Nerve Damage (27 page)

“Yes,” Roy said. “Specifically the last time you saw her.”

“You're losing me, friend,” said Truesdale. There was a new tone in his voice; Roy heard a slight buzz underneath.

“The sculpture, Cal,” Roy said. “Up at my place. I wondered whether you still wanted it.”

“Well, 'course I do,” said Truesdale, voice back to normal. “More than ever. Thought you knew.”

“I've decided to sell,” Roy said. All at once he was breathing free and easy.

“Hallelujah.”

“At the offered price,”

“Deal,” said Truesdale. “I've already got a spot picked out down at the ranch.”

“Why don't you come up?” Roy said. “We can make shipping arrangements and you can walk me through the Hobbes business at the same time.”

“How's tomorrow?” said Truesdale.

“Around four?”

“On the dot.”

Roy clicked off.

“What was that?” Jerry said.

Roy smiled. He felt pretty good—that momentum-change feeling that made the blood flow: he knew it from the rink. “Got to get going, Jerry,” he said. “I'm in your debt.”

“But—”

“And one more thing—stay somewhere else until you hear from me.”

“Somewhere else?”

“A hotel. With a friend.”

Jerry glanced around his kitchen, paused on the corner where the broken chair had lain. “You really think—?”

“Promise me,” Roy said.

At first everything went well. Momentum was
shifting, and taking Roy with it. Every time he checked the speedometer, he saw he was going too fast—seventy-five, eighty, even more—as though some force was pushing. He thought of that goal he'd scored against Harvard—not the physical details, although he remembered them exactly, most clearly of all how the Harvard goalie had looked back to see if the puck was in the net—but the way that goal had lifted his whole team. Which was what he felt now: that lift. The most important goal he'd scored, and much more than that, he now realized, one of the most important events of his life. If he hadn't wondered aloud to Turk about its possible inclusion in his obituary, then he would never have known—what? What he was about to learn. A plan was forming in his mind.

A few miles from Baltimore, Roy stopped for gas. He had some notion of calling Freddy Boudreau, step one in the plan, while he filled the tank, but from how he was parked that meant operating the pump with his left hand, which for some reason didn't seem to have the strength to pull the lever. Roy ended up spilling gas on both hands. He went inside and washed them in the restroom sink. That was when he saw his face in the mirror. The sight froze him for a moment or two. It might have been his portrait, painted by one of those expressionists Roy had never
warmed up to, the kind who went in for asymmetry, dark outlines, and skin tones unseen in real life, like purple under the eyes, green on the cheeks, chalk white everywhere else.

When had he last eaten? Or even had something to drink? Roy couldn't remember. He felt no hunger at all, but suddenly realized how thirsty he was. Roy went into the station, bought two premade plastic-wrapped sandwiches—one labeled turkey, the other ham—and a thirty-two-ounce bottle of water. Back in the truck, he drank down the whole bottle, then took a bite of the turkey sandwich. It had no taste, didn't even seem like food. He tried the ham instead. No better. Roy rewrapped the sandwiches, laid them on the seat beside him and called Freddy Boudreau.

“I know it's late, Freddy, but—”

“That's okay,” Freddy said. “I'm at work anyways. And I wanted to talk to you, too, matter of fact.”

“About what?”

“First things first—how're you doing, Roy?”

“Good,” Roy said.

Freddy was silent.

“I don't know what Dr. Chu told you,” Roy said. “It probably looked a lot worse than it is.”

“Good to hear,” said Freddy. He cleared his throat. “I owe you an apology.”

“What for?”

“That theory about your meds—maybe getting your judgment warped by them and all. I was way off base.”

“What changed your mind?” Roy said.

“Had a closer look at that cell phone,” Freddy said.

“Skippy's?”

“Yup.”

“What did you find?”

“I'd like to go over that in person,” Freddy said. “Can I come over in the morning?”

Roy checked his watch. “How's ten?”

“Ten it is.”

“And, Freddy?” Roy said. “Bring that equipment for”—he had to search for the term—“…wiring me up.”

“Wiring you up?”

“To make one of those secret recordings.”

“Of who?” said Freddy.

“I'll explain then,” Roy said.

“Looking forward to it.”

Momentum, oh yes, it was shifting. The law, in the person of Freddy Boudreau—an unpopular small-town cop who often played with surprising meekness on the ice but the law nevertheless—was now on his side. Roy had never set a trap for anyone, never even considered it. Setting traps turned out to be kind of fun. Wasn't there a saying about once you'd hunted men you didn't want to do anything else? Or was it you weren't good for anything else? Roy, back on the road, remembered who he'd heard it from, and when.

 

She wanted
to go to the fair.

“What fair?”

“The Mad River Fair, what else?”

“Where'd you hear about that?”

“It's all everybody's been talking about the whole week.”

“Who's everybody?”

“Turk, Normie, all the guys.”

“You'll hate it.”

“I'll love it. Wait and see.”

And she'd loved the Mad River Fair, everything about it. She made crazy bets on the oxen pull, ate all the food in sight, including Polish sausages, fried dough and Quebecois poutine, came third in the pan toss—beaten by two women who each outweighed her by at least one hundred pounds—and was unaware of the ketchup on her chin. She even challenged Turk at the shooting gallery. Turk had gone to some military prep school before Dartmouth, been captain of the rifle team. It was one of those old-fashioned shooting galleries—ducks going back
and forth on different levels, stuffed animals for prizes. They won lots of stuffed animals. Turk only missed one duck. Delia missed none.

“Mercy,” said Turk. “Where'd you learn to shoot like that?”

Delia, finally aware of the ketchup on her chin, wiped it off and said, “Beginner's luck.”

“Right,” said Turk. “Hey, Roy, did you know you married a great white hunter?”

“Of course,” Roy said. “She bagged me.”

Delia laughed and put her arm around him. That was when she quoted the saying, whatever it was, about hunting men.

 

But which was it?
For some reason the distinction—between losing the taste for anything else and being no good for anything else—seemed very important. And more important still was the incident itself. Sharp-shooting,
Fuck the pineapples,
and even, on that cherry-blossom morning,
I've had enough:
Hadn't she been trying to tell him? How had he missed all that? Was it because of a fundamental, unsuspected difference between them, that he was incapable of holding two contradictory thoughts in his mind at once, while she—

Without warning, Roy vomited up everything in his stomach. Not much: just those two undigested sandwich bites, turkey and ham, and sour liquid, but Roy couldn't stop gagging. He pulled to the side of the road—loud honking behind him—got out of the truck. There by the guardrail he stood hands on knees, his stomach heaving and heaving, but giving up nothing, now even the last few sourest splatters of liquid long gone. It went on and on, his whole body reduced to gagging then trying to breathe, gagging then trying to breathe, like some horrible two-stroke piston. Then the pain demon in his chest awoke, in a very bad mood. Roy staggered against the side of the truck. He caught the wide-eyed stare of a woman in a passing car.

Roy got himself in the truck, clung to the wheel. The gagging stopped, but he still couldn't make his lungs take in air. The pain demon, not needing air—perhaps fed on its absence—grew stronger. Roy
couldn't get any air inside him at all. What did that mean? That he was drowning, drowning on dry land? He thrashed around, then remembered that strange position, elbows way back and chest stuck out, and he tried with all his might to do what no one ever thinks twice about, simply breathe, and a tiny bit of air, no more than would fill a nostril, got through. And then another, and a few more.

That seemed to enrage the demon. It squeezed things inside him, squeezed them with claws. Roy reached a whole new level of pain, and at the same time somehow knew he'd only entered the foothills. He turned the key, pulled onto the highway and started for home. Elbows back, chest out, sweat dripping off his chin, the inside of the truck all sour, a low growling sound coming from his throat, directed at the demon: he drove. Roy had to get home, no matter what. How could his plan take shape without him?

But he couldn't get enough air, just that mean trickle. Plus how he was burning up, and the demon inside him: all that hitting its highest note so far at the very moment an exit sign rose in his headlights:
JOHNS HOPKINS UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL
.

Roy's hands took over and turned the wheel. He tried to resist, tried at least to put up a fight, for his own pride if nothing else. But he couldn't even do that, ended up losing an important war that took two seconds, maybe three. How people could surrender their rational faculties to the belief in a savior, to put themselves in the hands of a distant other: he got it at last. His was Dr. Chu.

 

“Roy?
Roy?”

Rounded, folded in an igloo sleep. It felt good.

“Roy? Can you open your eyes, please?”

Felt good. Was there anything better than feeling just like this?

“Recognize my voice, Roy? It's Dr. Chu. If you can hear me, raise the index finger on your right hand.”

Rounded and folded.

“Or make any movement, any movement you want.”

He wanted to be still. Machines beeped regular beeps, very soothing.

“You can't talk right now, but that's only due to the ventilator. A temporary condition—if you continue with your improvement.”

I'm improving?

“I think he moved his finger, Doctor.”

“Did you, Roy? Do it again for me, please. I missed it.”

Improving how? Air: for one thing, he had air, all the air he needed. A lovely planet, softly padded with miles and miles of air. He felt it, air spreading through his body, an obvious connection to the living earth, although he'd never thought of it that way before.

“Just a quick raising of the finger, Roy.”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“We have a writing pad. Surely you have some questions, Roy.”

Question: Why hadn't he understood that she'd been trying to tell him something, if not consciously, then in slipups she couldn't prevent? That, out of all the possibilities, was the first question that broke through and came to mind. She'd been agonizing and he'd done nothing, not even known. Roy opened his eyes, sat up—or at least tried to—and also tried to say
Delia.

“Easy, Roy.”

Roy looked around, saw Dr. Chu, Netty, and another nurse he didn't know. Daylight flowed through the window. Oh God: the plan. He made a writing motion. Netty handed him a pen and pad. Roy wrote:
is it tomorrow?

“Is what tomorrow?” said Dr. Chu.

Roy made an impatient motion and wrote:
today.

“I don't understand,” said Dr. Chu.

“Maybe he's asking if today is tomorrow,” said Netty.

“If today is tomorrow?” said Dr. Chu. “I don't—”

“From when he came in,” said Netty.

Roy made a check mark on the page.

“Ah,” said Dr. Chu. He gazed down at Roy. Was there a new look in his eye? Roy thought so, and didn't like it. “You've been here for three days,” Dr. Chu said. “So fortunate you came in when you did.”

Roy wrote:
3 days?

“No cause for alarm,” said Dr. Chu. “We have seen much—we've seen worse. Your numbers are improving, as I mentioned. Improving practically by the hour. We'll have you up and around in no time.”

Roy wrote:
Now.

Dr. Chu laughed an embarrassed little laugh. “Soon,” he said. Roy checked Netty's eyes, saw no optimism there. He glanced at the eyes of the other nurse; she was thinking about something else.

But that wasn't the main point. The main point was—He wrote the main point and underlined it twice:
3 days is no good.

Netty leaned over, patted his hand. Hers was warm, and much more—almost like a creature of its own; Netty had life in her, and to spare.

“It must be strange,” Dr. Chu said, “three days, somewhat blank. But…” He paused, his mouth slightly open, waiting perhaps for some hopeful phrase.

“What's passed is past,” Netty said.

“Exactly,” said Dr. Chu. “We must deal with the present.”

Roy wrote:
I have to get home.

“Of course,” said Dr. Chu.

Today.

“Well,” said Dr. Chu. He checked one of the machines. “That may not…”

“But if you're worried about home, Roy—don't,” said Netty. “Everything's under control.”

He turned to her.

“That policeman called,” she said. “Sergeant Boudreau? I took the message.” She fished a pink sheet of notepad paper from her pocket and handed it to Roy.

Roy read:
Sgt. Boudreau
—
Ethan V. Everything OK. Talk when you're back. Customer came by. Took care of it. Get well.

Customer? His whole plan—wearing a wire, backup from Freddy—was falling apart; had fallen apart already. He had to act, this minute. Roy tried to sit up, tried and succeeded. So many tubes sticking into him: he went after the one in the crook of his elbow for starters.

“Now, Roy,” said Netty, and she lowered him gently back down, Roy resisting with all his strength.

The effort wiped him out. His eyes closed. He forced them open, forced himself to pick up the pad, to write:
am I on the cocktail?

“Not quite time for the next cycle, Roy,” said Dr. Chu. “You know the procedure.”

Roy wrote:
hook it up.

Dr. Chu watched him, said nothing. Roy's eyes closed again.
Hook it up, you son of a bitch. Can't you see I need the warriors? Hook it up.

 

He awoke
in the night, the room dark, machines beeping softly. Something strange, but what? It took him a while to figure it out: he was feeling pretty good, pain-free, even a bit hungry. Plus he was breathing on his own. Roy let out a sigh. Ah. He took in a deep breath—maybe not that deep, but deep enough. Anyone who could breathe like that would live a long, long time. Was he back on the cocktail? Had to be. Dr. Chu had given in. Roy looked around, trying to identify which overhead plastic bag held the cocktail. At that moment the door opened.

A man stood in the doorway, silhouetted in the light from the hall. He wore a white coat, had a stethoscope around his neck.