Man, Woman and Child (15 page)

Tu vols, Maurice, moi aussi je peux volerl

Ton amiy Jean-Claude

The message puzzled Bob. "What do you mean, you can fly too?" "Maurice says he built a spaceship in his cellar. He was going to fly to Sete to visit me, but his mother found out, so he couldn't come."

"Oh," said Bob, biting his lip to keep from smiling.

"But he made me promise not to tell anyone." "I won't," said Bob, feeling happy to be trusted.

He bought a newspaper. Not to check on flights, for he knew they left each evening at seven, but to find something to do.

"Hey," he said, "there's supposed to be a great

outdoor concert tonight, just across the river. I wonder if they've canceled it."

The friendly lady_at the souvenir desk overheard and answered, ''Not this concert, sir. It's Mr. Fiedler's golden anniversary with the Pops."

''Tlianks, ma'am," said Bob, and then turned to Jean-Claude. ''We might get a little wet, but it could be fun."

"Is it jazz?"

"No. Does it matter?"

"No," said the boy.

1 HEY WALICED BACK ALONG THE RH^R TO Bob's

car and he took out the ancient blanket he always kept in the trunk. Then after a detour to buy submarine sandwiches, they crossed the Harvard Bridge and strolled to the Esplanade, the crescent of green grass which embraced Hatch Shell, the hemispheric shelter for musicians in the rain.

Several thousand diehard fans were camped in defiance of the elements, having improvised tents, tepees, lean-tos and the like. Bob and Jean-Claude spread their blankets as close as possible to the shell.

''If we're gonna have wet bottoms, let's at least get a good view," Bob said, and offered Jean-Claude an enormous sandwich.

"Must I?" asked the boy. "My stomach hurts a little."

"Don't worry," Bob assured him, thinking it was probably nerves. ''Eat what you can."

"Okay," he sighed, and began pecking away desultorily.

About an hour later, a storm of applause drowned out the drizzle. The venerable conductor was striding to the podium. The crowd rose to its feet and shouted, ''We love you, Arthur."

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Bob explained. *'The man with all the white hair is a big celebrity. He's even more important than the music."

''He looks like F^re Noel/' said the boy.

"Tou're right/' Bob answered, ''but he doesn't just look like Father Christmas. He looks like everybodys father. That's his appeal, I guess."

Then Bob had a curious thought. I've never really looked at Fiedler this close, but there's something about him that reminds me of Dad.

And he remembered the many happy excursions he had taken with his own father. The Phillies games. Saturday matinees with Ormandy and the Philadelphia Orchestra. Camping in the Poconos. Just the two of them. Suddenly he missed his father terribly.

Fiedler raised his baton and the concert began. The opening number was "When Johnny Comes Marching Home."

During the next half hour the rains intensified.

"I think we should go," said Bob.

"Oh, no, please," said the boy.

"Okay,", said Bob with some reluctance. He glanced at his watch. Eight-forty. The plane for Paris was already over the Atlantic.

The finale was the "1812 Overture," complete with pealing church bells and cannon shots from a little howitzer. Jean-Claude was ecstatic, especially when he recognized what melody the brasses were blaring against the swirl of strings.

"It's La Marseillaise/' he shouted, leaping to his feet.

"Yes," said Bob. "It's a surprise for you."

As the music continued, the boy was transported. He was clapping even before it ended, and continued to applaud as the orchestra segued into "Stars and Stripes Forever." Now tlie whole water-

logged crowd rose to its feet, singing, shouting and marching in place. A glorious pandemonium.

Suddenly the sky exploded with lights—red, white, green, yellow, blue.

'"Kegarde, Papa/' cried the boy. "Les feux (Tarti-ficer

Bob picked him up and put him on his shoulder, so he could have a better view of the dazzling fireworks. As he did, he could not help noticing that although the air was cold, the boy seemed strangely warm. Too warm.

''Come on, Jean-Claude, let's go back to the car.*'

Still carrying the boy. Bob began to walk toward the bridge. Jean-Claude's gaze remained transfixed by the multicolored bombs bursting in air.

By the time they reached the MIT parking lot, Jean-Claude was shivering. Bob put his hand to the boy's forehead. It was very hot.

"Let's go up to my office and change you into some dry clothes," he said.

''Okay," said the boy, sounding very subdued.

Bob opened the trunk, grabbed the green valise, and the two of them hurried toward the entrance to his office.

Upstairs, he dried Jean-Claude with paper towels from the men's room. The boy seemed suddenly so small and frail, all bony shoulders and skinny legs. But every limb was blazing.

"Would you like me to get you some tea from the machine?" Bob asked.

"No, I don't want anything," replied Jean-Claude.

Damn, thought Bob, I've given him cramps from junk food and now I've frozen him into a fever. Great father.

And then he realized. I can't take him back to Lexington. I don't know how to handle a sick

child. He put his windbreaker around the boy and, before he lost the nerve, dialed Sheila at the Cape.

''Bob, where are you? It's raining like hell here."

''Here too/' he replied, ''and the fog is terrible. I couldn't let him fly in this weather."

"Oh," she said blandly. And then added, "I suppose that's wise."

There was a silence.

"Listen, Sheil, he's been soaked and I think he's got a fever. Maybe I could take him to Mass General, but—"

"Is he that sick?"

"No. I mean, I'm not sure. Look—can I bring him back just for tonight?"

There was another pause.

"Bob, the girls are still very upset. Being cooped up all day hasn't helped matters." She sighed. "But I don't think it's good for you to stay away anymore. It's beginning to look like you've left."

Bob was enormously relieved.

"Yes. Anyway, it'll only be for a day or so. I mean, we can't let a sick child travel. Don't you agree?"

She hesitated. He waited nervously.

"I don't think you should stay away any longer," she repeated. Avoiding one issue, and speaking directly to the more important one: their marriage.

i HE ROAD WAS SLICK AND DARK. BOB DROVE TOO

fast. The boy was dearly getting sicker by the minute. He sat quietly, holding his stomach, now and then emitting a barely audible moan.

''Shall I play the radio?" Bob asked.

"Okay. . . r

He put on WCRB, desperately hoping that the music would somehow soothe the child.

No one was on the highway. The storm seemed to have discouraged even the state police. He reached the Cape Cod Canal in record time. And he continued to push the car along Route 6.

The nearer he got, the angrier the heavens became.

He skidded as he turned onto Pilgrim Spring Road. Fortunately, he spun off into heavy mud and regained control almost immediately.

He glanced at the boy. Jean-Claude hadn't even noticed the near accident. He was oblivious to everything except his stomach pains.

Bob braked sharply as he pulled up in front of the house. Rain pelted the windshield. He breathed a deep sigh of relief. Tliey had made it in one piece.

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He looked over at the boy. His eyes were closed, his head leaning against the door.

"We're here, Jean-Claude/' he whispered, stroking his hair. ''It's gonna be all right now."

The boy did not react.

''Are you okay?" Bob asked.

The boy nodded.

"Do you feel well enough to walk—or should I carry you?"

"I can walk," he said slowly.

"Good. Then when I count to three, we each get out our own side and hurry into the house. Okay?"

"Okay."

Bob counted, and then stepped out into the downpour. He looked quickly across to the other side of the car, saw Jean-Claude's door open, and then rushed for the shelter of the porch.

Sheila was waiting alone in the living room. Though it had been just over twenty-four hours since they had seen one another, their awkwardness made it feel like years. She looked at her husband, soaked with rain and remorse.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"Yeah. You?"

"Surviving," she answered.

"Where are the girls?"

"I sent them to their room. T didn't think this was the time for confrontations." She seemed to be glancing over his shoulder.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

"Where's Jean-Claude?"

"He's—" Bob turned. The boy was not behind him. He was not anywhere. He turned back to Sheila. "Maybe he was too scared to come in."

"Let's get him," she said.

He rushed to the porch and saw nothing but the

ink-black storm. Then a bolt of lightning sliced the sky, briefly illuminating the driveway.

He was lying face down, a few steps from the car, the rain slapping his motionless body.

''Jesus!" Bob gasped. He ran to the boy and turned him over.

''He's unconscious," he shouted to Sheila, who was standing on the porch.

"Bring him in. Fll call a doctor!" she shouted back.

"No—it looks bad. Fm gonna take him right to the hospital."

In an instant she was by his side, looking at the child as the downpour drenched them both. She felt his forehead as Bob lifted him.

"He's absolutely boiling!" She opened the car door as Bob gently placed him inside. "Fll come with you."

"No. Go in and warn the hospital."

*'Are you sure?"

*'Go on. Sheila, please." He was almost hysterical.

She nodded and ran back toward the house.

From a lighted window on the second floor, two pairs of eyes watched Bob's car splash down the driveway onto the road. Jessica and Paula wondered what new catastrophe had just entered their lives.

Bob drove to Hyannis like a man possessed- The boy was silent, his breathing short and rapid. And his forehead began to grow disturbingly cold. Now and then his delirium abated and he would utter a single word: "Mdmcin."

llie emergency room was a madhouse. The stormy holiday roads had yielded more than the statistical expectation of traffic accidents. But as Bob, holding Jean-Claude in his anns, announced himself, a young harried-looking intern rushed out.

''Bring him right into the examining room," he said.

Bob watched him check Jean-Claude's pulse and then immediately begin palpating the boy's abdomen. He heard the physician mutter, ''Oh, shit/' and thought to himself, That's a great diagnosis. This kid must be a student or something. I've got to get a real doctor. The young man snapped an order to a hovering nurse: "Get an IV into him immediately, and put in two g.m.'s of ampicillin and sixty m.g.'s of gentamicin. Prepare a nasogastric tube and have somebody get John Shelton fast."

She rushed off. The intern took the thermometer from Jean-Claude's mouth, squinted at it and again muttered to himself.

"What's wrong?" Bob asked impatiently.

"Can you step outside, sir?"

"Fll be right back," he told Jean-Claude, touching his icy cheeks. "Don't be afraid of anything." The boy nodded slightly. He looked terrified.

"Okay. What?" Bob demanded the instant they had left the room.

"Peritonitis," said the intern. "There's purulent fluid all over his peritoneal cavity."

"What the hell does that mean, dammit?"

"A burst appendix. His fever's 105 degrees. We've got to operate as soon as possible. We're sending for our best general surgeon. We think he's out on his boat—"

"Isn't there anybody here?" Bob asked, praying that there was someone already on the grounds more competent than this nervous kid.

"Dr. Keith is already in the OR with a patient. Really bad car accident. Besides, he's an orthopedic surgeon. Our best bet is to wait for Dr. Shelton."

"What do we do in tlie meanwhile?"

"He's very dehydrated, so Fm giving him intravenous fluid. And a large dose of antibiotics."

"And that's it?" Bob asked. "Can't we do anything else while we're waiting for this big shot?"

"We could be calm," said the intern pointedly. "Perhaps you might want to register him while you're waiting. . . ."

"Yeah," he said. "Okay. Thanks. Sorry." He turned away.

"Patient's nam.e?" He told the registering clerk, spelling it for her slowly.

"Address?" He gave the Wellfleet house.

"Occupation?"

"Child," said Bob sarcastically, and then gave the boy's age.

"Religion?" He didn't know. The clerk looked displeased. "None," Bob said. She looked even more displeased. "Uh—I suppose Catholic." That answer, it seemed, was satisfactory.

Less so was the fact that there was no Blue Cross, Blue Shield or other medical plan. Bob's offer to pay was looked at askance.

"Mr. Beckwith," a voice called from down the corridor. "Good news!"

It was the intern, who ran up, breathless and sweating.

"What?" Bob asked.

"Dr. Shelton was home on account of the weather. He's just come in now."

"Great," Bob replied. And they both charged down the hall.

He had streaks of gray in his hair and looked, thank heavens, calm and experienced. His manner was in fact a bit too unemotional.

"Have we the permission to operate?" Shelton asked the intern.

"I haven't gotten around to it, sir."

Shelton turned to Bob.

''Where are the boy's parents?" he asked.

"Tliey're . .. dead/' Bob answered.

"Well, someone has to sign in loco parentis. Are you his guardian?"

''No. It's a man named Venargues in France."

"Well, then he'll have to give us permission by telephone. That's legal if there's a second person hstening."

No, thought Bob, there isn't time. I haven't even got Louis's number with me. It's somewhere in my desk.

"Uh-can't I sign?" Bob asked.

"You have no legal authority," said Shelton. "Why don't we get this Frenchman on the phone. The child is very sick."