by Joseph Kanon
“Take your hand off me,” Bunny said, a stage line, haughty, then he switched, unexpectedly breezy, almost malicious. “Come and see.”
Inside there were more people in white coats, attendants in loose pajama-like uniforms.
“Is this a hospital?”
“It’s a private facility. For people who can’t manage on their own.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s been coming along nicely,” Bunny said, Laraine Day for a second. “But today we’ve had a little setback, I’m afraid. Still, since you’ve come all this way.”
A man holding a clipboard looked up, concerned, but Bunny made a little hand motion that seemed to vouch for Ben. They walked down a hall of polished Mexican tile.
“He’ll be sleeping. So just a look today. I suppose you wanted to talk, have a heart-to-heart about the brother, but that’ll have to wait.”
“Is something wrong. I’m not trying to-”
Bunny turned. “What are you trying to do? Just in here.”
He opened the door to a large bright room facing the sea, what must have been the master bedroom in the old house. It was not a hospital room. There were reading chairs and tables with books and magazines, a small dining area, an ordinary bed, but Ben noticed a pull cord next to a nightstand covered with pill boxes and medicines. MacDonald was lying half propped up, his face away from the light pouring in from the terrace. His bare shoulders and the top of his chest were visible over the sheet, but one of the shoulders ended in a stump, the arm gone. The other arm was lying out on the sheet, the wrist wrapped in a white bandage.
“This is Jack,” Bunny said.
“What happened?” Ben said, almost a whisper.
“He can’t hear,” Bunny said, a normal voice. “They gave him something earlier.” He looked down at the bandage. “He gets sad sometimes. Oh, you mean the arm. A grenade. They took it off over there-New Guinea. God knows what the place must have been like. Probably some tent. Butchers. Next. Anyway, not Cedars, but maybe it wouldn’t have made any difference. It was shattered. You knew he was a pianist?”
“At Universal,” Ben said quietly. “An arranger.”
“Helpful, aren’t they, those files? Not just an arranger. A pianist.” He was looking down at him now. “The lightest touch. Chopin, especially. Like night sounds. He was very gifted.” He touched the sleeping man’s hair. “Of course, there’s nothing we can do about the hand now. He can use that to get around,” he said, nodding to a corner where a prosthetic arm rested on an end table, “but not for the piano. The face, though-there’s a surgeon at UCLA who’s been doing wonders with grafts, so we might get that back.” Ben now saw that the side of his face away from the window was a blotch, what must be a burn scar from the same explosion. “He was so good-looking.” He brushed the hair back again, a sleeping child.
“I’m sorry.”
Bunny took his hand away. “Yes. But there’s no bottom to sorry, is there? Down and down. So one of us has to keep things going. It’s just-I wish he didn’t get so sad sometimes.”
There was a knock on the door, then a white coat halfway through.
“Mr. Jenkins? Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, noticing Ben.
“No, it’s all right. Please. Dr. Owen. You wanted to see me.”
“It’s just that-” He glanced again at Ben, uneasy. “It’s just, we can’t take the responsibility.”
“I’ll take the responsibility.”
“We can’t be with him all the time.”
“I know. And accidents will happen.” He looked at the doctor. “But not again. I’ll talk to him. He has to be more careful, that’s all.”
“But Mr. Jenkins, we can’t-” He looked to the terrace. “We can’t be building fences on the balconies. We’re not a-”
“I’ll talk to him,” Bunny said firmly. “All these medicines, you have to be extra careful. So disorienting. But thank you for everything,” he said, coming over, as if he were seeing someone out after a party. “The stitches. It seemed like a nasty cut.”
“Yes, nasty. Mr. Jenkins-”
“He may need a little extra help at meals for a while. You know, with both arms not really- There won’t be any problem with that, will there?”
The doctor faced him down, a moment, then looked away. “No, there shouldn’t be a problem. Mr. Jenkins-”
“I’ll talk to him. I know this will be a warning to him. To be more careful.”
“Yes, a warning,” the doctor said, a last shot, then nodded to Ben and left.
“I’m sorry,” Ben said.
“So you said. So everybody says. Well, they would if they knew. But no one does, except you. The Grand Inquisitor. So let me ask you something. What would you do? Leave him to rot in that Veterans Hospital, everyone walking around on crutches, missing this, missing that, bedpans and people leaking-imagine living there, all the time, looking at who you are, all those people like you. Sad? You might as well-” He stopped and reached into his pocket for a cigarette.
“Is that allowed?”
“Darling, I don’t give a shit. It’s my nickel. Nickel. Thousands. And not even a fucking ashtray. All right, let’s go out there. Better for him, anyway. And no doubt you’ll want to chat, now that you’re here. About that wonderful brother of yours.” He looked at the bed. “Sometimes I think they can hear when they’re under. They come to looking like they know everything.” They were moving out onto the balcony. “Or maybe he’ll look surprised. That he’s here. Until the next time. They’re right, you know. They shouldn’t have to worry about this- give the place a bad name. He’s right about these, too,” he said, touching the balcony wall. “Why not just slip right over? Quite a drop. No, he had to do it that way, all messy and- So maybe he didn’t really mean it. Not finally, anyway. If you really mean it, why not jump? Easier. Yours did.”
“Danny didn’t jump.”
“No, he tripped,” he said, sarcastic, then looked up. “Oh, Jack gave him a push, is that it? With his good arm, no doubt. Really, even you-”
“He lived there. At the Cherokee.”
“For a while. I thought it would be better for him. But he kept running into people.”
“Danny, you mean.”
“Mm. Old comrades. I wasn’t having that.”
“Tell me. Please.”
Bunny looked over at him, then put out the cigarette on the rail.
“You put him there?” Ben said.
“I had to get him out of the hospital. I couldn’t face it. All those boys, trying to come back. Clomping around. They’d fall sometimes and they’d have to wait for someone to pick them up. You could see it in their faces, what it did to them. It was making him worse, being there. So I hired somebody to be with him. Found a place.”
“Why didn’t you bring him home?”
“Home. Where have you been living?” He caught himself and looked away, toward the Pacific. “You don’t know how it is, do you? That really wouldn’t have been on. Sharing. There’s a certain standard you have to keep up here. Not startle the horses. Unless you’re a set dresser, something like that.” He turned to Ben. “And I’m not. So I found him a place. One of the contract players used to live there-”
“Who?” Ben said, thinking of the lists he’d gone through.
“Does it matter? The boy who played the gunner on Dick Marshall’s bombing raid. Dick Marshall,” he said, partly to himself. “That’s the war we gave them. Not the one in there. Well, why not? Dick killing Japs-you’d pay to see that. Who’d pay to see this?” He took a breath. “ Any way, he was at the Cherokee for a while, and I knew about the phone there. That was essential, having the phone, but still private, not the Roosevelt or something, so I moved him in, with Robert to look after him. And I think he liked it. So much better than the hospital. Like being on your own, in a way. That was before the leg got better, so he was still in a wheelchair, but even so. Not as-sad.”
“And Danny was there?”
“No. Tha
t was all an accident-a meet cute. Robert was wheeling him, doing errands, I suppose, just getting out, and your brother waswell, I don’t know what he was doing, actually. Make something uplunch at Musso’s. Who knows? Who cares. Anyway, on the street and wouldn’t you know? Long-lost Jack, it’s been years, what happened to you-like that. Robert probably thought they were old Army buddies, not comrades. Anyway, it cheered Jack up, seeing somebody from the old days, so come back and have a drink. And they did. A lot to catch up on.”
“So that’s how Danny knew about the Cherokee.”
Bunny shrugged. “I must say, it never would have occurred to me to use it for- But I didn’t have his imagination.”
“You saw him there?”
“No. I never knew he took a place there until Dennis called. I guess he liked the look of it. All the possibilities. But he saw Jack there. The second time I thought, that’s it, I’m getting him out of here. The reunion’s over. Anyway, Robert really wasn’t enough. He couldn’t be with him all the time. Jack needed somewhere like this. Where they can watch him.” He glanced again into the bedroom.
“Why didn’t you want him to see Danny? I mean, if they knew each other.”
“Well, it’s how, isn’t it? I knew what your brother was doing. I’ve done Minot a favor or two myself. But not like that. Jack left that life a long time ago-well, the war left it for him. It was only his good nature, you know. Always for the underdog. But try to tell anybody that now. He’s been through a lot. He doesn’t need to go through anything more. Not one more thing.”
“You think Danny was going to give him to Minot? A crippled war hero? What for?”
“To see who else he remembers, from those Fuller Brush parties they used to have. Very sinister characters they were. How can we help Paul Robeson? Christ.” He looked up. “His arm’s gone, but his memory’s there. No, thank you.”
“He has a Silver Star.”
Bunny raised his eyebrows, a question.
“Army records,” Ben said.
Bunny said nothing for a second, taking this in. “I always underestimate you.”
“They’re not going to go after somebody with a Silver Star. How would that make them look?”
“They don’t have to play to the gallery. Nobody sees friendly witnesses in closed sessions. I’m not putting him through that, either. I’m not.”
“But Danny didn’t do that-I’ve seen the files. He wouldn’t have.”
“Touching, your faith in him. He was an informer. You don’t want to face that, don’t. I had to. I had someone else to think about. One time, how’ve you been? Fine. Two, he’s after something. So I moved him.”
“What would Danny have said? We went to a meeting five years ago-bring him in? They’re after more than that. Headlines.”
“And they’ll get them. But not here. Not from me. And not from you, either,” he said, leveling his gaze. “Not here.”
“You don’t have to worry about that.”
“Then what are you doing, running errands for Dennis?”
“I’m trying to find out what Danny was doing, that’s all. So I’m friendly. Just like you. To get something.”
“And what was your brother trying to get?”
Ben said nothing, his own question come back at him. He leaned against the rail.
“You’re wrong about him, though,” he said quietly. “He never gave MacDonald away, where he was, even if he’s alive. There’s nothing there. I checked.”
“You forget-he stopped reporting.”
“He wouldn’t have.”
Bunny looked at him, then let it go, taking out another cigarette instead and sitting on the chaise.
“Do you know how it works?” he said, not angry, a resigned patience. “Ever been to the zoo? Watch them feed? The big cats, animals like that? Give them a piece of meat, then another. It only stops when you stop feeding them. The cats just keep eating. You think they can’t be hungry anymore, but they’ll still take the meat. It’s what they do. No matter how much you give them, it’s never enough. You think you know these people? I knew Tenney. That same hunger-I don’t know where it comes from-he could never get enough. But a crackpot. You didn’t have to take all that carrying-on seriously. Look good in Sacramento and he’s satisfied. But Minot’s not a crackpot. You stick your hand through the bars, he’d take it with the meat. Get out of this before it turns on you. Once you’re part of it, you’re expected to supply. Just to prove you’re with them. So you throw them anything. Maybe even Jack. To stay in. Your brother would have done it. But now Jack’s safe. Except from you.”
“I told you, you don’t have to worry about that.”
“I just want to be clear. How unwise that would be. Oh, I know, little Brian, not very scary. But you know who is? Somebody with nothing to lose. And I’m going to lose. Everything I want. I know it.” He looked back to the bedroom. “One of these times it’s going to work. So all I can do is hold on till it does.” He looked back at Ben. “You were never here.”
Ben held his stare. “That’s right.”
Bunny nodded, then drew on the cigarette. “But you were, weren’t you? So now you’re part of it. My confidante. So what do I do? Tell me. I don’t know anymore. He’s going to do it again. I don’t know what to do.”
“Give him time. Even here,” he said, holding his hand to the view. “It takes time.”
“Darling, time. Does it get any hoarier? I suppose I deserve that. Wallowing like this.” He sat up. “Mustn’t grumble. As they used to say in the Blitz. My mother was like that. Mustn’t grumble. Mustn’t grumble.” He covered his eyes with his hand. “Why the fuck not? That’s what I’d like to know.” He paused. “What if it works next time? You’d think I’d be enough. Even with all the rest. You’d think it would be enough-not to want to, for me. But it isn’t.”
Ben was quiet for a minute, then moved away from the railing. “I’d better go.”
“Am I embarrassing you? Or just me,” Bunny said, moving his hands over his cheeks, a quick-change. “What do I say when he wakes up? The last time-”
“Last Monday,” Ben said, trying it.
Bunny’s head jerked up. “How do you know that? Why would you?”
“You left the studio in a hurry. You never leave early. I figured-just now, I mean.”
Bunny stood up, a willed change of mood. “My every move. I didn’t realize I was so fascinating. I still don’t know why. What do you want, exactly? Coming here.”
“Just following a name. I didn’t know.” He looked toward the bed.
“What, all this because he knew your brother?”
“I think somebody tried to stop Danny before he could-”
“Rat on them? I don’t blame him. I’d do it myself.” He raised an eyebrow. “Or did you think that I did? Ben,” he said, drawing the word out. “Well, sorry to disappoint. Dennis called me. At home. I may have picked up a phone from time to time, but my activities don’t extend to-oh, never mind. Think what you like. You might scratch Jack’s name off the list, though, don’t you think? He really wouldn’t have been up to it. Anyway, he was here. Ask anybody.” He waved his hand to the house.
“I had to be sure, that’s all.”
“Well, now you are. So fuck off.” He looked down. “Sorry. Not very nice, was it? What a hard case I have become,” he said, giving it a hint of a Southern accent. “You get that way when you stop telling yourself stories. You can’t change things. No matter how many stories. I remember standing in front of the mirror, looking at my hair go, just crying and crying because I knew everything was coming to an end, and my face just stared right back at me. There it was. Like it or not.” He turned away. “Like it or not.”
From the bed there was a soft rustling, Jack’s head moving slowly, still asleep. Bunny went over and watched for a second. The side of Jack’s face with the purple splotch was more visible now. He made a sound without opening his eyes, some fragment line in a dream. Bunny touched his forehead. “Ssh,” he s
aid, calming him. Ben stood in the room, not moving, afraid any sound would wake him, watching Bunny’s hand stroking Jack’s hair. When he finally turned, satisfied Jack was still asleep, his eyes were squinting, in pain.
“Oh, go ahead and look,” he said, then glanced back at the bed. “He was a hero, did you know? A real war hero. He saved someone’s life. From that grenade. Just-not his. Well,” he said, raising his head. “Mustn’t grumble.” Then he looked at Ben, his eyes brimming. “Do you know what it’s like? When you feel everything slipping away?” He held out his hand, as if it were actually happening. “Like water, right through your fingers.”
There was no point going back to the Ambassador so he drove to the Cherokee to change and throw a sweater in an overnight bag. Weather was vertical here: Mt. Wilson would be chilly at night. First tea, an excuse to see the campus in Pasadena, and then by convoy up the mountain. An evening with the emigres, the last thing he wanted, his head filled now with Bunny and Danny and the unknowability of people.
He parked in back and was about to take the stairs when he remembered the key and went to the front desk instead.
“You have a mail key for me yet?”
“You 5C?” A new clerk, the staff as transient as the guests. He reached under the desk and handed Ben an envelope. “There’s a charge.”
“Put it on the bill.”
“Can’t.”
Ben, exasperated, put a few dollars on the counter and went over to the mailboxes, opening his. For a second he just stared. Empty. But there’d been something there, a flyer for Current Resident, something. The mailman wouldn’t have arbitrarily cleaned out the box.
“Mail’s late today,” the clerk said, helpful. “Should be here soon.”
“But I thought-” He closed the box. No white paper visible through the holes. But there had been.
Upstairs, he packed his small bag, then looked at the key again. If the box had been opened, then someone else must have one. From Danny. He noticed the script on the night stand. Bits of business about post office boxes, something that had been on his mind. Ben glanced at his watch again. Think about it in the car.
