Death in the Polka Dot Shoes (21 page)

Chum and Horace walked down the boardwalk behind his townhouse to a white fishing boat that looked like a patient in a military hospital. It was wounded. White canvas pieces were taped over the windows like bandages. A large blue tarpaulin of the kind purchased in K-Mart was draped over the fly bridge, and weighted down with plastic water bottles hanging on strings from the grommets. Rain had created small pools of water in the low spots on the canvas. There was no identity except that this was an injured boat.

“How do we get in?” Horace asked, not seeing any obvious bridge. Both boys stood on the dock and surveyed the boat, Chum wondering how his life could have deteriorated to this. It had been over two months since he pulled the
Scatback
into this slip. At that time, it seemed like a new adventure. He was in a new state, a new city, and a new home, however temporary. He had applied all the boat bandages in anticipation of moving into a new townhouse, and discovering his surroundings.

Now all those aspirations seemed ephemeral, vanishing in just a few days, with nothing left but empty days and no future. Chum walked to the side of the boat, grabbed the handrail, and stepped onto the deck where the tarp suggested a solid footing.

“C'mon Horace,” Chum said, “I can't take it any more. Let's yank this canvas off and I'll show you the boat.”

Horace stepped onto the boat, reached over the side and lifted one of the water bottles to empty it into the canal. Spiders ran in every direction. There had been enough rain to seep under the canvas cover and leave the dusty fingerprints of previous storms around the cleats and deck chairs.

“This is all day work,” Chum said. “You want to help me clean up?”

“Sure,” Horace replied. “Can we get her running?”

“If we have battery power,” Chum said. “She hasn't moved in a long time. But oil and engine should be all right. Got gas. I'm tired of sittin around here.”

Chum walked around the deck, rolling the tarp back, knowing he would have to take it off the boat, lay it out on the lawn, wash it down, let it dry, and then fold it up for storage in the hold.

“You know,” Chum said, “I need to get back to work, fishing and making money. Hell, I don't even know what I'm hiding from. You know, there was a woman on that fishing trip. Cried some. Then walked off the boat, said to forget I ever saw her, and walked away. Then I got another call to come here, hide the boat and wait. Hell, Horace, I didn't do anything wrong. I never hurt nobody.”

“Then why are you here?” Horace asked. “If you didn't break the law. You must have done something wrong.”

“No. No I didn't. Except I didn't tell anybody about that woman.”

“So what. A guy falls overboard fishing. That's not your fault. He was probably banging that chick and didn't want his wife to know. And the guy who called you was probably just his friend. Another waterman.”

“You're right,” Chum said. “I'm talking to a voice on the phone I don't even know. And I did nothing wrong. Hell with them. Let's go fishin.”

They spent the rest of the day cleaning the boat. Working side by side scrubbing the hull was a bonding experience. Chum thought Horace was probably a little smarter than himself. At least he didn't think that Horace had committed any crime, although he wasn't positive about that. And it seemed that Horace shared his view of permanence in the world, of a family without the stabilizing impact of regular meals, and church, and family outings. Nothing was permanent.

Chum's parents just never seemed to be around. His dad was an electrician who signed on with different companies and building sites, sometimes at distant locations. It was common for his father to be out of town, in places like Detroit or Knoxville, where they were building a big box retail outlet or shopping mall. Often, he could be gone for two or three months before coming home for a weekend.

Chum's mom worked at the local hardware store, and she knew every pipe and wrench and hammer in the store, even if she never used them. She always volunteered for overtime to stock shelves or rearrange displays. Chum was left to fend for himself. Mostly the house was empty. He would come home, fix a sandwich out of the refrigerator, and head for a friend's house down the road. Chum never had a car until he could buy one himself, which was after he dropped out of school and started working as a first mate on the charter boats. So he walked. Everyone in the neighborhood knew him from the streets. He wore low rider pants, hanging precariously on his butt, usually with a tee shirt advertising some musical group. People would pass him on the street, wondering if he was headed for trouble. Chum wasn't particularly introspective, and didn't ponder his future for long periods. But he did wonder if his parents represented the norm. He was lonely as a child. He wondered about other parents and what they did at night. Did they sit and watch television, or read books, or talk about their work? Chum thought that seemed reasonable but then, what would they read or talk about. His mind hit a wall at that point, uncushioned by knowledge of issues or the presence of books, he simply moved on to more comfortable surroundings. He walked the streets and watched the animals, the birds and the squirrels. He thought violently about them, wondering what it would be like to kill them, or capture them. But when he told his friends in the neighborhood, they shrank from him, or they laughed uneasily. And soon people generally thought he was killing animals, even though the closest he ever came was shooting a rabbit about seventeen times with a pellet gun. And when the rabbit didn't die, Chum just walked away.

Horace reminded Chum of the Captains he worked with on the fishing boats, before he bought his own. They were never warm and sympathetic, like parents were supposed to be. But they were a presence. Chum hadn't talked to anybody privately or personally since he came to Florida, and he liked Horace's company. Horace liked to talk.

Horace unfolded the white captain's chair and several small spiders scampered down the arm. It was wedged under the tarp where water had collected. But it looked like fine leather, although he knew it was imitation, probably naugahyde or some other plastic. As he eased into the chair, he could imagine fishing with the waves flashing behind the boat and a hot sun on his legs.

“Chum,” Horace said, “let's take the boat south, maybe around Florida. We could pick up some charters in the Gulf of Mexico, maybe just keep moving from Fort Myers up to Tampa, maybe over to New Orleans and Texas. Hell, we could just follow the sun all the way to California.”

Why not, Chum thought. “Let's get the
Scatback
cleaned up.” He was warming to the idea, and beginning to see the possibilities.

Chapter Fifteen

The Nablani Center for Scull Based Surgery was located on the seventh floor of an all glass building, and the only identifying sign on Suite 62 was computer generated and scotch taped to the door, although lights were on somewhere and they glowed through the door's glass panel. Martha pushed the door open while I was still contemplating the location and newness of the office. You could smell the fresh paint. And I wondered why this wasn't in a hospital, or a medical center, or at least some building that indicated an association with medicine.

Inside, the waiting room was lined with wood trimmed chairs and warm leather seats, but no pictures. It looked like the moving van had arrived that morning, left the furniture, and departed, leaving only a well dressed receptionist behind the office counter.

“Good morning,” she said. “You must be the Shannons.”

“I am,” Martha offered. “This is Ned Shannon, my husband's brother.”

“Welcome,” she replied. “Do you have your MRIs with you?” Martha was carrying them under her arm. She handed them to the receptionist, who wheeled around in her chair, and said, “I'll give these to Dr. Nablani. Please have a seat in the waiting room. He'll be with you in a few minutes.”

We sat on a leather couch, and I remarked that the file cabinets behind the receptionist were almost empty. There was really nothing in the room to make us comfortable, or to instill confidence. Suddenly, the door opened and a young African American woman entered, with an older woman, presumably her mother. They took seats across from us, and the girl turned sideways. There was a horseshoe imprint on the side of her head, starting in front of her ear, rising to the top and back of her head and down the back of her neck. It was startling. My God, I thought to myself, it's so big; they've taken the whole side of her head off. Martha was as still as an anvil. I was sure she was imagining herself with such a scar. Clearly, the girl's head had been shaved before the operation, and now that some weeks had passed, the scar looked like a branding iron had left its terrible mark. I wondered how long it had taken for her hair to grow back, and would it ever cover the scar. Still, Martha was a stone. I was hoping that the girl would say something to her mother, or show some animation, but she seemed subdued. Her mother went to talk with the receptionist, and the girl remained in her seat, staring at the floor. My God, I thought, has she been traumatized, or paralyzed, or somehow turned into the stone figures I used to see on television of people with lobotomies? I never thought those old horror movies would come alive, and I vowed to never watch another movie or documentary on the subject. I looked at Martha and she was as pale as the ceiling. I put my arm around her shoulders and she accepted the gesture, softly muttering, “Thank you.”

The receptionist soon appeared and invited us to follow her along a corridor of offices. It wasn't clear that anyone else was in the building. She showed us to a small conference room with a round table and six chairs, inviting us to take a seat and Dr. Nablani would soon arrive. Again, no pictures. But a light screen for viewing MRIs was on the wall, and a plastic human scull was on a credenza behind the table. It looked like a toy, perhaps for a young person to play with, to take apart like a puzzle with multicolored pieces. I assumed that it would be used to show us the operation.

Nablani walked in with a younger man, looking Egyptian, like Nablani, carrying Martha's MRIs. I recognized them from the scribbled notes on the back of the manila folder that I had made in the car, searching for the right address. Nablani was somehow older than I expected, at least 50, and his assistant was younger than I expected, probably 25. His complexion was dark, middle eastern, and a bit yellow around the eyes. But at least he smiled. I guess I was looking for a younger doctor, but it was nice to see a smile. He began immediately to ask Martha questions about her background, and the assistant took notes. He wanted to know about previous operations, none. Allergies, none. Any infections, none. Age, 35. Insurance, yes. And finally, who referred us?

Martha answered with a directness I had not often seen. In the few days since she first told me about the tumor, Martha had grown more controlled. She was all business, analyzing her condition, ready to ask questions and get answers she needed. She seemed newly aware of the gravity of the situation. It was her life. And she was a little impatient, wanting to ask Nablani about her condition.

The assistant kept writing, but spoke directly to Nablani. “She's a good candidate,” he concluded. Then I realized the intent of the questions. Nablani didn't want someone who might die on the table, or couldn't survive a difficult recovery, or couldn't pay. Although I suspected survivability was even more important than money. I kept thinking of those percentages of hearing loss, or blindness, or death. This doctor wanted successes, patients who would give him every opportunity for a safe and complete operation. It was somehow reassuring that Nablani didn't care about bedside manner and nursing; he cared about solving the problem, getting that tumor out of her head, and having an assistant who would write it all down for his next book. In a way, that was our goal too.

“Let's look at the MRIs,” he said, and placed the negatives on the wall screens. Martha and I had seen them so many times before; we had stopped searching for unseen changes or rays of hope. Our focus was on Nablani, to see if he recognized the complications every other doctor had described. He talked us through each negative, then he turned to face us directly and started to describe the operation.

“I will do a craniotomy,” he said. “I will remove the side of the scull above and around the ear. Then I can examine the nerves that control various parts of the body, and see how they are impacted. Then I will remove the tumor from the top.” He stopped, apparently to let all this sink in.

Martha leaned forward. “Does that mean you can do it?” she asked.

“I can do it,” he said. “And I would like to do it Thursday.”

We sat stunned, not expecting such a positive response, and not expecting to do it so quickly. It seemed like there should be more time for preparation, more time to adapt to the idea of the operation, more time to prepare. And then I started laughing, almost uncontrollably, aware that this was not a funny moment, and no one else shared my mirth. Martha just stared at me, and Nablani stared at her.

Finally, I spoke. “Forgive me sir, I admire your confidence. But how can you just say, ‘I can do it,' when at least three other brain surgeons have said it's impossible. Two of them refused to operate at all, and the third said maybe in two operations. Now you say, ‘I can do it.'”

Nablani fixed his gaze directly in my eyes. “Because I am the best,” he said. “I am a surgeon's surgeon.”

Silence. Martha still had not said a word. Finally, I said, “Can we have a few days to think about this?”

“Sure,” he said, “but I need to know by Wednesday. We will do the operation Thursday, and I leave for Paris on Saturday. Are there other questions?”

Martha finally spoke, not surprisingly in a strong voice, “How long will the operation take and how long will the recovery be?”