The Orchard (19 page)

It was only a broken leg, but it made him think of dying.

On the third day he felt fine, except for a little discomfort under the cast; over the fourth and fifth days he managed to find the right position to sleep in, the right way to sit so he could read the morning paper, the proper way to behave when they gave him the bedpans. And once he had established a routine, and knew approximately when he was going to leave, the boredom set in. Had he been buried in work from the office, or had family in to see him every day, the tension among the staff might have swept right past him.

But he had been bored. So he listened, eavesdropped, and knew why Janey had stopped herself before telling him there was trouble with the children.

As far as he could make out, one was dead, and one was missing, and she wouldn’t tell him why.

Now he was going to get one of them in here with him. Just what he needed—an hysterical brat to keep calm while he was losing his mind.

Five minutes later the doctor walked in, looked at him from the foot of the bed, clucked at his sour expression, and walked to his side to plant a kiss on his cheek.

“You’ll scare the little bugger to death looking like that,” she said, pushing long black hair away from her eyes. “Can’t you at least smile?”

He did, stiffly, and she slapped his shoulder playfully, took his chart from the footboard and flipped it open. As he watched, he felt himself calming, thinking that a man who could be in love with two women at the same time can’t be all that close to the lip of the grave. He might, he admitted when she pulled back his sheet and examined his right leg, be a little crazy and asking for trouble, but how could he not fall for a woman like this? Tall and slender, her profile sharp and soft at the same time, her hands so gentle, and her manner as well. He didn’t think Janey would be jealous; she was the understanding type, and he doubted she would mind if some of his affection were shared.

“Well?”

“Hurts, right?”

“Carolyn, for god’s sake.”

“But not as bad as last week.”

Grudgingly, he nodded.

“Good. Tomorrow you’ll go upstairs and get a walking cast and be up on crutches for a little while. Practice for when you go home.”

“Thank god for that,” he said, and looked earnestly at the narrow door to the television’s left. “No more bedpans, just lovely cold porcelain.”

She laughed, patted his arm, and told him she’d be back to see him before she left for home. He couldn’t persuade her to visit for a while longer, and sighed loudly when she left him, clasped his hands on his chest, and looked back at the ceiling.

Michael, he thought, you are a goddamned fool.

Which wouldn’t be the first time, he reminded himself as he turned his head toward the window. Being a fool was what had cost him his last job, and he had been determined not to ruin his chances here, in Oxrun Station. He was not going to let an old friend down, especially when that old friend had thrown him a lifeline.

“All you have to do,” Marc Clayton had told him, “is go out to the Jasper place on the Pike. I haven’t heard anything from the police, but maybe you can convince the old man that we can help him. At least find out if there’s been a ransom note, or a call. Just be cool, Mike, be cool. This isn’t Boston; this is the Station. It wouldn’t hurt to be low-key.”

He never had the chance, and now Marc was calling him once a day or so, half laughing at the episode, half reminding him he was still on salary and whatever had happened to the Jasper family wouldn’t go away just because he was resting.

“Resting? You call this resting, you—”

“Just keep in touch, pal. You haven’t broken your dialing finger yet.”

He shifted, froze when he expected his legs to protest, then relaxed and watched the pine trees through the window. There was a wind, and their tops swayed, whipping in the gusts and settling again. It was hypnotic, and he started to doze, shook out of it with a grunt when he sensed someone standing in the doorway.

It was a young woman.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m Cora. Mr. Clayton sent me, to help you out if I can.”

Then she moved into the room hastily with a muttered apology left behind her, and Michael saw the wheelchair, Janey, and eventually, the boy.

There was a great deal of confusion as the nurse and Cora did a dance to avoid collision, and Carolyn marched through with orders for moving in. Michael watched it all with amusement, deciding on the spot it wouldn’t hurt to love three women, not if they were realistic about a man crippled in his bed and his emotions in turmoil. He almost forgot about the boy until he heard the bed squeaking on the other side of the curtain Janey had pulled along its ceiling track. Shadows swayed, swelled, and shrank, and he looked away from it with a shudder; it was too much like the nightmares he’d had when he was little—things that prowled, things that stalked, things that came to him in shadows on his nursery wall.

It was silly. It was the remnants of the drugs. It was all he could do to put a smile on his face when the curtain was drawn back, and the three women were ranged around the young boy’s bed. Nine, perhaps ten, with red hair and freckles and a large padded bandage that covered his left ear. He wasn’t smiling, and finally Carolyn ushered the others out, returned, and stood between the two beds.

“Mr. Kolle,” she said with a nod to Michael, “I’d like you to meet Mr. Rory Castle. Mr. Castle has had his appendix out. He will also probably talk your ear off.

She blew a kiss to both of them, left with white coat flapping, and Michael cleared his throat.

“I didn’t know you had to stay in so long for something like mat.”

Rory sat up, pushed away the sheets, and crossed his legs. “I had …” He touched the bandaged ear. “I don’t know. They told my mom all about it, but they didn’t tell me.”

“Complications?”

The boy nodded. “Yeah, that’s it! Something happened, and they had to fix my ear, too.”

“Is Miss Player your doctor?”

“Yep. Neat, ain’t she?”

Yeah, he thought; neat is right.

“Wow!” Rory moved closer to the edge of his bed. “How’d you do that?”

“Fell off a porch.”

“Wow. Wow, that’s neat.”

“You think so, huh?”

“Yeah,” the boy said. “It looks better than this stupid thing on my head.”

They talked for the next hour, Rory’s eyes widening when he learned Michael was a reporter, shifting away when he was asked if other kids had been moved. They were, but he wouldn’t talk about them, and Michael decided not to push it just yet. It occurred to him that he had been handed a byline on a silver platter, and all he had to do was make friends with Freckles.

And that, he soon realized, wouldn’t be hard.

Carolyn was right—the boy talked as if he’d been locked away for most of his life. He talked about his schoolmates, his teachers, his pets, his house, and when all that was done, he began to tell stories. All kinds of stories. About cowboys, and cops and robbers, and spaceships, and sports, not once finishing one, something he’d said reminding him of something else and sending him off on an entirely new tale. Michael listened, and nodded, and laughed when he was supposed to, and didn’t feel at all guilty when he finally shouted, “Enough, boy, for god’s sake. Have pity on an old man.”

“But you’re not old,” Rory said.

“I will be if you keep it up. Old before my time and collecting my pension.”

Rory wanted to know what a pension was.

He told him they were both too young, and maybe it would be a good idea if they both rested a while.

Rory laughed, and started a story about his grandfather that made Michael groan; and it wasn’t until dinner that he remembered the girl, Cora, and realized it was too late to call Marc and find out what was going on. He didn’t object to the help, but he would have thought Clayton would have given him some warning. For a moment he wondered if the woman’s appearance was a comment on his abilities, and once the moment had passed, he knew he was being childish. Feeling sorry for himself again, when he ought to be thinking of ways to use her as his eyes, as well as his legs.

He grunted, swore, and blinked when the boy giggled. He’d forgotten all about Freckles and would have to get used to keeping his comments to himself.

He ate then and traded acid reviews of the meal with Rory and the orderly who took the trays away. The boy, he noticed, had eaten very little, and when the television was turned on, Mike spent as much time watching him as he did the small screen. Rory had grown silent, nervous, his hands clutching the sheets into clumps, smoothing them out, clutching them again. He looked to the door several times, to the window, which reflected nothing but the room.

And the only thing he said before the lights were turned out was, “Mr. Kolle, do you ever have nightmares?”

At night. All night. The hospital whispering to itself in faint footsteps along the hall, the wind testing the windows, every so often a low moan from another room, a muffled chime, a hiss-and-delayed thud as elevator doors opened and shut and no one came out, no one went in.

All night. Bedsprings and sheets and the scratch of a pencil, the burr of a telephone, somewhere down around the corner a toilet flushing and the scuff of worn slippers and the flaplike wings of a nightgown on thin legs.

All night.

Without dreams.

Feeling like a child who couldn’t call his mother.

When he woke in the morning, Michael felt as if he hadn’t slept a wink. His eyes stung and his bladder was swollen, and when he saw the crutches leaning against the wall beside his head, he knew he didn’t want to use the bedpan again. Slowly, exaggerating every movement in case he was ambushed with pain, he swung both legs over the side of the mattress and sat there, head down, breathing steadily and grinning because he was so proud for not killing himself.

He reached for his crutches.

He saw Rory watching him, and swore him to secrecy with a raised fist and a scowl.

The boy grinned.

He set the padded tops under his arms and swayed to a standing, prayed, and moved across the floor. By the time he reached the bathroom door, his mending leg was screaming and his arms were cramping and his hands on the grips felt as if they were holding molten iron.

Rory applauded and giggled.

Michael closed the door, flipped the bowl’s lid, and sat down, and sighed, glad for the first time he was wearing the standard gown that never shut in back, knowing the full meaning of heaven and vowing never again to take his plumbing for granted, Janey found him in there, yelled without raising her voice, and virtually dragged him back to bed. Didn’t he know, she asked acidly, there were procedures to follow? Someone had to show him how to use the crutches so he wouldn’t fall on his face and break his nose, so his legs would behave, so he could go a fair distance without dislocating a shoulder.

“I know, I know,” he said, unable to stop grinning. “I didn’t do so bad, though, all things considered.”

“You were lucky.”

“I am bored!”

She didn’t kiss him, didn’t tickle him, only told him to stop acting like a child, that she would make a full report of his behavior to Dr. Player.

“Boy,” Rory said after she’d gone, “she’s a grouch.”

An orderly came in with a gurney. After a moment’s sullen staring, Michael winked at Rory, climbed aboard, and was brought upstairs, where new X rays were taken and, an hour later, a shorter, sturdier walking cast was substituted for the one he already had. No one said a word to him; none even looked up when he asked about the children.

When Carolyn finally arrived on her rounds, she was cool, distant, mechanically going through the instructions of using new cast and crutches and telling him he had to practice once every hour until the middle of the afternoon. The leg would hurt like hell; he wasn’t to let it bother him. The more he moved around, the more used to it he’d get.