Eureka (18 page)

Mad kept talking.

“The deputy revived you, but only after your heart had
stopped—briefly. Only a short while, but long enough to cause problems, mostly of a neurological nature. We are confident that you will have a full and rapid recovery. Do you understand? Move your left big toe if you understand, Otis. Okay?”

Without thinking, Otis almost tried to move his left big toe. But he caught himself in time. He did not want to move his left big toe. Not yet. Assuming he could.

Mad said to someone else, “No movement. Maybe he’s not understanding me after all.”

Mad and somebody else—maybe more than one other person—talked among themselves, but they seemed to have moved away from Otis. He could hear only the sounds of their voices, not their words. Maybe they were whispering?

“Otis, I want to tell you about the deputy, the one who saved your life.”

It was Mad again. He was back, talking right at and to Otis.

“His name was Canton. Phillip Canton. Everybody called him Phil.”

Call me Buck!

“He was married and had three children and four grandchildren. He revived you and then, miraculously, summoned help on the portable two-way radio he had strapped to his belt. It was a miracle it didn’t come off in the water and that it still worked after being in the water. All he got out to the sheriff’s dispatcher was his location and something about there being an extreme emergency. Then he collapsed into unconsciousness himself, Otis. The exertion in the water triggered a massive coronary. By the time the emergency people arrived, he was dead. He died, Otis. There were attempts made in the ambulance, and again in the emergency room of the Cherrydale hospital, to revive him, but to no avail. He died saving your life, Otis. He was quite a hero.”

Otis felt the breath of someone down in his face.
Is that you, Mad?

“There are tears in his eyes! He’s definitely crying this time! It worked! He understands!”

Yes, that was Mad shouting and breathing in his face.

Otis heard what sounded like cheers and applause from several people.

It didn’t make sense to Otis that people would cheer and applaud about the death of a deputy sheriff named Canton who was quite a hero.

Then Mad said down into Otis, “Mrs. Halstead wants you to know that she had flowers sent to the deputy’s funeral in your name—a large spray of roses—and that she wrote a personal note of condolence to his widow.”

That made sense to Otis. Sally wrote all of the thank-you notes and saw to all of the sprays of flowers and gifts that needed to be sent. There were always sprays of flowers and gifts that needed to be sent.

That’s what Sally did instead of acting in Inge plays.

Sally, where are you? Why aren’t you down here in my face?

How will Sally know to send flowers and a note to T when Iola dies?

Now Otis remembered something that had happened when he was nine years old. He made all A’s for the first time. And he caught a three-pound bass with only a tadpole as bait.

His tenth year was another nothing. He couldn’t remember any specific thing from it. Not one thing.

But he did remember another cornflakes song.

HIS DAUGHTER, ANNABEL
, his only child, was there off to the right. Not Sally, his only wife. Otis felt Annabel’s presence and heard her voice. He didn’t have to see her to know that she was a pretty young woman—blond like Sally, with a good figure like Sally. Otis had always enjoyed her voice, which was slightly deeper than Sally’s and those of most other females he knew. He’d always thought Annabel would have been a good actress.

Did I ever tell her that?

You have a great voice, Annabel
.

“I’m here as part of your rehab therapy, Dad. The doctors think maybe I might be able to get you to talk. I told them that I didn’t think so, but I’m here anyhow. I’m assuming you can hear me and understand me, so I am going to go on as if you do. Okay?”

Sure, fine. That’s okay. Talk to me with your great voice as if I can hear
.

“I don’t have to tell you that we never talked much before, so why would we now? Neither of us really had a chance to need the other one to talk to, did we? I told the doctors that, but they believe everything’s worth a try.”

I’ve changed my mind, Don’t talk to me, Please stop talking, Annabel, Please, I don’t want to be here. That’s why I ran away. Don’t you get it? Doesn’t anybody get it?

“So Dr. Tonganoxie—he’s something strange, dressing like an old hippie grad student—said that some kind of jarring experience might be good for you. Speaking of jarring, I was really stunned that day you came home with the scooter. Mom had told me on the phone about the fire engine and the BB gun and the helmet. She said it was a second-childhood thing, and I told her it could be that it was your
first
childhood. When I saw you with the scooter, I
knew I was right. You and the cop and Dr. Gidney were like three little boys riding and playing with that thing. I had never seen you so excited and so interested. I was right, wasn’t I, Dad? All of that was part of a first childhood for you, wasn’t it? I’m just guessing, because you and I never talked about anything like that, of course. Mom always said that because of the awful way your father died, it was best not to ask you anything about your growing up in Sedgwicktown. And I never did. Think about that. Here I am, you’re my dad, and I don’t know one thing about what your childhood was like. You never told me any stories about teachers or homework or sports or friends or family. That was as much my fault as it was yours. I could have asked you questions. I’m not complaining. You have a right to your privacy, your life. I never told you anything about me, either.”

That’s enough now, Annabel, Can’t you see I’m asleep?

“I couldn’t believe it when Mom called and said you ran away from home on that scooter. She seemed to be trying very hard to understand why you had done it. I understood. I’ll bet you never had a chance—or you never took the chance—to do anything irresponsible in your whole life. So, suddenly, you decided to make up for lost time all at once. I understand. I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you. I’m sorry you fell into the Chanute. But everyone—including Dr. Tonganoxie, who seems like the smartest of them all to me, by the way—swears you’re going to be fine. I made them hold up their right hands and swear, and I believe them. So does Mom. Dr. Gidney has been really good with Mom, helping her get through all of this. He’s spent a lot of time with her, talking her through it. She’s fine. So am I.”

Annabel fell silent. Otis couldn’t tell what she was doing. But he knew she was still there because her shadow and her breathing and her sweet smell of perfume were still there. Wasn’t it that French stuff she’d worn since high school?

“But maybe, as long as I’m talking, there are some things— really jarring things—that I did in the past that I didn’t mention when they actually happened. You remember when I was sixteen and went away for the month of July to an Outward Bound trip through Montana and Idaho? I didn’t really do that. I spent that month with a group of friends—boys and girls—robbing banks throughout Oklahoma and Texas. We hit twelve in thirty days. Just like the Bonnie and Clyde gang. I was the driver on most of the jobs, but toward the end, I went inside as a decoy and twice as an actual trigger girl. I shot two people with a machine gun, but they were only wounded. Flesh wounds, I think they called them, like in the movies. None of us killed anybody, which is good. And we got away with it completely. We needed the money to pay for the crack cocaine and other drug habits we had. I seldom went through a day without sniffing or smoking something. Did you notice anything strange about me around then? Must not have. The other thing I needed the money for was to have the twins. I had them one weekend at a hospital up in Kansas City—the Missouri side, of course—the next fall. The father was Reverend Garnett from church. It was hard keeping you and Mom from noticing I was pregnant, but I did it with sloppy clothes and then got lucky when the babies came early. I gave them up for adoption. But that does mean you’ve got a couple of twin grandchildren out there somewhere, probably in Kansas City. Both were boys, by the way. You could have played BB guns and everything with them. Sorry about all of that. Please don’t get pissed at Reverend Garnett. It was all my fault. Just for the record, I also had two abortions and held up a 7-Eleven store to pay for them while I was an undergrad at KU. A Palestinian exchange student on the basketball team was the father the first time, a black football player—he did something in the backfield—from Wichita the second. Go, Jayhawks!”

Go, Annabel!

Otis had never in his life felt joy like this. He wanted to rise up from this bed and grab this funny, fabulous daughter of his, lift her up over his head like he did when she was a kid, let out a wail of love and pleasure, laugh until he cried, hug her until she squealed.

But he did nothing—said nothing, moved nothing.

He felt Annabel leaning over him, clearly in search of some reaction,
any
reaction. Her father kept his eyes closed, his face expressionless.

“You’re asleep, aren’t you, Dad? You didn’t hear any of that, did you? Well, just in case you did, I hope you didn’t believe any of it. Wow, that would have been some life if I had lived it. We responsible Halsteads don’t do any of that, though, do we? Well, so much for trying the jarring experience—and, as the doctors said, ‘aid in your father’s rehab.’ Good luck, Dad. Believe them when they say you’re going to be fine. I’m so sorry you lost your scooter and toy fire engine and helmet in the river. You ought to find replacements when you’re better. I’d be delighted to play with you. We never played much during my childhood, so maybe we can make up for it during yours—if you want to.”

She leaned over him again. “You’re really sound asleep, aren’t you, Dad? I’d recognize that snore anywhere.” She kissed him on his right cheek and left the room.

Otis stopped the faked snore and peeked out with a squint to confirm that Annabel was gone.

I ran away, Annabel, I can’t come back
—
not yet. Not now. Maybe never
.

ELEVEN? WASN’T HE
eleven when Mr. Sam Troy, his principal, caught him taking a puff from a cigarette? Eleven or twelve.
It was eleven. There were five of them there in the parking lot back of school. Wes Lakin brought the matches and the cigarette, a Chesterfield he had stolen out of his father’s pack. Wes lit it and then passed it around. Otis took two puffs in turn and, despite his best efforts to hold it back, coughed so hard he thought he would die. Mr. Troy called Otis’s and the other boys’ parents to school and told them what had happened. “Next time,” said Mr. Troy, “these boys of yours will be expelled.” Otis thought his dad might spank him, but he didn’t. He only yelled at Otis while his mother cried. Otis promised never to smoke, and he didn’t again until he was a sophomore at KU.

His twelfth year—sixth grade. There must be something to remember from that. Something good, maybe? Yes, he won the spelling bee.

Thirteen, thirteen—
thirteen?
Nothing.

Fourteen? Nothing except Julie Ann. He loved Julie Ann when he was fourteen. And she loved him.

When he was fifteen? He still loved her, but she left him for a guy with a Cushman. There were a lot of wet dreams. Fifteen was also the year he pleaded in vain for a Cushman of his own. And a football helmet. And a BB gun? No, that was back when he was thirteen. Or twelve, maybe.

Sixteen, all As again. Nothing special there. Singing. He sang a lot in the choir and around town.

Seventeen? Skip seventeen.

Eighteen, nineteen, twenty, and twenty-one—college, in other words. Skip them all.

He remembered his wedding. The cake, a tall white edifice thing, got pushed off the table and jumped on and smashed into pieces and into a gooey mush by some kids. Sally’s mother cried and yelled as if the cake were a person who had just died.

Annabel’s birth. Certainly he remembered that. He was twenty-five years old. No, maybe twenty-seven … or twenty-six? Anyhow, he remembered when the doctor told him, “It’s a girl, Mr. Halstead.” No, that’s not what he said. He said, “Congratulations, Mr. Halstead. You have a
Miss
Halstead.” What exactly did the doctor say? Otis definitely remembered Sally screaming during labor.

The next few years? At work, mostly, talking, flying, thinking, worrying, hiring, firing, planning, deciding, flourishing. At home? On vacations? Nothing stuck out. He tried to go through each year again, beginning with right after the wedding.

Nothing much registered until he saw that toy fire engine at the antiques show. When was that? Just the other day, wasn’t it?

Forget this. He was through trying to think of something that had happened in each year of his life. He wouldn’t do that anymore.

“HI, OTIS. IT’S
me, Josh Garnett, from church. Don’t worry, I’m not here to administer last rites or anything like that. We Methodists don’t do that kind of thing anyhow, do we, Otis?”