Dreams of a Robot Dancing Bee (24 page)

Mrs. Roth already knew her husband would stop at nothing to reverse the hideous damage he had inflicted on himself. Richard had taken a massive overdose of methadone and the first report concluded that he suffered brain death. Mr. Roth's response to those words when they were spoken to him on the long-distance phone call by the resident neurologist had been
one of fury laced with threats of punishment. A Roth does not suffer brain death. The incompetent doctor should have his license to practice revoked!

Richard's face was badly discolored, a ghastly purple and black, the result of oxygen deprivation during the thirty-six hours he lay undiscovered. Mr. and Mrs. Roth shuddered and clung to one another, and for a moment the tatter of hope was yanked from their grip and they floated helplessly in the blackness of space with no comfort anywhere in the vast and lonely universe. A team of doctors and nurses scurried about the stretcher adjusting tubes in their son's nostrils and mouth and pushing the I.V. into place and other machines with which the parents were as yet unfamiliar. In all, they were shocked at the sheer tonnage of the machinery it required to keep their son just barely alive. And yet there was not one machine that could arouse him from his deep sleep.

In the weeks and months that followed, Mr. and Mrs. Roth fell into a routine that varied only superficially from day to day. They generally spent eight hours a day at the hospital. Specialists were flown in from the best hospitals in the country. Doctors were replaced several times because of disagreements with Mr. Roth. Setbacks alternated with minor improvements. Infection was finally rooted out of Richard's body, and the low-grade fever that had worried and baffled the team of physicians was finally eradicated. And when Richard opened his eyes some four months after his suicide attempt, the Roth family could not help but rekindle the ashes of their hope. His eyes followed them around the room, and they said things to one another, such as
“He's in there, I just know it, Richard is in there.” And they would talk excitedly all through dinner that night, new thoughts, new theories, perhaps a psychologist, perhaps they should ask Richard's friends to make tapes so he could hear their voices, anything that might awaken the brain. There was no way of knowing how much damage was irreversible. Neurologists were cautious, but most of them did not entirely discourage the idea that “miracles” can occur with the brain. It was still a young science, comparatively. And Richard had been an exceptionally intelligent young man. He was special.

In fact, he had become something of a celebrity on the sixth floor of Mt. Sinai. He had a steady stream of visitors, obviously wealthy, important people. And Mr. Roth, while imperious, was also capable of gallantry and generosity when a service has been rendered to his satisfaction. And after his temper had exploded over some imagined or real misdeed, Mrs. Roth was generally there to pick up the pieces and console the wounded victim. Their presence had transformed the intensive care wing into something nearly glamorous.

Richard suffered seizures from time to time, and they were horrible to watch. His face contorted into inexpressible pain, and foam spilled out of the corners of his mouth—his parents were shattered at these times to be of no help at all. Mrs. Roth would bathe his head while Mr. Roth clenched and unclenched his fists and bit his lip. On several of these occasions, the attending physician would force Mr. Roth to accept injections of strong sedatives. They were worried about his health as well. For all his towering
force as a man, he was quite visibly deeply shattered. His empire meant little or nothing to him now.

In the evenings Mr. Roth sometimes made long, rambling phone calls to some of Richard's friends around the country. The friends were sympathetic; they knew of Richard's long-standing contest with his father, but none of that seemed to matter now. Mr. Roth was what he was, a broken giant, and they tried to answer most of his questions as honestly as they could, while still protecting him from some of the more unsavory details of Richard's decline.

Mr. Roth at first assumed that all Richard's friends came from wealthy families like himself; and when he was finally disabused of that notion, he felt more confused than ever, and he had to drink himself to sleep, a weakness he would have never tolerated in himself before. Who was Richard Roth? The note Richard had left said simply:
Mom and Dad, I'm sorry. I love you, Richard
.

Mr. and Mrs. Roth considered themselves quite fortunate in their choice of the full-time private nurse they had hired. Angel Montez cared for Richard with single-minded devotion. She even took over some of the duties—such as shaving Richard each morning and washing his hair every other day—that properly belonged to the hospital orderlies. The Roths were moved by her devotion and brought her small gifts of chocolates from time to time. Mr. Roth even presented her with a pair of gold earrings on her birthday.

Angel was very religious and still lived at home with her parents and eight brothers and sisters. Mr. and Mrs. Roth had on
several occasions inadvertently interrupted Angel praying at Richard's bedside. She was praying to Jesus on Richard's behalf. Mr. and Mrs. Roth, while they knew this to be unprofessional, were ready to accept help from any quarter.

“Please forgive me, Mr. and Mrs. Roth, I hope I haven't offended you in any way. It's just that I thought . . .”

“That's quite alright, Angel, we understand and we both appreciate all that you have done for Richard, and I know Richard appreciates it too in his own way and would want to thank you if he could. We will all continue to pray in our own way.” Mrs. Roth was such a fine lady in Angel's eyes, so kind and strong, and suffering so much pain day after day without once complaining or thinking about herself.

“He smiled at me this morning, Mrs. Roth, I'm certain of it. I was combing his hair, he always likes that, and I was talking to him as I always do, telling him how handsome he looked, and he got this little bitty smile on his face, kind of sweet and devilish, you know. I really think he understands most of what I say to him.”

“I know what you mean, Angel. We were here after dinner last night and we were watching one of his favorite Marx Brothers movies, and I'm certain he not only smiled but even chuckled, well, perhaps chuckled is too strong a work, but he made some sort of laughing noises at the right places. I think there's been some kind of growth this week. Mr. Roth thinks so too.” Mr. Roth tended to remain silent during these exchanges between Mrs. Roth and Angel. Mexican Catholic women ran heavy traffic in miracles, he knew that.

“Dr. Wells claims he saw movement in the little finger of Richard's right hand last week, but there's been nothing since. So, while we must keep our hopes alive, we must also remain cautious.” He stared out of the window and lit a cigarette. He had never smoked before this tragedy visited their lives, and he disapproved of it thoroughly.

“Has Dr. Somerset been in today?” he asked Angel.

“No, I think he is in surgery this morning.”

“Goddamn these doctors! I pay them a fortune and they are never here.”

Angel still winced automatically at Mr. Roth's frequent sacrilegious profanity, but she was getting accustomed to it. Still, she knew he was a gentleman in every other way and was gravely distraught at his only son's miniscule progress. So she forgave him this little sin.

At home she talked to her mother and her sisters about Richard and about Mr. and Mrs. Roth. Mrs. Montez did not even act surprised when Angel confessed to her one day that she thought Richard might some day ask her to marry him. Mrs. Montez saw her daughter's devotion to this fine, young man, as ill as he might be, to be a sure sign of her daughter's religious and charitable nature, and this was good. For her good deeds in this world she may some day be a saint. That's how she thought about it as she stirred a big fish soup.

It was only a few days after Angel had confessed her secret thoughts to her mother that a nearly miraculous thing happened. Angel had arrived at the hospital early and was alone in the room with Richard, talking to him as usual. Her manner might be described
as coquettish or flirtatious when she was alone with him, but it was all very sweet and innocent. She batted her eyelids at him when she puffed up his pillow or straightened his sheets. She chatted on to him as if he were a soldier back from the front with a shoulder wound.

“I have a surprise for you today, “she said to him. And then it happened, the miracle.

Barely audible, so that she had to wonder, much later, if she had made it up herself, he said “Wha . . .”

Merciful Mary, she thought, he spoke! Richard spoke! He spoke to me! At which point she neglected to answer, she forgot to show him the little friendship ring she had bought for him with the engraved message inside that read simply
Love Angel
. She was dizzy with excitement and needed to tell somebody, everybody, the news of the miracle. His first word in six months and it was to her!

She raced down the corridor and frightened Julie, the nurse at the head desk, with her manic reconstruction of the incident.

Julie was slow to respond, to join Angel in her unbound joy, and instead advised her to pass on her little story to Dr. Somerset when he comes in in an hour or so. Angel looked around the corridor for someone, anyone now, who could understand the significance of what had just happened, and that is when, God sent, Mr. and Mrs. Roth came walking through the big double doors at the end of the hall.

It was another long and emotionally draining day for Richard's parents. Richard had suffered another seizure around eleven o'clock, and the inevitable setback had left him nearly
lifeless through the rest of the afternoon. The Roths had finally left for a restaurant around 6:30. Mr. Roth stared into his second cocktail in silence for minutes at a time, and Mrs. Roth respected his silence.

“She's a dangerous woman,” he said finally.

“Who?” Mrs. Roth had no idea of whom he was speaking. “Angel. We'll have to replace her.”

“But, Father, what are you saying? No one could be more selfless in their devotion to Richard.” Mrs. Roth was never to contradict her husband. But she too was exhausted now and couldn't comprehend her husband's desire to hurt such a good person, such an exemplary private nurse.

“I will not have my emotions toyed with by this Bible-beating beano wench.”

The subject was dropped, but Mrs. Roth was afraid for them, afraid of what they might become, she and her husband, in their endless and helpless grief.

Angel told her mother of the miracle, though some of the joy had been dampened by Richard's subsequent setback. Her mother wasn't certain if it qualified as a miracle, but she promised to ask the priest that week.

B
enton Snead's nephew, Dewey, slept all day in a broken-down Plymouth Falcon in the backyard. He hung rags over the windows to keep the sun out. Benton went about his work in the yard as if Dewey didn't exist. Indeed, Mr. Snead wished he existed some place far away where he would never have to see him again, some place like, say, Pluto. Dewey was unemployable, he was un-everything as far as Benton Snead was concerned.

Dewey had his own routine. He would rise from sleep around seven in the evening. Then there followed a five mile walk to the shopping mall where he would perform his ablutions in the public toilet. Innocent intruders were often puzzled by Dewey's public bathing, and Dewey encouraged shoppers to believe it was his own private facility, then he would generously offer to share it with them, perhaps for a small token of gratitude. Then Dewey would take his only meal of the day at one of the greasy spoons that line the highway leading to the mall.

In short, Dewey lived out his days without conversation or social exchange. Benton Snead was embarrassed whenever a neighbor referred to seeing Dewey making his rounds. Dewey had been dumped on him by his sister who had banned him from her own house. Mr. Snead lived alone his whole life, a bachelor who loved his garden more than anything. Periodically, he would strike a deal with Dewey, but it was always a mistake.

“You paint the house, and paint it right, and I'll let you
sleep in the attic for awhile. No messing around, do you understand?”

Dewey was picking flakes of yellowed newspaper out of his hair.

“Do you hear me, you dag-blamed idiot?”

“Uncle Benton, I don't mind the car. It suits me just fine.”

But Mr. Snead really did want his house painted, and he was too old to do it himself now. Last time he tried to paint it himself he fell off the ladder and had his shoulder in a cast for two months. And he was too cheap to pay anyone else to do it.

“Do you want to do it or not, you lazy good-for-nothing?”

Dewey never wanted to do anything, but sing. He sang in the church choir on Sundays and to everyone's amazement, he sang like an angel.

“I don't know much about painting houses, Uncle Benton.”

“Crime-in-Itly, boy, I'll show you how to paint it. Any idiot can paint a house.”

And, much to the amusement of Mr. Snead's neighbors, Dewey proceeded to paint his uncle's house at night. The daft young man would shine the lights of the defunct Falcon onto the side of the house and paint. Should anyone awake at two or three in the morning, there he would be, a ghostly dream on a ladder. Benton Snead was disgusted but could do nothing about it. Dewey still preferred the washroom at the mall to his uncle's. His routine varied almost not at all, even with a roof over his head. Dewey was incorrigible. Mr. Snead had given up hoping that the Army would take his nephew, or that some unfortunate, lame-brained woman would take him off his hands. He was going to die with this whacko nephew tied around his neck.