“God, this sucks,” I managed with a grimace, and looked up to the big picture window of my apartment over the garage. My cat, Herschel, sat behind the glass—another part of my welcoming committee, but I wasn’t going to stay in what I’d come to feel was my home. No way was I going to be able to navigate those stairs, at least not for another six or eight weeks.
I tucked the crutches under my arms and hobbled across the short expanse of driveway to the two steps that led to the back door of Richard’s house. Brenda held it open and I carefully stepped up into the butler’s pantry. I’d once again be staying in the bedroom right off it that years before had been occupied by the chauffeur who had driven Richard’s grandparents around town. It was known as Curtis’s room—after Curtis Johnson—but it bore no resemblance to the place where he’d lived for more than a decade. When I’d returned to Buffalo some twenty-seven months before, Richard, Brenda, and I had repainted it a calming beige. Since then, it had undergone a total transformation from a bedroom to Brenda’s craft room.
The room contained a twin-sized daybed, but the bolsters and frilly spread were gone, replaced by a couple of standard-size pillows, sheets and a light blanket. Her crafting supplies had been put away in wicker baskets on the built-in shelving, and her gift-wrapping station had completely disappeared. The room was also a warehouse of baby equipment: stroller, toys, and a playpen that could double as a place for Betsy to nap, but they had been folded up to take up less space. The walls were all pink floral chintz and girly as hell—not my style at all.
I turned in the opposite direction toward the kitchen, shuffling toward the maple table and collapsed into one of the chairs, setting my crutches aside. Richard took his usual seat, and Brenda placed Betsy in her highchair. “Want some coffee?” Brenda asked.
I was going to have to crash soon, so coffee was out of the question. It amazed me how exhausting it was just to maneuver around. And though the morning was warm—soon to be hot—I didn’t want anything cold to drink. “Cocoa?” I asked.
“Coming right up.”
Betsy flexed her fingers, reaching for the small Tupperware container that sat in the middle of the table. Richard made a grab for it and spilled Cheerios onto the highchair’s tray.
Brenda got to work making cocoa with milk and expensive powdered chocolate, and I looked out the window toward my apartment. I was too far away to see if Herschel was still sitting on the window sill. I turned to Richard. “Any chance Herschel can come across the driveway to stay while I’m here?”
He frowned. “We can feed him while you mend.”
“I’m gonna be in this cast for at least a month and a half—maybe longer.”
“We don’t mind.”
Yeah, but there was no way I wanted to let my cat live alone for that length of time. I decided not to push it on day one of my recovery in their home.
“Maggie’s coming for dinner,” Brenda said, stirring the pot of warming milk. “I bought a chicken and thought I’d roast it. But we’ve got steaks—or we could get a few lobsters. You can have anything you want,” she offered.
“Chicken’s great,” I said, my gaze straying back to the window and the garage apartment beyond. And then I was hit by that stinking vision of the back side of a tombstone. It had happened so many times that I knew I was going to have to address it soon. I got the feeling that the grave might be somewhere in Forest Lawn Cemetery—Dave’s and my destination on the day of my accident. I needed to go there, but there was no way I could do it on my own—not in my present condition. And how was I going to convince Richard—or anyone else—to take me there?
Richard must have noticed my suddenly vapid stare. “Jeff, are you okay?”
I shook myself. “Sorry. I got lost in thought.”
“Ja-Ja!” Betsy cried, and offered me a Cheerio. I let her feed it to me—which made her giggle.
“We’re glad you’re here,” Richard said, taking in his wife and daughter. But this was his place, not mine. All I wanted was to just go home to my own couch or bed.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Brenda said as she took a big blue mug from one of the cabinets. “There was a message on your phone. The bank called. Something about your credit card. They want you to call them ASAP.” She reached into her pocket and withdrew a slip of paper. “I wrote down the number.”
My cell phone had arrived at the hospital DOA, and I couldn’t reach the phone on the wall across the way. “Can I borrow your cell?” I asked Richard.
He retrieved it from his pants pocket and handed it to me. I punched in the number, sorted through the options, and surprisingly enough got a live person in no time flat. After giving them answers to my security questions, and supplying the last four digits of my Social Security number, the woman on the line got down to business.
“There’s been a charge against your account made in Florence, Italy.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
I sighed. “I broke my leg and have been in the hospital since Friday, so it wasn’t me.”
“That’s what we thought. We put a freeze on the account and will now cancel it. You won’t be responsible for the charge, and we’ll send you a new card.”
“Thank you.”
“You should receive your new card in seven to ten business days. And please let us know if we can assist you in any way in the future.”
“Thank you. Bye.” I hit the end-call icon and handed the phone to Richard.
“What was that all about?”
I shrugged. “My credit card was compromised. They’re going to send me a new one.”
He shook his head. “That seems to happen way too often these days.”
“I guess it’s better it happened now—when I’m not likely to have to use it for a while. Otherwise, it could be really inconvenient.”
Richard nodded.
Betsy offered me yet another Cheerio, which I gladly received.
Brenda finished making the cocoa and brought the mug to me. “Do you want some cookies to go with that?”
“What kind?”
“Oatmeal.”
“Sounds good.”
She headed across the kitchen, snagged a handful from the jar on the counter, placed them on a plate, and brought them to the table. I took one, and so did Richard. Brenda sat at the table and did likewise.
I nibbled on my cookie, sipped my cocoa, and looked out the window once again. I still couldn’t tell if Herschel was in the window.
“Have you got any plans for the day?” Richard asked.
“You mean besides crashing?” I shook my head. “But I don’t want to go to bed, and I’m afraid I might fall off the couch.”
“Then it’s a good thing we bought a new recliner for the living room. It arrived just this morning,” Brenda said.
I knew that Richard despised the idea of a recliner. He associated them with lower middle class TV stereotypes—think Archie Bunker from a million years ago. He preferred to use a hassock, which matched his favorite chair in his study.
“Whoa, what great timing.” My bum ankle began to throb. I might have to switch chairs at the kitchen table so that I could rest it on the unused one.
I sipped more of my cocoa. Richard and Brenda polished off their cookies while CP tossed Cheerios onto the kitchen floor. We seemed to have lost the art of conversation.
And then I saw it … again. That damned, stinking tombstone! But this time there was movement off to the left. I wasn’t sure what it was—maybe the swish of fabric—but the vision winked out before I could be sure. I hitched in a breath.
“Is that leg bothering you?” Brenda asked.
“Yeah.”
“We should have stopped at the pharmacy to get your meds,” Richard said. “I’ll do that right away.” But probably not soon enough to stop the pain that was already escalating.
I drained my cup. “I’d sure like to try out your new recliner, if you don’t mind, Rich.”
“Not at all.” He stood an
d handed me my crutches. I still didn’t feel comfortable using them, worried they’d slip out from under me and I’d fall. The last thing I needed was to take a tumble and break something else. As it was, the helmet I’d worn the day of the accident had probably saved me from suffering a concussion, but it hadn’t done a thing to save the skin on my face. Thanks to the ointment that covered my cheeks, chin, and nose, I looked like some kind of gunky monster.
A nurse at the hospital had gone over a long—a very long—list of things that I would need done for me in the next few weeks. Richard had assured her that Brenda would be up to the task. I hadn’t heard Brenda’s take on that pronouncement.
I struggled to my feet and Richard led the way to the rather gloomy living room. It wasn’t my favorite room in the Alpert family manse. Later, when the sun swung into the west, it would be a more welcoming place. But at just after eleven in the morning, it was a rather depressing space.
The couch and other chairs had been moved to accommodate the rather large, dark brown leather wing chair that faced the big plasma TV. It didn’t look at all like a recliner, which I’m sure was the point. Brenda joined us, with CP straddling her left hip.
“Take a seat,” Richard invited.
I did, and was surprised at how comfortable the chair was.
“Just push back and the leg rest will pop up,” Brenda encouraged.
I did so. Not bad.
Brenda handed the baby to Richard. “I’ve got a nice fluffy pillow over here to prop up that leg.” She retrieved it, gently moving my leg, making sure I was comfortable.
“Is there anything you want—need?” Richard asked.
I let out a long breath. Yeah, a fully functional leg. “Just a nap.”
He nodded.
“Thanks for the chair. It’s great,” I said, feeling guilty at how they’d had to change their lives to accommodate me once again.
“We needed a new one,” Brenda piped up, which was a lie since now the symmetry of the room was totally off balance. Brenda would figure out how to fix that—but not anytime soon. “Would you like me to draw the drapes?”
I shook my head. “I’m good. I just need to crash.”
Brenda made a grab for something on the coffee table and pressed it into my right hand; a little brass bell. “Just give a ring if you need anything, okay?”
I could have used a trip to the john, but things weren’t dire, and really, it was getting difficult to keep my eyes open. I pushed back farther in the chair until it was in the full reclining position. “I feel rotten putting you guys to so much trouble.”
“It’s no trouble at all,” Richard said, but again, I knew a lie when I heard it. At that moment, there was nothing I could do to alleviate the problem, and that’s just what I had become to them once again: a big fucking problem. The thought made my throat constrict, but before I could say anything, I’d fallen into an exhausted sleep.
* * *
I awoke with a start, realizing someone was holding my hand.
“It’s okay,” said a familiar voice. “It’s just me.”
Maggie—my lady of two years.
She’d been a regular visitor at the hospital, but had never stayed long. Same with my friend Dave, whose visits I’d come to dread. He felt terrible about my accident, blaming himself, which was just ridiculous. It was an accident. Period. He wouldn’t listen to me. When he wasn’t apologizing, he was talking about life at the bar. How our boss, Tom Link, had been interviewing potential bartenders to take my place. I didn’t like the sound of that, either. But there was no way I was going to be able to go back to work for at least two months—and it wasn’t likely there’d be a job for me until I was able to stand on my own two feet for several hours on end. The thought depressed the hell out of me and I tried to put it out of my mind.
“Brenda says supper’s going to be ready in a while. Do you need anything right now?” Maggie said.
I wanted to stop hurting. I wanted to be whole again. I wanted the past few days to have been just a terrible nightmare that I’d awaken from and all would be well.
“No, thanks.”
I still hadn’t gone to the can, but I got the feeling Maggie wasn’t going to be too interested in taking me there. Or rather, helping me once I got there.
I pushed myself up into a sitting position, which made the situation all the more urgent. Maggie removed her hand from mine. “I guess I should hit the can.” I could see by the angle of the sun that I’d slept far later than I’d expected.
“Sure.” Maggie stood. Back at the hospital, she had at least learned the basics of helping me to stand, and had my crutches at the ready. Too bad the doorways were the narrow standard of the nineteen twenties; it would’ve been cool to zoom around the floor in one of those motorized scooters, but it was going to be crutches or nothing.
Maggie followed me out of the room but stopped me.
“You’re going the wrong way.”
I craned my neck to take her in.
“The powder room’s over there,” she insisted.
“There’s not enough room for me to maneuver. I’ll have to head for Brenda’s craft room.”
She nodded. We continued down the hall that led to the kitchen, where Brenda was stationed at the counter making a salad, and CP was strapped in her highchair, taking a snooze.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” Brenda called. “It’s about time you woke up. Want a beer?”
“A real one?” I asked.
“Well, no. Non-alcoholic. But you can pretend.”
“Maybe later. I’m heading for the bathroom.”
“I spread your meds out on the dresser. You’re in line for a pain pill if you want it.”
Did I ever. “Thanks.”
I nodded and hobbled through the butler’s pantry and into Brenda’s craft room. I noticed and stopped in front of a newly installed dresser and pulled open a drawer. Brenda had already filled it with clothes—none of which I recognized. There seemed to be about a dozen pairs of shorts and sweatpants, and I guessed that would be my wardrobe for the foreseeable future. I’d have to thank her. She’d gone to a lot of trouble to accommodate me.
Leaning half on the crutches and half against the dresser, I shook out a pain pill. Once in the bathroom, I washed it down with water. Maggie hung back while I took care of business, and seemed antsy to get back to a part of the house that wouldn’t be used as a sickroom. Truth be told, I felt the same way.
We made it back to the kitchen and found Richard had joined Brenda and had made himself a drink. “What can I get you, Maggie?”
“A G and T will work fine.”
“We’re going to have dinner in the dining room. Would you like to have your drinks there or in the living room?”
Everyone looked at me, and I felt like a pinned bug. “The living room, I guess.”
“Go on in, and I’ll bring them out,” Richard said.
“Can I help you with anything, Brenda?” Maggie asked, sounding just a little desperate. Thanks to my funny feelings, I can tune into Maggie pretty well, but I wasn’t sure what was going on with her just then. I wasn’t sure I wanted to, because it didn’t exactly feel good.
“If you want, you can set the table.”
“Sure thing.”
“I’ll meet you in the living room as soon as I finish Maggie’s drink,” Richard said.
I nodded, heading in that direction.
I’d barely gotten settled in the recliner by the time my brother arrived with my so-called beer. He handed it to me. “Thanks.”
He sat down on the couch, took a look around the room, and frowned. He didn’t like the furniture placement, either. He sipped his scotch. “You mentioned something at the hospital the day of your accident. Something about a tombstone.”
“Yeah,” I said, and took a swig of my pseudo beer and fought against a grimace. It wasn’t very good. “I saw it a few times before and several times since that day.”
“What does it mean?”
&n
bsp; “I have no idea. I’m thinking it might be a while before I have an opportunity to figure it out, too.”
“Do you know where this tombstone is?”
I thought about it. “Not exactly.”
“Have you ever been there before?”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t sound at all sure.”
“I’m not. But once these things start, they keep bugging me until I figure them out.”
“Maybe when you’re feeling up to it, we can take a drive around the cemeteries you and Dave rode your bikes through.”
“Maybe,” I said. The thought of ever riding a bicycle again didn’t exactly thrill me. “Have we heard from the cops about the accident?”
Richard took another sip of his drink. “Not since the first time I spoke with them. Unfortunately, my guess is it’s not a high priority.”
“That’s occurred to me, too.”
We sipped our drinks. The silence felt awkward.
“By the way, Dave called,” Richard said at last. “He wants you to call him. I guess Tom hired someone to take your shifts.”
“It was bound to happen,” I said, and wished the damn pain pill would kick in. My leg hurt so much, and in two different spots, and I wondered if I’d be able to eat the dinner Brenda had gone to such trouble to prepare. I changed the subject, looking on the bright side. “I’m so glad to be out of that lousy hospital.”
“Now, now—you got great care.”
“But it wasn’t home. And as much as you guys have done for me—and I sincerely appreciate it—when can I go home to my cat?”
“At least six weeks,” Richard said, but he didn’t face me. He didn’t seem all that crazy about the idea of me being his guest for the bulk of the summer, either.
“That’s an awfully long time for Herschel to be separated from me.”
“It’ll go by in the blink of an eye.”
Considering the time I’d spent in the hospital had gone by at glacial speed, I doubted that. I glanced at the clock on the mantle. It was just after seven and I wondered how long it would be before I could make my excuses and hit the sack. But what if I couldn’t sleep? There was no TV in my recovery room. At the hospital, I’d left the TV on all night long so that when I awoke—which seemed like every fifteen minutes or so—I could flip channels until I found something to interest me, and then conk out for a few minutes before waking with a start once again. There wasn’t even a book or magazine to help pass time in Brenda’s craft room.
Shattered Spirits Page 2
