“No, have you?”
“Yes, and it would take a very long time to explain. And tonight’s not the night.”
“No, it’s not. But some night you will have to tell me.” Cordelia flipped on a few lights. I caught her suppressing a yawn. It was past midnight.
The apartment was a comfortable two-bedroom, in the state of disorder of someone who hasn’t had time to clean rather than someone who doesn’t bother. I liked the furnishings I saw. It seemed that all the Holloway good taste had landed on Cordelia.
“I’m afraid I’m not going to be a very good host. I have rounds at seven tomorrow morning.” She pointed out the bathroom and told me which bedroom I got.
“That’s okay. I’m not going to be a very good guest. No witty conversation, no compliments on how wonderfully you’ve decorated things, just straight to bed,” I answered.
Cordelia motioned me into the bathroom first, saying she wanted to look at her mail and listen to her phone messages.
I finished in the bathroom in time to hear the tail end of her last message. It was a male voice saying he’d see her real soon and that he loved her and so on.
“My fiancé,” she explained, catching sight of me in the bathroom door.
“Congratulations,” I said, telling myself that yes, I could be liberal and tolerant of these straight people and their antediluvian rituals. “When’s the wedding?”
“We haven’t even officially announced the engagement yet, let alone set a date,” she answered and went into the bathroom.
The hospital pain killers were starting to wear off. I was aching in places that, in twenty-nine years, had never hurt before. I knew she was straight, I told myself as I turned back the covers on Cordelia’s spare bed. Straight people often go off and do things like marrying the opposite sex. Cordelia James wasn’t exceptional enough to break that mold. I realized that I hadn’t brought anything to sleep in. I could sleep in the nude. In all those hours in the emergency room, Cordelia had certainly seen enough of my body. But I sat on the edge of the bed, not taking off my clothes. I heard the bathroom door open. Cordelia entered the room.
“Here, have some of Dr. James’s joy pills,” she said, handing me some red pills and a cup of water. They looked like the pills I had gotten in the hospital. I swallowed them. “Do you want a T-shirt to sleep in or do you go without?” she asked.
“You’re being too good a host. You promised not to.”
She opened the chest of drawers in the room, took out a T-shirt, and tossed it to me.
“End of hosting duties,” she said.
I held up the T-shirt and looked at it. It was red with black lettering on it.
“King Lear. Summer ’83,” I read.
“Oh,” Cordelia let out, and for a brief moment her face tightened. Upset, angry, I couldn’t quite make out.
“Do you not want me to wear this?” I asked.
“No, it’s okay,” she said, too quickly. She turned to go. “Get some sleep, Micky,” she said over her shoulder.
“You, too, Doc,” I answered. She shut the door.
I changed, putting on the T-shirt. I wondered briefly what memories it had evoked in Cordelia, but I was too exhausted to ponder long. I lay down and fell instantly asleep.
Chapter 14
When I woke, I knew it was late, almost high noon. There was a little orange kitten purring at my feet. I wondered what she had named it. Those pills had knocked me out. First thing I did was take a shower, or half a shower, since I had to avoid washing a significant amount of skin due to either bandages, stitches, or pain.
When I got out of the shower, I found a hastily scribbled note from Cordelia. It said:
I’m on call tonight so I won’t be back for a while. Stay as long as you like and help yourself to whatever is around. The door locks when it’s closed. C.
For an instant, I thought about checking out her apartment, but that would be high abuse of her kindness in taking me in. Besides, I wanted to make my space livable again. I got dressed and gathered my things together, leaving the T-shirt and towel in the laundry.
She had a pad for grocery lists taped to her refrigerator. I took a sheet and the attached pencil to write her a note. I wrote, “Dear Cordelia,” then stopped, suddenly unsure of whether to use dear. Come on, it’s a standard greeting, I told myself, but still I hung, undecided. Should a dyke with my reputation be calling a soon-to-be-wed straight woman, whom I had just met, dear?
I decided to be safe and start again. I tore off the top sheet, crumpled it, and threw it in her trash can. My note said:
Cordelia,
Thanks a lot for everything. No offense, but in the future, I will do the best I can to stay out of any and all hospitals.
I couldn’t think of anything else to say, so I just signed my initials. Something about this woman unsettled me. I almost wrote M.R. instead of M.K. I hadn’t done that for a long time. I dismissed it to my aching arm and ribs and all the drugs I had taken.
I put the note on her desk. There was a picture of a youngish man with glasses and an “I love you” with signature written on it. The fiancé, I assumed. He looked too much like my despised cousin Bayard, Aunt Greta’s oldest boy, for me to like him. Good thing it’s you and not me, I thought, looking at his insipidly smiling face.
I made sure there was enough food for the kitten and refilled her water, then I got my canvas bag and left, making sure the lock on the door caught.
I walked back to my apartment, using the exercise to try and get my stiff and bruised muscles ready for action. They declined. It took me ten minutes longer than it should have to cover the distance.
No elves had dropped by. The mess was still there. I methodically, and basically one-armed, set about straightening the place up. I worked steadily all afternoon. Slowly but surely, order took over. Hepplewhite even visited, now that there was floor space for her to prance around on.
The kitchen was the difficult part. It is hard to use a broom when you’ve got ten stitches in your right arm and all your chest muscles are in agony. But if I didn’t get this stuff cleaned up, the roaches would take over. For the first time in my life, I was glad that I was poor and didn’t have much food in my kitchen. I had to scrape something sticky off the floor, but it was finally done. I left an assortment of roach prevention devices all around and shut the kitchen door so that Hepplewhite couldn’t get in and get her paw stuck inside a roach motel, like she had once before.
I should have been hungry, but I wasn’t. Food didn’t seem very important, or maybe it was the smell of the stuff that had been on the kitchen floor that did in my appetite.
I spent a couple of hours wondering why neither Danny nor Ranson had called to check up on me, until it occurred to me that perhaps those bad guys had also vandalized my phone. Yes, indeed, they had. So instead of feeling sorry for myself, I got to re-splice some pesky little phone wires to get my phone back on-line. However, it did not start ringing off the hook with all my concerned friends calling me up. I must have just missed them.
I’d gone to the store earlier to get trash sacks and roach paraphernalia. While I was there, I had also gotten some old cardboard boxes. I cut these up and used them to cover the windows. Let the landlord and his insurance company pay for the new glass.
This was as much as I was going to do. Or could do. I had gone slowly and been careful, but everything ached more than I wanted to know.
I had almost everything put away or at least in piles that had some slight order to them. I knew what the damage was. My phone was usable, the answering machine cracked, but still going. My stereo had been trashed. The speakers might be okay, but with the receiver and turntable in pieces, I had no way to test them. I was going to miss my music. Laundry or dry-cleaning would save most of my clothes. Of course, Danny’s gray sweater and new black pants were a loss. The invasion of the insects had been prevented. Save for my stereo, I lived a spare existence here. They hadn’t done a lot of damage because there wasn�
��t a lot to damage.
I had bought some cat food and litter. I left these next to Ms. Clavish’s door with a note saying I would be gone for a while and thanking her for taking care of Hepplewhite.
Since my phone still hadn’t rung, I thought I’d try to make sure that I hadn’t crossed the wires. First, I tried Ranson at her office. She wasn’t in. I left a message that I had called and that I would be gone for a while. Then I called Danny, got her machine and left the same message. Finally, I called the hospital to find out how Barbara was doing. The same.
I left, making sure I locked both locks. It was a long walk to my car. I was moving even more slowly than I had earlier.
I drove out of the city with the low western sun blurring my vision. On the way I stopped and got enough food to last me through the end of the week. Nothing fancy, but I could probably still catch some large-mouthed bass or at least a few catfish.
I reached the old shipyard as the last traces of the sun disappeared from the sky. I drove through the main cleared area and onto a rutted track hidden between the trees. After a hundred yards, I stopped the car in front of the house where I had spent my first ten years. House wasn’t quite the right term, but it wasn’t a shack either. The boards were old and weather-beaten and the bricks for the cornerstones were irregular and homemade. Since it was so close to the water, it was fairly high off the ground. As a kid, I had always liked to play in the cool dirt under the house. I walked up the stairs to the porch, which continued around three sides of the house. We used to sit on the far side where we could see the bayou and watch the boats go by. Sometimes, in the evening, we could even see an alligator or two.
I opened the door, found a hurricane lamp, and lit it. I rarely came out here and didn’t need electricity enough to have it connected. The lamp lit the room with a warm yellow glow. There was one big main room and off to the back were the kitchen and the bathroom. The front had two smaller rooms facing the bayou. I used to fall asleep watching the moon glistening on its waters, the marsh stretching off to the horizon. I couldn’t let go of the shipyard because it had been such a battle with Aunt Greta to keep it. And because…I felt there was something still here, something unfinished. But I wasn’t sure what. Somehow that made it all the harder for me to be here. But I had to rest and recover and I had no other place to go.
I put away the food in the kitchen, then opened a can of tuna and made myself a sandwich. With no electricity, there was no hot water, so I heated some on the stove to take a bath with. After my bath, I got a sleeping bag out of the old steamer trunk that had been my grandfather’s. It was one of my few connections to him, that and my name. He had died before I was born. Then I went into the room that had been mine, spread the sleeping bag on the mattress, and lay down.
I was tired and the sound of crickets was lulling. My dad always used to tell me that those crickets and bullfrogs were singing a lullaby for me to sleep by.
I wasn’t giving up, like Ranson had suggested. But, by leaving town for a while, I might convince Milo and friends that I had, that they had really scared the shit out of me and I wanted out. I was too bruised and battered to be of much use to anyone right now. I needed time to let my wounds heal.
Soon the crickets sang me to sleep.
I spent a week out there. By day I fished in the local bayous and streams. I thought about taking the skiff out into the Gulf, but decided that February weather was too unpredictable and that salt water would sting a lot if it got in my arm. The speckled trout were safe for a while longer. If I wasn’t sitting on the dock fishing, I was walking through the woods. I discovered a opossum family living in the remains of an old shrimp boat, which had been washed ashore and impaled on a broken pine tree during Hurricane Betsy. Its owner had abandoned it to its landlocked fate.
Evenings I read by the hurricane lamp. My father only had a high school education, but he always read whenever he could. The wall that separated the main room from the smaller rooms was lined with bookcases stuffed full of his books. He had a good collection of the modern Southern writers, Faulkner, O’Connor, McCullers, Williams. The rest of his collection spanned from Marcus Aurelius to Jane Austen. Someday, I wanted to have read every book on that wall. This week I added Middlemarch and Faulkner’s Snopes trilogy to my list.
I got back to town on a Thursday, in the early afternoon to avoid the rush hour. The city seemed dirty and cacophonous. I found a parking space amazingly close to my apartment. Nothing had changed there. Hepplewhite even came in and meowed like she had missed me. But I knew she only missed her double meals.
There were a few messages on my machine. Ranson’s was, “Call me if you’re not dead.” Danny left an invitation for dinner for last Saturday night and then a second message for me to call her and let her know that everything was okay and not to worry about her pants and sweater, that she was dark enough without wearing too much black and gray. Then there was a hang-up and a wrong number and I was about to rewind when another voice came on.
“Hi, I thought I’d call and see how your wounds were. They say attentive doctors are less likely to get sued for malpractice. Joanne said you were going out of town. Give me a call when you get back so I can take out your stitches.” Cordelia left her number. There were no other calls.
The first thing I did was call the hospital. Barbara had to be better by now. But she wasn’t. No change, the nurse told me.
I found my intact bottle of Scotch and poured myself a drink. Hepplewhite took my inactivity as a cue to get in my lap. I sat for a long time sipping Scotch and petting the cat.
I knew that I wasn’t finished with Milo, et al. Not because of my cuts and bruises, those would heal. I would miss my stereo, but even that I could forgive. No, the real problem was them spreading rumors that I was sleeping with men. Particularly men like Elmo Turner.
That and Barbara Selby.
I poured myself another drink. I thought about going out to a bar and picking up someone, but decided not to. It’s hard to have sex with a woman when you have to keep telling her not to touch you on about half of your body.
I called Danny. She answered on the first ring.
“I’m back in town,” I greeted her.
“Where were you?” Danny asked.
“I was at the old shipyard.” Danny knew I sporadically camped out there. She didn’t know that I owned it. I let her assume I was vaguely related to whoever did own it and that they didn’t mind an occasional visitor.
“I should have guessed. Did you stop by and see my folks?”
Danny and I had grown up around Bayou St. Jack’s, separated by seven miles and the color barrier. We should have gone to elementary school with each other, but schools were still segregated then. By the time they were integrated, I was living with Aunt Greta and Uncle Claude in an ugly subdivision out in Metairie.
Danny’s parents ran a fishing and bait shop, her mother often staying home to mind the store while her father was out leading hunters or fishermen through the bayous or catching crawfish to sell in their store.
Danny and I didn’t meet until we had gone off to college together. Danny had always been ambivalent about her background, in some ways ashamed of it, and in other ways, very proud. But part of the pride was in having gotten out of there. She always had a fierce determination to “be somebody.” She told me she had decided in junior high school that she was going to be a lawyer, no matter what it took. That no one was ever going to put her down for being the “daughter of the bait man” again. Danny always made it a point to use proper, grammatical English. Only rarely, when she was drunk or very tired, would she lapse into the accents of the bayou. It gave Danny an oddly formal air, made her seem colder, stiffer than she was. She had never had enough privilege to let loose.
Of course, her parents were very proud of her. Mrs. Clayton had copies of both her diplomas hung over the bait shop counter. Plus lots of graduation pictures. I was there, too. Since I didn’t have any parents and Aunt Greta wasn’t about to spen
d the money to fly north to see me graduate, not that I wanted her to, Danny’s parents had adopted me that May. They took lots of pictures of us both, in front of just about every building on campus and every step of the way at the commencement exercises.
“No, I didn’t think I should let your mother get a look at all my cuts and bruises,” I replied.
Danny laughed.
“Danno, I’m real sorry about your pants and sweater. I will replace them,” I added.
“Don’t worry about my clothes. I just wish they had been leather and a little more useful against a knife. Ten stitches is not fun.”
“Been talking to Ranson, huh?” I replied.
“Briefly. I got most of the story from Cordelia James.”
“You know her?” I asked, not adding, “that well?”
“Oh, sure. I introduced her to Thoreau. He’s a social worker who’s done things with my office on several occasions. A pretty nice guy, does work with crime victims.”
“Her fiancé, I take it,” I said.
“Right.”
“But how do you know her?” I persisted.
“I met her somewhere around. It was a while ago,” Danny replied evasively. “They’re coming over here for dinner this Saturday. Want to come?”
“I don’t know,” I answered, not sure I did. “He looks an awful lot like my despised cousin Bayard. It might be an uphill battle for me to even be polite to him.”
“You’ve seen him?”
“No, there was a picture in Cordelia’s apartment.”
“What were you doing in her apartment?” Assistant D.A. Clayton asked.
“I spent the night there.”
“You what?” Danny exclaimed. I heard Elly in the background asking what was going on. “Micky, don’t play with fire. This woman doesn’t need a tomcat like you in her bed.”
“Calm down, I wasn’t in her bed. She has two bedrooms. I was in the other one. The night I got beaten up and my place was trashed.”
Death by the Riverside Page 13
