Another Broken Wizard (20 page)

On a roll, I e-mailed some friends in New York, e-mailed Emily in Worcester, wrote Serena back, writing the things I ought to say. It was a workday and I was working, typing and checking things off my list. I watched the financial news for a few hours. The news had gone from troubling to bad to ominous in the last few months. Red arrows tracked the Dow Jones, as the investing public lost its illusions about what our prized enterprises were worth. The yelling white men on the TV almost had me believing that the world we’d built would soon resort to barbarism or mysticism.

But what did I know? Despite my close attention to the trembling of the global financial markets on the TV, I was just a guy in his underwear on the couch, waiting for the cable guy.

The cable guy showed and I made up some work to do to get out of his way, hunting through more job descriptions. The adjectives—“passionate,” entrepreneurial,” “committed,” “dazzling”—didn’t seem like me. I couldn’t fight the sensation that I was digging my own cavernous grave with each cover letter and resume.

It took the cable guy a little less than an hour to get the TV and cable all set up, after which he gave me the special moron’s tour of the remote control until I gave him a tenner and said thanks a lot. The nurse called to say she would be by the day after tomorrow to look at the apartment to make sure everything was in place. She sure didn’t sound like a Spanish broad with big cans. She sounded cold; I don’t want to say clinical, but I suppose I just did. With that done, I looked at the computer, and recited the eight percent unemployment rate and assured myself that I was better qualified than at least nine percent of the population. I looked out the glass patio doors at the landfill flattened and rehabilitated for family dining establishments. The daylight was failing, but hadn’t failed yet.

I called Olive. She was getting off her lunch shift at Ruby Tuesday’s and said she was surprised I called. We made plans to meet at a place she picked, a sushi place on Route 9. She said it was all yupped out, but she knew the bartender. Then I called Joe.

“Jim, I can’t talk now, I’m at work.”

“Just calling to see what’s up.”

“Nothing, just tired as hell. Listen, can I call you back tonight? Do you think you’ll be able to help me out with that thing we talked about?”

“I don’t think so. It’s not life and death, is it?”

“I don’t think so, but I’m not sure. Listen, I just got spoken to about too many personal calls. I have to go. But I’ll call you back later.”

I raced outside to get some daylight. By the time I made it to the cold parking lot, the sun was just an orange glow on the hill behind the Target megastore. I raced to the hospital. In the room, a nurse tended to Dad’s roommate. The roommate’s wife watched, leaning forward like she was just about to say something. I nodded and smiled and hurried to Dad. Dad napped before the TV, a bowl of broth and saucer of Jell-o. After a minute, he woke up with an infant’s look of disoriented curiosity.

“Hey Dad.”

He nodded, and tried to shake himself more awake. The shake didn’t wake him, but the pain it brought on did. He looked at me a minute, drawing breath through his mouth.

“Hey. How are you doing?” I asked.

“Okay. I had a dream about cars, cars crashing, cars driving along, parked cars, a lot of parked cars. Then tow trucks in the night,” he said, his rasp no longer the obstacle it had been.

“Was it a good dream or a bad dream?”

He took a minute to answer. He looked around, calm except for his eyes, which still seemed desperate for orientation.

“It was both.”

Then he was quiet. I filled the silence telling him about the railings in the bathroom and the cable TV by his bed.

“It’s a lot of TVs for one apartment, for just one guy. When I’m better, you can have the old one,” he croaked.

“Thanks. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it until now.”

“And you probably have to go soon.”

“No, uh, not exactly.”

“You’re not all cleaned up and dressed up for me. Do you have a girl in Worcester?”

“Something like that. But it’s no big deal. I can stick around as long as you want.”

“Jim, I’m on so many drugs right now. I mostly sleep. And when I wake up, I can hardly tell. I have the pain in my dreams too, except it’s a big leach on my chest, or a face trying to break through the skin, or a mine cave-in.”

“Jesus. It sounds like they’re giving you the strong stuff.”

“It’s not strong enough,” Dad said, then closed his eyes and drifted off into something that looked like sleep, but worse.

I forgot my books in the car so I watched the news channel. I couldn’t focus—it was all images, people loitering in malls, vast parking lots, ships loading or unloading, men in suits talking or sitting and watching the one who talked, the floor of a stock exchange, bar graphs and missiles. The TV was adamant about all of it. I reached for the remote in its spot between Dad’s forearm and belly. He flinched, grabbed the remote and woke up.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Just changing the channel.”

“I’m watching that.”

“You looked like you were sleeping.”

“I wasn’t. I was watching that,” he said, pissed off.

It was good to have him back.

“Okay, okay. Take it easy. You want some food, or a magazine or anything?”

“I’m fine. I still haven’t read the magazine you left here the other day. I can’t hold it up for very long.”

“Oh, well, I guess I could read it to you if you want.”

Dad made a face like I’d recommended that we slow dance. I shrugged. A few minutes later, he fell back asleep, or what passed for sleep. I got up to leave.

“See you tomorrow, Dad,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t hear me and wake. He didn’t at first.

But he opened his eyes, startled, when I took my coat from the chair. I cringed at having to stay much longer, but reminded myself of the hundred reasons I came to Massachusetts in the first place.

“You’re still here?”

“Yeah. I was just about to head out.”

“Just you and me, huh?”

“Yeah. I’ll stick around longer if you want.”

“No, no go ahead.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Have a good night, Dad.”

“Okay,” he said, closing his mouth as if there was a bad taste in it.

Whiskeynose seemed to sneer when he saw how little of my day I’d spent with Dad and how little money I owed his booth. But I think he was just the sneering type. I hit the road and made it to the restaurant,
Sushi Samba
, early.

37.

The place was just too big. From passing cars, I’d seen it fail as a Bistro, Steakhouse, Barbecue and Italian seafood restaurant before its current incarnation. The place had tableside grills and a sushi bar on the sprawling floor below, anchored by a huge golden Buddha. I wondered if the Italian place had a huge golden Crucifix in that spot, imagined Christ in Golden agony watching over the waiter as he pushed the veal special. I ordered a beer in a bottle and waited. The bartendress smiled through her suspicion. A man with a black eye, no matter how preppy his polo shirt, would always be suspect in an upscale place.

The TVs behind the bar, above the bar and behind me showed all that could be shown about the Patriots, Celtics and Bruins. Olive came through the door looking good. She wore black, like she mostly did. Her skirt was short and her top made her even more inviting. She kissed me hello, then said hello to the blonde.

“I go to school with Jemma,” she explained as Jemma brought her a tall glass filled with a bright red liquid. “So what’s going on, brawler?”

“Oh right, the eye. I had the cable guy and the nursing people over at the house today, setting things up. They probably thought I was one of those criminals who kills old people and cashes their Social Security checks.”

“House? I thought you said he was in an apartment?”

“He is. I guess old habits die hard. I’m used to him being in a house. It’s going to be close quarters once he moves back in.”

“Don’t tell me about close quarters. I never thought being at work would be such a relief. Between my mother and my dweeb brothers and the fucking hospital, this holiday is pure hell. The nurses in that place—if you aren’t dressed in Ann Taylor yuppie wear, no offense, then they look at you like you have some
disease
.”

“At least with the black eye, they back off.”

She finished her drink quickly. Jemma brought us another round without saying anything. We talked about Framingham, Natick and Sherborn, and the Metro-West suburban cloud. We finished our drinks and Jemma delivered more, her smile intensifying to the point where it almost wasn’t a smile anymore.

“I’m surprised they didn’t stop you at the door to this place.”

“Well, they have a lot of seats to fill,” I said, making eyes at the quarter-full restaurant.

“Still, these places are all uptight. It’s all yuppies out here in the Metro-West, except for the old men. I have this one old man who comes into Ruby Tuesdays and drinks his coffee at the bar. He lives across Route 9 in one of those little apartment buildings and walks over. He mostly just talks about the Red Sox and about back when Framingham was orchards and factories. But sometimes he’ll talk about World War Two.”

“He sounds interesting.”

“You would think that. But he’s really not. I like him just because he’ll come out and say he doesn’t like what’s going on. He calls them the ‘get-rich-quick crowd.’ But mostly he’s mad because he doesn’t understand what’s going on. He doesn’t understand why he’s the only old man sitting in a chain restaurant at noon, when it opens, talking to people. I guess I don’t understand it either.”

“I can relate. The whole thing drives me nuts. You drive someplace, unbuckle your seatbelt, turn off the car, get out of your car, lock it, buy whatever you need, unlock your car, get in, buckle your seatbelt, start the engine, drive home, open the door, get what you bought, close the door, make sure the lights are off if it’s night time, lock the car, go inside and so on. It’s just grating. In New York, in any city where you can live without a car, it’s like you can hide from the twenty-first century for just a little while longer. It’s more of a holdout than a triumph. But I’ll take it.”

“Okay, Broadway Joe, enough societal commentary, so what did you do to your face?”

She smiled and listened. And I was already a yuppie to her. So I told her the whole story, from Sully’s beat down to my meeting with Volpe.

“Jesus. That makes my mom’s uncomfortable flirtation with the cardiologist almost look dull. What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. I keep trying to talk Joe down. I’m still trying to figure out what I can do.”

Jemma brought us another round and said cheers.

“To bizarre dramas,” Olive said, the words almost rhyming.

“Yeah. May they only kill strangers.”

We toasted, drank and then kissed, then kissed some more. We looked at each other affectionately. I think it made us both uncomfortable. We looked away, back to our drinks.

“So, you got the railings all set up?” Olive asked flatly, changing the subject.

“Yeah. It wasn’t too much of a hassle.”

“My mom’s taking care of all that. When’s your dad going back home?”

“You mean, to the apartment?”

“No, to heaven,” she said.

“You must be a joy to have around the ICU.”

“Just answer the question.”

“It depends on what the doctors say. He has to go to a rehab facility first. How about yours?”

“They don’t know yet. His scar didn’t heal right and they had to reopen it and drain it and all kinds of other terrifically arousing things that you should talk about while you’re on a date.”

“You’re funny, you know that?” I said, a little drunk.

I kissed her again. She pulled back and looked at me with her eyes wide. Her cheeks flushed through their usual pallor. She licked her lips a little.

“What about that thing you were going to show me in your car?” she asked.

“What thing?”

“The thing in your car,” she said through her teeth, rolling her eyes.

The bartender said we owed her nothing. I left a five just to be decent. The snow banks by Route 9 still looked like snow. The cold pressed us to follow through. In Dad’s SUV, I turned the heat up high. Before the heat could fill the space, we were mostly nude in the far back seat, humping strenuously among Dad’s golf balls, brochures, Diet Coke cans and other detritus left back there. She was an aggressive girl, and I needed her more than I thought. When my eyes met themselves in the rearview, they liked what they saw. After, we lay back there, covered haphazardly by our own clothes

“Finger in the butt, huh?” Olive said.

“I don’t know, it seemed like the thing to do. Was it too much?”

“No. It was just a surprise. It must be a New York thing.”

“Must be.”

Then we got quiet. We both refrained from more talk of our futures or our fathers or the terrible dread that inhabited our daily lives. So we had nothing to talk about. We lay there, waiting for the other one to prove that premise wrong. Finally, I kissed her and started putting my pants on.

“So what do you want to do?” she asked, while we dressed in the back seat.

“We can cruise around and get drinks somewhere else. Whatever you want to do. I do need to get up early tomorrow. The nurse is coming by to look at the apartment in the morning.”