by E. R. Torre
CHAPTER FOUR
I woke up at one in the morning with a bad case of the shakes. I was freezing cold and buried myself deeper into the sheets. It was impossible to get back to sleep.
The shakes got worse, and I felt pressure in my sinus. It felt like someone was pushing my skull from within and attempting to break free. It didn’t get any better, so I fumbled around the night table for the television’s remote control. I turned the TV on and watched a repeat of the evening news. On screen was George Shepherd, the dour lead anchor of Channel 7 news.
As he talked, I found my attention wandering. It was hard to pay attention to what he said. However, the urgency in Shepherd’s voice drew me back. He knew the half-sleeping late birds needed someone to speak loud and clear. The fever must have been really getting to me by that point because I felt as if Shepherd wanted -as if he needed – for me, and me alone, to hear what he was saying.
So I tried my best to listen. I really did. But it was like picking up a conversation between people on the opposite end of a packed restaurant.
I sighed and closed my eyes.
After a brief rest I gave Shepherd one last try. I rubbed my eyes and stared at the television set. The images were crystal clear, or at least as clear as my crappy set could show them. George Shepherd finished whatever he was talking about and the image on the screen abruptly went black.
“The hell?” I muttered. That’s what I get for trying so hard to pay attention. I turned to the nightstand. My digital clock was on as were the lights in the hallway that filtered beneath the crack in the door. No blackout. I returned to the television and felt something warm sliding down my nostril.
“Shit.”
The first drop of blood ran down to my lip and settled on the chin. I searched for napkins, but didn’t see any. I used the bed sheet to wipe the blood and called the nurse.
As I did, the television came back on.
There was a different pair of news anchors staring down at me. The man, seated on the left, was old, gray, and weathered but had a folksy smile. Next to him was a sandy blonde haired woman. The two engaged in some silly, unscripted chatter, an all too obviously attempt to kill time before going to commercials. I didn't recognize either of the Anchors’ faces. Not at first.
But the more I watched the more familiar they appeared. After a while I was certain I had seen them before, but a long, long time ago.
All of a sudden it hit me. They were local newscasters, all right, but they hadn’t been on the air for several years. I closed my eyes and struggled to think of the last time I saw them. I tried to remember their names.
A stray thought entered my mind. The graying man –John something...or was it Roger?- was fired by Channel 7. Yeah, and he sued the station for age discrimination. Had the lawsuit been settled? Was he back on the job? No. That didn’t make sense. Though I couldn’t remember all the details, I recalled an interview he made for the local paper. He talked about his by then successful lawsuit and how he was moving out of state and retiring from the business.
I let that thought go and focused on his co-anchor. It was quite a while since I’d seen her, too. In fact, she hadn’t been doing the news for...
How long?
Longer than the elderly man. At least by a year or two. I shook my head and tried to remember. As I did, she smiled. Her smile, on the surface so calm and warm, struck a nerve. It seemed out of place, almost eerie. I felt a strong chill run down my spine. The lady was a fixture in the Labor Day parades. She worked for years as a news anchor, and then something terrible happened.
Wasn't she...?
My body stiffened. The chill remained.
She read from the teleprompter. Her face turned solemn and she shook her head. She always did that when reading the bad news. Seconds later, she flashed a smile and revealed a perfect set of teeth. This time the news was good.
Wasn’t she...
The smile faded. The frown returned.
Wasn't she involved in a car crash a few years ago?
It all came back in a rush. Yeah, she was involved in an accident with...with a drunk driver? Yes, that was it. That night, the anchor sitting next to her addressed the cameras on the nightly news cast and reported, while holding back an almost overwhelming sadness, the details of the accident. His voice cracked when he said he would always remember his colleague’s warmth and professionalism. His voice broke when he said he would miss her now that she was...
…now that she was...
...dead.
Further details emerged. It was raining heavily in the downtown area when she passed a busy intersection and was broadsided by another car. By the time the camera crews arrived, there were several ambulances, police cars, and a fire truck. The cameras rolled as her battered body was pried loose from the remains of her car and transferred to a stretcher. Sirens wailed as they rushed her to the nearest hospital.
She was already dead.
Yet there she was, alive and radiant, reading the news on TV. This wasn't a repeat of this night’s news. It was a rerun from years before. Sure. The station was re-running news from a few years back.
But why?
I shook my head. Had any station ever rerun a years-old newscast before, even at this late hour? Perhaps the technicians made a mistake and cued up the wrong tape.
The camera focused on the female anchor’s face. Her expression was once again very serious.
Curiosity had me. Despite the nosebleed and chills, I needed to hear what she was saying. Slowly, very slowly, her words took form. She was reporting on the death of a famous movie actor.
“Yes, Mr. Towne?”
The voice came from the door. A nurse stood there.
“My nose,” I said, but she already spotted the blood and headed to the bathroom. When she emerged, she carried a box of tissue paper. She handed it to me and I pressed several sheets up against the bleed.
“I’ll change your sheets,” the nurse said. She pulled the soiled blankets off the bed and left me shaking cold. I turned to the television set, but found it was once again off.
“Son of a bitch,” I said.
“Sorry,” the nurse said. Her voice was acid.
“It’s not you,” I replied. “TV is off.”
The nurse said nothing more and instead finished her work. I leaned back in the bed and closed my eyes. The bleeding continued unabated. I ran through several tissues before looking up again. By then the nurse was gone and the television set was on. The news –the old news- was back on.
"And finally, in entertainment news, a sad day in the show business community, as one of the most beloved actors of Hollywood's so called "Golden Age" has passed away,” the dead news anchor said. “Claire Steward reports."
She faded away and was replaced by the reporter identified in bright white letters on the left side of the screen as Claire Steward. She held a microphone in her left hand and stood in front of a crowd of people who, in turn, stood in front of an ornate metal gate. The group was dressed in winter gear and ignored the snow falling. Claire tried to look professional but could barely disguise her discomfort with the cold.
"This is Claire Steward reporting from the gates of John Robinson's estate. Many have gathered to mourn the loss of this respected Golden Age actor. To them, and many others around the world, John Robinson’s passing yesterday in a tragic skiing accident is a stark reminder that yet another of Hollywood’s stable of classic actors will no longer grace the silver screen."
“John Robinson,” I muttered. The name seemed familiar.
Claire Steward faded out and a previously filmed news segment began. Clips from several Robinson films, most in black and white, flashed across the screen. A handsome man grabbed a beautiful blonde's arm. He pressed her body up against his.
"I love you,” the man said. His voice and acting was old school and, by today’s standards, stiff. “I'm not ashamed to say it. If you feel anything for me...anything at all."
CUT TO: The Actress. Her
face was alabaster and smooth porcelain under the silver lights. A single tear formed at the corner of her right eye. It ran down her cheek.
"I do," she replied.
CUT TO: The two as they kiss. It was pure Hollywood. Claire Steward's voice intruded.
"Known for his hard boiled, yet ultimately very human characters, John Robinson made a name for himself in the vacuum created immediately after the death of Humphrey Bogart. His break-out role came with the smash hit Death Highway."
The image dissolved, a young John Robinson talked to a young couple. They were in a police station and the duo had clearly done something wrong.
Whatever.
The nose bleed abated. The nurse returned to the room to check on me. I waved her off. I needed my sleep. But as I felt my eyes close, I thought about what I had just seen.
“A dead news anchor talking about a dead actor,” I mumbled.
How about that.
CHAPTER FIVE
In the morning, I awoke energized and very hungry. The nurse brought a barely adequate breakfast of eggs and grits that I devoured in seconds. Afterwards, I was back to watching television. As the morning wore on, I switched channels. There were reports of world events and tragedies, sporting results and injuries, local news and weather.
I watched these stories and continued switching channels, as if searching for something. I saw reports on the weather, game shows and talk shows, exercise shows and kids cartoons. Finally, on an entertainment station the hosts talked with a director of an upcoming movie. At that point I realized what I was searching for.
John Robinson.
That name nagged at me all through the morning. I remembered the news broadcast of the night before. Had I really seen a rerun of a previous newscast? Impossible. They never repeat them again. It was late at night and I was tired and confused. That’s all.
So I continued flipping through the stations and, as I did, my frustration grew. Where was the news on John Robinson’s death? For that matter, why was his name so familiar? I thought about it for a while. No, it wasn’t John Robinson that was familiar. It was Robinson. Robinson alone.
Why?
For a while I couldn’t figure it out. Then, like fireworks on the Fourth of July, the answer hit me.
You were in and out of consciousness and talking, though most of it was nonsense. The staff was so busy checking you out that they didn’t bother writing down or remembering any of what you said. But one of the nurses did recall you repeating a name. ‘Robinson’.
I let out a breath.
It had to be a coincidence.
A little later, the old lady with the book cart showed up. She reclaimed her magazines. In return, I asked for the day’s paper. I scanned each page and section for any mention of John Robinson’s death. There was nothing.
Maybe John Robinson wasn’t such a big star after all. Either that or they covered his death in yesterday’s paper.
“Old news,” I muttered.
The morning hours passed in slow motion. I felt my strength and energy return to better than normal levels and flirted with the idea of leaving. I asked a nurse if it was possible to discharge myself, but she shook her head.
“Better wait for the Doctor,” she said.
In the dead hour that followed, I pulled my briefcase from the nightstand. At least McTeer did me a favor in bringing it. Within was my laptop computer. I turned it on and spent a few minutes updating my resume. If, as I feared, my job was gone, I’d have three weeks to find another.
That thought made me groan.
What the hell was I going to do for three weeks? I folded the computer and set it aside. I tried the television once more, but again found only crap. I tried to get some more sleep, but couldn’t.
I was cured, I was healed.
I was trapped.
Not for long. They might keep me here another day, max. Then what?
What should I do? Where should I go?
I got to my feet and paced the floor. After a while, I stopped next to the window. Down below and past the palms was a corner of Biscayne Boulevard. It was close to noon, and usually the noontime Friday traffic was a mess. Anyone who could leave work early did so, making for an early rush hour.
Today, though, the traffic was light. A stray car passed by, its parking lights on despite the blinding sun. It moved in a straight line and headed north. Abruptly, its tires squealed and the car swerved, but not before the driver stomped on his horn and waved a fist out his window. The car continued on, leaving behind the empty street and a fresh set of skid marks, another scar the street was forced to bear.
I let out a sigh. In a day, maybe even in an hour, the driver of that car would forget about this minor irritation. In a week or so, the scars to the street would also be gone. All that aggravation and irritation would amount to wasted energy.
They appeared then, on the edge of my view, the people who caused the driver to swerve. A man and a woman. They were young and, based on the way they skipped along the sidewalk’s edge and close to the street, entirely too carefree. They laughed, perhaps at the driver’s irritation. I felt for the driver and understood his anger. However, as I watched the laughing couple, I was also filled with envy. Unlike me, they were free. Two lovers sharing an intimate, joyful moment. The hell with the rest of the world. The hell with—
I leaned in closer to the window. From this distance, it was easy to miss. The couple was dressed in very heavy clothing. They wore jackets and gloves.
I shook my head.
In Florida?!
I laughed. They weren’t just young and carefree. They were also fucking crazy. South Floridian winter usually meant afternoon temperatures between sixty and the mid-seventies. On rare occasions, but certainly not today, the temperature might be in the fifties. You might wear a light jacket; you might even wear a sweater. But heavy winter clothing?
The two walked on, hand in hand, oblivious to just how ridiculous they looked. After a few steps they paused. The man looked up, in my direction. Almost like he knew I was watching.
“You’re crazy,” I told him.
He turned away and the two continued their walk, eventually disappearing from view.
I closed the shades and returned to my bed. Perhaps they had just bought the winter gear and, rather than carry it home, decided to try it out. Perhaps they were going home to pack it up, along with their ski equipment, and fly out of this hole. After all, it was the right time of the year to go—
Yeah.
Exactly the right time of the year to go skiing.
I unfolded my laptop and turned it on. When the main screen came on, I checked for a Wi-Fi connection. The hospital had one. I logged on to my USOnline account and ran a search of available flights and skiing packages.
There were many. As I guessed, these were the main tourism destinations of the year. The other was right down here, for people who wanted to escape the very weather I longed to see.
After a few minutes I found a promising destination: a small town in Colorado named Manville. The town wasn’t as well-known as some of the other skiing hot spots, but tickets were available and, more importantly, they were cheap.
There was no hesitation on my part.
I booked a reservation with a departure in two days and entered my credit card information to the airline website. An email confirmation arrived seconds later.
It was simple as that.
Dr. Carter, the mother, entered my room an hour later. She carried my chart and had a cheerful smile on her face.
“They tell me you’re doing well.”
I nodded and muted the television.
“I feel good,” I replied, then added: “Better than I’ve felt since catching this damn thing.”
"Your condition has improved, even with last night’s nose bleed. The fevers are all but gone and your blood work is fine.”
Dr. Carter closed the chart and laid it on the bed. She removed her stethoscope and checked my heartbeat, breathing, an
d, pulse.
“Very good,” she said. She wrapped the stethoscope around her neck and straightened up. “We still haven’t been able to contact the Doctor who treated you.”
“Jennifer didn’t give you that information?”
“Jennifer?”
“My sister.”
“Oh, right. Has she been around?”
“She was here yesterday,” I said. “She was upset with Dr. Dixon. She said she’d have a talk with him.”
Dr. Carter nodded. She licked her lips and picked up the chart.
“Maybe you can introduce me to her when you visit us.”
“Visit you?”
Doctor Carter nodded.
“Later today we’ll conduct one more round of tests and, if everything works out, I’ll write your discharge for tomorrow.” She produced a business card and handed it to me. “I want you to take it real easy for the next couple of weeks. Give us a call to schedule a follow up for the end of the month."
AT one in the afternoon the next day Jennifer and I walked through the light brown corridor leading to my apartment. Jennifer carried my small green canvas bag filled with clothes and toiletries while I carried my black briefcase.
When we reached the door to my apartment, Jennifer pulled out a set of keys from her purse and unlocked it. She walked in first and laid the canvas bag on the floor. I followed behind and made my way to the pastel couch pressed up against the far wall. It was as good a goal as any.
I sat down and laid the briefcase on the glass table in front of the couch. In the middle of the table was my answering machine. The message light was dark. No one called while I was gone.
"You cleaned up," I said as I looked around my apartment. "You didn't have to do that."
"You're welcome," she replied sarcastically.
I let out a short laugh and added, sheepishly: "Thank you."
“You’re welcome,” she repeated, this time meaning it.
I eased back into the sofa’s gentle folds and savored the bliss of returning home.
