Outland

by Kiernan Kelly

  It took nearly fifteen minutes for everyone to park and gather at Ashley's grave, but then the preacher (one from a church in Twilla who was considerably more sympathetic than Bellows) gave us the signal to begin. We hoisted the casket up by the handles, slowly walking it forward, and set it on a platform inside the grave before stepping under the awning. We stood in a single line, in the place usually reserved for family, our heads bowed and our hands folded as the preacher began the service.

  "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to say goodbye to Ashley Wills, a young man called home too early..."

  My mind wandered as the preacher spoke, remembering Ashley as Miss Ginger, singing and dancing at Outland. I remembered his mascara-stained face in Fargo's hospital room, the outrage I'd felt when he told me he'd set Fargo up, and the fury after I'd learned he'd done it for money. My rage tempered with pity as I remembered his battered face inside the casket the day before at the wake, then fear as I worried who might be next. I felt Hank's hand feel for mine, and clutched it tightly.

  "Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection into eternal life. Lord, we remand the body of Ashley Wills into the ground and his soul into your keeping.” The preacher nodded, and we heard a pneumatic hiss as Ashley's coffin lowered into the ground. The six of us stepped up to the grave, and one by one, picked up a handful of dirt and tossed it in.

  We stood to the side, watching as the rest of the people filed solemnly past the grave. Suddenly, a voice cut through the silence.

  "There's no place for the wicked in Heaven! You waste your breath and your prayers on that sinner! His soul is damned! You soil hallowed ground with his remains! Turn from your wickedness now, before his fate is yours!"

  My head snapped toward the gate. Bellows stood in the bed of a pick-up truck, holding a microphone to his lips. His venomous voice boomed over the cemetery, instantly bringing the ceremony to a halt. Everyone stopped and stared, first at Bellows, then at one another, stunned by the interruption.

  "Repent, or burn in everlasting fires of Hell with him!"

  "You bastard!" The words left my lips before I could stop them. "Ain't you done enough? Don't you have any decency at all in that skinny, little knock-kneed body? You're disgusting, Bellows!" I screamed. I started for the fence in a jog, before anyone could hold me back.

  I reached the gate, my fingers curling around the cool cast-iron bars, trying to shake it. "Come on over here, Bellows! Come here and let me give you a taste of what you dealt Fargo and Ashley!"

  "Beaver! Beaver, come back here!"

  I heard Hank's voice calling to me, but then other voices started yelling, too -- the crowd behind me at the gravesite, and the people on Bellow's side of the fence -- drowning him out.

  "Come on, you bastard! Let's see how mouthy you are when I knock a few of your teeth down your throat!" I screamed. I suppose I went a little crazy, but I couldn't help myself. I just lost it. My arms stretched through the spaces between the bars, although I had no hope of reaching Bellows. I ignored the shouts from his followers, calling me names, swearing to see me in Hell for my blasphemy, and the shouts from behind me, urging me back to the gravesite. I couldn't hear or see anything beyond Bellows and his microphone.

  A rock bounced off my collarbone, the sting barely felt. Another hit me high on the forehead, the pain sharper, enough to make me see stars. Something wet dripped, burning my right eye, and I swatted at it impatiently.

  Arms slipped around my waist, pulling me away. "Let me go!" I cried, struggling wildly. "Turn me loose!"

  "Beaver, knock it off!" Jethro's voice boomed in my ear. "Something's wrong with Hank!" He succeeded in pulling me away from the fence, spinning me around to face him. "Did you hear me? Hank's sick, Beaver!"

  Those words finally broke through the red haze clouding my mind. I blinked, and looked toward the grave where several people were bent over, looking down at something.

  Oh, Lord, not again. Not Hank. In the space of a moment, I forgot everything -- my anger, Bellows, Ashley, Fargo, the blood that trickled down the side of my face, and the ache from where the rock hit my collarbone. I only felt numbing fear and cried out Hank's name as I tore away from Jethro and ran back to the gravesite.

  Hank was lying on the ground, his eyes closed. He was breathing; I could see his chest rising and falling, but he'd gone waxy, and his face was strained as if he were in pain. I dropped to my knees beside him, reaching for his hand.

  "Hank? Hank, its me. It's Beaver. Wake up, Hank! Look at me, hon!" I cried, squeezing his hand. His lashes fluttered, and his eyes opened, but he looked so dazed I wasn't sure if he knew who I was.

  A hand touched my shoulder, but I shook it off.

  "The ambulance is on its way, Beaver," Fargo said. I barely heard him over the blood pounding in my ears.

  "What happened?" I asked, without taking my eyes off Hank's face. His lips were blue, and I could hear him wheezing. I didn't know what to do for him, didn't know if he'd already taken a nitroglycerin, or if I should give him one.

  "I don't know. He was yelling for you, and then he got real quiet, and rubbed his chest. Then he went down."

  "Hank, hon? Do I need to give you a pill?" I asked, desperate for some direction, for some way to help him.

  His eyes started to drift closed again, and I patted his hand, trying to keep him awake. "No, hon. You can't sleep, not yet. Stay with me, Hank. Don't you dare go and leave me!" I was crying now, not caring who saw me. I couldn't lose him, I just couldn't bear it. "Hank? Damn it, Hank, you stay with me!"

  Sirens wailed in the distance, getting closer. It seemed forever before the ambulance pulled up next to the row of graves, and the EMTs pushed me out of the way to work on Hank.

  I watched them attach wires to his chest and take his vital signs. They slapped an oxygen mask over his face, and plugged an IV into his arm, before they loaded him into the ambulance and sped away. Jethro and Fargo dragged me to the truck, stuffed me into the back seat, and followed behind the ambulance to the hospital. I never gave another thought to Bellows, or to the folks we left standing at the gravesite. I was so frightened I could barely think, scared shitless that Hank would be gone before we got to the hospital. Nothing else mattered, not anymore.

  If I lost him, I'd die. Pure and simple.

  ***

  I never got to see Hank. By the time we arrived at the hospital, the EMTs already whisked him from the ambulance into the emergency room, and I wasn't allowed to follow inside. Take a seat in the waiting room, the nurse told me firmly. We're doing all we can for him.

  What if "all we can" wasn't enough?

  I suddenly felt like I was standing inside a black hole sucking the oxygen out of my lungs, threatening to turn me inside out. What if Hank didn't make it? What would I do if he died? We never stood before a preacher, and I never placed a ring on his finger, but Hank had been my husband for the better part of twenty-five years just the same, and I couldn't even contemplate losing him. There was no way I could begin to wrap my mind around a life without him. How could I go back into the house we'd shared for so many years, where our memories coated every inch from the floorboards to the rafters, knowing he'd never come home again? How could I face the bleakness of a single day without him in it?

  I sat in a molded plastic chair in a corner of the ER waiting room, bent over, holding my head in my hands to hide my tears from everyone else.

  "He's going to be okay, Beaver. You'll see," Fargo said. He sat next to me, putting his arm around my shoulders, but I felt so numb that I barely noticed.

  "Sure," Jethro chimed in. "I'll bet he's sitting up in there right now, asking where the hell you are."

  "I didn't get to see him. They won't let me in," I said. I looked up, fresh tears making the room look wavy. "I have to go in. I have to see him." I stood up, but Jethro and Fargo pulled me back into my seat.

  "You can't yet, Beaver. Let them do their thing. You need to be here right now, and he need
s to be in there," Jethro said. His tone was stern, although compassion glistened in his eyes.

  "You don't understand, Jethro! I almost lost him once before. I can't do this again!"

  When he pulled me close, I didn't resist. Right then, I needed someone to hold me, to tell me everything was going to be okay, even if I knew it might not be. I needed the lie to keep me from falling apart.

  After a few minutes, I heard him tell Fargo to get me a glass of water. I shook my head -- I didn't want water. I wanted Hank.

  More people came into the Emergency Room -- Big Pete and Little Pete, Shelby Joe, and several others. The small crowd gathered in our corner of the waiting room, but aside from a few whispered words of concern, they remained silent. It was a vigil, I realized. None of them were going to leave until word came to us about Hank's condition. I appreciated the sentiment, and their support, but I didn't want to talk to anyone, couldn't even lift my head from Jethro's shoulder. I felt like an old coffee mug, shot through with cracks. The slightest jolt would shatter me.

  An hour passed, maybe more. Finally, I broke. I couldn't take anymore waiting. I pulled free from Jethro and marched to the nurses' desk, the look on my face daring anyone to try to stop me. I think I might've plowed my fist into the face of anybody who'd tried.

  The nurse at the desk glanced up at me and her eyes widened. I must've looked like a madman standing there, tears still wet on my cheeks, baring my teeth like a dog fixing to bite.

  Before I could get a word out, another nurse came through the door that led into the ER. "Harvey Turner?" she called. She looked down at her clipboard, her brows knitting together as if she couldn't quite understand what was written there. "Beaver?"

  "That's me," I said, rushing over to her. "Is it Hank? Is he... oh, God, please tell me he's not..."

  She smiled and laid a comforting hand on my arm. "He's stable, Mr. Turner. You can go on in now, if you'd like. The doctor will come by and speak to you."

  My knees went weak with relief, shaking like two stacks of jellied cranberry sauce. He was stable. He was alive. Oh, thank you, Jesus!

  I turned and saw Jethro and Fargo right behind me. From the smiles on their faces, I knew they'd overheard. "Go on in, Beaver," Jethro said. "We'll wait here. Make sure you come out in a bit and let us know how he's getting on."

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, and followed the nurse through the door into the ER.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It wasn't until later that I realized they'd stuck Hank in the same cubicle Fargo was in after the attack. When I did, it seemed to me that we couldn't escape that whole sorry mess no matter what -- it was like a black mark on the wall that kept bleeding through no matter how many coats of paint you threw over the bastard.

  "Hey," I said, touching Hank's hand. The heart machine they had him hooked up to beeped softly, blips crossing the screen in a steady, comforting pattern. "Jesus, you gave me a scare."

  "Hey, yourself." Hank's voice sounded weak, but his color was better, and he seemed to be breathing easier. He had one of those oxygen nasal cannulas stuck up his nose, and he looked tired, but that was okay. He was alive, which was all that mattered to me. "Sorry about this, Beaver."

  "You're sorry? Hank, don't be stupid! I'm just glad you're okay," I said, and I lost control again. My eyes spilled fat drops of salty relief. "I'm the one who's sorry. Jesus, Hank, I don't know what came over me."

  "Aw, now, don't Beaver." Hank's hand reached for my face, and I bent over, letting him cup my cheek. "Don't want to see you like this."

  I sniffed and turned my head to kiss his palm. "Yeah, well I don't like seeing you like this. This is all my fault, Hank. I damned near killed you, losing it and going off half-cocked like I did."

  "Nah. Don't talk like that. It ain't your fault. A man can only be pushed so far before he starts pushing back, Beaver."

  That was my Hank, always understanding me, always forgiving me, even while lying in a hospital bed knowing I'd been the one who put him there. God, I loved him. I straightened and swiped the wetness from my face with my sleeve, deciding to change the subject before I started bawling again. "What did the doctors say?"

  "I ain't seen them yet, but I'll be okay. Don't you worry on me, Beaver. Wasn't so bad this time. Figure they'll just give me a fistful more of pills, and send me on my way."

  "Yeah? Looked pretty bad from where I was standing." I touched his cheek, and leaned over for a gentle kiss. "Be right back. I'm going to hunt down the docs."

  "I ain't going anywhere. They got me tethered to the bed," he said, giving me a weak, half-grin as he lifted his arm with the IV attached.

  I didn't want to leave him at all, but luckily, I didn't have to go far to find the doctor. He'd been on his way into the cubicle, and we nearly bumped noses when I stepped outside of the privacy curtain.

  He was a different doctor than the one who'd treated Fargo. This one was younger by a mile, looking a little like that Doogie Howser fella from the old TV show. I wondered how he could've made it all the way through medical school when he didn't look old enough to shave.

  He stepped beside Hank's bed, looking down at his clipboard. "Mr. Adams? I'm Dr. Stewart. How are you feeling?"

  "I've been better," Hank said wryly. "You're the doctor? Pardon me for saying it, Doc, but you look like the goddamn paperboy."

  I chuckled, quickly clearing my throat to cover it. Trust my Hank to speak his mind, sick or not.

  The doctor smiled at Hank, giving him a warm grin that showed his teeth, not the closed-lip smirk folks gave others when they were annoyed and trying hard not to show it. I liked him right off. "I get that a lot. I'm forty-two, Mr. Adams, and I thank my mama every day for her good genes. She's nearing eighty, and there's not a wrinkle on her face."

  "How bad was it, Doc?" I asked, beating Hank to the punch. I was anxious to hear from somebody other than Hank that he'd be okay.

  "The tests show Mr. Adams had a myocardial infarction, a heart attack. I'll be honest with you; he was in pretty bad shape when he came in." He turned to Hank again. "We're going to admit you, Mr. Adams, and run more tests. We've called your cardiologist, and he's on his way in."

  "Is he going to need another one of them bypasses?" I asked, bringing my worst fear out into the open. The last thing I wanted was for Hank to suffer through surgery again.

  "We'll know more after the tests, and after his cardiologist examines him. For now, Mr. Adams, you're stable. We'll continue to give you medication through your IV, and monitor your heart." He smiled at us both again. "Y'all give a call if you need anything, and I'll stop by again later. I'm going to go fill out the paperwork, and as soon as we find you a bed upstairs, we'll transfer you."

  We nodded and waited until he was gone before speaking again.

  "Aw, hell. What does he know?" Hank said, reaching for my hand. "He's probably still wearing diapers under those hospital greens. I'm going to be fine, Beaver."

  "Ain't I the one who's supposed be comforting you, Hank?" I asked, lifting his hand and kissing his knuckles. "Of course, you're going to be okay. You'll be out of here before you know it."

  "Where's Fargo? Did he go home with Skeeter?"

  I shook my head. "Nope. Everybody's outside waiting to hear -- Jethro, Fargo, Skeeter, Shelby Joe, and some others. I'd best go tell them what's what before they bust down the door to the ER."

  "Oh, Lordy! Why'd you make them come? Send them home, Beaver. They've got better things to do than waste their time hanging around here."

  "Hey, I didn't make anybody do anything, and it ain't a waste. Everybody loves you, Hank. They're worried," I said. "I'll be right back."

  "Take your time. I ain't going anywhere."

  From your mouth to God's ears, I thought as I left and found my way back to the waiting room.

  ***

  There was a new face waiting among our friends in the waiting room. Loughman, the detective who'd we'd met the night Ashley's body was found, stood chatting with Jethro
and Fargo. The sight of him slowed my step, and I couldn't help but wonder what new bag of shit he was fixing to fling in my direction.

  Jethro spotted me first. "Beaver!" he called, breaking away from his conversation and striding in my direction. The rest of the group, Loughman included, followed. "How is he, Beaver?"

  "He's out of danger for now, the doc says. He had another heart attack. Doc says they're going to keep him, run more tests. Hank's cardiologist will be in to see him, too," I said, trying not to look at Loughman. I didn't want to talk to him, didn't want to hear whatever it was he had to say, since I was certain it couldn't be good.