Counting to Infinity

by J. L. Abramo

  “Sally.”

  A hand covered mine, pulling my fingers away from my face.

  “Sally,” I cried out again.

  “It’s Darlene, Jake. Please don’t touch the bandages.”

  “Sally?” I said.

  “I’m sorry, Jake,” said Darlene.

  The telephone in my head stopped ringing. I passed out.

  Sound returned. A quite constant buzzing.

  “Darlene?”

  “I’m here, Jake.”

  “Sally?” I said.

  “I’m sorry, Jake. Sally didn’t make it. The medical examiner is certain she died instantly.”

  I could feel tears in my eyes. Burning.

  I couldn’t speak.

  I raised my good arm, telling Darlene not to speak.

  I fell asleep.

  I heard more than one voice now. A man’s voice added to Darlene’s. A muffled conversation.

  “Darlene?”

  “I’m here, Jake. The doctor is here. He wants to answer your questions. About your condition.”

  “I don’t care,” I said.

  “Please, Jake,” said Darlene.

  “I can come back,” said the doctor.

  “Please, Jake,” Darlene said again.

  “I’ll come back,” said the doctor.

  “I don’t care,” I said.

  I heard someone leave the room. Darlene took my hand into hers. She didn’t speak. Time passed, indeterminable. I tried to put Sally’s face out of my mind. There was only one way to do that.

  “Am I blind?” I asked.

  “No, Jake. It was the flash of the explosion, like looking into the sun too long. They’ll heal. Your vision will be fine.”

  “I can’t feel my legs.”

  “Both are set in plaster casts, Jake,” Darlene said. “A dislocated right knee, a grade-three left ankle sprain. And the left wrist is broken. Miraculously, they found no other bone fractures and no broken ribs. A very ugly gash above your left eye, there’ll be a scar.”

  “What day is it?”

  “Sunday. You were in the emergency room most of the night. It’s early afternoon. I haven’t called your mother yet. Tom Romano and Vinnie Strings are out in the visitors’ waiting room.”

  “I don’t want any visitors, Darlene,” I said.

  “Fine,” said Darlene.

  “I don’t know what to do about my mother.”

  “I’ll take care of it, Jake.”

  Sally’s face broke through again. Smiling.

  “I loved her, Darlene.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s my fault.”

  “Even you know that’s not true, Jake.”

  “I’m scared, Darlene.”

  “It’s going to be okay, Jake. I promise.”

  “I’m tired.”

  “Sleep, Jake. I’ll be here.”

  Darlene held my hand in hers. Tightly. As if she were afraid to let go.

  I closed my damp burning eyes beneath the bandages. I tried to put Sally’s face out of my mind.

  There was only one way to do that.

  I thought about Max Lansdale and Ralph Battle and how they would pay.

  I felt Darlene squeezing my hand.

  “Jake.”

  “Yes.”

  “The doctor is back. His name is Whitman. He needs to ask some questions.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m going out to Pleasant Hill to see your mother. I’ll ask Vinnie to drive me out there; it will get him out of the hospital. Tom Romano left; he said that you should call him if you needed anything at all.”

  “Tell my mother that she doesn’t have to come here,” I said.

  “Don’t be foolish,” said Darlene. “I’ll be back with your mother.”

  “Thank you, Darlene.”

  “You’re welcome, Jake,” Darlene said, letting go of my hand. I heard her move away, and a moment later the doctor spoke.

  “We’re going to need some health background information, Mr. Diamond,” he said. “If you feel up to it I’d like to send a nurse in to do a short interview.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “How do your eyes feel?”

  “On fire,” I said.

  “It’s the medication. I’ll see you later this afternoon with an eye specialist to remove the bandages and take a look,” Whitman said. “We’ll move you into an examination room where we can control the lighting; we’ll want to bring it in gradually. We have an extremely positive prognosis from the ophthalmologist. We are very optimistic.”

  Whitman paused and waited. When he realized that I had nothing to say he went on.

  “The right knee has been reset in place. The X-rays showed stretching of ligaments, but none were torn. There will be considerable swelling, and the cast will have to remain intact to ensure proper healing. I estimate three to six weeks, followed by rehabilitation. There were no breaks or fractures evident, no damage to the artery or to any nerves. The left ankle was badly sprained but should heal fairly quickly. The knee will keep you off your feet long enough for the ankle to heal. We will be doing follow-up X-rays and will do an MRI if the orthopedist feels it is necessary. The wrist should mend successfully. The scar above your eye will be noticeable but not horrible. All in all, Mr. Diamond, I would say that you were very lucky.”

  “I don’t feel very lucky,” I said.

  “Do you have any questions?” Whitman asked.

  “Do you have a spare cigarette?”

  “I’d like to send the nurse in now to ask you about your medical history, if you feel up to it.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “We’ll be back later to check your eyes,” Whitman said. “I’ll see you then.”

  “I hope I’ll be able to see you also,” I said.

  Now it was my mother holding my hand. Mary knew me well enough not to say much. Darlene told me she would be waiting outside, trying to keep Vinnie under control. He was jumping out of his skin trying to get into the room to see me. Darlene casually mentioned that Joey Russo would be getting back later that night. It was the best news I’d heard in a long time.

  Darlene came in again; I could hear her whispering to my mother.

  “They’re ready to take you to the examination room, Jake,” Darlene said, “to remove the bandages.”

  “I’ll be waiting, Jacob,” my mother said.

  “Let me talk with Darlene for a minute,” I said. “Can you do something with Vinnie, Mom? Maybe get him something to eat.”

  “Of course, son,” she said.

  I heard my mother cross the room to leave and waited to hear the door close behind her.

  “Darlene?”

  “Yes, Jake.”

  “Will you come with me?”

  “Absolutely, Jake,” Darlene said. “I’ll go tell them you’re ready.”

  They rolled me on a gurney down a long hallway and into another room. Darlene held my hand. Whitman introduced the ophthalmologist as he unwrapped the bandages.

  “We would like you to keep your eyes shut until we dim the lights, Mr. Diamond,” Whitman said. “Then we will bring them back up slowly.”

  I closed my eyes. When the bandages were removed, I felt a warm cloth gently wiping my eyelids.

  Darlene held my hand.

  “All right, Mr. Diamond,” Whitman said, “you can open your eyes, slowly.”

  I opened my eyes.

  The room was pitch-black.

  I panicked for a moment before the darkness began to recede. The room remained dim, but I could see a face come up close to mine.

  “I’m Dr. Michelle Donaldson, Mr. Diamond,” the face said. “Please hold still.”

  She came closer and stared into my eyes.

  “Please bring the lights up to seven,” she called behind her.

  The room brightened.

  Donaldson brought a small scope up to my left eye and took a long look. She repeated with the right. She pulled back and her face came into focus.

&
nbsp; “You can bring them up all the way,” she called.

  “Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Julia Roberts?” I asked.

  Darlene gave my hand a hard squeeze.

  “Mr. Diamond, the good news is I’m confident that your eyesight will be fine,” Donaldson said.

  “And the not-so-good news?” I asked.

  “It might be a while before your vision is completely back to normal.”

  “How long?”

  “Just until you realize that I look nothing like Julia Roberts,” she said.

  I passed the remainder of the afternoon and early evening drifting in and out of sleep, either flat on my back or tenuously propped up in the bed, with Darlene and my mother drifting in and out of the room separately and together.

  The worst part of being able to see again was seeing the condition I was in. I looked like Boris Karloff. As Frankenstein or the Mummy, take a pick.

  My right leg was wrapped in a plaster cast to the hip, the left leg to midcalf, the left arm to the elbow.

  I looked like a kindergarten art project.

  The surgical stitching above my left eye ran from just above the bridge of my nose up to my lower forehead. The scar would split my eyebrow in two.

  Vinnie Strings had finally worked his way into the room. I was thankful he had waited for the bandages to be removed; it was better to see Vinnie than to imagine him lurking there in the darkness. The poor kid was genuinely upset. All of my efforts at trying to assure Vinnie that I would be all right almost helped me to convince myself.

  Sometime after I had rejected what the hospital called dinner, Darlene slipped out and returned with a contraband chicken burrito. I shared it with Vinnie.

  When a nurse came in and insisted it was time for all visitors to give the patient a chance to rest, I wanted to kiss the woman.

  Darlene said she would drive my mother home and would visit again in the morning. I asked her to stay away from the office for the time being, to check calls from home.

  Darlene and my mother gave me awkward hugs and headed out of the hospital room. Vinnie didn’t budge.

  “Can I talk to you for a minute, Jake?” Vinnie asked once the women were gone.

  “Sure, Vin, what’s on your mind?”

  “I wanted to tell you how sad I am about Sally.”

  The kid was close to tears. I was initially resentful that Vinnie had reminded me about Sally. Then thankful.

  “And whatever you decide you need to do, Jake, whatever,” Vinnie went on, “I’m there.”

  “Thank you, Vinnie,” I said. “Really.”

  “Okay, Jake, I need to go,” Vinnie said. “The Russos are coming home tonight and I want to make sure the house looks all right. Somehow I managed to keep the basil plants alive.”

  “Can you do me a favor, Vin?”

  “Sure, Jake, anything.”

  “Ask Joey Russo to come see me,” I said, “as soon as he can.”

  “You got it, pal. I’ll drop back by to visit you tomorrow.”

  “You do that, friend,” I said.

  Vinnie left and I was alone.

  Terribly alone.

  Sixteen

  I stood in the vestibule of the Payless shoe store. Even though I was in my father’s heavy wool overcoat, the wind coming off Lake Michigan sliced through me. A woman studying the window display was crowding me with a baby stroller. My hand was deep in my coat pocket gripping the handgun.

  Ralph Battle had walked out of the adjacent building minutes before and crossed South Wacker. Where I stood, I could see Battle in the bagel shop across the street. A young woman behind the counter was placing bagels into a paper bag. Battle took the bag and a moment later he was back out at the curb, waiting for an opening in the busy morning traffic. Battle crossed the avenue, the baby in the stroller said something unintelligible, my grip on the gun tightened. Battle reentered the building and I moved to follow. I watched from outside the entrance as Battle waited for the elevator. The elevator car arrived and I moved quickly into the lobby as Battle stepped into it.

  I raced to the elevator and used my foot to stop the doors from closing completely, pulling out the .38 as the doors reopened. Battle looked up at me in recognition and shock as the doors shut. I pointed the weapon at his chest and as the car began to rise I pulled the trigger twice.

  The body crashed heavily to the floor of the elevator. I reached to push the button for the twelfth floor.

  The late Ralph Battle had beaten me to it.

  Battle stared up at me, dark circles of blood on his shirt growing larger. I knelt down and used my fingers to close his eyes. I picked up the paper bag. The elevator doors opened on the twelfth floor. I stepped out, the bag in one hand and the gun in the other.

  I walked to the door of Lansdale’s office suite.

  I managed to get the door opened using the top of the paper bag. I went into the receptionist area; no one was at the front desk. I quietly moved on to the door of Lansdale’s private office. The door was ajar; I pushed it open with my foot. Max Lansdale looked up from his seat. I tossed the bag, landing it in the middle of the desk in front of him.

  “Bagels from Ralph,” I said, “and this is from Sally French.”

  I pulled the trigger of the gun until it emptied.

  I closed my eyes and kept squeezing the trigger, the hammer clicking.

  Someone grabbed my arm, seemed to take the gun from my hand. Then someone was holding my empty hand, slapping it gently and calling my name.

  “Jake. Jesus Christ, Jake.”

  I opened my eyes and tried to focus.

  “Jake, snap out of it. You’re scaring the shit out of me, buddy.”

  “Joey? What are you doing here?”

  “Calm down, Jake. I came as soon as I heard.”

  “How did you find me? Where am I?”

  “You’re lying in a hospital bed, Jake,” said Joey Russo, “soaking wet. What the hell happened? You look like you were just pulled out of McCovey Cove.”

  “It was a dream,” I said.

  “Must have been one hell of a dream, pal,” Joey said. “I can’t wait to hear about it. But first I need to wring you dry. And then I want you to tell me who put you here. Jesus, if I’d known I’d find you this way, I’d have brought a couple of Angela’s Martha Stewart towels along. Don’t go anywhere; I’ll see what they have in the bathroom.”

  Joey moved off toward the bathroom. I was shaking like a leaf, and dripping wet. He came back quickly and mopped my face dry. Joey threw the towel into a corner of the room, poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the bedside stand, and handed it to me.

  “Take a drink, slowly,” he said, “and settle down. And when you’re ready, I want every single detail.”

  I took a long, slow drink.

  “I could use some bourbon with this,” I said.

  “That can be arranged, but first things first.”

  “God, I’m glad to see you, Joey.”

  “From what I’ve heard, I’m sure that you’re glad you can see anything. But I’m going to forget everything I’ve heard, Jake. I need to hear it all from you,” Joey said, “from the beginning.”

  And so I told Joey everything. From the beginning. From the moment two weeks earlier when Ralph Battle came into the office of Diamond Investigation waving a cannon, up to the moment I sent Max Lansdale to hell in my dream.

  “I don’t need to tell you how sorry I am about Sally. Do I, Jake?” Joey asked when I had told the tale.

  “No, Joey, you don’t.”

  “And do you believe me when I say that I have a very good idea how you feel about it?”

  “Of course I believe you, Joey.”

  “The dream, Jake. It’s no good and I’ll tell you why,” Joey said. “Because it’s not going to happen that way, it’s a fantasy. It’s a wish that can’t come true, not that way. Do you understand?”

  “I think so,” I said.

  “In Ralph Battle’s dream it’s you with
the bullets in your chest, lying on the stairs up to your office. In Max Lansdale’s dream it’s you who picks up the telephone.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  Joey Russo reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pint bottle of George Dickel bourbon. He filled two plastic cups and handed one to me.

  “Do you trust me, Jake?” Joey asked after we had both taken a healthy drink.

  “Absolutely.”

  “You need to put Battle and Lansdale out of your mind until you’re back on your feet,” Joey said. “You need to heal, and not only physically. You need to come to terms with what happened to Sally. I’ll help you get Lansdale, Jake. And we will get him. And Battle. I promise you. But not before you’re strong again.”

  I took another drink. My hand was shaking.

  “Trust me, Jake. I will work on it while you recover. Six, maybe eight weeks tops,” Joey said. “Just don’t ask me about it. Play cards, read books. Take a trip, somewhere warm, stare at the ocean. You’re welcome to use our place in St. Martin, it’s all set up. Take Darlene along to see that you eat. Close the office; refer any clients to Tom Romano. You can’t work and you can’t stay alone.”

  “I don’t know, Joey.”

  “You know what they say about patience, Jake.”

  “That it’s difficult.”

  “That too. Try counting.”

  “Counting?”

  “When you feel you’re about to blow, count to ten.”

  “Six to eight weeks is a long time, Joey,” I said. “What if I get to ten and the fuse is still burning?”

  “Then you keep counting.”

  “Counting to infinity?”

  “As high as you need to go,” Joey said. “What’s important is that you think about something else for a while.”

  “For instance?”

  “For instance, like where you’re going to live. Even if you could make it up the stairs to your apartment, it’s going to be some time before the place is habitable again. If ever.”