Arson (12 page)

 

Chapter 21

 

 

THE HALLWAYS OF MIDDLESEX Hospital were white tunnels with no ends. There was light, but it was scarce, most of the darkness contained in small rooms. Doctors skulked around. Nurses checked for bad mechanical readings or stutters in heartbeats. Once or twice Arson covered his ears and just tried to watch everything in silence. He watched everything with cold eyes, and cold eyes looked back. It was like for a second he glimpsed a soul. It looked sad.

The sound he heard when he tried to shut out the world was unlike any other sound. It was quiet, similar to breathing, faint and with secrets all its own. He tried to hear the heartbeats of patients in hospital beds, but he couldn't because the drum of reality called him back.

For a few hours, Arson and Emery wheeled around a cart filled with medications and prescriptions he'd never heard of and various snacks no one in a million years would willingly eat. But the patients ate what they were given, most without incident or complaining, because they had to. Some refused, some too in pain to even think about a meal, but everyone eventually ate. Over the hours, it was hard not to picture Grandma lying in a hospital bed, replacing one old soul with another. He wondered if he would look like that kid he had noticed three rooms back, so sad he was sweating and not crying. So cold he was almost blue. The boy couldn't have been much older than ten. Maybe children were stronger than they knew. Maybe they had the power to keep people alive or kill them just by how much they loved or got angry. But places like this didn't seem to host animosity or ill will, only the good that was left in people. Only the parts they usually kept hidden until it was too late.

The gloom didn't appear to bother Emery the way it bothered him, like a thousand hateful spiders dancing along his shoulder blades. Arson tried to see the good in what they were doing, tried to see a point to it all, but it didn't make sense how fragile people were. It was painful walking by those rooms filled with AIDS patients, those with disease-rotten faces, the limbless cancer victims, tons of people who were already dead. Arson pitied them. The world could be so cruel and unfair. The more he looked at each victim, the more he presumed it was him and not them who was dying. Supplying them with medicine, food, and water seemed futile. What right did he have, what right did anyone have, to give these poor souls false hope?

“What's the matter?” Emery asked, scrubbing her hands with disinfectant. She'd said she needed a break. He didn't want to say anything. “You look weird. Are you sick or something?”

“No, it's… What's the point? I mean, what are you doing here?”

“I'm not doing anything. 
We
 are doing something. And what kind of a question is that?”

“It all feels so meaningless,” Arson said. “We live, we get sick. We get old, and then we're forgotten in places like this.”

“I try to think of this place as a last chance. One final stop before the end. It's kinda hopeful if you think about it like that.”

“Maybe. But these people in here make me feel so drained. They're empty shells, machines that stopped working. It just feels like we're lying to them.”

“Never knew you were such a cynic,” she concluded.

They didn't talk much after that, not for a while.

Emery wheeled into a room with a yawn sometime later. Arson looked at the name affixed to the plastic panel hanging up against the wall outside the door. Genevieve D'Angelo, age forty-seven.

Emery leaned toward Arson and whispered, “She has leukemia.” Then, with a smile, she said, “Hi, Genevieve. You remember me, don't you? So good to see you up and awake.”

Gray light outlined the woman's pale face, a virtually motionless body stuck with needles and wired to respirators and other machines Arson didn't even have the name for. The woman's eyes fought to stay open while dry lips begged to speak. Withered hands sought the affection of his masked partner fearlessly. It was weird how this dying woman didn't seem to care that Emery was different or looked frightening. This stranger, drowning in layers of white sheets, seemed only to care that someone was here to listen, even if they shared but a few words. The obvious deterioration of her face and skin ripped Arson apart inside. How long did she have?

 

* * *

 

During the hectic afternoon, Emery's mother had only run into them once. She bumped into Arson as the two of them were exiting the hospital café, spilling a cup of soda on his white volunteer scrubs. He could tell that the moment was beyond awkward for Emery, who made certain to clean up the mess by dabbing his shirt a hundred times, grunting, and tossing a pack of Wet Ones at her mom. The remainder of the embarrassing meeting was short-lived, consisted of the cliché 
hi—this-is-the-boy-I've-been-telling-you-about
 and the 
goodbye—nice-of-you-to-interfere-with-my-life
 conversation.

“So that's my mom,” Emery said as they rounded the corner.

Arson knew it was best to leave it at that.

“Back to saving the world,” she said. “Come along, Robin.”

“Robin?”

“Yeah? Is it too early for sidekick nicknames?”

Arson shrugged. “Whatever. Lead the way to Gotham, Dark Knight.”

He could tell Emery wanted to talk, might have been aching to, but a conversation was the last thing on his mind. They moved down the hallway and entered room 219. Arson hadn't even checked the information hanging on the wall outside the door.

“Look who it is, my daily pain in the butt.” The voice belonged to a tired-looking, elderly man perched up in his bed. “And she brought a friend.”

“Hello, Abraham,” Emery replied plainly. “It's a pleasure to see you too.”

“Now, I'm not dead just yet. Come on over here and give an old man a hug.”

“Don't mind him,” she said, turning to Arson. “I'm guessing he didn't get a whole lot of action when he was younger, so now he's kind of a flirt.”

“She thinks she's got me all figured out, son. Don't they all? My name's Abraham. Abraham Finch.”

Arson reached out to shake the man's hand. “Arson Gable.”

Emery handed the old man some crackers.

“So what brings a young, strapping boy like you to a dump like this?”

“Abraham, watch what you say,” Emery said, noticing the old man smirk.

He glanced up at her, mocked her while her back was turned, and continued. “How long have you two been…canoodling?”

“Abraham, you're a bum, you know that?”

“What? It's an honest question. What's a boy gonna be spending his summer volunteering for if he ain't at least dating you? Shoot, I think hell would've frozen over before I stepped foot in a place like this at your age.”

“Well, fortunately for you, everyone's not so ornery. You know, it's only my second day, and already you're acting fresh. Besides, this boy and I aren't together.”

“That's not what it looks like to me.”

“Well, maybe I should buy you a new pair of glasses.”

“Ouch! This one doesn't go quietly.” Abe's eyes got big and wide.

Arson stepped a little closer to the bed, intrigued by the man, who appeared as threatening as a stuffed animal, wrapped inside the sheets, soft buoyant cheeks puffing at the surface. His coffee-colored skin seemed loosely draped around sagging muscles and brittle bones.

Emery got up and poured Abe a cup of water.

“Didn't I ask you to bring me something with a little more flavor?” he said.

“The powers that be won't let me sneak alcohol into room 219 or any other room, for that matter. I guess you're gonna have to stay sober.”

“Fine. Living was hard enough. Didn't think dying would be this hard. Man, oh man, somebody could be dying and they won't even give him a drink to help ease the pain.”

“He's good at making you feel guilty, but don't fall for it, Arson. He just wants some booze.”

“Okay, suit yourself. But when I come to haunt you from the grave, you'll know why.” The old man removed his glasses and made an attempt at trying to creep her out, but the wrinkles inside his brown mug made him look like more of a snarling pug than anything that was supposed to scare her.

“So have you kissed her yet? By the time I was your age, I'd kissed four gals.” Abe held up four fingers, as if he were trying to make sure he could still count.

“Oh, Mr. Finch, that's fresh.”

“I know, but I'm trying to have a little bit of fun before I check out of this place. It kinda feels like purgatory. A waiting place before, you know, the afterlife crapstorm.”

“Abraham Finch, keep it down. Don't get so worked up. I'd bring some sun-tanning lotion at the rate you're going.”

“I'm sorry I'm not a pale-faced, virgin priest, but I seen some things in my day. I lived my life. Spent too much time being modest and not enough time saying it like it is.”

“Well, say it like it is when other nurses and volunteers are catering to you.”

“Like your mother? She's a pretty lady, Emery.”

Emery didn't respond.

“Soft subject,” Arson whispered.

“So, Arson,” Abe continued, changing the direction of the conversation, “you have quite a unique name. I like it. Say, I'm a bit curious, do you like matches, kid?”

“Abraham, if you can't behave—”

He folded his lips together and replied, “You'll what? Pass on over to room 220? Lord knows I'm a dream compared to Peggy the hippo.”

“Mrs. Yeshur is not as mean or as plump as you think she is. What's gotten into you?”

“Depression, constipation. In case you couldn't tell, I'm in a hospice unit. Have some compassion, for crying out loud!”

“Please. You and I both know you're going to outlive us all.”

“What good is that if I ain't got nothing to numb the pain of cruel and unusual volunteers?”

“Here he goes,” Emery said, rolling her eyes. “Abraham, what would your mother think?”

“Momma wouldn't play, but even Momma knew not to be stubborn all the time.”

A smile crawled across Arson's face as he said, “I don't think she's gonna budge.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I suppose you think you're funny, huh? Fine.” She prepared to take the cup of water away.

“Wait a minute. I'm not finished with that, thank you.” He wore a sly grin, showcasing what decay and nicotine had left behind.

“Oh, now he's content with water,” she said.

“Don't have much of a choice, do I?” Abe answered, his voice throaty and wet.

“Forgive me for caring about your health,” Emery said.

“Sweetheart, those uppity white suits say my number should've been up days ago. But I've been here for weeks, and I'm still kicking, ain't I? If anything's killing me, it's this place, this bed. I don't think a sip of gin is gonna send me to the grave now. Besides, if it does, I'd welcome that black-hooded fool with open arms. Heck, I'd give him a sip.”

“Look, Abraham, it's my job to help you, without booze. I happen to care about you,” Emery said. “I'm not sure why, but I do. Guess you're like the grandpa I never had.”

“You never had a granddaddy?”

“Or a grandmother. They all checked out before I was born.”

“What a shame.” Abe was crestfallen. “How about you, kid?”

“I have a grandmother,” Arson said. “Her name is Kay.”

“You love her?”

Arson hesitated. “Yeah.”

“Good. You gotta cherish the ones you love. Don't leave her in a place like this to rot. It's downright cruel. Why haven't any of my babies come to visit me? I paid my dues in this world, Emery. Loved a good woman, raised beautiful babies, fought them blasted fools in Korea. Maybe it wasn't enough. Maybe I'm paying for all the abuse I did to this big, black carcass of mine. Lung cancer ain't exactly a walk in the park, you know.” His voice quivered with a deep rasp, and he started to cough.

“I'm sorry, Abraham. I can't imagine how hard this must be for you.” Emery rubbed his shoulder. “But you have me and Arson here to keep you company. Whatever you need.”

“Some gin would be nice.”

Emery breathed deeply, ignoring the request of the old man. She punched Arson in the chest. “Come on, Robin. He's never gonna quit asking. Besides, we've got our rounds to make before we head home. Gotham needs us. Goodbye, Abraham.”

As they left the room, Arson felt strange. Maybe it was relief; he wasn't quite sure. For the few moments he'd spent with Abe, he wondered if there was any hope left. But then he turned back and for a split second focused all of his attention on the frail man lying in the bed, a bed that might as well have been his coffin. He saw Abe looking out the window with a vacant stare in his eyes.

Heaven seemed so far away.

 

* * *

 

Joel lay sprawled out on the pull-out sofa when Aimee and Emery arrived home. She paused and stared at him drooling away on the living room rug. She couldn't stand how unpleasant the room looked, how dated and uninspiring the walls were. The least he could do was spruce the place up. It was hard enough getting her and Emery to move to this hick town, but if he thought for one second she'd help him dress up the rooms, he was mistaken. This was temporary, she told herself every morning before work. Moving here had been a stupid thing to do.

“Temporary,” Aimee said under her breath, using a tissue to wipe her husband's drool off the sofa pillow.

She removed her summer coat, felt the strap of her purse slip loosely down her arm, and kept eyeballing him. On the table beside her leg lay the culprits of his daily crimes: empty cartons of Chinese food, crumbs cluttered about the floor, the ring left behind on the coffee table from a glass of water he'd forgotten to finish. “We have coasters for a reason,” she seethed.