That Good Night (6 page)

Innovative disruption came at five o'clock. I was sitting, leafing through an outdated copy of
Popular Mechanics
, feeling on top of the world—tomorrow, I'd have a future again. Mrs. Gerard, a handsome looking nurse with hands bigger than mine, showed up with a cart loaded with all sorts of medical paraphernalia. She looked like she lifted weights. Heavy ones. DF showed up right behind her. “You've got your wish,” he declared, “the ankle monitor's coming off.”

Nodding to Mrs. Gerard and her overflowing cart, I asked, “So what's she going to do, cut off my leg?”

“You never stop being the wise guy,” DF said. “No, I'm unlocking the security strap and Nurse Gerard is going to replace it with something new.” He leaned forward like some hack actor delivering a punch line, “An implant!”

I got up from my chair, arms clamped over my chest. “An
implant! No way. I'd rather wear the damn ankle monitor than have an implant, whatever the hell that means. Besides, it's almost bedtime. Why now?”

“Because,” DF answered.

“Because why?” I shot back.

“Because I said so.” DF looked at Nurse Gerard. “Explain it to Mister Smart Mouth.”

Nurse Gerard gave DF a stare that could make steel melt. Carefully, she took a packet from her cart; she was calm and soft spoken. My name was written on it in black Magic Marker; “In here is everything I need to insert the implant. It's a tiny thing, about the size of a capsule, you know, like a pill. We put it right under your skin on your right upper forearm. It won't hurt much at all. Just a pinch maybe.”

“So, why do I need it?” I asked flatly.

Mrs. Gerard answered, “Because it stores all your medical information and in case it's needed all we do is scan the implant to get it. It might save your life.”

“Plus,” DF interrupted, “it has a locater built in and a sensor to set off the alarm should you have any ideas about getting out of here. Pretty slick, huh?”

“Slick, my ass,” I exploded. “I don't want it. I'd rather keep the collar. And as far as saving my life goes, what the hell good is life anyway? Just prolongs the agony of being in this place of the damned. You're not going to get my permission to invade my body with some idiotic Flash Gordon gadget. Now get out of here, both of you.”

Nurse Gerard, remaining calm, gave DF a stern look. “I'm asking you to leave,” she said. “Mr. Lambert is my patient and I will see to it that he is respected. Do you understand? Now
get over here and remove this hideous black thing.”

“No, Nurse Gerard,” DF chimed in glowering at me. “Mr. Lambert, we don't need your permission. We need your son's permission, and we have that. Signed, sealed, and delivered. And no, I will not leave until we're done doing what we came here to do. Curse and carry on all you want. Cooperate or,” he said, waving his Motorola walkie-talkie like it was a Taser, “I'll call for help.”

Nurse Gerard walked over to DF. “Out,” she demanded. “Get that thing off of Mr. Lambert's leg then leave and close the door behind you. “

“But…”

“No buts about it. Get out and take that collar with you. Not another word. Just do it!”

In a huff, DF removed the collar then went to the door, “You'll see,” he said before slamming the door behind him.

My thoughts were like scattered pieces of a jig saw puzzle. The escape plan dimmed. What the hell were Cat and Bob going to do, cut off my arm? Let me bleed to death. I took a few deep breaths and calmed myself. I needed information.

I turned to Mrs. Gerard, apologized for my outburst and thanked her for getting DF out of my room.

She smiled and said, “You're welcome. Now, as I was saying, the insertion of the implant will be a painless procedure. The most uncomfortable thing will be a pinprick from the needle I'll use to inject the anesthetic and perhaps some soreness later on. I'll leave some mild pain medication in case you need it. Before I begin, are there any questions?”

“I have a few,” I said earnestly.

She nodded, “Yes, dear?”

“Once you insert the implant, can it be taken out? I mean
if it needs servicing.”

“That's very unlikely,” she said. “It should last at least five years.”

“What if I'm not dead in five years?” I laughed.

“Oh, forgive me. I didn't mean that,” she apologized.

I went on, “What if the thing breaks, let's say next week or next month?”

“Well,” Nurse Gerard explained, “We'll give you another injection of anesthetic, make a small incision and remove it. It's not brain surgery, you know,” she chortled like she'd just thought of that worn out metaphor all on her own.

“What kind of anesthetic?” I asked.

“The same thing I'll give you today, a local anesthetic,” she answered, lifting a small syringe from a row of syringes labeled “Lidocaine.” “It's preloaded all ready to go.”

I acquiesced. Nurse Gerard readied herself for the procedure. I rolled up my sleeve. Nurse Gerard sat opposite me on a folding stool she had slipped from a bracket on the side of the cart. Resting my arm on Nurse Gerard's muscular thigh, she gave me a shot of the anesthetic. “There now,” she said. “Let's give it a few minutes for that to take hold.” She gave me a motherly smile. “May I get you anything?”

I pouted, “May I have a glass of water, please?”

“Of course, dear.” Nurse Gerard replied. “I could get you some orange juice if you like?”

“That would be great,” I answered.

“I'll be right back,” she said. As soon as Nurse Gerard left the room, I quickly nabbed one of the preloaded syringes and, like a seasoned card-shark, slipped into my pocket.

Ten minutes later, the implant was inserted, and I was alone,
my hand caressing the pocketed syringe like it was the key to a lost kingdom. The staff at Sunset could certainly learn a lot from Nurse Gerard. I was a patient to her, nor was I client; I was person in need of professional and even loving care. I hope that she doesn't get into trouble for a missing injector. My guess is it won't be missed. And, I want to believe that she'll say a little prayer for me once I escape.

At precisely nine-thirty a.m. on June 28th, I was standing outside the basement door. “You there?” I heard Cat say from behind the door. I gave a light knock.

A metallic click and the door opened. Squeezing past Cat, I quietly descended the darkened metal staircase. Cat hung back to relock the door. Meeting me at the bottom of the staircase, Bob led me through a maze of workbenches, storage shelves, boiler pipes, refrigeration compressors, lockers, a tool crib, and finally a stack of grey metal boxes that looked an awfully lot like coffins, then to an open area next to the outside exit door. Tethered to a post, a large black dog jiggled and squirmed, greeting us like long lost buddies. “Meet Kingdom,” Cat said, coming from behind to unleash the dog. My few pats on the dog's head were returned with leaps and licks.

Bob reached into a tool bag he had placed next to the basement door, withdrawing a large hydraulic cutter capable of taking down the Brooklyn Bridge. “Leg up,” he commanded. “Let's get that strap off.”

With Cat listening in while kneeling next to the ganglia-driven, over-enthused dog, I told Bob, “The strap's gone.” Rolling up my sleeve, I removed the bandage and showed them the ugly black and blue area on my arm which was the size of a silver dollar.

“You get vaccinated?” Bob asked. “What the hell for?”

All Cat said was “Like way cool.”

“It's an implant,” I said, “and it has to come out.”

I reached into my pocket and withdrew the syringe of
Lidocaine
. “Let's be real quiet,” I said. “We have to get this thing out fast before some goon checks the GPS locator screen.”

“Worry not,” Cat chimed in, “Ashley's baby blues are a lot more interesting to security than some computer screen.”

“Great,” I said. I had no idea that Cat had recruited Ashley into the escape plans. I injected the anesthesia, capped the syringe and put it back into my pocket.

While we waited for the bruise on my arm to get numb, I told them how Nurse Gerard tossed DF out of my room and how she had inserted the implant. After a few minutes, I tapped the area around the insert. Feeling partially numb I said, “I'm not waiting any longer, it's time to get rid of this thing.”

“Let's do it then,” Bob said, pulling out his pocket knife. He flipped open a razor sharpened blade, its edge glittering menacingly in the dim light.

“No, no, no, no,” I repeated. “We don't need that, it'll come right out! It's been in less than a day.” A bit pouty, Bob reluctantly closed the blade and put the knife back into his pocket.

“Like, what about Kingdom? Do we still need him?” Cat asked

“I don't know,” I answered. “I haven't thought that far. Let's just get the damn thing out.”

Using my thumb, I began nudging the implant out of the small opening Nurse Gerard used to slide it under my skin. The implant stuck, so I nudged harder. Pop! The damn thing flew out like a watermelon seed squeezed between a thumb and
forefinger. Shaking free of Cat's arm from around his neck, the dog made a mad dash around the grey boxes. “No, Kingdom,” Cat called out chasing after him. But it was too late. The dog lapped up the capsule the moment he found it. “Shit!” Cat yelled leaping over the grey boxes, “Don't die on me boy! Oh, Kingdom, man, like you're the best dog. Such a good boy.” Cat wildly petted the happy black dog.

“Don't worry about it, Cat,” Bob consoled the boy. “The dog'll just crap it out in a day or two. It's nothing to worry about.”

“Yeah, thanks, man,” Cat said sincerely. “I sure hope so. But, boy, my uncle's going to be real pissed when he finds your alarm thing in a Kingdom turd. Dad will ground me for the rest of my life.”

“Your uncle? Who's that?” I asked.

“I call him Uncle Dan,” Cat said sadly. “You call him DF.”

I stood there astonished, not able to say a thing. Bob broke the silence. “Let's beeline the hell out of here.”

Back in escape mode, Cat herded Kingdom toward the outside exit, “I think I need to get old Kingdom outside. Like, forget letting her loose upstairs. See you guys. Give a call sometime.” He turned to leave, but caught himself. “Hey, dude,” he said, handing me a folded note. “My cell number. Use it!” Cat and Kingdom quickly disappeared up the outside basement steps into the sun.

Bob grabbed his tool bag. “Where's your stuff?” he asked.

“In my pocket,” I answered. The only thing I wanted with me was a picture of Lori and me posing in front of the carousel in Central Park, taken during our last vacation together. “Now, let's go!”

Once outside the basement entrance, we walked nonchalantly across a grassy area to the parking lot to where Bob's Rent-A-Wreck, a dark blue Camry was parked. In a matter of minutes, we were heading to Interstate 81 south. Next stop, HSBC bank, Syracuse, NY.

The air was crystalline. It was like I was breathing for the first time. Big deep breaths. Pure spring air. A feeling of freedom, as if life could go on forever. What little hair I had left twisted and twirled in the rush of wind. I hadn't felt wind on my face for months. The brush of wind seemed to erase years. I was a kid screaming down a steep hill, my Monarch's 28-inch tires revved to the hilt. In my mind, my hands clutched the handle bars like there was no tomorrow, which at the time, there wasn't. I stuck my hand out the window using my palm as an airfoil like I used to do riding in my 1930 Ford. My body reveled in its magnificent return to childhood. Any thoughts of Sunset Nursing Home were washed away by the high tide of boyhood recollection. I looked over at Bob. He gave me a thumbs-up. We were two kids playing hooky. Damn, everybody should be lucky enough to feel this way when they're in their eighties. Then I thought of Emma. Her quiet smile. Her withdrawal to her lover and a yacht. Maybe her escape was as real as mine. I turned around to look at the empty back seat and pictured her there, smiling.

Bob interrupted my reverie, “Any cops back there?” he joked.

“No,” I answered, “only Emma.”

“Who?”

“Never mind, Bob, not important.”

Nearing Syracuse, I gave Bob directions to the HSBC branch on Harrison Street. My memory was right on. We
parked next to the entrance. I took off my right loafer, lifted the insole and withdrew a long thin key. I held it up to show Bob. “I'll be right back,” I said.

Is this what it's like being reborn? Decades tumble away. Your step is livelier. Things are new again. I wondered how old I looked. Baggy pants, a wrinkled shirt, unkempt hair. Did it matter?

By-passing the line at the teller windows, I made my way to a cubicle occupied by someone identified as Charlotte Keats-Emory, Assistant Branch Manager. A middle aged woman with short brown hair wearing a white blouse sat bent over a computer keyboard. The keys clicked against her manicured fingernails, longer than I've ever seen. They were painted red with swirling white lines running from cuticle to tip. I knocked lightly on the side of the panel. Ms. Keats-Emory looked at me and said cheerfully, “How may I help you?”

My request to get to my safe-deposit box was answered by her request for some form of identification. From my shirt pocket, I withdrew a leather fold-over. On the inner right side was the picture of Lori and me with the Central Park Carousel in the background. On the left side in a concealed pocket, was my passport which I withdrew and handed to Ms. Keats-Emory. She looked at the photograph, then to me, then back to the passport. “It's about to expire,” she observed. “You've got a few months left.”

“I hope I have more than that,” I quipped, which got a smile but nothing more.

Handing the passport back to me, she stood and said, “Follow me.” I secured it back into the leather fold-over and put it back into my shirt pocket.