voices anymore,” he lied, “but I guess I sleep too much. Sometimes all day. I miss my dad and mom, but Nancy is with me. It’s okay I guess. She cooks for me.” He didn’t want to tell her he wasn’t working anymore.

  When she asked him what he did with his time, he told her he didn’t do anything.

  “What would you like to do?” she asked.

  “I can’t do anything. I wish I had a college degree, but—”

  “Maybe you take one course and see how it goes?”

  He wished he hadn’t told her now. “Naw, it’s too hard to concentrate. And I can’t sit still very long. Maybe I’ll be ready later.”

  “But you sit for long time at Friendly’s, don’t you?”

  “But I don’t do anything there. It’s like being at home.” Steve tried to change the subject, to talk about how glad he was that he didn’t go to anymore psych units.

  “There’s a new medication that helps concentration and motivation. Maybe help you want to do something more with life? To feel productive?”

  “Productive?” he laughed. “I was a bank messenger once, but I didn’t like it. Too much driving. I don’t want to work. You don’t mean Clozaril, do you?” His parents had tried to talk him into trying it a few years ago, even though they were aware it could cause severe liver damage and possibly be fatal. His mom had figured he didn’t have a life, so why not give him at least a few good years, a chance for a normal existence. Besides, if he took the required weekly blood test, any potential danger would be flagged before it became a serious problem. But Steve had refused adamantly.

  “No, not Clozaril. I know you don’t want that one. Resperadol has very few side effects. Many feel better. I give you prescription and you see me in a mont
h. You call if you have a problem. What do you say?” She began writing out a prescription at her desk. “You gradually reduce the Prolixin that you now take while you introduce Resperadol,” she explained, describing the decreases and increases in dosages.

  Steve had trouble following her. He started twirling his hair. “Do I have to? I don’t know. Do I need to take shots?” He hated needles.

  “No, no. It’s safer for your liver and no hand tremors.”

  “But I don’t have hand tremors.”

  “You might if you take Prolixin for many years.” She handed him the slip.

  Steve left feeling confused. Maybe he should call his sister or talk to Dr. Nora, but he wouldn’t see her for another week.

  When he got home, he was relieved to find no one was there. Sammy trotted over to him, but receiving no pat on the head or words of welcome, he returned to his bed in Nancy’s room. Steve reveled in the coolness of the air-conditioned house, flopped on top of his bed, and fell fast asleep.

  Nancy picked up her son, Danny, at eight o’clock that evening. She had a bucket of Kentucky Fried, mashed potatoes and gravy, rolls, and a container of coleslaw in a bag on the backseat. Becky’s car was in the driveway, and Nancy worried there might be a scene if she went to the front door—one she might cause since she wanted so badly to give Becky a piece of her mind. She sat a few minutes, then tooted the horn. Danny appeared with a bulging paper grocery bag that kept smacking his side as he hobbled his way to the car on his arm crutches.

  When he reached the car, Nancy hustled around to open the back door for him. She saw his clothes stuffed in the bag. “No duffel bag to use?”

  “I couldn’t find it. Something smells good. I’m starved.” He tossed his crutches on the floor in the back, along with the bag of clothes and spotted the bucket of chicken. He ripped off the top and grabbed a leg, eating it as Nancy helped him get settled in the front seat.

  Nancy laughed, “We’re only five minutes away!”

  “Can’t wait that long,” he cracked. He reached back for the whole bucket, dropped the cleaned bone inside and grabbed another piece. He asked her to stop at the store for a six pack of beer, since it was on the way. “Any kind.”