The Walking Man (16 page)

"So much for 'do no wrong'."

"I never finished medical school. I may be a murderer and a fraud, but I'm not a hypocrite."

"Good to know. I hope you don't take this the wrong way," I said. "But I'm not going to be sending you any referrals."

Later that evening, I stole the medical records of Dr. Bonjour's victims and forwarded them to the FBI office in Boston, with a not-so anonymous cover letter.

In general, Leicester County Hospital wasn't a crazy place but, with apologies to my good friend Chef Royalston, crazy could operate within its walls. It was the best place in the world to be a quadriplegic, but it was a highly improper home for a walking man.

It was time for me to go.

Chapter Ten

The Walking Man

The morning after the Dr. Bonjour incident, I woke up, put on my clothes, stuck my iPhone in my pocket, and walked out of Room 302.

My day had come.

My long ordeal was over.

Nurse Judy II was on duty; she was busy transporting a patient to the tub room. It smelled like an emergency.

"Morning," I casually said to Nurse Judy II as I walked past her.

"Good morning," Nurse Judy II replied before her brain recognized the incongruity of the image it was processing.

"Oh my God!" Nurse Judy II screamed. "He's walking! Oh my God! He's walking!"

"Shhhhh," I said. "I'm trying to check out without disturbing the other patients."

"It's a miracle!" Nurse Judy II yelled. "Praise Jesus! It's a miracle!"

Ultimately, there was too much Jesus in a forty-year quadriplegic rising from the bed for Nurse Judy II to handle. She dropped to her knees and started screaming like a welfare mother who'd just won a washer/dryer on the
Price is Right.
I tried to calm her with offers of water and sedatives, but her hysterical praise of Jesus quickly attracted an audience. Soon, several nurses, aides, and inmates, one more excited than the next, surrounded me.

"He can walk!" Nurse Judy II screamed while pointing at me. "Alleluia! Praise be to God. Praise be to God. Praise be to God. He can walk! ALLELUIA!"

"She's right." I smiled. "I can walk, so I'm leaving."

"You can't just walk out of here," one tall nurse said.

"Why not," I countered. "I'm cured. It's time for me to go home."

"But no resident has ever left Leicester County Hospital before without…"

"Without dying?"

"Yes, we have special pine boxes," she said. "We have a procedure."

"Sorry to disappoint, but I'm not ready to do the subterranean exit," I said. "I have a cab waiting. I have to go."

Next up, and despite being followed by several boisterous well wishers, including Rodrigo, I stopped by the kitchen to say goodbye to my dear friend Chef Royalston. Too old to work, but refusing to give up, he was asleep at his desk. I left him a note. It contained my phone number, address and an open invitation to dinner at my place, anytime.

After leaving the kitchen, I strutted down the hospital's main hallway, occasionally pausing to shadow box, while a growing entourage celebrated my good fortune by expressing all forms of cheer.

When I reached the front entrance of the hospital, I could see my cab was waiting, so I bounded down the front steps, skipping every other tread, until I landed on the ground; thereupon I executed something resembling a pirouette before issuing a goodbye wave to my band of followers. When I finally entered my taxi, I noticed the driver looked all of eighteen. Before he ever said a word I could tell he was the Shyshire version of Jimmy Something-or-other.

"Shyshire, Main St." I said. "And drive slow, please."

"Sure, dude," my driver said. "What's up with the lady in white?"

As the cab entered the Access Road, I turned to take one last look at Leicester County Hospital; I had no intention of ever returning. Nurse Judy II was on her knees, her arms extended toward the heavens. She was surrounded by what appeared to be the entire staff of the hospital, too many people to count. They were all waving goodbye. I instructed the cab driver to beep. Then, I rolled down my window, stuck my head out, and yelled, "Goodbye everybody! I love you!"

What can I tell you—I got caught up in the moment.

"So, what's the deal, dude?" my young driver inquired.

"Just saying goodbye to some old friends."

"Totally cool."

"I'm going to Wally's."

"Awesome donuts," he said with a smile. "Hey, is it true that Leicester County Hospital is full of paralyzed people that are kept alive so rich people can harvest their organs?"

"Do you always smoke pot before breakfast?"

"Helps me handle the stress, my man," Jimmy Something-or-other II responded.

"I understand."

The folks in Shyshire felt it was wrong to collect fees from people who for one reason or another didn't have a car, so the town's taxis had no meters. Drivers were paid minimum wage by the Shyshire Chamber of Commerce and tips were discouraged as expressed by a placard on the back of the driver's head rest which read 'No gratuities, Please!'.

Me still being all about me, thus wanting to commemorate the importance of the ride in the timeline of my life, I ignored the message behind the
no tips
advice and handed my driver a stack of twenties upon arriving at Wally's.

"Keep the change," I said.

"Thanks, dude," my wise beyond his years driver said. "But there's no way I'm taking your money. It was my pleasure to give you a ride."

"Well, thank you," I said. "I really appreciate it."

"You're entirely welcome, dude. My payment is your gratitude. It's why I drive."

I'd taken several trial excursions into Shyshire with Smitty, so walking in public wasn't a new experience, but in the past I'd taken great care to hide my identity by wearing dark sunglasses and a Red Sox cap. Now I was ready to enter the walking world as simply me. I stepped out of the cab, walked up to the entrance of Wally's, and opened the door. I had been officially reborn.

Wally's Donuts was an institution in Shyshire. Dunkin Donuts had thrice tried to displace Wally's but had failed each time. On their third attempt, half the Boston Red Sox and the entire Boston Bruins hockey team was bussed in for the store's grand opening, but their celebrity status didn't attract a single donut buyer. Shyshirites were fiercely loyal. They didn't like being told what to like. And they especially loved sticking it to the man, even if he was the donut man.

Strangely, Wally's Donuts wasn't associated, as far as anyone knew, with anybody named Wally. Apparently, it was just a nickname that stuck. The Malloy family had run the restaurant for over one hundred years. The Malloys were one of the founding families of Shyshire. The story goes, the original Malloys were raped and killed by Indians, causing the next generation of Malloys to rape and kill Indians until the town was peaceful enough to open a bakery. Besides its wondrous baked goods, Wally's was known for exhausting its ovens through sidewalk vents, a practice known to fill the skirts of passing ladies with warm yeast-filled air, causing an experience, so I am told, far superior to being with any man.

Wally's offered iced cappuccinos, smoothies, and donut holes twenty years before their competition. They also served a blueberry muffin and glazed donut that consistently won the best in class award at the International Donut Festival, an event held each year at varying locations depending upon the availability of cargo planes to transport the attendees and judges.

Of course, my first act as a walking man—my stop at Wally's—wasn't a random visit. Advanced scouting by my man Rodrigo indicated that every day, after dropping her son off at school, Maria stopped at Wally's to have a muffin and coffee with a group of mothers who called themselves the Shyshire Cacklers, due to their loudness and love of gossip.

Wally's was a classic place. Booths lined its outer walls, featuring orange leather upholstery and white Formica tables, perfectly preserved relics from the pre-Corian era. Enclosed by the booths were ten tables that sat six. The Cacklers dominated four tables that were clearly visible from my corner booth, where I lay in wait, "reading" the
Shyshire Tattler.
On my plate, were
two glazed donuts; beside them, a large mocha coffee was cooling, still too hot to be consumed. I sat with my back to the Cacklers to avoid being noticed; in Shyshire, strangers were subjected to a twenty-question drill if they acted suspicious or made a local feel uncomfortable in any way.

My timing was perfect. Maria arrived before the overly measured drinking of my coffee attracted attention.

"Mariyahhh," several Cacklers shouted. "What's up, girl?"

"Ladies," Maria responded.

Absent her whispered confession, it was the first time I'd heard Maria's voice in twenty-six years. It was almost too much to take. I had to grab my crotch to prevent myself from fainting.

"Ladies," one of the louder cacklers revealed. "My lover just texted me. A patient walked out of Leicester County Hospital this morning. Just got outta bed and bolted."

"Impossible," another lady responded.

"Who was it?" a trilling voice asked.

"Don't know," the loud woman said. "Some guy."

"Some guy," Maria said. "Does some guy have a name?"

I stayed at Wally's until Maria departed. During her stay, yours truly remained the main topic of conversation but fortunately my real name was never mentioned.

As planned, after Wally's I walked to my new house to ready myself to meet Maria. It was two blocks away from the restaurant. I must admit, for a guy that spent most of his life in an eight by ten cell, Rodrigo did an excellent job of finding me a home. As instructed, but with minimal guidance, my rat-faced friend had used a small portion of my Apple stock to purchase a house for me. He'd selected a renovated four-bedroom Victorian in downtown Shyshire, 6 Pine Street, one block from Main.

Normally, I would have paid Rodrigo a finder's fee, but he'd no doubt inflated the cost of the house to cover his effort. It was his nature. He understood that I understood.

The exterior of my new house was a combination of gray and pine green, as expressed by stained cedar shakes with a matching slate roof. There was a small front yard and a detached garage. The entire property was two feet higher than street level and held in place by a three-foot granite wall. The wall was topped by an ornate wrought iron fence with pointed pickets sharp enough to kill a cat. There was a brass mailbox at the driveway entrance and an ancient willow tree in the backyard.

The interior of the house was immaculate and delightful; it featured a twisting oak staircase and a fireplace framed by green ceramic tile that was surrounded by a stunning white mantel that supported a huge framed mirror. Being a guy, I'd have to say some aspects of my home's decor were troubling, such as the considerable use of mauve in the window treatments and the presence of white doilies on each end table, but other than these too-feminine touches, the place was, as my nephews Oscar and Frank once liked to say "wicked cool."

Fun things in the house included a family room that had a sixty-inch flat-screen TV and leather furniture that vibrated, reclined, and had built in drink coolers. There was a media room in the basement along with a workout area. And the kitchen appeared to be appointed with the best of everything, including a refrigerator big enough to chill a small cow, an island with a butcher-block countertop, and two ovens with a stainless steel vent hood powerful enough to suck-up smoke and fumes and any nearby children or small pets.

The third floor of my new home, accessible only by stairs, housed my master bedroom suite. The unforgivably large room featured another large flat-screen TV, a full bath, and my pride and joy, a king-sized Number Bed; the bed advertised on TV that claims "everybody has a number."

Having been bedridden for forty years, I always dreamed of owning a Number Bed and adjusting its firmness while watching the
Tonight Show.
Having some time to kill before I met Maria, I decided to determine my number. I quickly found out that I hated
zero
because it was way too fluffy, and
ten
for it was rock hard. Then, not wanting my first big decision as a free man to be a mistake, I spent the better part of an hour trying to determine my exact number, half the time laughing hysterically before ultimately concluding I could die in peace knowing I was a
five
.

After the bedroom, I checked out my garage and found, as instructed, Rodrigo had filled it with a top-of-the-line Mercedes SUV for when I inevitably learned to drive. Upon close inspection, I noticed the Mercedes' magnesium alloy wheels had been replaced by cheap chrome-plated imitations. I figured it was Rodrigo. Old habits die hard.

I must admit I surprised myself that I could inspect my new home with zero angst, knowing within minutes I would encounter Maria. I attributed my calmness to destiny.

Via Rodrigo, I already knew Maria's daily routine. After Wally's Donuts, Maria usually ran a couple of errands before proceeding to Shyshire Hardware, where she worked as a clerk from eleven o'clock to three o'clock each day. Shyshire Hardware was two blocks away from my house, four blocks away from Wally's.

Originally, I'd considered intercepting Maria at Wally's, but after considerable thought I opted for an "accidental" encounter at Shyshire Hardware by playing the part of a clueless new homeowner.

Like Wally's, Shyshire Hardware was an institution in town. It was founded in 1846 to supply building materials for Leicester County Hospital. Over the years, it had perfected the storage and rapid retrieval of every imaginable hardware part. From wing nuts to chainsaws, Shyshire Hardware had it all. The calmness I experienced at my house had deserted me by the time I reached the hardware store. I was shaking. I'd never been more nervous in my life. Maria was behind the "Help Counter" in the center of the store. I rehearsed my ruse internally as I approached her, but before I could speak, Maria cut me off.