Something Bad (25 page)

Wanna tapped her lips with the front of her right index finger while she scanned the ceiling. “Gabe had to go out of town for a few days. Maybe that’s eating at her. She’s sweet on him.”

“In that case, I wish he was here. You said he’d be back in a day or so? Hopefully it will be sooner. I don’t want her to get upset.” Doc stood.

“Then you keep that whore, Misty, away from here, and away from Gabe.” Wanna’s eyes were two fireballs.

Doc rolled his. “If the headaches come back, let me know right away. Day or night. I’ll check back with you every couple of hours. I’ll also notify the hospital so they can be ready, just in case.”

Doc fishtailed the car a little as he turned from Gabe’s gravel drive onto the paved county road. A huge cloud of dust nearly overtook the car. He looked over at Misty in the passenger seat and saw her eyes were ringed in wet eyeliner.

“What happened in there? Did you say something out of line to Wanna?”

“I just asked about Gabe and she went off on me.” Misty sobbed.

Doc looked over again and noticed the wet streaks that led from Misty’s eyes to the edges of her jaw were accompanied by more viscous streaks running from her nose to her upper lip. He had been weighing his relationship with her for the last couple of weeks and he was seriously divided on the best path to take. He enjoyed her physical company—there seemed to be no end to her ability and willingness to experiment with the sensory pleasures. But he was in no mood to get into a permanent relationship yet. Even if he was ready, it wouldn’t be with Misty. On an existential plane, he longed for a relationship in which he would be the one to dab the tears of his mate, but he didn’t want to have to wipe her nose as well.

After a long pause, Doc took a deep breath and blew it out. “Misty, I’ve been meaning to tell you. My oldest brother’s daughter has just finished a nursing program up north, and she’s looking for a job. I’ve been needing someone with a little more formal training, so I’m going to take her on at the clinic. I’m really sorry, but I can’t afford to pay you both. I’m going to have to let you go. I can give you two weeks to find something else and I’ll give you some severance pay.”

Misty peered at Doc out of the corners of her eyes. “You crazy? I thought you loved me. We’ve been together for nearly a year. I thought we were going to settle down.” Fluids ran tributaries across the lower part of her face.

The situation required a little brutality, he thought. “There’s a difference between love and sex. You’re good at the second, but that doesn’t mean any love has developed between us.”

Misty turned her head toward Doc so fast fluids flew from her face to the back of the seat. “You bastard. You’re just like all the others. You’re fine when you’re getting what you want, but if I want something back, then it’s over. You bastard.” Her head collapsed into her hands and she bawled.

“I’m sorry, Misty, but we discussed this when we first started. I wasn’t in the market for a serious relationship then, and I’m not now.” He almost said there are lots of men out there who’d love to have her as a partner, but he figured most of them had already.

Misty peeked above her hands. “I think I’m pregnant.”

“I doubt that very much, Misty. When we get back to the clinic, I’ll give you a test to make sure.” He anticipated this move, so before he initiated his physical liaison with her, he personally checked his own sperm count. It hadn’t changed for the better—if anything, it was worse than before. He thought not telling her about his physical problem was unethical, but so was porking her in the clinic lab almost every day. Anyway, he assumed she would be the last person to get upset about it, so he enjoyed the ride and endured the self-disappointment of his ethical slide.

G
ABE AWAKENED WHEN
the first light broke the top of the dashboard. He looked at his watch—six-thirty. The patients would be having breakfast and getting ready for the day, and it made him feel his hunger, and the need to clean up.

A few off-ramps back on the freeway, he’d seen a billboard for a restaurant called “McDonald’s.” He’d seen advertisements for the chain on the television, and he’d heard they even had one up in Calhoun Township, so he decided to eat there and clean up in their restroom. Hopefully, it wasn’t one of those fancy places where everyone had to wear a nice clothes.

The restaurant looked like a cartoon set, with brightly colored chairs and tables. Everything was made of rounded plastic. Cartoon characters adorned the wall displays. He seated himself at a table near the door and sat there drumming his fingers. There wasn’t a waitress in sight. After a few minutes a customer walked up to the counter and placed an order, then within a minute or so, he walked away with a full tray of food. As Gabe stood, he thought of a school cafeteria.

The sandwich was wrapped in paper, the orange juice in a paper cup with a plastic lid. He wondered who thought of putting eggs in a sandwich, with cheese and ham, on some kind of biscuit. But it was really good. Another potential addition to Teddy’s menu back home?

Gabe pushed through the front doors of the hospital as the clock approached eight o’clock. Sunlight beamed through the windows creating alternating shafts of bright and dim light. He tiptoed to the reception desk. The large McDonald’s-like counter, in one of the dim areas, was spot-lighted by two large can lights in the ceiling.

“Can I visit a patient?”

“Which patient would you like to see?” The receptionist was an older woman in a white uniform, grossly overweight, with a kind smile and a patient attitude. The hospital was exceptionally clean, but it looked like only minimal maintenance had been done over the last several years.

“I’d like to see Father Costello, please.”

The woman’s head snapped up at the mention of the name. “He’s not one to have visitors. Are you from the church? Do you have credentials?”

Gabe was stumped. But he hadn’t come all this way to be turned back at the reception desk. Tell a half-truth, he thought. Sometimes telling the full truth was as bad as telling an out-and-out lie, but getting half of it right frequently worked like a greased cake pan.

“No, Ma’am. I know all about what happened to the Father. I know about his condition and all. I come from the town where he had his problem—Boyston. If nothing else, it might help him a bit to hear what’s come of all of the people there who he used to preach to. Couldn’t do any harm, as I see it. Worst could happen, I tell him, and he just stares. If I were in his place, it’d help me to hear. He really cared for us back then.”

The receptionist smiled and walked behind a glass wall. She dialed a phone and engaged in a short conversation. Gabe could see that it was neither agitated nor a one-way “yes, sir-no, sir” interaction.

The receptionist waddled back to the counter. “Doctor Lawrence thinks a visit from you might do Father Costello some good. The patients are finishing their breakfast. Then they have to shower and get dressed. Can you come back in an hour?”

“Okay if I wait over there?” He pointed at the small waiting area. “I got nowhere else to go.”

“Of course. Here.” She handed him a magazine.

The government-issue metal-framed chairs had smooth, green fake-leather seat and back cushions. They were as uncomfortable as they looked. Positioned in a semi-circle under a large window, the light was operating room intense.

Gabe thumbed through the magazine, scanning the pictures—nearly all of smiling men and women. He folded it closed. “People” the cover said in bold white letters. Thumbing through again, he paused at a familiar photo. A woman from one of his favorite TV shows smiled at him. From the caption, her seven-month marriage had just broken up. Why was she smiling?

“Sorry for the delay,” the receptionist said, her voice skipping across the room on the slick linoleum. “One of the patients had a little accident and we had to put everyone in their rooms for a while. You can go see Father Costello now. You don’t have to worry about being interrupted. All the others will be locked in until we find out where they got the videos. Father Costello is in the Day Room. Number 353. Take the elevator to the third floor and turn right.”

“Thank you, Ma’am,” Gabe said with a smile. He laid the magazine on the counter like it was a bible.

The only inhabitant in the Day Room was seated in another government-issue chair placed close to one of several windows that ran along the east wall of the room. The man stared out the window like he was in a trance. A table to his right held a few scattered magazines.

Gabe approached the table and looked out the window, over Father Costello’s shoulder. It overlooked the parking lot. He took a step closer. From the angle of this window, the entire truck seat, where he had slept, was visible.

He walked around to the opposite side of the table and pulled up a chair. Although the priest was seated, he could tell he was a short man, in his fifties, with white temples blending into jet-black hair peppered with random strands of gray. Small in stature but in good physical shape, he sat erect with his hands folded in his lap. His feet were crossed at the ankles but both were nearly flat on the floor. The traditional suit with collar was impeccably neat and pressed.

Gabe watched him in silence. Not a single subtle movement—even an eye blink.

He leaned over the table. “Father Costello? My name’s Gabe Petersen. We knew each other back in Boyston. I was a young man back then, so you probably don’t remember me. You remember Boyston?”

The priest stared out of the window.

“Anyhow, some strange things have been happening back there. They remind me of things that happened back when you had your problem. I’m wondering if you could give me some information about what was going on back then.”

Nothing.

Gabe leaned farther forward so his chest was on the table. “There’s this little man, named Thibideaux. Ever heard of him? He’s been doing some strange things—making the earth move, making lightning, throwing fireballs. Ring a bell?”

No change in the priest’s expression.

Gabe leaned back. “Pardon me, Father. I’ll be right back.”

He took the elevator to the first floor and approached the reception desk. “Can I borrow a pencil and paper?”

The receptionist flashed a knowing smile. “Can’t get through to him, can you?”

“Not yet, Ma’am. Still working on it, though.” He hurried from the desk. As he entered the elevator, the receptionist’s voice rang a sarcastic tone: “Good luck.”

Gabe sat down across from Father Costello without saying a word and drew on the paper. Finished, he pushed the paper across the table. “Look familiar?”

Father Costello stared out of the window.

Gabe grabbed the paper and walked around the table. He held the paper between the Father’s face and the window and raised his voice. “Look familiar?”

Father Costello’s expression went from a blank stare to a slight squint. Then his eyes came alive and focused on the paper.