Skeleton Crew (62 page)

Loss of blood was the most critical factor. As a surgeon, I was vitally aware of that. Not a drop could be spilled unnecessarily. If a patient hemorrhages during an operation in a hospital, you can give him blood. I had no such supplies. What was lost—and by the time I had finished, the sand beneath my leg was dark with it—was lost until my own internal factory could resupply. I had no clamps, no hemostats, no surgical thread.

I began the operation at exactly 12:45. I finished at 1:50, and immediately dosed myself with heroin, a bigger dose than before. I nodded into a gray, painless world and remained there until nearly five o’clock. When I came out of it, the sun was nearing the western horizon, beating a track of gold across the blue Pacific toward me. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful ... all the pain was paid for in that one instant. An hour later I snorted a bit more, so as to fully enjoy and appreciate the sunset.

Shortly after dark I—

I—

Wait. Haven’t I told you I’d had nothing to eat
for four days?
And that the only help I could look to in the matter of replenishing my sapped vitality was my own body? Above all, haven’t I told you, over and over, that survival is a business of the mind? The superior mind? I won’t justify myself by saying you would have done the same thing. First of all, you’re probably not a surgeon. Even if you knew the mechanics of amputation, you might have botched the job so badly you would have bled to death anyway. And even if you had lived through the operation and the shock-trauma, the thought might never have entered your preconditioned head. Never mind. No one has to know. My last act before leaving the island will be to destroy this book.

I was very careful.

I washed it thoroughly before I ate it.

Pain from the stump has been bad-excruciating from time to time. But I think the deep-seated itch as the healing process begins has been worse. I’ve been thinking this afternoon of all the patients that have babbled to me that they couldn’t stand the horrible, unscratchable itch of mending flesh. And I would smile and tell them they would feel better tomorrow, privately thinking what whiners they were, what jellyfish, what ungrateful babies. Now I understand. Several times I’ve come close to ripping the shirt bandage off the stump and scratching at it, digging my fingers into the soft raw flesh, pulling out the rough stitches, letting the blood gout onto the sand, anything, anything, to be rid of that maddening horrible itch.

At those times I count backward from one hundred. And snort heroin.

I have no idea how much I’ve taken into my system, but I do know I’ve been “stoned” almost continually since the operation. It depresses hunger, you know. I’m hardly aware of being hungry- at all. There is a faint, faraway gnawing in my belly, and that’s all. It could easily be ignored. I can’t do that, though. Heroin has no measurable caloric value. I’ve been testing myself, crawling from place to place, measuring my energy. It’s ebbing.

Dear God, I hope not, but... another operation may be necessary.

Another plane flew over. Too high to do me any good; all I could see was the contrail etching itself across the sky. I waved anyway. Waved and screamed at it. When it was gone I wept.

Getting too dark to see now. Food. I’ve been thinking about all kinds of food. My mother’s lasagna. Garlic bread. Escargots. Lobster. Prime ribs. Peach melba. London broil. The huge slice of pound cake and the scoop of homemade vanilla ice cream they give you for dessert in Mother Crunch on First Avenue. Hot pretzels baked salmon baked Alaska baked ham with pineapple rings. Onion rings. Onion dip with potato chips cold iced tea in long long sips french fries make you smack your lips.

100, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94

God God God

Another gull landed on the rockpile this morning. A huge fat one. I was sitting in the shade of my rock, what I think of as my camp, my bandaged stump propped up. I began to salivate as soon as the gull landed. Just like one of Pavlov’s dogs. Drooling helplessly, like a baby. Like a baby.

I picked up a chunk of stone large enough to fit my hand nicely and began to crawl toward it. Fourth quarter. We’re down by three. Third and long yardage. Pinzetti drops back to pass (Pine, I mean,
Pine).
I didn’t have much hope. I was sure it would fly off. But I had to try. If I could get it, a bird as plump and insolent as that one, I could postpone a second operation indefinitely. I crawled toward it, my stump hitting a rock from time to time and sending stars of pain through my whole body, and waited for it to fly off.

It didn’t. It just strutted back and forth, its meaty breast thrown out like some avian general reviewing troops. Every now and then it would look at me with its small, nasty black eyes and I would freeze like a stone and count backward from one hundred until it began to pace back and forth again. Every time it fluttered its wings, my stomach filled up with ice. I continued to drool. I couldn’t help it. I was drooling like a baby.

I don’t know how long I stalked it. An hour? Two? And the closer I got, the harder my heart pounded and the tastier that gull looked. It almost seemed to be teasing me, and I began to believe that as soon as I got in throwing range it would fly off. My arms and legs were beginning to tremble. My mouth was dry. The stump was twanging viciously. I think now that I must have been having withdrawal pains. But so soon? I’ve been using the stuff less than a week!

Never mind. I need it. There’s plenty left, plenty. If I have to take the cure later on when I get back to the States, I’ll check into the best clinic in California and do it with a smile. That’s not the problem right now, is it?

When I did get in range, I didn’t want to throw the rock. I became insanely sure that I would miss, probably by feet. I had to get closer. So I continued to crawl up the rockpile, my head thrown back, the sweat pouring off my wasted, scare-crow body. My teeth have begun to rot, did I tell you that? If I were a superstitious man, I’d say it was because I ate-Ha! We know better, don’t we?

I stopped again. I was much closer to it than I had been to either of the other gulls. I still couldn’t bring myself to commit. I clutched the rock until my fingers ached and still I couldn’t throw it. Because I knew exactly what it would mean if I missed.

I don’t care if I use all the merchandise! I’ll sue the ass off them! I’ll be in clover for the rest of my life!
My long long life!

I think I would have crawled right up to it without throwing if it hadn’t finally taken wing. I would have crept up and strangled it. But it spread its wings and took off. I screamed at it and reared up on my knees and threw my rock with all my strength. And I hit it!

The bird gave a strangled squawk and fell back on the other side of the rockpile. Gibbering and laughing, unmindful now of striking the stump or opening the wound, I crawled over the top and to the other side. I lost my balance and banged my head. I didn’t even notice it, not then, although it has raised a pretty nasty lump. All I could think of was the bird and how I had hit it, fantastic luck, even on the wing I had hit it!

It was flopping down toward the beach on the other side, one wing broken, its underbody red with blood. I crawled as fast as I could, but it crawled faster yet. Race of the cripples! Ha! Ha! I might have gotten it—I was closing the distance-except for my hands. I have to take good care of my hands. I may need them again. In spite of my care, the palms were scraped by the time we reached the narrow shingle of beach, and I’d shattered the face of my Pulsar watch against a rough spine of rock.

The gull flopped into the water, squawking noisomely, and I clutched at it. I got a handful of tailfeathers, which came off in my fist. Then I fell in, inhaling water, snorting and choking.

I crawled in further. I even tried to swim after it. The bandage came off my stump. I began to go under. I just managed to get back to the beach, shaking with exhaustion, racked with pain, weeping and screaming, cursing the gull. It floated there for a long time, always further and further out. I seem to remember begging it to come back at one point. But when it went out over the reef, I think it was dead.

It isn’t fair.

It took me almost an hour to crawl back around to my camp. I’ve snorted a large amount of heroin, but even so I’m bitterly angry at the gull. If I wasn’t going to get it, why did it have to tease me so? Why didn’t it just fly off?

I’ve amputated my left foot and have bandaged it with my pants. Strange. All through the operation I was drooling. Drooooling. Just like when I saw the gull. Drooling helplessly. But I made myself wait until after dark. I just counted backward from one hundred . . . twenty or thirty times! Ha! Ha!

Then ...

I kept telling myself: Cold roast beef. Cold roast beef. Cold roast beef.

Rain the last two days. And high winds. I managed to move some rocks from the central pile, enough to make a hole I could crawl into. Found one small spider. Pinched it between my fingers before he could get away and ate him up. Very nice. Juicy. Thought to myself that the rocks over me might fall and bury me alive. Didn’t care.

Spent the whole storm stoned. Maybe it rained three days instead of two. Or only one. But I think it got dark twice. I love to nod off. No pain or itching then. I know I’m going to survive this. It can’t be a person can go through something like this for nothing.

There was a priest at Holy Family when I was a kid, a little runty guy, and he used to love to talk about hell and mortal sins. He had a real hobbyhorse on them. You can’t get back from a mortal sin, that was his view. I dreamed about him last night, Father Hailley in his black bathrobe, and his whiskey nose, shaking his finger at me and saying, “Shame on you, Richard Pinzetti . . . a mortal sin . . . damt to hell, boy ... damt to hell . . .”

I laughed at him. If this place isn’t hell, what is? And the only mortal sin is giving up.

Half of the time I’m delirious; the rest of the time my stumps itch and the dampness makes them ache horribly.

But I won’t give up. I swear. Not for nothing. Not all this for nothing.

Sun is out again, a beautiful day. I hope they’re freezing their asses off in the neighborhood.

It’s been a good day for me, as good as any day gets on this island. The fever I had while it was storming seems to have dropped. I was weak and shivering when I crawled out of my burrow, but after lying on the hot sand in the sunshine for two or three hours, I began to feel almost human again.

Crawled around to the south side and found several pieces of driftwood cast up by the storm, including several boards from my lifeboat. There was kelp and seaweed on some of the boards. I ate it. Tasted awful. Like eating a vinyl shower curtain. But I felt so much stronger this afternoon.

I pulled the wood up as far as I could so it would dry. I’ve still got a whole tube of waterproof matches. The wood will make a signal fire if someone comes soon. A cooking fire if not. I’m going to snort up now.

Found a crab. Killed it and roasted it over a small fire. Tonight I could almost believe in God again.

I just noticed this morning that the storm washed away most of the rocks in my HELP sign. But the storm ended ... three days ago? Have I really been that stoned? I’ll have to watch it, cut down the dosage. What if a ship went by while I was nodding?

I made the letters again, but it took me most of the day and now I’m exhausted. Looked for a crab where I found the other, but nothing. Cut my hands on several of the rocks I used for the sign, but disinfected them promptly with iodine in spite of my weariness. Have to take care of my hands. No matter what.

A gull landed on the tip of the rockpile today. Flew away before I could get in range. I wished it into hell, where it could peck out Father Hailley’s bloodshot little eyes through eternity.

Ha! Ha!

Ha! Ha!

Ha

Took off my right leg at the knee, but lost a lot of blood. Pain excruciating in spite of heroin. Shock-trauma would have killed a lesser man. Let me answer with a question: How badly does the patient want to survive?
How badly does the patient want to live?

Hands trembling. If they are betraying me, I’m through. They have no right to betray me. No right at all. I’ve taken care of them all their lives. Pampered them. They better not. Or they’ll be sorry.

At least I’m not hungry.

One of the boards from the lifeboat had split down the middle. One end came to a point. I used that. I was drooling but I made myself wait. And then I got thinking of ... oh, barbecues we used to have. That place Will Hammersmith had on Long Island, with a barbecue pit big enough to roast a whole pig in. We’d be sitting on the porch in the dusk with big drinks in our hands, talking about surgical techniques or golf scores or something. And the breeze would pick up and drift the sweet smell of roasting pork over to us. Judas Iscariot, the sweet smell of roasting pork.

Took the other leg at the knee. Sleepy all day. “Doctor was this operation necessary?” Haha. Shaky hands, like an old man. Hate them. Blood under the fingernails. Scabs. Remember that model in med school with the glass belly? I feel like that. Only I don’t want to look. No way no how. I remember Dom used to say that. Waltz up to you on the street comer in his Hiway Outlaws club jacket. You’d say Dom how’d you make out with her? And Dom would say no way no how. Shee. Old Dom. I wish I’d stayed right in the neighborhood. This sucks so bad as Dom would say. haha.

But I understand, you know, that with the proper therapy, and prosthetics, I could be as good as new. I could come back here and tell people “This. Is where it. Happened.”