The Collectibles (31 page)

A tall, slender woman in her late-twenties who had been seated in a middle row on the left side stood and crossed over to the aisle. She wore a black tailored suit with a white pearl pin. She looked as elegant as Preston had ever seen her. She took her place at the podium and adjusted the mike with poise.

“Good evening. My name is Melissa Scarlatti. First, I want to thank Reverend Barrett and all those who spoke today for their kind words about Joe. I want to thank Mr. Klaskowski for his words and the wonderful picture he took. And I especially want to thank Tommy and Johnny for what they said and how well they said it. There are no words that can adequately express my feelings at this time. I have had a lot of difficulties in my life. I won't go into them now, as I don't believe this is the time or the place. But I will say that Joe Hart is the reason I'm here today. He took an interest in me, guided me, protected me, and taught me more about life than anyone else ever has. He cared about me. And he did that at a time when no one else did. That kept me going. I've seen a lot of guys, and I know something about how they act. I also know something about how they feel and what they really want. Joe was unusual. He was the real thing. He never took advantage and he always treated me with respect.”

Missy stopped and glanced around the room at all the people watching and listening to her. In a barely audible voice, she went on. “Joe could have had any woman he wanted. He sure could have had me. There was a time after his wife died that I made sure of that. But not Joe. I loved him, and I think he knew that. He's the only man I know that not only knew that loving someone and being in love were not the same thing, but who also respected the difference.

“After his wife died, I was trying to encourage him to move on, you know? Go on with his life. I figured he was still young, and he needed a woman. But Joe loved his wife. That was it. He said something to me about that that I never forgot. I wrote it down.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a piece of paper and unfolded it. “He said,” as she read the paper, “‘that's one mountain I don't want to come down from.' There will never be another like him. He was the most unselfish man I ever met. Also, Joe had a way of looking around the corner and into the future. He knew Tommy, God love him, would look out for me. And just like Tommy and Johnny said, I, too, want to thank you, Joe, for Preston. Tommy's right, he's got heart. I'll never forget you, Joe, as long as I live.”

With that, Missy stepped down from the podium, walked down the aisle with her head high, and took her seat.

Way to go, Missy,
Preston thought as he reached over and squeezed Marcia's hand.

Barbara Johnson, Corey's daughter, walked slowly up to the podium and introduced herself. She explained that Corey wanted Joe and the others to know that he was here, but unable to speak. She explained how much Joe had meant to her father, how he always treated her dad with respect. She added that Corey was quite fond of that other gentleman, Mr. Wilson, and that she appreciated his coming by, too. Then she sat down.

There seemed to Preston to be a special feeling pervading the room, a quiet and an energy at the same time. His gaze moved up from Reverend Barrett and over the organist to a large window in the right-front side of the room. The sun was setting, and it cast a strong beam of warm light through the window and on Joe's finely finished wooden casket. After a moment of silence, Reverend Barrett stood, looked out over the group, raised his arms, and gave the Benediction.

Immediately thereafter, the guardsmen holding the flags marched to the middle of the aisle, turned, lowered their flags, and strode to the back of the room. The three from each side walked in unison to the casket, carefully picked it up, turned it, and carried it slowly through the aisle and out of the funeral home to where the hearse was waiting. Buck walked behind the casket, never taking his eyes off it. After that, Red followed with Alice at his side. There was not a dry eye in the room.

As the Navy pallbearers and sailors marched by Preston, followed by Buck, Preston could feel his hot tears falling on his hands. Marcia took Preston's hands in hers. He looked at her through his tears and with an incredulous smile on his face, he said, “That son of a bitch.
I'm
the sixth Collectible!”

 

 

A
n attorney and former judge, James J. Kaufman has published several works of non-fiction. In
The Collectibles,
his debut novel, Kaufman draws heavily from his experiences in law, the world of business, and interaction with people from widely different backgrounds. The founder and CEO of The Kaufman Group, Ltd., he assists companies world-wide to meet challenges, restructure, and flourish. Kaufman lives with his wife, Patty, and his golden retriever Charley, in Wilmington, North Carolina. He is working on
The Collectibles
screenplay and a second novel. Visit the author at
jamesjkaufman.com
. For additional copies of this book or other information regarding
The Collectibles,
please email the publisher at
[email protected]
or write to Downstream Publishing at PO Box 869, Wrightsville Beach, NC 28480.

 

B
eth Kelly's heart raced as “CODE TRAUMA 3” blared over the speaker. She rushed into the trauma room, narrowly avoiding a collision with the young medical resident, but quickly recovered her rhythm. She joined him and the emergency service assistants, slipped into a gown and gloves, applied glasses and, following the protocol she'd been practicing, helped move the patient from the paramedic stretcher to the hospital gurney.

Beth studied the bloody, battered figure under the cotton blanket. Both of the young man's legs were mangled and the back of his head was bleeding profusely. She tried to catch everything the paramedic was saying, over the commotion and clatter: “ . . . tractor-trailer jackknifed . . . overturned—driver nonresponsive at the scene—head trauma indicated.” The ER team worked quickly, and in less than half an hour the man's vital signs were stable. The resident began a full-body assessment under the attending physician's scrutiny; the patient was on his way to surgery—and, to Beth's wonderment, likely to survive.

Finally on duty in a big-city emergency room, Beth Kelly was ecstatic. She felt like she was reliving the documentary
A Day in the Life of an Emergency Room Nurse
. Undeterred by the past two days of exhaustive orientation and training in preparation for her six-week nursing residency program at Roosevelt Hospital, she was a working nurse at last, in a busy New York City hospital to boot. Her recent graduation from The State University of New York at Plattsburgh behind her, she could now look forward, if with anxiety and even fear, to the excitement of the real thing.

In her first four hours on duty she'd already witnessed more life-threatening cases than she'd seen in all her previous training. Besides the truck accident victim, there'd been the fifty-seven-year-old obese white male in cardiac arrest; a four-year-old black girl with a blocked airway ultimately determined to be the result of an allergic reaction; a thirty-eight-year-old Latino who'd severed his left arm using a table saw; and an elderly lady, exact age unknown, stabbed in the neck by a deranged passerby.

The initial challenge, of course, was to get the diagnosis right. Some situations were transparent; others required comprehensive blood and other tests. Many required radiology. During triage that afternoon, one twenty-three-year-old white male (wrist band Wilson, 3/13/65) seemed to have even the doctors stumped. He'd presented with stable signs but acute abdominal pain. The resident suspected appendicitis, only to be overruled by the ER physician's tentative diagnosis of diverticulitis. After radiology, Wilson was sent upstairs for further observation and treatment.

Beth, who had assisted Wilson in the ER, was directed by the charge nurse to assist the nursing station on his floor once they'd finished with the accident victim. “We need you here, but go to Station 11. Bigwigs are always doing this.”

Beth found her patient in a large, well-furnished, private room in the hospital's VIP section, surrounded by so many flowers she was afraid he had died. To her great relief, Wilson was awake, alert, and free of pain—but something clearly had him in a sour mood. She smiled and was about to introduce herself, but was interrupted mid-sentence when a silver-haired matron in a chic Nancy Reagan-style red suit burst into the room, followed immediately by a clean-cut, young, tired-looking doctor dressed in scrubs.

“Diverticulitis? At his age?” the woman said.

“We can't rule it out—symptoms are indicative. The CAT scan did eliminate appendicitis.”

“At least you didn't send him right into an unnecessary surgery!” The woman gave the doctor a withering look and at last turned to acknowledge the patient. “Are you feeling any better, dear?”

“I'd be fine if this nice nurse would just bring me a cold beer,” said Wilson, winking at Beth.

“No food and drink until we are certain of your diagnosis,” the doctor said.

“Which I do hope will be forthcoming soon,” the woman said, “especially in light of the generous donations we've made to this hospital over the years. I'm going to speak with the chief of internal medicine.”

Wilson looked over at Beth with a frustrated sigh. “My mother,” he explained.

Unsure whether it would be proper to commiserate, Beth reached for the young man's wrist and began taking his pulse. “She has your best interest at heart,” she said.

Beth checked Wilson's chart. “I didn't like hearing that GI specialist talk about a ‘colostomy,'” Wilson said. “That's where they cut a hole in your intestine and attach a sack right here, right?” pointing to his right-side midsection. “Let's talk about something more agreeable, like where you're from and how long you've been working here.”

Beth deflected all his questions with a snap of the chart and urged him to rest. She knew his type—the flirting was just bluster to mask the fear he wouldn't show. Nice guy, really.

*  *  *

Two days later, after his attending physician determined Wilson had suffered a mild case of food poisoning and his mother was satisfied he was on the mend, Beth returned to check her patient's blood pressure and temperature and help him prepare for discharge. He'd been easy to look after, watching baseball games on TV, taking Jell-O meals and doctors' rounds in stride, never complaining when she had to wake him at odd hours for medications.

“Hey, could we talk for a few minutes?” he asked her when they were alone in the room.

“We've been talking for the past three days,” Beth said.

“I know,” Wilson said. “What I want to know is whether you'll let me take you to dinner tonight, you know, to thank you.”

“Are you hitting on me, Mr. Wilson?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “It's your deep blue eyes.”

“It's not the eyes. It's the medicine,” Beth said, patting him gently on the shoulder. “You'll get over it. Besides, I have a boyfriend.”

“Really? What's he doing?”

“He's in the Air Force—based in Plattsburgh, where I went to school.”

“Are you serious about him?”

“It's a long story. He's a pilot and . . . that's what he's really into. I've got to attend to some other patients now,” Beth said. “I'll be back to check on you when your discharge paperwork is ready.”

When she returned an hour later, he continued the campaign. “All I want is to take you to dinner—say thanks. I'm sure your boyfriend wouldn't object to that.”

“I can't. Besides, I won't be done here until eleven.”

“Okay, I'll be waiting for you in front of the hospital, 10th Avenue and 58th Street,” Wilson said.

Beth laughed. “I hope you're feeling better. It was nice to meet you. Take care of yourself.”

*  *  *

Exhausted at the end of the twelve-hour shift, Beth struggled down the stairs to the street, anxious to get to her apartment and rest. She raised her arm to hail a cab, but instead was greeted by a long black limousine. A driver in suit and tie came around and opened the door for her. Beth hesitated, then looked in at the bright face of her patient, raised her arms in surrender, and stepped in.

She closed her eyes, immediately absorbing the scent of leather and wood in what seemed to her more like a luxury den than a motor vehicle, eased back in the seat, and extended her tired legs and feet fully before her. She had no idea where the limo was taking her—but she was too tired to care.

Beth imagined a hot bath and sleep. She wondered where Larry was right now, what he was doing, whether he was even alive. She could only surmise that her unreturned phone calls meant that his group of the 380th was gone—somewhere. No good-bye, no word, as usual. And then he'd come back full of descriptions of his adventures. Whatever he was doing, she was sure that he was reveling in it and not thinking of her.

The next thing she remembered was Wilson's hand on her arm, gently shaking her.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Wherever you like. Hungry?”

“I don't know . . . but first, how are
you
feeling?” Beth asked.

“Great. Worked out at the NYAC, took some steam. Got the hospital out of me. Still hungry though.”

Wilson pushed a button to lower the privacy window separating them from the driver. “The Flame Restaurant, Jimmy,” he requested, as though he'd been accustomed to giving orders. “58th and 9th.”

The restaurant was not crowded. Wilson picked a table in the back and ordered a hamburger, fries, and a milk shake fountain delight. Beth followed suit, now realizing how hungry she was. She found Wilson, who she thought would be stuffy and arrogant, to be earnest, forthcoming, and funny.

She answered his questions about growing up in a small upstate town, attending nursing school at Plattsburgh, being selected for the residency program, and experiencing the big city for the first time. He told her about his sailing during summers at Martha's Vineyard, his love of fast cars and golf, and his intent to be a successful CEO someday.

The limo was waiting for them when they finished their meal, after midnight.

“Where to?” Wilson asked his date.

“I'm at the West Side Residence—that's where the Roosevelt put us up. 340 West 85th.”

Wilson gave the address to Jimmy, said something to him about later at The Limelight, and the limo moved on.

“What's The Limelight?” Beth asked. “Is that a private club?”

“Yeah, a place to hang out, dance, drink . . . should be rockin' about now.”

When they pulled up in front of the West Side Residence, Wilson again told Beth how much he appreciated everything she had done for him, how much he enjoyed the evening. “I owe you for getting me back up to speed.”

“So . . . are you going to The Limelight tonight?”

“That could happen.”

“Can you give me about ten minutes?”

“Absolutely,” Wilson said.

Beth rushed to her room, took a quick shower, and chose a spritz of cologne and the right outfit. She dashed back downstairs and greeted Wilson with a kiss on the cheek, unable to hide her excitement. “I know you think I'm just a rube, but I've never been to a real New York club before!”

He hit the down button. “The Limelight, Jimmy.”

About ten minutes later, Beth was surprised to see the limo pull up in front of a large stone church. She began to wonder again what she was doing, whether her forwardness had been a big mistake. There was a barricade on the street side and a black wrought-iron pointed fence on the church side, with young people jammed in between, forming a long line. In front of the big doors to the church were two large men dressed in black, surveying the crowd and choosing the anointed to go in.

“You've got to be kidding me,” Beth said.

Jimmy opened the door and one of the club's guards came over.

“Good to see ya again, Mr. Wilson.”

They were ushered up the two stairs, through what looked like a vestibule, and into a gigantic room with a revolving mirror ball on the three-story-high ceiling. Colored lights were moving everywhere, in sync with the loud, pulsating music. The dance floor was packed with young people laughing, dancing, and singing, soon joined by Wilson and Beth. Beth was in a different world, far from the seriousness and surgical precision demanded of her at the hospital, liberated by the brash sounds and sights and freed by Wilson's lack of command and control—so different from being with Larry.

After an hour or more—she'd lost track after the second Bloody Mary—Beth asked to go home. “I love all of this, but I've got to get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.”

“You got it,” Wilson said, and led her strategically through the crowd, out the door to the limo.

Wilson directed Jimmy back to the West Side Residence. Almost subconsciously as she recalled the excitement of the evening, Beth moved her body languorously across Wilson's. What had come over her? She reached for the switch to the window. “Jimmy, please take the long way home.”

Sitting crossways to Wilson, Beth took his face in her hands and murmured, “This has been wonderful.” She turned her head toward the gentleman who'd been her patient only a few hours earlier and locked his gaze in hers. She could smell his well-groomed hair, breathe in the earthy scent of peanuts and beer on his breath, and feel the smoothness of his skin. He was taller than Larry though not as muscular. She found his trim good looks and urbane manner intoxicating.

“By the way,” she said, “in all this time, I forgot to ask your first name.”

Suddenly she found herself doing something she could hardly have imagined that very morning: she kissed him deeply—and he responded in kind. Somewhere in there she heard him say, “Preston. It's Preston.”

Beth's head was still filled with the piercing, pulsating music as she felt Wilson unzip the back of her dress, and she yielded to the freedom from its release. She felt the cool leather on her skin and the heat rising from his body. She knew this was having sex, not making love, but right now she didn't care. She felt appreciated, and it felt good. She would deal with the rest of it in the morning.