by Lev Raphael
“Jesus, never mind,” she said wearily. “If you let me wear your coat, that’s enough. I want to get myself home and crawl into bed.” Juno started to sit up, but the doctor eased her back down.
“Wait until we get you a wheelchair.”
“Bullshit,” she growled, sounding for a moment better— that is, more like her old self.
The doctor shook his head, but motioned me to keep Juno from hurting herself. An orderly in light blue scrubs came in with a wheelchair; he was slim and dark, Pakistani perhaps, with slicked-back hair and big, sensual eyes. Juno didn’t even notice his good looks. I took off my coat and handed it to him, then called Stefan to fill him in and ask him to watch for my car, since I figured I’d need help when we arrived.
The orderly fussed around Juno’s bed, getting her ready, taking out her IV, putting some ointment and then a Band-Aid on her hand, removing what I realized were little round patches that connected to the monitor. I tried taking in the rest of the vast, gleaming room, which had another bed partly curtained off and was lined with the same wheeled wire shelves I’d seen in the hallway. I made out bedpans and IV
bags, oxygen tanks, and what I thought might be a
defibrillator, but everything else seemed intimidatingly foreign, as if I’d been plunged into another country whose language and customs I had no hope of understanding.
“We’re ready,” Juno said. The orderly handed me a
heavy plastic trash bag with her damaged clothes, and a white prescription slip. He started to wheel the subdued and haggard Juno out into the hallway, and I followed, but we were stopped by Officer Protopopescu, who appeared as sneakily as a process server, with as minatory a look on his face.
“I need to get your statement,” he said to Juno. “Is this a good time?” It was a heavily rhetorical question, and Juno was too wiped out to argue. She nodded and told him a quick, clipped story not much different than my own. She was pulling out of her parking space, heard an engine being gunned, and suddenly was broadsided. She hadn’t noticed the driver or the make of the SUV either, and Protopopescu looked more than disappointed—he looked annoyed.
“That’s it? You don’t remember anything else? Not a
single detail?”
“Give her a break,” I said, curious myself at how
offhand Juno’s narrative had been. But then why wouldn’t she want to get rid of him? I’d probably have done the same thing, tried to keep any interrogation short so I could escape to my own bed.
The officer glared at both of us as if we were hiding something, flipped his pad shut, and practically warned Juno he’d want to talk to her again. He turned and stalked away.
I thanked Doctor Vinciguerra, who was already in
consultation with another doctor, examining something on a clipboard. He looked up at us and grinned. It was a real flash of warmth, not at all mechanical.
“Remember!” he said. “Nice, deep breaths! Expand those lungs.”
Was he thinking about the image of Juno’s sexy chest
rising and falling, or was she just an anonymous damaged body to him, stripped of the possibility of attractiveness? As we emerged through the automatic doors with their warning sign near the security post, the orderly said something under his breath to the hulking guard, who chuckled. It sounded as ominous as the beginning of a rock slide. Perhaps they’d been joking about her “lungs”—she certainly had quite a set.
I kept right behind the young orderly on the way out.
Given her bursts of feistiness, I was surprised to see Juno double over in pain as she was helped into the passenger side of my car and strapped in. It was as disorienting as watching a champion athlete stumble and clutch herself, the body that has always been a perfect machine unexpectedly breaking down.
“Thanks.”
The orderly smiled shyly at me, and hurried back into the building.
Juno gasped again when we drove away and said nothing as the darkened campus slid by us, though whether she was feeling pain or relief to be leaving, I didn’t know. I realized it was pain, though, when she clutched her side and said, “I feel as if I’ve been kicked by someone with metal-toed boots.”
Was the injury making her think of falling at the reception?
I tried to reassure her. “You’re going to be okay.” I gave her a rah-rah version of the doctor’s report, and she nodded absentmindedly, seeming almost to fall asleep.
“Physically,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
She shook her head, wouldn’t answer. Her perfume filled the car, and something else, some heavy, medicinal smell I hadn’t noticed before. It was as if her skin had absorbed the atmosphere of the ambulance and the room she’d been in.
“Which drugstore should we stop at for your
prescription?”
“The Rite Aid near campus.”
It was one of their brand-new behemoths, set down on
the corner of a major intersection looking as out of place as Dorothy’s house in Oz. We were there in a few minutes. I dropped off the prescription for Juno and told the clerk I’d be back, not wanting to leave Juno alone for too long. The bright lights and canned music stunned me, and I thought I’d send Stefan over for the prescription.
When we pulled into Juno’s driveway, Stefan was out
her door and heading down to the car, and together we helped Juno to her house. In her heels and hospital gown under my coat, she looked as disreputable and tottery as some drunken derelict. I dropped the bag of her clothes inside the front door.
“I have to go to bed,” she said with quiet urgency, and we made our unsteady progress to her bedroom, Turandot keeping pace, staring up at Juno. It might have been
anthropomorphizing to say her puppy was upset and
surprised, but that’s how it seemed to me. Without even a flicker of surprise at the visual splendor of her bedroom, Stefan cleared off most of the wealth of pillows and pulled back the sheets. Juno sat down, wheezing a little, on the edge of her opulent, luxuriant bed, as frail and woebegone as a little child who fears her birthday has been forgotten. She groaned and held her injured side.
Together Stefan and I steadied Juno while slipping off my coat. I felt keenly aware of her lush and vulnerable flesh under the thin gown and tried to help her without looking too closely, which made me awkward. Stefan was brisker in his movements, and more efficient. As soon as she was under the heavy covers and leaning her head back, Turandot made a flying leap onto the bed and snuggled into a remaining nest of pillows by her side, and the two of them fell instantly asleep.
Stefan turned the light on in Juno’s bathroom, and we picked up my coat and closed the bedroom light and door.
In the living room, Stefan looked as shaken as I felt.
“Wow,” he said. “And she’s not even badly hurt, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Let’s have a drink.” I followed him into the kitchen where he had already located a bottle of Bacardi and a lime.
He made us hefty rum and Cokes, and we sat at the table where Juno and I had so recently had dinner.
“I bet you never thought you’d be getting Juno in bed,”
Stefan said in a mock-frat-boy voice.
“What? ”
He reared back as if I’d thrown acid at him and assured me, “It was a joke.”
“A terrible joke.” And painful, too.
“I’m really sorry. I was just trying to lighten the
atmosphere. Something happened while you were gone,”
Stefan said in a carefully steady voice, as if trying to keep even a scintilla of drama out of his statement.
“Something happened?”
He nodded, set down his drink, and crossed his muscular arms. “Juno got a phone call. Turandot was chewing on that carrot thing, I was reading, and I heard her answering machine come on. Somebody was threatening her.”
“Oh, God. What was the message?”
Stefan ros
e and went to the kitchen counter, which
seemed to function as her home office. There was a small under-the-cabinet memo board to which bills were
thumbtacked, and a tape dispenser, pencil sharpener, and other basic equipment. I noticed then that the red light was blinking on the same kind of sleek little AT&T machine we both had at home. Stefan pressed the message button, and a gravelly man’s voice that sounded disguised barked out, “We’re not done with you, bitch!” Then the machine’s
microchip gave the date and time: an hour after her accident.
“So she wasn’t inventing the phone calls,” Stefan
admitted.
It was not a moment to say, “I told you so.” I shook my head.
Stefan rejoined me at the table. “You know what this
means, don’t you? It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t a hit-and-run.”
How do I describe what I felt at that moment? It was a kind of whirlwind of dread and self-recrimination for not having suspected as much myself, for having been so
overwhelmed by the accident scene and its sequel that I had not placed the event in any kind of context. I felt disgusted, fearful, and ashamed of my own stupidity.
“Does Juno think that?” I asked.
“You tell me. That phone message also means that
whoever tried to kill her in the SUV knows it didn’t work, and either hung around Parker Hall to watch what was happening —”
“But the SUV disappeared!”
“—or there’s more than one person after her.” He
repeated: “‘We’re not done with you.’ Somebody stuck
around to see what was happening, or followed the ambulance to the ER.”
“Shit.”
“It’s the second time,” Stefan brought out. “First at the reception, now this. She has to go to the police.”
“But they’re on it already. There’s an APB or whatever out for the SUV. What else can they do?”
The doorbell ringing just then couldn’t have startled us more if we were in a bank vault trying to blow open a safe and the knocked-out guards had suddenly come to and started firing at us.
Stefan strode to the door, looked through the peephole.
“It’s Rusty Dominguez-St. John,” he said.
“Juno? Are you all right? Who’s in there?”
“Should I open the door?” Stefan hissed at me.
“If you don’t, she’s going to wake up.” Stefan let in Rusty, who was in full Clint Black mode this time, down to— or up to—the hat. I heard scratching from inside Juno’s bedroom door, and when I opened it, Turandot rocketed out and started curveting around Rusty, who swept her up for some big sloppy dog kisses. She wagged her tail wildly, and when he set her down, she was up on her hind legs begging for more attention.
She clearly knew who he was, but still I asked, “What are you doing here?”
Rusty joined us in the living room, where Turandot
continued to fawn over him. I felt a childish sting of jealousy —she was clearly wild about Rusty. Stefan ducked out to make sure Juno’s door was closed, and then returned to stand guard.
Legs planted as firmly as if he expected an assault, Rusty said, “I heard Juno was in an accident, and that somebody took her home.”
“That was me. But who told you?”
Rusty gave me a sour look. “Her doctor.”
“He did? Why?”
“He’s a fan of mine. He took my workshop, has all my
tapes and books—”
I cut Rusty off before he started quoting any
testimonials. “And he called you?”
“Ye-es,” Rusty said slowly, mockingly, as if giving the same set of directions to someone who’d already gotten lost twice before. “What are you, Sam Spade? Or should I say Samantha?”
I ignored that. “What’s his name?”
He sneered. “Her doctor? Lars Vinciguerra. Do you want a description? What’s it your business? What the hell are you guys doing here anyway? Trying on her clothes?”
“Fuck you!” Stefan snapped, stepping forward
menacingly.
Rusty eyed him up and down. “You’ve got a big mouth
for a faggot. I guess you need one, though, sucking all those cocks.”
I thought Stefan would go for him right then and I’d
have to try to pull them apart, but instead he shocked me by grinning. “You’re the one who’s been in prison, so you probably know a lot more about it than I do. Maybe you could offer a faculty enrichment seminar.”
Good line, I thought, wanting to do an Arsenio Hall Show “Woo—woo—woo.”
Rusty’s features were twisted with contempt. “You’re a phony! They should bounce you from writer-in-residence.”
Stefan was getting calmer by the minute. “Me, phony?
You’re the one making a living out of stealing other people’s work and repackaging it as yours.”
Rusty’s face turned blotchy red as if he’d been smacked.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Everybody knows your work is bullshit, just a brand-new spin on the self-help wheel. Everything in your books is plagiarized. You’d be tied up in lawsuits if this were England, where writers have a chance. I know half a dozen publishers who decided it wasn’t worth it because you’d just get more publicity.”
Rusty scowled, though he looked startled by Stefan’s
reference to those publishers. “You’re jealous.”
Turandot evidently didn’t enjoy conflict; she headed for the bedroom. I followed and quietly opened the door for her, listening for Juno’s breathing. It was raspy but steady, and I waited until Turandot was back amid the pillows before shutting the door.
“Okay,” Rusty was saying to Stefan. He sat down on the couch as if daring us to evict him. “I don’t have time for this.
Let’s start over. How’s Juno?”
“Didn’t your doctor fan tell you?” Stefan asked quietly.
“For a writer with shitty sales figures, you’ve got a major attitude problem,” Rusty spat, standing up. “I have a right to be here, a right to find out how Juno’s doing. More than you do, more than either of you. She’s my wife.”
Stunned, Stefan and I didn’t say anything. We waited for an explanation.
“We got married in Las Vegas seven years ago. She was gambling, I was doing one of my workshops. We met at a strip club. But it didn’t last, and we’ve been separated most of the last six years. Sometimes we get back together, it works for a while, then we split. Right now, it’s not working, hasn’t been for a couple of years. When I took the job here, she said she didn’t care one way or the other, since she wasn’t really interested in seeing me again right now.”
I objected. “She’s never said anything about it. She never said she was married.” But then Juno had also until recently hidden the fact that she’d written a trashy bestseller. Major deception was definitely an arrow in her quiver.
He had a ready answer: “She probably doesn’t know
anyone here well enough.”
“What about Serena?”
Rusty shrugged. “Serena’s pretty cagey.”
Well, that was true.
“So can I see her now?” he asked with mock
obsequiousness. He didn’t wait for a reply but walked to her bedroom and went in while Stefan and I exchanged a
disbelieving stare. Rusty closed the door.
Was this for real? How could we be sure? I didn’t know about Stefan, but I felt like a figure in a farce who’s discovered that the clown he’s beating is actually a prince.
Whatever the current state of their relationship—no, their marriage—Rusty clearly felt a good deal for Juno; he emerged from her room sobered and standing a little less tall in his black cowboy boots. Or was he the kind of man who had trouble with weakness? Because he said hurriedly, “Are you guys staying the night? Good.” And he left.
I followed to
the door and looked out the nearest
window.
“He’s driving a black SUV,” I said.
Stefan brought me my drink with some fresh ice. “You
think he’s stupid enough to crash into Juno’s car, then drive over to her house a few hours later?”
I looked at my watch. It felt like the middle of the
morning but was barely midnight. “I don’t know.”
Stefan shook his head. “He’s a charlatan, he’s a thief.
Who knows if he even writes his own books? But someone that tricky would never do anything so obvious.”
“Unless he’s still a real criminal, and all that reform crap is just a sales pitch and he figures he can get away with anything. Smiling sociopaths can go a long way in this country.”
Then I realized I’d forgotten about Juno’s prescription. I told Stefan I was going back out, but he insisted I stay with Juno and relax.
“You’ve had enough driving around.”
While he was gone, I mused over the very strange scene with Rusty, and his revelation. Why was he so hostile to us, so homophobic? Had he taken the job at SUM to patch up his marriage with Juno? Could things possibly get any stranger? I checked on Juno, and as soon as I softly opened her bedroom door, she said, “Rusty?”
“It’s Nick.”
Her voice sounding as tentative as if she were trying out each word for the first time, she said, “Nick—thank you,”
and fell back asleep. She had sounded as grateful as a refugee taking up her first meal in days, and I felt embarrassed. Her gratitude wasn’t justified. I hadn’t earned it, I hadn’t done enough.
But what was enough? Tracking down the SUV driver
myself? How? If I assumed it was someone in EAR, was I supposed to hang around the parking lot all day, day after day? I didn’t have the time, and it would be too obvious. I’d have to get really close to see if there was damage, wouldn’t I? Or if I followed each black SUV home, what then? It was winter; most people would park inside their garages, not in their driveways. I couldn’t break into anybody’s home, and even loitering too long would arouse all the little old ladies canning fruit and knitting sweaters for their cats. And even if I did find a damaged black SUV, the damage would probably be minor and unrevealing. I’d seen a segment on 20/20
