"Break something," Natalie whispered, and squeezed his shoulder before walking off to one side where she could watch him and the audience unimpeded.
Tommy felt like someone had plucked a cord deep in his chest. Or was it a chord, as in multiple musical notes thrumming all at once? He felt his mouth trying to curve up in a dopey grin and had to tear his gaze off her by sheer willpower.
Okay, straighten up. Time to get to work. This is what you do. This is what you are. The chair is just a pity angle, to soften them up so you can play with their brains until they bounce around the room like superballs.
Tommy couldn't wait, however, to have Natalie all to himself, wheeling around the streets of Tabor Heights this afternoon. It was time to turn the tables and find out a little more about this woman who had been watching and interrogating him the last few days. Just like--
Silence descended on the audience as they waited for him to rap out his first zinger, but Tommy felt like his tongue had been disconnected from his brain. He watched Natalie settle down in her chair and set up her tape recorder… but superimposed over her, he saw a little girl with a Pebbles Flintstone ponytail and a gap-toothed grin, staring at him with wide eyes. He relived, just for a flash in time, that sense of hero worship and the intensity of his vow not to do anything to hurt her.
Natalie Schaeffer.
The little girl from across the street, back in Owens Forge.
That was what she had started to tell him, when she stumbled through her explanation of how her father knew his father.
Okay, he could grant her some leeway, since she had tried to tell him who she was, but Tommy couldn't forget how he had even said her name and recalled the little girl with the same name, even how she had argued about the spelling and that she wasn't Mrs. Howell from Gilligan's Island. How stupid did she think he was? Unless she hadn't remembered him until he made that connection, and she didn't want to admit it?
He laughed at himself, when he recognized that dropping sensation in his gut as disappointment. Disappointment that the little girl who adored him in elementary school had forgotten who he was.
The sound of his own choked laughter yanked him back to the moment, just as Dr. Welch walked up and leaned down to talk into the microphone set up in front of him.
"Could I have everybody's attention, please?" Dr. Welch looked around as the last few talkers quieted and a few final creaks from chairs echoed through the room. "I know you're all eager to hear our guest this morning. Surprises like this don't come our way very often. Especially on such short notice. We're very happy our guest offered his services at the start of what promises to be a very busy day."
Huh? Tommy sat up, wondering if he had heard right. Franky had said the VA had begged him, the administration wanted to tie his appearance into the awareness walk -- when had he offered his services to anyone?
"So I won't waste any more time. Especially since he doesn't need any introduction. Tommy Donnelly, the world's greatest sit-down comic." Dr. Welch adjusted the microphone to point a little more at Tommy and stepped back, giving him a wink and an encouraging nod.
The guy thinks I have stage fright! That awoke Tommy's sense of humor to the fullest and sharpest.
"Man, what do they do?" he drawled. "Use ether for air freshener in this place? If you want to take a nap, this is the spot. Just put my chair into recline and let me go!"
Relief poured through him, energizing and clearing his head, when laughter spilled out from maybe five or six dozen throats, mostly male, mostly veterans. They were alert, they were aware, and he hadn't lost his touch.
Just momentarily lost his timing.
He definitely couldn't wait to get Natalie alone this afternoon. If he would laugh with her over how destiny had thrown them together, or punish her for not revealing her "true identity," he couldn't decide right now.
*****
Franky strolled slowly down a long hospital hallway, studying a slip of paper cupped in his hand with a room number and directions scribbled on it. Shoulders hunched, he kept fighting to keep Tommy's backpack from falling down off his shoulder where he had it hooked by one strap. He passed a row of doors marked "storage" and stopped a few steps later when one of the doors creaked open. He turned around and froze a moment when a too-pale young man in dull green, faded scrubs looked out at him.
"Simon send you?"
When Franky nodded, the hospital worker held out a box wrapped in brown paper, inside a plastic bag. He hesitated to take it, but the sound of footsteps coming from an intersecting hallway decided him. He shoved it into the backpack and obeyed the worker's gesture to step into the storage room.
"When you coming back?" the other man asked.
"Next time Tommy does a show, I guess."
"Must be a pain, dragging that freak around all the time. What'd you ever do to be stuck with him?"
"Comes with the rehab program," he mumbled as he slid the backpack strap over his shoulder again. He left as soon as he could, and wiped his hands on the legs of his jeans multiple times before he returned to the chair outside the auditorium door. The hallway was mercifully empty, and he sank down into the metal chair, closed his eyes, and wiped the cold sweat off his face.
*****
"Can somebody tell me," Tommy said, sliding into his wrap-up sequence, "why do all these weird religions hit you in the refrigerator section? How come they all decide we can't eat meat? And could somebody tell me what is so almighty spiritual about rice?"
He waited for a heartbeat. A few laughed, but from the expectant, slight frowns of concentration, they were all waiting for the punch line. Tommy loved it when the audience focused on his routines like that.
"I had this friend who got into a cult once -- didn't last long, thanks to me -- and he's telling me that if I eat meat, it's like eating my own mother. I said, 'You telling me my Mom is a cow?' Man, he was soon to have a spiritual encounter with my natural four-wheel drive!"
He shifted back and forth a few inches, like he was about to ram someone. The audience roared. A few clapped. He had them right where he wanted them. Funny, but he almost regretted having to wrap up.
Not that he would ever admit it to anyone. Not Claire and Paul. Certainly not Franky. Although maybe he would confess it to Sammy. Definitely Natalie.
That surprised him. He almost missed the crucial timing moment when the applause died down enough to let him talk, but not so much there was dead air.
"Thanks. You've all been great. But before I go, let me leave you with a philosophical question. You hear people talk about 'moot points.' What is a moot? Does it have points? Where does it point? And who really gives a flying hoot about that?"
In the split second while his audience thought about that, he rolled backwards into a wheelie, waved goodbye with his foot pedals, pivoted, and raced for the door. The roar of applause, cheers and laughter almost seemed to shove him out the door.
The high of a successful routine stayed with him through half an hour of meeting some of the patients, answering questions, and watching Natalie at work. That good feeling, like he floated an inch above his chair seat, stayed until he and Natalie and Franky got to the main doors to leave. This time, two guards were waiting. Natalie rested her hand on Tommy's shoulder and he swore he could feel the tension rippling through her. Or did that come from Franky? He remembered now how Franky had taken his backpack away and hadn't put it back into place on the back of his chair until he came out of the auditorium.
All those reassurances from Paul and Brock and Franky's coordinator, that they believed the young man's rehabilitation was genuine, rang hollow in Tommy's mind. All the pieces came together with a harsh clang that set up a nauseous reverberation in his gut. The taste in his mouth was worse than anything he had experienced in the hospital in those agonizing months after his back was broken.
"I'm sorry," Dr. Welch said, stepping up to the guards and semi-blocking the doorway. "It's standard procedure now. We're trying to plug a leak, so to speak."
No wonder Franky had been so adamant about Tommy performing today, here.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Tommy asked, and speculated on what kind of threats Simon and Chuck had used to get Franky to do this. Or if he had decided it was the easier path to take and willingly chose it.
"Supplies are being stolen on a regular basis -- drugs, mostly, but portable and very expensive equipment has vanished too."
"Hey, I brought my own chair with me." He almost choked. Why did he have to turn into the smart-mouth, always making every situation a joke? Sure, it had been a survival technique when he was a boy, but he didn't need it now, did he?
Apparently he did.
Franky stepped forward, facing the guards, and raised his arms, inviting them to search him. Dr. Welch held up a hand, stopping the second guard when he stepped forward to search Natalie.
"She was with us in the auditorium the whole time. No need for that," he said, with an apologetic little smile.
Tommy almost opened his mouth to say the backpack hadn't been on his chair the whole time, but in that moment, Franky turned and met his gaze, and there was such pain and pleading in them it stole his voice. Tommy sleepwalked through the farewells, accepting Dr. Welch's thanks, promising to come back in a few months. Nobody searched him. The three were silent as they got back into the van and headed for the highway and Tabor Heights.
He didn't want to say anything to Franky about his suspicions while Natalie was in the van. Tommy gladly listened to her talk about the men she had interviewed after his routine was done, while he was talking to a handful of veterans who had suffered the same injuries to their backs. He had to concentrate to listen to her, to keep his thoughts from drifting, and to keep calm. He wasn't sure what was stronger: the anger? The sense of betrayal? The sorrow, and the guilty feeling of relief that if Franky had done something to smuggle drugs or whatever out of the hospital, he hadn't been caught? After all, if there was anything in his backpack, it was on the back of his chair, implicating him by association.
"Hey, Franky, can we talk?" Tommy said, after they had returned to the Mission and Natalie had gone on ahead, eager to get to her notebook computer. He reached over his shoulder and caught hold of one strap of the backpack. Something squeezed deep in his gut when he felt the weight in his backpack, which shouldn't have had anything except a few CDs, a notebook and pen for when inspiration struck, and some publicity stills.
"Trust me," Franky said, his voice pitched low. He leaned back against the side of the van with the wheelchair lift only partially raised, paused like a barrier between them. "Man, this is something I gotta work out myself. The less you guys know, the safer you'll be."
"Ya think?"
"Just -- could you ask everybody to pray really heavy-duty for me?"
"Sure." Something deep inside Tommy relaxed, and he felt like he could breathe again. Funny, he hadn't even realized he was suffocating until that moment. "But maybe you should tell somebody what's up, you know? You're not in this alone."
"I know." Franky finally reached out and took the backpack Tommy held out to him. "I'm doing this the only way I know how. Just…" He wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand and laughed raggedly as he gazed at the glistening on his skin. "How come it's so hard to do what you know you got to?"
"If I knew that, I'd be the king."
"Yeah." He slapped the controls for the lift and the grinding sound filled the silence between them for a few moments. "Just -- pray hard for me, okay? I'm gonna be gone for a while. Don't know how long." He swallowed hard. "Guess it depends on if the cops believe me or not."
"Like, here in Tabor?" Tommy nearly laughed at the soaring feeling that shot through him. "Go to Mark Donovan. He's right hand to Chief Cooper, and he's a good friend from church. Call him before you go. I mean, what if those creeps making you do this are watching? Or what if someone sees you going into the police station and they hear about it? Tell him I sent you, and if he doesn't believe you, he can answer to me. Okay? But I know Mark will help you out and keep you safe. It'll work out fine. Okay?"
"Okay." Franky nodded and slid the door of the van closed. He swung the backpack over his shoulder, then hesitated, unslung it, unzipped it, and took out a parcel a little bigger than a ream of paper, wrapped in brown paper inside a large zipper bag. He handed the backpack back to Tommy. "The less you're tied to this, the better."
"That's not what friends are for."
"Friends." He nodded once, staring into Tommy's eyes for a five-count, then he turned sharply and half-ran out of the parking lot.
"Okay, God, I'm depending on You. Take care of Franky. He's doing the right thing. Keep him safe, please?" Tommy whispered.
*****
Natalie strolled into the office, breathing a sigh of relief at getting out of the flow of traffic. It pleased her more than she had anticipated, seeing the eagerness and excitement of all the participants who were gearing up to head out on the awareness walk. If someone told her half the population of Tabor Heights had packed into the former school building, getting numbers and assignments and equipment to simulate their temporary disabilities, she wouldn't have doubted for a moment. But the high numbers created heat and noise and a sense of not enough air to breathe. She was relieved to get into the office, which was strangely empty and quiet.
Not entirely empty and quiet. Claire was on the phone, which seemed to be her usual state. Natalie didn't like the hunch in Claire's shoulders, the slight flush in her cheeks, and the damp strands of hair that had escaped her ponytail and clung to her face. At T-minus twenty minutes until everyone got their bottles of water and Pastor Glenn prayed over the volunteers to send them out on the street, Claire should be on the verge of release from all her hard work. Not looking like another fifty pounds of responsibility had landed on her shoulders.
"You don't understand, this isn't--"
From the almost audible click in Claire's voice, Natalie guessed she had been interrupted. Probably for the twentieth time since the phone call started. She had noticed the same tendency to get a break in her voice when people were consistently rude to her, too.
"We're not holding a demonstration." Claire glanced up, met Natalie's eyes in the brief pause, and crossed her eyes at her. "Yes, I know we need permits to hold public demonstrations, but we're--" Another click and interruption. "We're not going to be gathered in one place outside. This is a walk to gather attention-- We've already cleared everything with City Hall, thank you. The police are very aware of what we will be doing. In fact, they are fully in support of what we are doing, and they are on the alert for any morally bankrupt idiots who might try to give us a hard time!"
Natalie pursed her lips in a silent whistle. Odds were good Claire had finally crossed over the point of "enough." At least she was still a lady, even when she blew up.
"In fact, why don't you go over--" Claire let out a little shriek and raised the phone like she would slam it into the desk, then stopped herself.
"I don't suppose you've considered taping all incoming phone calls from now on, and using caller I.D.?" Natalie offered, as the other woman dropped the handset into its cradle.
"Now I know how those innocent witches felt in Salem." A sharp rap on the outside hall door startled them both.
Grace came in, carrying a tray with clear plastic cups of milk. Sammy followed her, very carefully carrying a tray of what looked like homemade brownies and peanut butter and chocolate chip cookies. Natalie muffled a moan when a whiff of warm cookie aroma went straight to her stomach and tied it into a hungry knot. She decided the woman was right who declared that life was too short and dessert should always be eaten first.
"Time for a break, O fearless leader," Grace announced, putting the tray down and handing the first cup to Claire.
"Thanks. I need milk for that ulcer I'm starting to get."
"That bad?" Grace looked over at Natalie, who decided to take the road of discretion and help Sammy put the tray of cookies on the
desk. And snitch a few for herself. Surely Claire and Sammy and Grace didn't need six cookies each, did they?
"The half of City Council that supports us," Claire said, after taking a long, slow sip of milk, "just barely makes up for the half that hates us. Those lunatics on the phone know just what to say to scare me. They're doing everything they can to stop us from going out. Even at the last minute."
"I think it's safe to say this town isn't as accessible as they claim. Someone doesn't want their lies exposed. Or to spend the money to make the renovations mandated by law."
"Oh, I know it isn't. Everybody who ever tried to use a public bathroom or get up a curb when they're crossing the street knows it."
"Hey, you're preaching to the choir here."
"Oh, thank you, sweetheart," Claire said, when Sammy handed her a napkin with one of each cookie on it. "You know, I could sure use a hug." She picked up the little girl and hauled her up onto her lap, wrapping her arms around her, somehow managing not to knock the cookies onto the floor. Sammy smiled contentedly and snuggled down into Claire's lap.
"If it's any comfort," Natalie offered, settling on the edge of the other desk with her cookies, "once people realize I'm a reporter and my magazine supports what you're doing, and a lot of their nasty, entirely false -- provably false -- stories are repeated and then repudiated in print, I'm the one who's going to get all the death threats. Not you."
"Movable target," Grace said. She saluted Natalie with her cup of milk. "I like it."
"Why does it have to get so nasty and political? Today is supposed to be simple and fun. All we want to do is let able-bodied people know how hard it is for disabled people to get around. That's all we want." Claire sounded like she fought not to whine.
"Not what I heard," Grace muttered.
Claire's eyes widened and she sat up a little straighter. Then she slumped again, shoulders shaking with silent laughter at her friend's teasing.
Wheels (Tabor Heights Year Two) Page 17
