Dunk (16 page)

“I have to run some errands. I'll be back soon,” she said to Jason a moment later. “I'll leave you and your
friend
alone.” She went out. I figured she probably needed a break. Or maybe she just didn't want to be around me.

Jason had a small TV mounted on the wall in the corner. Someone had also wheeled an entertainment cart into the room—it held a monitor hooked up to a VCR and an old Super Nintendo. A sticker on the side said it was a gift to the hospital from one of the big stores in the mall. Games and tapes were stacked on a shelf under the set.

“Want to watch a movie?” I asked.

Jason gave a weak shrug.

I checked out the videos.
Memories of Love
. Didn't sound promising. Probably no good car chases or fistfights. I read the back. Crap. All about a guy whose girlfriend dies. I checked the next one.
A Time Before We Parted
. Woman's daughter dies. No way.
My Girl
. I'd seen that. Girl's boyfriend dies. A quick scan through the rest of the pile showed it was a choice between orphans, the dead, and the doomed. Forget it. I wasn't going to sit in a hospital watching movies where people died.

“We could play a game,” I said.

Jason shook his head. “You go ahead.” He pushed the button, raising the back of the bed halfway up to a sitting position.

I popped in Super Mario World. While I played, I told Jason about my day on the roof, and about everyone throwing stuff at Corey. That got a small chuckle out of him. I did an imitation of Corey trying to be useful without climbing a ladder.

Jason laughed and shook his head. “Wish I'd seen that.”

“I'll bring a camera next time. Though I hope there isn't a next time.”

I sat there, talking away, keeping Jason company and watching Mario plunge to his death whenever I missed a jump. After a while Jason fell asleep. I stayed in my seat by his bed, not wanting him to wake up alone. A little after noon, a doctor came in to check on him. He picked up a chart from the end of the bed and wrote something on it. He was pretty young for a doctor. I wondered how good he was. I wondered if he was good enough to help Jason.

“W
HAT'S WRONG WITH HIM
?” I
ASKED
.

The doctor replaced the chart, then glanced over at me. “Friend of yours?”

“No, I'm a weirdo who gets a kick out of sitting in hospital rooms with strangers.”

I expected the doctor to just blow me off without an answer, but he came over and sat in the chair next to me. “I guess that was a stupid question.”

I shrugged. “You going to tell me what's wrong with him?”

“If I knew that, I'd be a very happy man.”

“So you don't know?”

He shook his head. “I know what's wrong, but not why. We can treat the
what
, but that's not going to help your friend a whole lot unless we can fix the
why
.”

It took me a second to figure out what he was saying. I nodded to show him I was following the explanation.

“I'm not supposed to give medical information to anyone except family members,” the doctor said. “But in this case, it's more a matter of things we don't know, so I guess I can talk with you about it.”

“Thanks.”

“The problem is in his immune system,” the doctor said.

“Oh, man . . .” I knew what that meant.

“Don't jump to conclusions,” he said. “I'm not talking about AIDS. Your friend's problem isn't a weakened immune system; it's an overactive system. You know how the body fights infection?”

“Yeah.” We'd had that in biology class. “White cells and all that sort of stuff.”

“Right. But Jason's body is fighting against
itself
, attacking healthy cells. He has an autoimmune disease. There are all kinds. Some are serious, some are mildly annoying.”

“We're not talking annoying here, are we?”

The doctor shook his head. “Multiple organs are involved—lungs, kidneys, maybe others. And something in the circulatory system that ended up throwing a clot.”

“Oh, crap.”

“Yeah, ‘Oh, crap' is right. There are more accurate medical terms, but that sums it up pretty well.” He glanced at Jason. I guess to make sure he was still asleep.

“So now what?”

“We need to stabilize his condition, and we need to figure out why his body is attacking itself.” He sighed and stood up.

I was glad he hadn't treated me like some dumb kid. “Thanks for explaining that stuff to me.”

He nodded and started to walk out, then glanced back and said, “You can help. Attitude is important. Do what you can to keep his spirits up.”

“I will.” But I didn't know if anything I did would make a difference.

I waited until Jason's mom got back. It was obvious from the way she stared through me that she still blamed me for everything. There wasn't much I could do about that. I said good-bye and left.

On the walk home I tried to think of ways to cheer Jason up. He always liked to talk about California. Maybe I could bring in some road maps or a tour book or something. And if—I mean, when—he got better, we'd do it. After we finished school, we'd buy a car and head out for the beach at Santa Monica. Jason would play in tournaments, and I'd find something to do. There had to be tons of jobs out there. Mom would have her certificate by then, so she'd be okay. Maybe she could even come out with us.

I felt that as long as I kept the plan alive I'd be keeping Jason alive. Even if I didn't share the dream.

What about my dreams? What about Gwen? I sped up as I realized she might be working right now. I cut across to Thirty-fifth Street and climbed up the ramp to the boardwalk.

She was there at the booth. I stood near the ramp for a while, watching her and wondering what she thought of me. The last time she'd seen me, I'd been a screaming madman surrounded by cops.

Taking a deep breath, I walked over to the Cat-a-Pult.

I
WATCHED HER FACE CAREFULLY WHEN HER EYES MET MINE
, hoping to see a smile. All I got was a cautious nod.

“Can I explain?” I asked.

“Go ahead.” There was no emotion in her voice.

I told her about Jason getting sick. And I told her that I'd come right back to see her but the storm had closed the game down.

She listened to everything, her expression barely changing. When I finished, I felt like I was waiting for a jury to read a verdict. In my heart I hoped she'd tell me she understood.
Not guilty
. In my gut I was afraid she'd tell me to go away.
Guilty on all charges
.

“That must have been awful,” she said.

“It was.”

“I hope your friend is okay.”

“Me, too.” I sensed there was something else coming.

“It's bad to lose your temper,” she said.

“I know.” I couldn't argue with that.

“My sister married a guy who lost his temper a lot.” Gwen sighed and stared past me toward the ocean. “She left him, but not before he broke her jaw and three of her ribs.”

A cold anger washed over her face as she spoke. I desperately needed to tell her that I couldn't even imagine doing something like that. Whatever else my dad had done, he hadn't ever hit my mom. That was one inheritance I didn't have to fear.

“The stuff with the cops—that's never happened before,” I said. “It was just—” I paused, not sure of the right way to tell her why I'd acted so crazy. How could I say I'd dreamed of her all winter? How could I explain that the cops had dragged me off just when I'd finally found her again? How could I explain without sounding like a pathetic lovesick puppy?

“You were worried about your friend,” she said, finishing my sentence.

I nodded. That was true, too. “Yeah. It was pretty awful. By the time they got us to the station, I thought he was dying.”

She shuddered, and her expression softened a bit. “You really care about him. He's lucky to have you for a friend.”

“I'm the lucky one,” I said. “Jason's a great guy.” I felt that I was on a tightrope. If I tried too hard to prove how much I cared, I'd sound like a phony.
Just be yourself
, I thought. Right now I wasn't even sure what that meant. Maybe Malcolm wasn't the only actor. Maybe everyone acted all the time. We acted one way with friends, another with parents, another with cops, another with teachers. And another with beautiful girls . . .

I kept talking, telling her about the hospital and the doctor, and even about my day on a roof. Somehow we slipped slowly past the awkwardness. After a while Gwen smiled. Then she laughed. She worked while we talked. And I tried to work up the courage to ask her out. This time I wasn't going to let the chance slip away. But I didn't think today was the right day. It was too soon. I felt we were still mending the cracks. There was time. Nearly the whole summer lay ahead.

“Maybe I'll see you tomorrow,” Gwen said when her shift ended.

“I'll be around,” I told her.

“I hope your friend's okay.”

“Thanks.”

I watched her leave the booth. My body felt like it had been set free from a clamp that had been slowly tightening since yesterday. Maybe everything really would be all right. If Gwen could come back—come all the way here from Montana—and I could find her, then maybe Jason could get better. Maybe Mom could finish her classes and find a job she liked. Maybe hope wasn't such a bad thing to have.

Once Gwen moved out of sight, I wandered along the boardwalk, weaving through the crowds, and made my plans for tomorrow. After I visited Jason, I'd come back to the Cat-a-Pult and ask Gwen out. Somewhere special. Maybe really splurge and take her for lobster.

I realized this could be an expensive summer. I needed to build up my spare cash, so for the rest of the afternoon and evening I hustled small jobs, losing myself in the work. But I didn't go near the Bozo tank. I wanted to give Bob more time to cool off from whatever Malcolm had told him. I'd wait a couple days and then go talk to him. I might even get brave and tell him I wanted to work in the tank. I was feeling lucky.

The next morning Jason was alone. His mom had had to go back to her office. That was a bad sign. It meant Jason wasn't there for a short stay-—like when you have your tonsils out. Life was going on around him, getting back to normal, but leaving him here in this hospital bed. Like water flowing past a rock in a river. Nobody really knew when he'd get out.

There were half a dozen cards taped to the wall opposite the bed, along with a shiny helium-filled balloon. “Someone visit?” I asked.

“Couple girls from school,” Jason said. He stopped to take a breath. “Julia, her friends. The usual crowd.”

“That must have been nice.” I figured seeing them should have cheered him up.

He shrugged. “I guess.”

Or maybe it just made him feel worse, watching them come and go while he was stuck in here.

“I'm going to ask Gwen out,” I said, changing the subject.

“About time.”

I didn't tell him the details of my plans. I figured he wouldn't want to hear that I'd be eating lobster while he was choking down toast and tapioca pudding. But I'd brought something I knew he'd want to see.

“Look what I have,” I said, holding up the road map. I spread it open on the bed and talked about some of the places we'd pass through on our trip across the country. I'd also brought one of those free magazines with all the used-car ads. We'd already agreed that the best possible set of wheels for any trip was a Mustang convertible. Year and price range were open to debate.

As I charted our path, I kept thinking about what the doctor had told me.
Keep his spirits up
. The worst part—and it made me feel truly rotten—was that I didn't want to be there, sitting in this room that smelled too clean, watching the doctors and nurses shuffle in and out, wondering what I could possibly say that would make any difference.

I wanted to be with Gwen. I guess that made me a really awful friend. But I stayed all morning. So maybe that made me an okay friend. Or maybe not. A good friend would want to be there. I guess mostly it just made me crazy.

At one point, while I was reading car ads to him, I realized he hadn't said anything for a while. I glanced over, half expecting him to be asleep. But his eyes were open. He was staring up at the ceiling. “You okay?” I asked.

“I'm never going to get better,” he said after a long silence.

“Sure you are. Don't talk that way.” I couldn't imagine him staying there, pale and weak, stuck full of tubes and needles.

He shook his head. “Gonna miss the tournament.”

That was looking pretty true, but I didn't want him to lose hope. The one thing I could do for him—the only thing—was to try to keep him from giving up. “You still have time. They pump you full of the right drugs, you'll be as good as new.”

“At least you're off the hook,” he said.

“What are you talking about?”

“California.” He pushed the map away. “You never really wanted to go there with me.”

I felt like I'd been caught stealing.
How could he know?
This was no time for the truth. “Sure I want to go. I'm looking forward to it.” Damn, I could hear the stress in my voice. I was a lousy liar.

Jason shook his head. “You were just—” He stopped as a wave of coughing hit him. “. . . pretending . . .'cause I wanted . . .”

“No, it would be great. It
will
be great. You and me. Santa Monica. We're gonna do it.” I told him every lie I could dream up about the bright future that we'd make for ourselves. It didn't work. He closed his eyes and turned his head away. After a while he drifted off to sleep, leaving me alone with my guilt.

As I listened to him breathing in shallow gasps, I thought about a book we'd read last year in school.
Of Mice and Men
. One guy, George, was always telling the other, Lenny, about their plans. They were going to buy a farm and raise rabbits. That was their dream. That was all they had. It was a really good book, but it was also a really sad one. I hoped Jason would have more than a dream.