Rag and Bone (4 page)

“Everyone dies of something, Henry. What you now know is that the probabilities are you’ll die of heart disease. Even if you follow the treatment plan I gave you and do it all perfectly, given the severity of your heart attack, your lifespan has still been shortened by probably ten years. If you don’t follow my treatment plan, you could be in serious trouble a lot sooner.”

“You’re telling me this to scare me into taking my niacin?”

He crunched his mint. “To a point. I’m also telling you this because now is the time for you to start thinking about doing whatever it is in life that you’ve been putting off till your old age.”

“I don’t have any secret fantasies, Doc,” I said.

“I can give you a regimen to keep you alive,” he replied. “I can’t give you a reason for living.”

“Has Elena been talking to you again?”

“No,” he said. He slid off the bed and put his hand on my shoulder. “I’ve been doing this a long time. Most of the time when people survive a heart attack as serious as yours, along with everything else they feel exhilarated, euphoric. You seem disappointed.”

“You pushing antidepressants again?”

“If I thought they would help.” He gave my shoulder a friendly squeeze. “You’re still a relatively young man. You’ll be around for a while. Make the best of it, Henry. Live every moment as fully as you can, even if all you’re doing is eating a bowl of soup.” He moved toward the door. “I’ll see you next week. You have my number if there’s an emergency.”

“On automatic dial,” I said. “Doc, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. Even the bromides.”

“Remember that when you start getting the bills,” he said, and was gone. A few minutes later, Elena arrived with the wheelchair that she had gone off to fetch just before Hayward had turned up. I settled into it and we left.

My house was built atop a canyon on a dead-end street in the hills above Franklin Boulevard, east of Hollywood. Gray-green undergrowth filled the canyon; the views from my deck were of the Santa Monica Mountains to the west and, on clear days, the San Gabriels to the east. These brown, craggy mountains were a reminder that, although its boosters like to claim Los Angeles was the gateway to the Pacific Rim, it was essentially a western city. However crowded the city got, it was still pervaded by that western sense of unlimited space, vast emptiness and hidden wilds. The isolation that was so much a part of the city’s psyche, the feeling that its ten million people were all living parallel lives that never intersected was, in part, a function of this landscape in which we were all like pioneers engaged in solitary struggle over the mountains to some distant valley of repose. I had lived in the city now for more than ten years, and of the hundreds of people I’d met, only a few had stuck. Many of them were at my house when I arrived home. They had cleaned my house, filled it with flowers and, as I later discovered, stocked my freezer with casseroles. They were waiting for me in the living room, which they had decorated with streamers and balloons and a
WELCOME HOME HENRY!
sign strung across the doorway. On the dining room table, amid bowls and platters of food, was a chocolate cake in the shape of a heart.

“I can’t believe this,” I said.

Elena said, “It was Edith’s idea.”

Edith Rosen bustled toward me, a small, plump, gray-haired woman of sixty, a psychologist whom I had met while working on a case involving the drug and alcohol rehab where she had worked. She currently worked for the county’s Department of Mental Health Services, providing therapy to all those crack babies of the late 1980s and early ’90s who were now on the verge of adolescence with problems that started at attention deficit disorder and got worse from there.

“Sweetie,” she said, hugging me. The top of her head came to my neck, her frizzy hair tickling me. She stepped back, assessing my appearance. From the sudden dampening of her eyes, it was clear she did not like what she saw, but she made a joke. “There was a lot of discussion about whether to shout surprise when you came through the door. I’m glad we didn’t.” She led me into the room. “Come and sit. We won’t stay long, you probably need to rest.”

“I’ve done nothing but rest,” I said.

I eased into an armchair and looked around the room at all my friends. One of them murmured, “Speech,” but I shook my head, too moved to speak.

The party broke up early, and one by one as they were leaving, my friends came up to say a few words of affection and encouragement. Edith, who had been cleaning up, came last.

“Thank you for doing this,” I told her.

She tried to smile, but her eyes glistened. “You’re much too young to have come so close to dying.”

“The doc says if I follow his orders I’ll have pretty much the usual life span.”

“Well, just in case,” she said. “Take this.” She handed me a leather loop. A pendant hung on it, a dark red stone, smoothed and polished and cut into the shape of a heart.

“What is it?”

“The stone’s called red jasper.”

I slipped the loop over my neck, tucked it into my shirt. The stone was warm against my flesh. “Thank you.”

“It’s a spare, Henry. Don’t lose it.” She grinned. “Well, maybe to the right man.”

Elena had volunteered to stay with me for a little while until she was sure I was all right. I was awakened early the next morning by the urgent murmur of her voice talking on the phone. I pulled myself out of bed and fumbled around in the closet for my bathrobe. There was a quick knock at the door and then she came in. Her expression stopped me in my tracks, the robe hanging limply over one arm.

“What happened?” I asked.

“I’ve got to fly home,” she said. “I’ve talked to Edith. She’ll come by this afternoon to look in on you.”

“Is it Joanne?”

She shook her head. “It’s my daughter. Vicky. She turned up black and blue at our doorstep last night, with her son, begging for help.”

“Help for what?” I said after a long moment, still befuddled by sleep.

“Her husband beat her,” she said. “She told Joanne she had been in a shelter for battered women, but they’d asked her to leave and she didn’t have anywhere else to go where he wouldn’t find her.”

“How did she find you?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “The social worker from the hospital must have given Vicky my address after all.”

“That was years ago. How can you be sure it’s her, Elena?”

She answered impatiently, “I can’t until I get home.” Then, relenting, “I’m sorry, Henry. This has taken me completely by surprise.” She half-smiled. “The other day in the garden, you told me I might see her again. It must have been a premonition. I’ve got to pack. I feel terrible leaving you on your second day home from the hospital.”

“Don’t worry about that,” I said.

I slipped my bathrobe on and followed her into her bedroom, where she began packing in a distracted manner, as if her mind was coursing along a half-dozen tracks.

“It’s odd,” she said, carefully folding a slip. “My two regrets in life were that we weren’t close and that I had lost my daughter. Now suddenly you’re both back in my life.” She tossed the slip into her suitcase, undoing the folds. “In each case a crisis brought us together.” She threw some blouses on the bed. “I’ve always believed good can come out of suffering. This proves it, doesn’t it?”

“I know I’m grateful for you,” I said. “I’m sure she will be, too.”

I hoped she would not detect the skepticism beneath my minimal response, but the notion of a stranger showing up in the middle of the night with a hard-luck story, claiming to be family, awoke my professional instincts, which naturally suspected the worst. Had Vicky turned up on my doorstep, I’d have a lot of questions before I embraced her into the warm bosom of the family. I hoped that once her excitement wore off, the same questions would occur to Elena.

“Her last name is Trujillo,” Elena said, cramming the last of her clothes into her suitcase. “Her little boy’s name is Angel. Angelito.” She gave his name the Spanish pronunciation:
Ahn-hel-ito.
“Joanne said he looks like he’s nine or ten. I’m a grandmother, Henry. Can you imagine?”

“How did she get Trujillo as a last name?”

“It must be her husband’s name.” She took a step back from the bed and her suitcase popped open. “Damn!”

She sat on the bed and began to weep. I sat down beside her and put my arm around her. “What is it, Elena?”

“I’ve prayed for the day when I would see my daughter and now I—I’m afraid.”

Gently, I asked, “Afraid of what?”

“The girl I saw fifteen years ago in that group home didn’t have much of a future ahead of her,” she replied. “I might have made a difference then, but I was a coward. She must be almost thirty now. God knows how she turned out. It’s not a good sign that she’s running away from an abusive husband. Maybe her coming isn’t a blessing, Henry. Maybe it’s a reproach.”

Although she had articulated some of my own doubts, my fueling them would only make the reunion harder. “Whatever trouble she’s in, we’ll deal with it together.”

“You? You shouldn’t even be out of bed,” she said, wiping her eyes, but I could tell she was reassured.

“Let’s start with the packing,” I said, and together we repacked her suitcase so that everything fit.

I woke in the middle of the night and realized that, for the first time since I’d had the heart attack, I was completely alone. My stomach began to churn anxiety while my head went spinning on
what ifs. What if I had another attack and couldn’t reach the phone? What if the paramedics couldn’t find the house? What if I died this time and didn’t come back?
I lay there with my finger pressed to my pulse. After a minute, I wondered whether I was really prepared to spend the rest of my life obsessively monitoring my pulse and worrying if the next heart beat would be the last. Hayward was right: Everyone died of something and I would probably die of heart disease. Fretting about when would not delay the moment. I relaxed, took a deep breath, and closed my eyes. I did not fall asleep immediately, but when I finally did, I didn’t wake again until it was light.

That afternoon I was sitting on a chaise-longue on the deck with my shirt off, taking in the sun and nodding off over a volume of Supreme Court advance sheets, when I heard a woman exclaim, “Henry!”

I opened my eyes and turned my head. Inez Montoya was poised above the back of the chaise, about to grab my shoulders.

I barked out a grumpy, “Don’t do that.”

“Dios mío,”
she said. “They told me you almost died and I find the door unlocked and you out here not moving.” She dug into her purse and pulled out a cigarette, clicked her lighter on, then stopped. “Shit, I guess I shouldn’t smoke around you.”

“Just be careful not to ignite the canyon. What brings you down from Sacramento?”

She pulled up a chair and sucked on the cigarette impatiently; the same way she went through life. Her clothes hung on her—she was in a thin phase—and her strong bones showed in her long, dark face, which had always reminded me of the face of a female Aztec deity. Inez was not, however, the presiding goddess of a local volcano, she was something called the secretary of state, a position to which she had been elected the previous spring in the Democratic landslide that gave California its first Democratic governor in sixteen years. We had known each other for more than two decades, first meeting as young public defenders. She had gone into politics, as tough-minded and hard-nosed as the men with whom she competed, until slowly but steadily she climbed the political ladder to become the first Latina to hold statewide office, albeit an office that no one, including Inez, seemed to know the function of exactly. That wasn’t the point: It gave her national visibility, which she planned to put to good use when the senior senator from California retired in six years. Why she maintained our friendship was a mystery to me, since I imagined I was a great disappointment to her.

“I have a fund-raiser in Santa Monica tomorrow. Movie ladies. Plus I wanted to see you. Who’s taking care of you?”

“Different friends drop by,” I said. “Today it’s the Kwans from next door. Everyone brings a casserole. Where’s yours?”

She crushed her cigarette beneath an elegant sandal and said, “Listen,
m’ijo,
my cooking would send you back to the hospital. Anyway, I brought you something better than a casserole.”

She dropped a diskette into my lap.

“What’s this?”

“Judicial application,” she said. “I had one of my staff download it for you.”

“You want me to apply for a judgeship?”

“The governor got eighty percent of the Latino vote,” she said. “I figure I’m responsible for twenty percent. That’s worth a couple of judges.”

“Oh, I see. For a minute there, I thought it might have something to do with my qualifications.”

She lit another cigarette. “Spoken like a true male,” she said, clicking her lighter shut. “Don’t tell me it never crossed your mind when you were arguing to some
payaso
in a black robe, that you couldn’t do a better job.”

I temporized. “They’re not all clowns. All right, yes, I’ve thought about it.”

“Pues,
I can do this for you. Just fill out the form.”

I picked up the diskette. “All right. It can be my occupational therapy.”

“Always a smart-ass remark,” she said. She put out her cigarette and studied me with an expression that seemed to mingle concern for me and fear for her own mortality. “You’re skin and bones. How bad was it?”

“They tell me I actually died for about a minute,” I said. “If you stand close enough, you can still smell the sulfur from the fire and brimstone. Have you figured out what the secretary of state does yet?”

“She runs for senator,” she said, then added in her bossiest voice. “And don’t die again.”

Elena called that evening, and from the weariness in her voice when she greeted me, I knew the reunion had not been one of unmitigated joy.

“Is she your daughter, Elena?”

“Yes,” she said. “She is definitely my daughter.” Her words were emphatic, but her tone was neutral, cautious. “She showed me the paper with my address on it that I gave the social worker. She’s also the spitting image of Mom.”