The Dream Ender (23 page)

Part of the paperwork asked for the name of our family doctor, and we realized we didn’t have one. Well, that would have to change pretty quickly. We also didn’t have any insurance. Jonathan had health insurance through his work, but we didn’t know if Joshua would be covered under it, since he wasn’t Jonathan’s biological son. I’d been playing Russian roulette with my health for years and had never taken out insurance. Stupid, I know.

We filled out the paperwork as best we could, turned it in then waited impatiently for Joshua to be seen by a doctor. Joshua was pale, definitely had a fever, and had tried to vomit several times on our way to the hospital. I did my best to do my protective butch number, but I don’t think I pulled it off very well.

At last we were taken into an examination room, where we waited for what seemed another eternity until a doctor came in.

I don’t know if he was a pediatrician, but he was very good with Joshua who, to his credit, was really pretty terrific through it all. There were only a few crying spells, during which either Jonathan and I would do our best to comfort him. When the doctor pressed the area around Joshua’s bellybutton, the boy yelped with pain, and the doctor looked up at Jonathan, apparently assuming because of their strong resemblance he was Joshua’s father.

“It looks like appendicitis,” he said. “Not at all uncommon for kids Joshua’s age. We’ll admit him and do a few more tests, then probably schedule surgery for tomorrow morning. I think he’ll be fine until then.”

“Can we stay with him?” Jonathan asked.

The doctor looked back and forth between Jonathan and me then smiled.

“Both of you?” he asked.

“Well, one at a time, at least,” Jonathan said.

“Sure,” he said, “though I don’t have to tell you it won’t be necessary. We’ll give him something to help him sleep and he’ll be pretty much out till morning.”

“Still, we should be with him,” Jonathan insisted.

“Okay,” the doctor said, walking toward the door. “Let’s see about getting him a bed.”

Chapter 19

Jonathan insisted on taking the first shift, so after Joshua was safely in bed and asleep I headed on home. I was back at the hospital by seven thirty the next morning, bringing Bunny, Joshua’s favorite toy, and several of his story and coloring books. Both Jonathan and Joshua were still asleep, Jonathan in a chair beside Joshua’s bed. I wasn’t going to wake either of them, but when Jonathan opened his eyes and gave me a small smile I motioned for him to get up, then told him to go down to the cafeteria and get some coffee and something to eat. He was reluctant to leave, but I insisted. He was back in ten minutes with two cups of coffee and a couple sweet rolls.

The doctor came in around eight and said surgery was scheduled for nine thirty.

“I’m sure you’re anxious to get it over with,” he said, and we both nodded. He checked on Joshua, who was still pretty much out of it, then left.

*

Everything went smoothly, though both Jonathan and I tried to hide our nervousness from one another until they brought Joshua up from recovery. I’ve always admired Jonathan for not being as concerned as I am about not showing emotions, though he tried admirably.

The hardest part, though, was when Joshua first woke up. He looked around the room, still groggy, and said, “Where’s my mommy?”

Jonathan and I glanced at one another then away, but not before I saw the pain in his eyes.

We stayed with Joshua until a little after noon, when I insisted that Jonathan go home and get some sleep.

“I’m not tired,” he said. “I slept most of the night.”

“In the chair. Right,” I said. “At least go home, take a shower, and lie down for a while. Joshua’s not going anywhere, and he’ll probably be asleep most of the time, anyway.” I reached into my pocket for the keys to the car and the parking stub. “You okay to drive?”

“Sure,” he said, taking the keys and ticket. “I told you I’m not tired.” But his bloodshot eyes said differently.

*

It wasn’t exactly the most comfortable of weekends; neither one of us got as much sleep as we needed. Jonathan wanted to spend Saturday night at the hospital, too, but I insisted on taking my turn so he could sleep in a real bed. At least one of us was always with Joshua who, ham that he was, took full advantage of his situation to con us into buying some new toys and new books to keep him occupied.

Jonathan had brought his schoolwork to the hospital, and I watched a lot of TV and called Glen O’Banyon’s office to let him know what was going on. I spoke to Donna, and she expressed her empathy, adding that her own daughter had gone through the same thing at just about the same age.

Jonathan and I had plenty of time, sitting there during Joshua’s frequent naps, to arrange a schedule for Joshua’s recovery period. Since my schedule was much more flexible than his, I would take as much of the week off as I could. It would undoubtedly mean I’d lose out on some business, but since I was my own boss, I could manage where we couldn’t expect Jonathan’s employer to be as accommodating. And if I had to go somewhere during the day, Jonathan was sure he could take off work, though we both hoped that wouldn’t be necessary—Joshua’s hospital bills were going to be a major financial setback, though Jonathan hoped his insurance from work might cover them.

Joshua was set to be released on Thursday. The doctor said he was making an excellent recovery, but said he felt we should keep him home for two weeks to be safe. I wasn’t pleased with that prospect, but we had no choice.

When Monday afternoon rolled around I was actually looking forward to my appointment with Art Manners at the Nightingale. I was more than ready for a Happy Hour.

*

I had to leave the hospital before Jonathan arrived from work, but Joshua took my departure totally in stride, hardly looking up from his coloring book as I hugged him good-bye and left.

It occurred to me as I got to the Nightingale I hadn’t a clue as to what Art Manners looked like. It was 5:20, and there were only five guys in the place, including the bartender. They all looked up as I came in but then went back to their drinks and conversations.

The bartender, who must have weighed close to three hundred pounds and barely fit in the space between the bar and the back bar, came over to take my order.

“A Manhattan,” I said and he merely nodded and went off to make it.

While he was gone, I looked around. The Nightingale was a typical small neighborhood bar, comfortably nondescript. The only attempt at individuality was a metal birdcage suspended from the ceiling in a small alcove set into the back bar, in which was a dusty stuffed bird on a perch. Since I was never very good at ornithology, I took a wild guess that it was supposed to be a nightingale.

I took my drink to a small table against one wall—I knew it might get pretty crowded at the bar, and I wanted a little privacy for my talk with Manners. As I took my fourth or fifth swallow of my Manhattan, the door opened and a short, stocky guy in a crewcut came in. As he approached the bar, I saw that he wasn’t so much stocky as a compact mass of muscle. He looked in my direction then continued to the bar. I heard the bartender say, “Hi, Art,” thereby confirming my assumption.

Manners ordered a beer, paid for it, and came over to me. I gather I was the only unfamiliar face in the place.

“Are you Dick Hardesty?” he asked.

I nodded and extended my hand, which he took with a very strong grip then pulled up a chair and sat down opposite me. A really nice-looking guy, I determined, his outstanding feature being green eyes that contrasted with his medium-brown hair. Sexy.

Down, boy!

Our conversation went pretty much like the other ones I’d had. Manners had lost a close friend shortly before the meeting and blamed both Hysong and himself.

“Drew never went to the Male Call,” he said. “I met him through work. He wasn’t really into leather all that much, but we had other…common interests, you might call them. One night I talked him into coming with me to the Male Call, and Hysong latched onto him so fast I didn’t have time to warn him not to go with that bastard. Six months later he was dead.”

“You can’t blame yourself,” I said.

He looked at me. “Yeah, I can. If I hadn’t taken him to the Male Call, he wouldn’t have gone with Cal and I’m sure he’d still be alive. And I blame Carl, too.”

“Carl Brewer? Why?”

“He knew the rumors. He should have eighty-sixed Cal as soon as he heard them. Instead, he held off until too late. I don’t know how many other guys Cal got to between the time Carl should have done it and the time he did.”

“I understand you’re a friend of Pete Reardon,” I said, deciding it was time to take the conversation in another direction.

“Yeah, I ride with him from time to time. What about it?”

“I’ve heard talk about the Male Call being up for sale and that Reardon is interested in buying it. Do you know anything about it?”

“I’ve heard,” he said.

“Why would Reardon want it? He already has the Spike.”

“The Male Call’s bigger,” he said. “And it belongs to Carl.”

“I know they don’t get along, but…”

Manners’ grin cut me off in mid-sentence.

“‘Don’t get along’ doesn’t come close. Pete still swears Carl had something to do with fire-bombing the Dog Collar and his being sent to jail.”

“As I understand it, Reardon went to jail because the Dog Collar was a firetrap and a disaster just waiting to happen. It did, and twenty-nine guys died.”

He shrugged. “Whatever.”

It was clear I had crossed the line in suggesting maybe Reardon might have richly earned his jail time.

“Sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have brought that up.”

He looked at me. “No, you shouldn’t,” he said. “Pete Reardon is a great guy, and he’s bailed me out of a couple of scrapes. I owe him.”

“I’m a little curious,” I said. “Knowing how Reardon feels about Carl Brewer and the Male Call, why do you go there?”

He took a long swig of his beer. “I said I owe Pete. He doesn’t own me. I go where I want to go.” He then polished off the rest of his beer and got up from his stool. “I’ve gotta get home,” he said and walked out without a backward glance.

Well, that certainly went well, I thought. At least I’d gotten some interesting information from him. Exactly what it meant I had no idea at the moment. Sometimes my mind is like a cow’s stomach, with one chamber for ruminating and another for digesting.

*

I made it back to the hospital by six thirty to find Jonathan sitting beside Joshua’s bed, writing in a notebook.

“Hi, guys,” I said, going over to give each a hug. “Whatcha doin’?”

“Joshua’s been telling me stories, and I’ve been writing them down for him,” Jonathan said. I noticed he had several pages of the notebook folded over.

“Can I read one?” I asked.

“Sure,” Joshua said before Jonathan had a chance to. I’d noted immediately he was looking and feeling much better and was eager to go home.

Jonathan flipped the pages to the first one and handed it to me. It appeared to be an epic saga involving a cowboy who is taking his sick horse to the hospital when he is captured by pirates and then thrown overboard from the pirate ship and is saved by his trusty horse. Not exactly what one could call a linear story—more stream-of-five-year-old-boy consciousness—but it was definitely creative.

“Wow, Joshua!” I said. “This is good! I’ll bet you’re going to be a writer when you grow up.”

He nodded solemnly, though he was obviously pleased by the praise.

“Got time for a break, Jonathan?” I asked. “I can take over while you run down to the cafeteria.”

He got up from the chair and handed me the pen. “Yeah, I am pretty hungry.”

“Me, too!” Joshua said. “I want some ice cream.”

“You had your dinner, remember?” Jonathan reminded him. “We’ll talk to the nurse when she comes back. I won’t be long,” he said, tousling Joshua’s hair.

“Bring me some ice cream!” Joshua called after him as he left the room.

*

After a great deal of persuasion, I convinced Jonathan it would be all right if we both went home after Joshua was asleep.

“We’ve been here every night. He’ll be fine,” I said.

“I know, but…”

“He sleeps straight through anyway. At least he did last night. I asked.”

“Well, yeah, but he wakes up whenever the nurses come in to check him and…”

“And he goes right back to sleep, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And I don’t think he even knows we’re there when he does wake up for those few seconds.”

“Uh, maybe not. He’s too sleepy.”

“Exactly. And look, babe, he’s five years old, and we can’t be hovering over him every minute. He’ll be fine. This way, you can go right to work in the morning. I’ll come back first thing then go in to work myself and come by a couple times during the day. He’s got the TV and his books, and the nurses will keep an eye on him.”

“I should be here.”

“He’ll be fine,” I repeated. “And I can bring him home without any help, I’m sure.” I thought it was time to pull out my trump card. “Besides,” I said, “we have not had one single night alone in over a year. I think we deserve one, don’t you?”

“I suppose,” he allowed. Then his face broke into that sexy, slow grin and he said, “You can bellow. I miss your bellowing.”

“I never bellow!” I protested.

“Uh-huh.”

The nurse assured us Joshua would be fine and told us to go home and not worry.