Dead is Better (13 page)

The young man nods, but looks bewildered.

“But there are strict rules. No smoking. No drugs. Illegal or prescription. No alcohol.”

“Si,” Manuel says.

Sims smiles. “There’s a shower in the men’s lavatory. If you need a change of clothes, we have boxes sorted by size. And there’s soap, toothbrushes, toothpaste—toiletries.”

“Gracias,” the young man says.

Sims sees Peace leaning in the doorway and nods in his direction. “Manuel, I need to take care of something right now, okay? Here’s your locker key.”

Sims hands Manuel a key attached to a bright green coiled plastic keychain, the kind people wear around their wrists. “Get your things stowed and then go downstairs to Wendy. She’ll help you with clothes, and you can figure out which support group will be right for you.”

Manuel lets the heavy laundry bag drop to the floor, and accepts the key gratefully. Sims pats him on the back, then turns to Peace and smiles.

“Peace. You look like a man who could really use a cup of coffee,”

“Who knows but life be that which men call death, and death what men call life?”

—Euripides,
Phrixus

***

Sims and Peace are just a few blocks away from San Julian Street, but it’s a different world. The human beings in this world walk purposefully or sit, not on the ground, but in chairs or on benches.

And there are trees under the sky full of gathering clouds.

Rose likes this place, especially the fountain—maybe because she was so often thirsty in life. She floats behind Sims, Peace, and me close to the water, as if proximity will somehow communicate to her the sensation of its liquid coolness.

Attractive men and women in crisp shirts, pressed wool suits and silk socks inside their polished shoes eat elegant lunches outdoors at Pinot Cafe on the Central Library’s patio. Salads with poached eggs and ground pepper on top; small filets mignon and grilled asparagus; espresso served in pure white demitasses. Sims and Peace sit on the edge of the long, rectangular fountain. Peace drinks from a tall paper cup of coffee. A sandwich, still wrapped in cellophane, rests on a napkin next to him.

“Thanks, Mr. Sims,” Peace says, squinting a little as if he has a headache.

“The coffee will help,” Sims says, then observes a group of elementary school students ascending the shallow stone staircase into the library’s main lobby, one gray-haired woman leading them, a younger woman shooing them in from the rear.

“We can explore the fountain later,” the young woman says to a little boy who has stopped for a moment near Sims and Peace.

Peace puts the cup of coffee on the stone ledge, unwraps the sandwich, and takes a bite. “This is good, too. Really good.”

“I’m glad,” Sims says. “You may not realize it, Peace, but you’re important to me.”

Peace looks quizzically at Sims while he chews, then says, “Me? No way, Mr. Sims. I’m not important. I’m a nobody.”

Sims smiles. “Peace. You’re an intelligent man and a thoughtful man. I’ve been looking for someone just like you to become my assistant for a special project. It’s a salaried position. You’d be off the street for good.”

Peace stops eating and his eyes widen. “Me? Work for you?”

Sims nods.

“That would be a dream come true, Mr. Sims. A dream come true.”

“But first you need to get your head together, Peace. And to do that, I think you need a real rest.”

Peace nods, then smiles ruefully. “I’m tired. I’m so tired, Mr. Sims. I wish I could just sleep for days and days.”

Rose has dropped to the water’s surface now, hovering dreamily over the shallow pool.

Sims leans close to Peace. “I know a way. But you have to do exactly—
exactly
as I tell you.” Sims searches Peace’s face for affirmation.

“I’m listening,” Peace says, interested. “It’s not like I have a lot of other offers,” he jokes, but Sims is serious now.

“And what I tell you is just between us, okay? Just you and me. Not even Wendy. Not Bernard. No one else can know. Understood?”

Peace nods his head.

“Later today you will tell Wendy that you aren’t feeling well. You’ll say you have pain in the middle of your chest.” Sims taps his sternum with his big hand flat and open. “You’ll tell her you feel really bad. That your left arm and the left side of your jaw are hurting, too.”

Peace listens intently and pauses as if to absorb what Sims has told him. Then he says, “Don’t feel good. Chest hurts. Arm hurts. Jaw hurts.”

“Left,” Sims says almost sharply. “You have to say your left arm. Your left jaw.”

“I’m sorry,” Peace says. “Left. Left. I got it. “His coffee is getting cold. A gray and rust colored pigeon approaches his sandwich and starts pecking at the cellophane.

“After you tell Wendy these things, she will come to me and I will call for an ambulance that will take you to the hospital—Wings of Hope already has your Social Security Number from the Veterans’ Administration.”

“Hospital?” Peace says, shocked, unhappy. “Where Bernard is? I hate that hospital. I don’t ever want to go there. Never.”

“No,” Sims explains. “Not where Bernard is. Not County. This is a different hospital, across town. You’ll be fine, you’ll get the rest you need. I promise. And for your trouble I’ll throw in a hundred bucks.”

Peace frowns while he thinks this over, and only when his expression relaxes does Sims continue. “You’ll go to the emergency room and tell the nurses and doctors exactly,
exactly
what you told Wendy—”

“I feel bad. My chest hurts. My arm hurts. Left arm. My left jaw hurts” Peace says.

“Right!” Sims says and laughs, “I mean left. Left. And then you’ll have a test.”

“Test? What test?” Peace looks worried.

“It’s nothing. It’s routine, and perfectly safe—just a way doctors check out your heart.”

“Tests are bullshit,” Peace says, upset.

“Trust me,” Sims says. “I always look out for you, don’t I?”

“Yes,” Peace says.

“And I have a good friend who works at that hospital,” Sims explains. “So nothing can happen to you while he’s there, absolutely nothing.”

Peace watches the pigeon peck at the French roll on his sandwich, then looks at Sims and nods his assent.

Sims smiles warmly, “Just think of it as a little vacation. You’ll get to spend a few days in a nice clean bed with all the food, free TV, and movies you want, while pretty young nurses wait on you hand and foot.”

“If I was dead, I wouldn’t know I was dead. That’s the only thing I have against death. I want to enjoy my death.”

—Samuel Beckett,
Eleutheria

***

The sky has darkened like a bruise and a few raindrops fall on San Julian Street. Despite the weather, a small crowd of people, some in black trash bag ponchos, others holding pieces of cardboard over their heads, watch as two paramedics in dark blue uniforms load Peace, covered from neck to foot in a white sheet and strapped to a gurney, into an ambulance. A worried-looking Wendy pats Peace’s foot as the gurney slides inside, then stands back as the EMTs close the door. Sims is there, too, and puts his arm around Wendy’s shoulder.

Rose and I enter the ambulance through the closed back door as it pulls away. Inside the narrow space crowded with equipment, one of the EMTs secures the gurney, then leans in close to Peace.

“We’re taking you to the hospital to be evaluated for your chest pain,” he says. “But I need to ask you some questions.”

Peace nods. He looks scared, scared enough to be truly sick. Rose floats over his chest and I float next to him. The other EMT is in the front driving the ambulance. I can see through a window to the windshield wipers sweeping back and forth.

The rain falls harder now. I think of the dog tied up out there, wet and cold, and if I weren’t dead, I would feel sick too. I fight the urge to visit the dog—I can do nothing there, I know.

“How would you describe your pain right now?”

“Bad,” Peace says. “Real bad. On the left.” Peace lifts his hand and taps his sternum carefully.

The EMT nods and writes something down on a paper attached to a clipboard.

“Do you remember what you were doing and how long ago the pain started?”

Peace is silent for a moment then says, “Taking a shower. Washing my hair. Hour. Two hours ago.”

The EMT notes this and continues. “What does it feel like right now? Is it sharp or dull? Is it radiating?”

“I’m not sure,” Peace says after a moment.

This doesn’t appear to bother the EMT, who nods. “Is it steady or does it come and go?”

“Steady.”

“Do you have any allergies to medication?”

Peace shakes his head, no, then places his right hand over his sternum and leaves it there. He closes his eyes.

The EMT smiles. “Hold on, Mr. Peace. Driving in the rain in LA is crazy. But we’re almost there.”

“You only live twice. Once when you are born and once when you look death in the face.”

—Ian Fleming,
You Only Live Twice

***

Rose and I follow the EMTs as they wheel Peace through the wide swinging doors into the Memorial Medical Center ER. We observe the nurses admit him, then watch as the ER doctor—not Miller this time or that young woman, Branford—another one, an Asian man—examine Peace and order blood tests.

Peace mostly keeps his eyes closed—sleeping or pretending to sleep—despite the sounds of voices and noises in the hallway. After an hour or so the doctor returns.

“How are you doing, sir?” He asks.

Peace opens his eyes and puts his hand on his chest once again. “The pain is right here,” he says. “On the left.”

“Is it worse?”

“It’s bad,” Peace says.

“Is there a history of cardiac disease in your family?”

“No family.” Peace says flatly.

“When was the last time you ate or drank anything?” the doctor asks.

“Yesterday,” Peace tells him. I remember the sandwich that he left outside the library. Does one bite count as a meal? Peace remembers this too, because he changes his mind and says, “Or maybe the day before.”

“Okay,” the doctor says and smiles. “We’re going to admit you. You’ll spend the night upstairs on the cardiac floor, and then tomorrow morning, another doctor, a heart doctor named Dr. Justing, is going to run some tests.”

“The grave itself is but a covered bridge,

Leading from light to light, through a brief darkness!”

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,
The Golden Legend

***

Rose has given up on me.

Her intelligent dead eyes avoid mine. When I scratch her back or stroke her head, she turns away.

I don’t blame Rose. I can’t stand myself, either. Bad things keep happening and I do nothing, less than nothing, to stop them.

The dog still suffers. Nilsson still roams the living world happy and free.

And then there’s Peace. Scared shitless, lying in that hospital alone. I’m sure now that what happened to Missing Brian had something to do with Sims, is part of the same scam, which I can’t figure out now except to know it benefits Sims, not Peace.

I think the hospital is where everything intersects:

My death.

Rose.

Nilsson.

The dog.

Wings of Hope.

Brian’s death.

Sims.

And Peace.

So, with Rose or without her, I’m going back there to figure it out.

Death’s gang is bigger and tougher than anyone else’s. Always has been and always will be. Death’s the man.

—Michael Marshall,
The Upright Man

***

Can the dead faint?

I float alone in the Cath Lab above two nurses in scrubs and paper caps. They’ve already strapped Peace into a strange, thick hospital bed, and received his shaky signature on the consent form.

A paper shower cap covers most of Peace’s Afro, but some hair escapes at the nape of his neck. The male nurse adjusts the cap, then pulls back the sheets and lifts the pale blue hospital gown to expose Peace’s thin, muscular legs. The nurse removes a plastic razor from its package, then shaves Peace’s groin. The other nurse starts an IV in Peace’s arm.

Some fucking vacation. Peace looks exhausted and frightened.

“Still raining?” the male nurse asks Peace just to make conversation. Peace says nothing. What a fucking stupid question, I think, and wonder if his hospital room had a window and if it did, what Peace could see. Well I hope the view was good, full of sky and birds and trees.

“Mr. Peace,” the male nurse says, “I’m going to numb your groin area now, then insert a tiny catheter. You’re going to feel a pinch.”

Peace flinches.

“You’re doing great,” the female nurse says. “In a little while the cardiologist, Dr. Justing, will insert some dye into the catheter and watch your heart in action.”

Peace doesn’t seem to appreciate this information and squeezes his eyes shut once more.

Dr. Justing enters in scrubs, wearing the same kind of blue hat Peace wears, and leans over Peace. “Good morning, Mr. Peace,” she says. “I’m your cardiologist, Dr. Justing. I’m going to perform a procedure called an angioplasty. I’m going to put a tiny catheter into your heart, fill it with dye. A radiologist in another room will watch as the dye shows up on an x-ray. Then we’ll be able to see what caused the chest pain you had yesterday.”

Dr. Justing points to a large square device that extends over the bed. “This is a camera. After we inject the dye, we’re going to move it around so we get a good picture of your heart. We may ask you to move, or we may move the bed. Just relax and lie still unless we tell you not to.”

Peace is somber as the female nurse hands Dr. Justing a syringe. Dr. Justing injects its contents into the catheter in Peace’s groin.