Nerve Damage (16 page)

“What warning was that?”

“Don't become your own connoisseur.”

Wisdom, the kind that actually shifted the mind around at one stroke, revealed what needed revealing: you didn't come across it often. Roy caught a glimpse of what separated him from Picasso, horizons beyond horizons.

 

They drank coffee
at the kitchen counter, sitting on stools. “Does the driver want any?” Roy said.

Krishna waved the idea away. “Finished with your thinking yet, Roy?”

Roy laughed again.

Krishna sipped his coffee. “Whatever you decide,” he said, “there's one thing you should know.”

“What's that?”

“She would have loved it.”

Roy's eyes met Krishna's. He came close to telling Krishna everything, starting with the present meaninglessness of a quarter of a million dollars and the possibility that his baby-making days were numbered. Then a thought came that helped him quell the impulse. “Do you remember Tom Parish?”

“Doesn't ring a bell,” Krishna said.

“Delia's boss. He spoke at the funeral.”

“I was in Rome.”

Roy remembered.

“I still feel bad that I couldn't—”

“It's all right.”

“What about Delia's boss?” Krishna said.

“I'd like to locate him,” said Roy.

“Why?”

“Just to talk.”

Krishna glanced across the kitchen, into the big room and
Delia.
Roy could see him inventing some artistic explanation. “Why don't you try what's-his-name?” Krishna said.

“What's-his-name?”

“Fellow who worked at the same place,” Krishna said. “Government agency, wasn't it? Delia sent him to me.”

“Delia sent who to you?”

“This coworker—he had an interest in mosaics from the Moorish period and I happened to have a Moroccan bowl, I believe it was, in his price range.”

Roy was on his feet. “What was his name?”

Krishna looked alarmed. “Is it that important?”

Roy tried to control that old-man quaver in his voice, settle it down. “The name, please.”

Krishna closed his eyes. “One of those combination names,” he said.

“Combination names?”

“In a multicultural sense.” Krishna's eyes opened. “Paul Habib,” he said.

“You sold a bowl to Paul Habib?”

“A very minor piece,” said Krishna. “It couldn't have brought more that fifteen hundred dollars, two thousand at the outside. A shrewd purchase, actually—this was many years ago and the market has strengthened considerably. But the point I'm making is that I'm sure to have contact information for him back at the office. Somewhat dated, no doubt, but you never know.”

“Can you call now?”

“Call?”

“The office,” Roy said. “Have someone look it up.”

“Friday, Roy. I don't open on Friday.” Krishna gave Roy another look, saw something that made him take out his phone. “Philip?” he said. “When you get this message, I want you to go to the office, open the accounts file and find contact information for Paul Habib. Paul Ha-bib. Call me when you've got it.”

“Thanks,” Roy said.

“You're welcome,” said Krishna, finishing his coffee. “Done thinking yet?”

Krishna's limo backed smoothly out of the long
curving lane to the street and drove away. An old woman walking her dog turned to watch it go by.

Two hundred and fifty grand: a fortune for a kid growing up in a shabby town like North Grafton, Maine, utter fantasy to dream of that kind of money coming in one fat hunk. But here it was: all he had to do was say yes.

Roy picked up the phone and called his mom.

“Roy! How nice to hear from you!”

“Everything okay, Mom?”

“Everything's super,” she said. “Couldn't be better.” Roy's mom wasn't one of those northerners who ended up pining for home—even in winter—after moving to Florida. She loved Florida: the little condo Roy had bought her, the Mini Cooper she'd chosen at the dealership he took her to—first brand new-car she'd ever owned—her new friends and all the card games they played and dancercise classes they took. “Guess what the temperature is this very minute,” she said.

Best to aim low on that question: “Sixty-eight?” he said.

“Sixty-eight?” she said. “Brrr. It's eighty degrees, Roy—I'm looking at the thermometer as I speak. You know the thermometer I'm talking about, on the balcony?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“And I can see a freighter, way way out there. It looks red.”

“Sounds nice, Mom.”

“My own personal million-dollar view,” she said. “And how are you doing, Roy?”

“Pretty good.”

“Things are still…selling and all?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said; and smiled to himself: he knew that down deep she probably thought her Florida life could vanish like that. “No problem there.”

“Good to hear.” Then a pause. “Is there a problem somewheres else?”

“No, no,” said Roy. “I'm just saying the business side is going particularly well.”

“Wonderful,” said his mom. “Any recent sales at all, if I'm not being too much of a nosey parker?”

“Now that you bring it up,” Roy said, “we just got the highest offer yet.”

“How much?”

“A lot.”

“No fair clamming up now.”

“Promise you won't repeat it.”

“Cross my heart.”

Roy named the figure.

“Oh, Lord,” she said. “Who in their—” She stopped herself.

“Who in their right mind, Mom?” Roy said, having some fun.

“Now, Roy,” she said. “You know I love your work—it's so…so big. I'm just wondering who has that kind of money.”

“It's some rancher from Texas,” Roy said.

“What's his name?”

For a moment, he couldn't recall. “Truesdale,” he said. “Clifton Truesdale.”

“
Calvin
Truesdale, you mean?” said his mom.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Roy said. “You've heard of him?”

“Heard of him! Don't you read
People,
Roy? Just last week, I think it was, they had him hunting birds down on his ranch with the president. They're best buddies.”

“What president?”

“Of the United States, for God's sake,” said his mom. “What president. Didn't you meet him once, if I recall?”

“Who?”

“Who? Good grief. The president, Roy. The president of the United States.”

“Sort of,” Roy said.

“How can you
sort of
meet someone?”

“He was still vice president when I met him,” Roy said. “And it was only a handshake.”

“Listen to you. Shook hands with the president. My son—in the big time and he don't even know it.”

“I'm not in the big time, Mom.”

“Big enough for me,” said his mom. One more pause. “How's Jen?”

“Fine.”

“Still teaching skiing?”

“Yes.”

Her tone changed. “You got a cold, Roy?”

“No.”

“Feel okay? Your voice sounds a bit raspy.”

“I'm fine, Mom,” Roy said. “Got to run. Talk to you soon.”

“Bye, son. Love you.”

Click.

Roy cleared his throat—more accurately, went through all those sounds and peristaltic throat movements involved in throat clearing—but couldn't quite do it.

 

He stood
before
Delia.
No rising dust motes now, but she still seemed to be turning, perhaps a kinetic illusion he'd unintentionally created.
Done thinking yet?
He didn't need the money, didn't want to sell her, not
now, not ever. In fact, a strange, even repellent desire arose within him: to dig a great hole, have
Delia
buried in the ground beside him.

Then he thought of Skippy. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars could get Skippy set up somewhere, somewhere out of town. He could take his GED, go to college, grow up safe; all of that depending on how this bogus weapons charge turned out. Roy went to the window: no Skippy. The old woman and her dog were coming back, a small dog wearing a snappy plaid vest. The old woman wore a thin coat with patches on the elbows and the acetate lining sagging out the back.

A calendar hung on the broom-closet door:
HOCKEY LEGENDS
. Roy flipped through the months: Bobby Orr flying through the air; Gordie Howe holding off a defenseman with one hand, getting off a shot with the other; Guy LaFleur with his hair streaming behind him; Glenn Hall in goal without a mask; Boom Boom Geoffrion winding up for a slap shot; and on to Rocket Richard at the end of the year, with his hot, mesmerizing eyes, like there was a fire burning inside him. Roy knew he'd enjoy that December, thirty-one days of the Rocket. All he had to do was get there.

Rest, food, exercise: his responsibilities; everything else was up to Dr. Chu. Roy went upstairs, laid out his gym clothes—sneakers, sweats, jock, white cotton socks, a Thongs T-shirt with a long list printed on the back:
hooking, slashing, elbowing, boarding, spearing, tripping, holding, roughing, high-sticking, interference, fighting, unsportsmanlike conduct,
each with a little box, and a check mark in every one; and at the bottom,
KINGS OF THE PENALTY BOX
. Roy sat on the bed, took off his shoes.

 

“I hate everything
about hockey,” Delia said, “but you know what's worst?”

“What?”

“The way you all stink. How come no one ever washes their stuff? It comes in waves when I stand behind the bench, almost knocks me over.”

“Then don't stand behind the bench.”

“But that's the best place to watch the game, Roy.”

 

He was zooming,
skating so fast he barely touched the ice, reaching speeds unknown even to LaFleur or Kharmalov or Perrault on their best days, and he had the puck on an invisible string; even better, he didn't get winded at all, needed no more than a deep breath now and then, the air in his lungs almost tactile, like from a planet with a richer mixture. Then the horn sounded, game over.

Roy opened his eyes. The phone was ringing. Dark shadows slanted across his room. He lay on the bed, his gym clothes twisted and bunched around him.

Roy reached for the phone, knocked it on the floor, fumbled around. A small voice rose from the receiver, down there somewhere. “Roy? Are you there? Mr. Valois?”

Roy found the phone. “Skippy?”

“Is that you, Roy?”

He cleared his throat. “Yes—what is it, Skippy?”

“Can you come down here?” Skippy said. “Soon or like right now?” His voice was low and excited. “I found her.”

“Found who?”

“The lady, Roy. You got to, like, hurry.”

“What lady?”

“The lady, the lady, you know. I can see her from here.”

“What lady?”

“The one, Roy. Who came to the house. Um, your house.”

“The lady you drew? Who set you up?”

“Yeah! Yeah! I can still see her, just about. She's got some dude with her, a big dude and—”

“Skippy! Where are you?”

“Uh-oh. I'm gonna hafta, like…”

Click.

Roy checked to see if his phone had captured Skippy's number: it had. He called back.

“Yo. This is the Skipster. Leave a message or not. Up to you. Buh-bye.”

“Skippy! Pick up!”

But he didn't.

Roy hurried downstairs, threw on boots, ran outside to the truck. In the driveway his right foot slipped on a glazed tire track. Roy was a fine skater and a pretty good skier, had one of those bodies that rebalanced quickly, and so hardly ever fell at the rink or on the slopes, and never hard when he did. But he fell now—landing partly on his face but mostly on his broken arm—and very hard. He heard a cry of pain, uncontrolled. It didn't sound like him.

Roy lay in the driveway. The pain in his forearm didn't want to be contained in such a small, outlying area, found some nerves and spread through his body.
Get a grip, boy. What are you?

He reached up with his good arm, found the running board of the truck, pulled. From high above came a
whap-whap-whap
sound. It terrified him. He twisted around, looked at the sky, saw a helicopter soaring past. Just an everyday kind of helicopter—white with the words
VRAI TRANSPORT
painted in green on the side—nothing scary, or even interesting about it.
Get a grip, boy.
Roy pulled harder on the running board, got his legs under him and rose. He climbed inside and drove off, his breathing fast and light, but he was back in control, had a grip.

Where was Skippy? Roy had no idea, but he couldn't be far, not with his car still in the pound. He turned down Main Street, drove slowly along its three blocks, checking both sides. No Skippy, and daylight fading fast. Roy went around the green and back the other way on Main Street. He stopped in front of Dunkin' Donuts and went inside.

No one there but a girl—maybe fifteen or sixteen—behind the display case, sticking a “For Sale” card in a powdered doughnut.

“Excuse me,” Roy said. “Do you know Skippy Bedard?”

The girl looked up. Her eyes widened.

“What is it?” Roy said. “Did something happen to him?”

“There's blood all over your face,” the girl said.

Roy touched his cheek, checked his hand: red. “I'm fine,” he said. “Do you know Skippy?”

She nodded vigorously, eyes still wide.

“Was he here?”

More nodding.

“When?”

She looked at the watch on her plump wrist, then up at the clock on the wall.

“When?” Roy said, his voice rising. Was he scaring her? He lowered it. “Approximately.”

“Approximately,” she said, speaking the word slowly, as though understanding it for the first time. “Maybe like two hours ago? He had a chocolate doughnut with sprinkles.”

“Was there anyone with him?”

She shook her head.

“A light-skinned black woman? Tall, in her forties, maybe with a big guy, younger?” Just guessing on the younger part, but he described Westie for her anyway.

“No,” said the girl. “Skippy was by himself. But you know what?”

“What?”

“A woman like that—tall, light-skinned black? I saw her.” She pointed out the window.

“When?”

“When? I'm not sure when—but Skippy was still here. We were talking. Me and Skippy were in World Geography together, until he, you know, dropped out. The thing is, Skippy's really smart, one of the smartest kids in the whole—”

“The woman—what about her?”

She pointed out the window. “She was walking by, like maybe going to a car?”

“And?”

“And? That was it. Then she was out of sight, past where I could see. See from here, behind the counter. If I would of moved, I could of—”

“Did Skippy say anything?”

“Nooo-ooo.”

“Or do anything?”

“Nothing special. He left pretty soon after that.”

“How soon?”

Her eyes scrunched up. “Maybe right away.” She gestured at half a chocolate doughnut with sprinkles on a table by the window. “That's his doughnut, now that I remember. I thought he might be coming back.”

“Which way was the woman going?” Roy said.

She moved her hand left to right, toward the green. Roy hurried to the door, paused. “What kind of car was she heading for?”

“See, I'm not sure she was for sure doing that,” the girl said. “But, thinking it over, she was kind of a cool-looking lady. And a very cool car was parked out there.”

“What kind of cool car?”

“With the nice curves,” said the girl. She made curves with her hands. “Porsche, I think it is. Do you say the
e
at the end? A silver one.”

Roy threw open the door.

“Is he in trouble again?” the girl said. “Skippy's a good kid, one of the best kids in the whole stupid town.”

 

Out on Main Street:
no Skippy, no silver Porsche. Roy was getting into the pickup when across the street the doors of Normie's Burger Paradise opened and Normie Sawchuck strolled out, a fat cigar in his mouth.

Roy called out, “Normie.”

“Hey, Roy.” Normie waved, let the ski shuttle bus go by, walked over. “How you doin'? Heard you're on the DL.”

“Temporarily,” Roy said.

Normie looked more closely. “What happened to your face?”

“Nothing,” Roy said, “just a little slip. Did you see a Porsche parked out here a couple hours ago?”

“Nope,” Normie said. “But I was up at the mountain”—Normie, a notorious womanizer in a town full of them, gave Roy a sly glance—“for a quick meet-and-greet, just got back.”

Roy slid behind the wheel, started to close the door.

“You should have the doc check those cuts,” Normie said.

“Later.”

Normie had a thought. “That Porsche—silver, by any chance?”