The Walking Man (8 page)

It looked like an electromyography technician was perpetually shocking Rodrigo; his tiny blue eyes bulged and sporadically twitched as he spoke. He wasn't albino but he had white hair, which he combed in the style of Julius Caesar. His face was narrow and featured a long bumpy nose that had snake-eyes nostrils. He had pink skin and a thin white beard. Nervous energy kept Rodrigo's weight to a minimum, so even athletic-cut T-shirts rippled on his bony frame. I once asked Rodrigo if he was five feet tall and he responded, "Ten bucks. Ten bucks." Rodrigo often double-spoke because he was super hyper, and he never did anything…anything…without asking for money.

Rodrigo's first job at the hospital was to collect the dinner surveys from each patient. Consequently, he was required to visit every quadriplegic in the institution at least once a day. I'll never forget the first time we met…

"Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey—rate yesterday's dinner. Rate it," Rodrigo said.

"Five stars, as usual."

"Good, good, good," Rodrigo rapidly responded.

Arthur Slank had just died, so it was obvious we were alone. Nonetheless, Rodrigo's next words were whispered.

"Hey, hey, want to make some money, some money?"

"Depends," I answered. "What do I have to do?"

"Nothing, nothing," Rodrigo said. "Maybe I can fill out some paperwork to get you a wheelchair from the Department of Social Services, and we split the money, split the money."

"We never buy the wheelchair and we keep the money."

"Right, right, exactly, exactly," Rodrigo said. "We split the money. We split the money. Never buy the wheelchair."

Rodrigo was a duplicitous character but he wasn't completely devoid of wisdom.

"Bureaucracies like to break all functions into the simplest possible tasks and then hire people that can't perform them, can't perform them." Rodrigo laughed. "Taking them down's like taking candy from a baby, candy from a baby."

"I don't have a bank account," I said. "Where am I going to put my take?"

"Got an idea, got an idea," Rodrigo said. "I'll hold it for you. I'll hold it for you."

I laughed. "Let me think about it."

"Think about it. Think about it. That's good. That's good," Rodrigo said. "I'll be back. I'll be back… Five stars. 302. Five Stars."

I was one of the few who decided against scamming the system with Rodrigo. Over a three-week period, Rodrigo "bought" fifty virtual wheelchairs before he was found out and received the third in the series of his record twenty-three sentences—all served in the Leicester County Correctional facility.

~ ~ ~

Smitty's main job at the hospital was to lift heavy things and, since I was the heaviest thing around, he was often instructed to visit my room to roll me or load me into my wheelchair for a trip to nowhere. During his visits, Smitty and I would often partake in brief discussions over the topic of the day; be it the weather, local scandal, or the Red Sox. It was during one of these visits that I did something out of character. I noticed that Smitty seemed exceptionally down so I asked him what was bothering him. He responded by saying, "Just like you, I feel bad about killing somebody."

In the weeks that followed, I was able to convince Nurse Judy to let me take several "walks" with Smitty so I could provide the young man with some "counseling." On one particularly nice day, Smitty pushed my wheelchair along the Access Road Tunnel; we were flecked with rays of sunlight as we talked openly about our murderous pasts.

"I drove my mother to drink then she killed herself," I confided to Smitty.

"I figured as much," he remarked. "That's a tough one."

"Then, I teased my roommate, until he set himself on fire."

"Self-immolation, not easy to do without a can of gasoline," Smitty slurred. "Plus, my guess is he had it coming."

"Maybe you're right," I said. "And you?"

"Drank twenty beers then tossed a caber into a crowd."

"A caber?"

"A big log," Smitty said.

"An accident," I suggested.

"A bird shitting on your head is an accident," Smitty responded.

We stopped speaking for several minutes while Smitty effortlessly pushed me up the steep Access Road. The silence was not uncomfortable. It was clear we were both thinking. As we prepared to enter the hospital, Smitty suddenly advised, "You need to apologize to your family."

It was a simple statement, but it said everything about what was wrong with me. It was the first time I ever considered that others were suffering besides me. Buried beneath my self-pity was the fact that my brother had lost a mother and my father had lost a wife.

Before I could acknowledge his advice, Smitty said, "The guy I killed was ninety-two years old and nobody seemed to care, but I can't live it down."

"We have to seek forgiveness."

"You're right," Smitty said. "But I'm not sure the guy I killed had a family."

"Don't worry, we'll find somebody to apologize to," I assured him. "Nobody dies without leaving somebody behind."

~ ~ ~

After much ado, Juliette Dritch agreed to let Smitty use the hospital's handicap van to execute our apology tour. We told her we were going leaf-peeping, peak fall being upon us. Our first stop was the caber victim's daughter. We found her after contacting the Town Clerk in Shyshire, who pulled the victim's death certificate. The dead spectator's daughter lived in a small Cape-style home in north-side Shyshire where people didn't follow cultural norms. Her front lawn was full of junk, including rusted ATVs, an old propane grill, and what appeared to be a 1973 Chevy Vega turned planter. It was a Sunday afternoon. There were several cars in her driveway. Clouds of smoke were billowing from the house's backyard; it appeared a barbeque was in progress. Still in the van, I watched from a distance while Smitty summoned the courage to ring the front door bell.

"Oh my God, it's the guy that killed Dad," the daughter screamed. "So glad you stopped by. Come on in!"

Per Smitty, minutes after entering the house, the victim's family disclosed they were delighted that their "Pappa" had finally "bought the farm" and gladly accepted Smitty's apology.

"We know it's wrong," the daughter confided. "We loved Pappa, but we're so God damn happy that he's finally gone. He was a tremendous pain in the ass. You might have noticed, nobody was yelling, 'Hey, Pappa, get outta the way of that caber!'"

Smitty told me he could smell the alcohol so he knew he was hearing the truth.

At the insistence of the family, Smitty returned to the van with a side of ribs and a tub of potato salad.

"How did it go?"

"I guess I feel better," Smitty said. "The victims are celebrating their Pappa's birthday."

~ ~ ~

My situation was far more complicated than Smitty's. I'd compounded my wrong with a near decade of silence. During the two-hour trip to Apple, I was too nervous to speak, which prompted Smitty to tell me on several occasions not to worry because everything was going to be okay. As our handicap van pulled into Apple, my mouth was dry and my teeth were chattering. I hadn't called ahead. I didn't know what to expect. Smitty carried me, wheelchair-and-all, to the front door of Hal's house. There was a Honda Accord in the driveway. It looked old; I figured Dad was visiting. I asked Smitty not to speak unless spoken to. Then he rang the front doorbell for me. Hal answered my summons by greeting me like time had never passed from the days when we were running boys.

"Hey, kids, come on over here," Hal said. "I want you to meet your uncle."

I began to cry.

The words I needed to say were never said because it was unnecessary.

Present in the house was Hal, his wife Gina, Dad, and my two nephews, Frank and Oscar; one was five years old, the other six.

My guess was Hal had forgiven me years ago, no doubt blaming my condition for my inexcusable treatment of our mother. He acted like he was expecting me, and perhaps he was. He was wearing his 'duller' T-shirt.

"Daddy, is this the uncle that can't walk?" Oscar asked.

"Yes," Hal said. "This is my brother, your uncle."

"Is it true I could stab you in the leg and you wouldn't feel it?" Frank asked.

"Yes, it's true," I said.

"Oscar, get the pocket knives!" Frank yelled. "GET THE KNIVES!"

Hal smiled. "Your nephews."

"Good to see you, son," Dad said.

"Meet Smitty," I said.

Dinner followed.

I was overjoyed.

Chapter Five

The Frankensteins

After my grievous disclosure of my past indiscretions, twenty-two days, twelve hours, and fifteen minutes passed before Maria returned to Room 302. Her greeting was as friendly as ever, but I could tell she was nervous to be with me—the master of disaster.

Before she could say anything, I said, "Maria, top drawer of my dresser, pictures."

"Sure, Buddy," she responded, putting down her books and magazines to do as I instructed.

"Oh my God," Maria yelled. "Who are these kids?"

"They're my nephews, Frank and Oscar."

"Oh my God, Buddy," Maria said. "They are too cute! What's with the little one with the Mohawk and the missing front tooth? And what is he doing to you?"

"That's Oscar," I said. "And he's sticking his dinner fork into my thigh."

Maria laughed. "They look like trouble."

"They are," I said. "I love them."

"Buddy, I am so, so happy for you." Maria smiled.

Our meeting was just like old times; my disclosure of my murderous past seemed to have been forgotten. Maria read and laughed in the carefree manner I was accustomed to. Midway through her visit, Chef Royalston, my best friend at Leicester County Hospital, no doubt having been informed Maria was in the house, showed up with a tray of toll house cookies and Nurse Judy. The cookies were so delicious that it was impossible to stop eating them. After eating two, I noticed Maria put two in her pocket.

Nurse Judy fed me. It was the first time I exposed Maria to my sloppy eating habits. She didn't seem to mind.

While I chewed, Nurse Judy talked. "Maria, have you ever been to the hospital's Halloween party?"

"No," Maria said.

"You're invited," Nurse Judy said. "You can come as you are or dress up."

"Can I take my buddy?"

"I don't know, ask him."

"Hey, Buddy, do you want to go to the Halloween Party with me?"

I was almost too thrilled to talk.

"Sure," I said as something that felt like a walnut rolled down my chin.

~ ~ ~

Before Maria joined the hospital's Party Committee, the tradition I hated most at Leicester County Hospital was the Annual Halloween Party. Each year on Halloween, always on the exact date, not the weekend before, all patients were dressed in costumes to "party" with the hospital's volunteers (half the town of Shyshire). The event was held in the basement of the old hospital. Being the one-time location of a "patient restraint facility," a.k.a. a torture chamber, the lowest floor of the old hospital was littered with remnants of its horrific past—arched doorways with thick metal jambs, and slash marks carved into cell walls, no doubt to count the dates to freedom via release, or execution. It was a naturally spooky place and the perfect spot for a Halloween Party.

The walls of the old basement were composed of stacked granite blocks with joints filled by smaller stones. Over the years, the surface of the stones had become covered with un-paintable grime from the burning of coal then oil. The ceiling of the basement was relatively low, about eight feet high, and covered steam pipes dripping with old insulation—asbestos covered with foil, the good stuff that made personal injury lawyers rich by causing mesothelioma. Overall, the basement was remarkably barren. There were some racks of shelving that held rarely used emergency supplies: oil lamps, generators, shovels, cots, and things like that. And on one wall there were three sets of rusted iron shackles, once used to restrain the excitable boys and gals of a far less tolerant era.

Many relatively normal people, even Juliette Dritch, claimed the party site was haunted by a slew of demonic spirits. The most mentioned ghosts were Mary the Knitter who supposedly poked random male butts with the set of knitting needles she used to kill her husband, and Hungry Jack Foster, who reportedly whispered, "You look delicious," into selective partiers' ears.

In my opinion, I'm being kind to my fellow quadriplegics, and myself, when I say the hospital's Halloween party was a freak show. Decorations aside, which were always fantastic, there was something unnerving about being in a room lined with wheelchair bound ghouls… I didn't like being a virtual decoration. I didn't like watching children bob for apples, and I especially didn't like the painful memories of motion induced by the joyous movements of the dancing volunteers.

The staff of Leicester County Hospital was usually ultra-sensitive about the feelings of its patients but the Halloween party was an exception. It was a one-hundred-year-old tradition, so change wasn't possible even though Dr. Bonjour and others understood that many quadriplegics besides me hated the "party." Fortunately, perhaps due to some sort of communal feeling of guilt, the Halloween punch was always spiked with high-octane rum, and it was the one night a year that nurses were allowed to disregard the two-drink limit. As a result, most of us got drunk and hurled not-so-subtle sexual innuendos at the partiers. We'd encourage Batman to "Dick" Tracy, ask Elvira to show us her tits, and beg Flash to live up to his name and drop trou.

During the reading session immediately following the Halloween invitation, I admitted my uneasiness about the party to Maria. I told her the prior Halloween a bunch of high school students dressed me up like a leprechaun, painted my face green, and placed my urine bag in a black pot. I also disclosed that one year, a particularly wise-ass volunteer dressed me up like Princess Grace of Monaco, putting a BMW steering wheel around my neck and a tiara in my hair.