The Free (P.S.) (3 page)

5

Freddie McCall left the sixth-floor elevator and walked down the long hospital hall to room 9. He found Leroy alone and slowly moving his hands to the tube running down his throat, his eyes wide open in panic. Freddie ran to the nurses’ station where a middle aged Filipino nurse sat working on a computer.

“I think something’s wrong with Leroy,” he said.

The nurse followed him in. She pulled Leroy’s hands down and used restraints to keep them at his sides. She looked at the chest tubes to make sure there were no blockages and that the fluid level was right. She looked at his medication record and left the room. She came back a minute later and increased the morphine amount on the drip.

“I know he’s in a lot of pain,” she said as she held Leroy’s head still. “But with a flail chest we have to be careful about the pain meds. I had to confirm it with his doctor. If we give him too much he won’t breathe deeply and we need him to breathe as deep as he can. The mechanical ventilation only assists his breathing right now; he still needs to do some work himself.”

“What’s a flail chest?” Freddie asked.

“The fall he took was so severe that part of his chest wall separated. Three of his ribs were fractured in multiple places due to the blunt trauma of his injury. They became displaced and were moving independently of the chest wall. This also caused three lacerations in one lung and the other collapsed. The mechanical ventilation helps him breathe; it makes sure he breathes enough per minute and that his lung volume isn’t too shallow. That’s why he’s intubated. We have the chest tubes to help push out air, blood, and fluids. He’ll settle down soon.”

“Don’t shoot her,” Leroy cried, and this time his voice was heard. He was shaky but he had the strength to stand. He staggered to the living room to see the young commander pushing his pistol into Jeanette’s forehead. He pulled the trigger but the gun didn’t fire.

“Christ!” he yelled. “It jammed again.”

“Please let her go,” Leroy begged.

“Use mine,” offered the woman soldier. As she handed him her pistol, Leroy went for the gun. The middle-aged soldier saw what was happening and hit him in the chest, and again he fell to the ground in breathless agony.

“Hurry up,” the woman soldier said. “Finish it and then check him.”

The young commander put the new gun to her head, but as he did so a woman came into the room. She had long, black hair and brown eyes. She wore the dress of a working-class woman from the 1930s.

“It’s Amália Rodrigues!” Jeanette cried.

The woman began yelling at the soldiers in Portuguese. She screamed and hissed and cast spells on them, and one by one the soldiers disappeared until they were all gone. She then kneeled to the floor and held Leroy in her arms. She sang gently and softly, and a great euphoria rushed into him.

Leroy’s eyes closed, his breathing steadied, and he quit moving. The nurse went back to her station and Freddie sat down and turned on the TV. He went through the channels until he found an episode of
Gunsmoke
. As he watched, he thought for a moment that it was his youngest daughter, Virginia, in the hospital bed again and not Leroy. Parts of him even wished it were so. That she was right there next to him and not in a different state living in a new house with a new father. He watched the show for twenty minutes as Leroy slept, and then he left for work.

A half-mile from the group home he passed a large crate full of scrap wood. Next to the crate was a handwritten sign that read “
FREE WOOD
.” He looked at his watch and turned around. He moved his car beside the box and began loading in broken pallets, scrap two-by-fours, and chunks of four-by-fours. He filled the trunk until he couldn’t close it, then stacked more in the backseat and in the passenger seat, and went to work.

Julie Norris was in the kitchen doing dishes when he came in. She filled him in on the day: Hal had vomited during dinner and might have the flu, and Rolly and Donald got into a fight but nothing came of it. The carpet in front of the stairs had been professionally cleaned, but the blood stains, although faded, were permanent. The drain in the bathroom sink had clogged, but her boyfriend had come by earlier and fixed it. Everyone was now in bed asleep, she told him, and then she started the dishwasher, put on her coat, and left.

Freddie did the series of chores he did every night and then lay down on the couch exhausted and passed out. He woke two hours later to Donald standing over him, naked and shaking him. Freddie put on his glasses and sat up. As he did, Donald ran up and down the hallway screaming. Freddie calmly went to the kitchen, took a cup from the cupboard, and filled it with milk. He poured chocolate syrup into it, stirred it, and put it in the microwave. He walked to the living room and waited until Donald came running back toward him.

“You’re going to wake up the whole house,” Freddie told him quietly. “How about you quit yelling, and I’ll get you a hot chocolate?”

Donald heard the words “hot chocolate” and stopped.

“But to get the hot chocolate you have to get dressed first,” he said and led him down the hall. Inside Donald’s room there was a dresser, a twin bed, and four basketball posters on the wall. Freddie found his pajamas on the floor and helped him back into them. He led him to the kitchen and took the cup from the microwave and gave it to him. Donald drank it standing in front of the refrigerator. When he’d finished, Freddie put him back to bed and the house was again quiet. He went to the couch, turned on the TV, and tried to sleep.

At 5:30 AM the alarm on his phone woke him. He washed his face and made a pot of coffee. Dale arrived on time at 6:00 and Freddie drove home, unloaded the wood onto his front lawn, put on his Logan’s Paint Store uniform, and left. He drove the two miles to Heaven’s Door Donuts and parked.

“You’re doing good this morning,” Mora said leaning against the glass counter. She glanced at the clock hanging above the door. “You have seven minutes.”

“I can relax,” Freddie said and smiled. “How was your dentist appointment? I forgot to ask.”

“I have to get the tooth pulled.”

“Jesus.”

“Pham’s loaning me the money. Now I just have to get my nerve up.”

“At least it won’t hurt anymore after that.”

“Let’s hope it won’t. It would be a pretty mean tooth to hurt me when it’s in the garbage somewhere.” Mora smiled and then moved her large body backward and bent down. She set four glazed donut holes in a plastic basket and poured a cup of coffee. She set it all on the counter in front of him.

“Sorry about the game last night,” he told her. “I heard part of it.” He took a drink from the cup and ate a donut hole. Mora opened two pink boxes and began putting donuts inside. Behind them on a counter sat an old radio playing. He could see Pham in the back room lowering a batch of donuts into the fryer.

“My poor boys,” Mora said as she worked. “They get beaten up all series, and now Leipsic’s been suspended for three games.” She stopped and looked at him. “I hate saying this, but you look worse every day I see you, Freddie. It really worries me. Are you getting any sleep at all?”

“I’m sleeping some.”

“How many hours?”

He ate another donut hole. “Three or four.”

“That’s not enough,” she said.

“I know.”

“Are you eating?”

“I have to eat better.”

“That’s all you’re going to say about it?”

“I’ll sleep more this weekend,” he said and smiled.

“How are the girls?”

“They’re okay. Kathleen hates the school. She’s in the third grade. How can you hate the third grade?”

“School’s always hard, you know that. Does Ginnie like kindergarten?”

“I think so, but Marie hasn’t been taking her to physical therapy because the place is twenty miles away.”

“But she’s got to,” Mora said and shook her head.

“I know. She promised she’d do it. We’ll see. To be honest I’m just having a hard time thinking of what to say to them. My own daughters and I don’t know what to say. I run out of questions. I wish I could go down there, just once even. Then I would know what to ask. But I don’t know what their house looks like or their neighborhood. I don’t know anything about their school or Las Vegas. When I ask them to describe it, they just quit talking. All day long I think of things to ask them but when I talk to them I don’t know what to say.”

“Little kids are always bad on the phone,” Mora said.

“Maybe,” he said.

“What else is going on?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“You’re a great conversationalist today. Now I know who your daughters get it from.”

Freddie laughed. He put the last donut hole in his mouth and finished the coffee.

“At least get some sleep tonight, okay?”

“I will,” Freddie said.

“I put an extra twist in for you.”

“Thanks,” Freddie said.

She handed him the boxes. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Mora.”

He opened the store on time and drank three cups of coffee until the morning rush ended at eleven. He called Pat and told him the morning numbers, and Pat told him he wasn’t coming in. Freddie hung up the phone, leaned the chair back against the wall, and fell asleep. He was startled awake twenty minutes later when two old painters came in. They saw him asleep and quietly went to the counter. They waited for a moment and then looked at each other and shouted “Freddie!” as loud as they could. Freddie yelped as he woke and fell off the chair. The two painters doubled over laughing.

“Jesus!” Freddie yelled from the ground.

“We’re sorry, Freddie,” they both said.

“It’s alright,” he said and got up.

“We didn’t mean to scare you that bad,” one of the men said, still laughing, and set down a piece of stained trim board.

“It’s alright, Paul,” Freddie said. “What do you guys need?”

“Can you match the stain on this piece by tomorrow, and we’ll need twenty gallons of Super Spec, same color as this morning. Plus we’re doing an old lath-and-plaster job, and Andy said you knew how to make the cracks disappear without re-texturing the whole wall.”

Freddie took a drink of cold coffee and once again began working.

He closed the store at 5:30 and drove home. With the scrap wood from his front yard he got a fire going in the fireplace. He sat at the kitchen table, took off his coat, and opened a worn folder. He laid out his bills across the table.

As he did each week, he tried to think of a way out of the mess, but in the end there was no way out. He just didn’t make enough money. He should declare bankruptcy, but he didn’t want to declare bankruptcy.

Why did he have to be proud about that?

He shuffled through his bills. It never made sense to him how he could have health insurance for his family, insurance that cost him seven hundred dollars a month, and still his policy didn’t cover everything. For years his wife had sat at the same table arguing with the insurance company about what they would cover and what they wouldn’t. Which specialists were approved and which weren’t, which surgeries were covered and which weren’t, which medications and which physical therapies. Even with mortgaging their house they fell behind on those payments, and then his wife had to quit working to take care of Ginnie. They began to drown. Now after four years he was left with a total bill of nearly seventy-five thousand dollars. He put the papers away and set his head down on the table and closed his eyes.

When he woke he looked at his watch and it was thirty minutes later. He put the papers back in the folder and went into the basement. He looked through a box of his father’s things and found the stack of postcards he was hoping to find. He went through them until he saw a pin-up girl, a redhead in a white cowboy hat. She was leaning against a wooden rocking horse in a tight cowgirl outfit, smiling. Her large breasts, her slim waist and long legs. She held a silver pistol in each hand. He took it, put it in his coat pocket, and left.

6

Darla Kervin, a thin, middle-aged woman with brown hair, sat in a chair next to the hospital bed. A worn leather cigarette case and a red plastic lighter sat on her lap while she read, out loud, a paperback novel titled
The Burning Cliffs of Planet Ryklon.

“They found you,” Freddie said as he entered.

Darla looked up, startled. She set the novel on her lap. “Hey, Freddie . . . I was visiting my mother in California,” she said.

“Are you holding up okay?”

She shrugged her shoulders and said sadly, “I’m okay . . . What happened, Freddie?”

“I don’t really know,” he said and leaned against the wall. “I was asleep upstairs. It was around one in the morning or so, and somehow he found an old wooden gate in the garage and tied it to the plastic gate at the bottom of the stairs. He climbed up to the second floor and threw himself down on top of the stakes. I didn’t hear anything until he landed. I’m sorry, but I didn’t.”

Darla nodded, and picked up and set down the cigarette case on her lap and tears welled in her eyes. “Thank you for coming to visit him,” she whispered.

Freddie took the postcard from his coat pocket and handed it to her. “You might think this is stupid, but I thought maybe it would cheer him up somehow.”

She looked at the postcard and smiled, and leaned it against a box of Kleenex on the table next to the bed.

“What are you reading to him?”

She picked up the paperback and showed him the old weathered cover. “I used to read to him when he was in the military hospital. I figured I’d do it again. He’s a science-fiction buff.”

Freddie looked at his watch. “I have to go to work,” he said. “But can you tell me is there any news? How is he?”

“I don’t think very well,” she said. “That’s the general opinion anyway . . . Can I ask you a question before you go?”

Freddie nodded.

“When you found him, was he in pain?”

“He was unconscious when I got to him. I never heard him cry or moan or anything like that.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m pretty sure,” Freddie said.

“Good,” she said.

Two hours later Pauline gently shook Darla awake. She sat up in the chair, took off her reading glasses, and put them in her purse. “Was I asleep a long time?”

“An hour or so,” said Pauline.

“Is anything wrong?”

“Everything’s the same. I’m almost done with my shift and wanted to let you know that we increased Leroy’s pain meds again. He shouldn’t move around anymore.”

“I guess I’m not used to staying up this late,” Darla said and yawned.

“I’m sorry I had to wake you. I just wanted you to know,” Pauline said, and then she charted and left the room.

She walked down the hall to room 7.

“Well, buster, you’re finally up,” she said.

“I am,” the old man said and smiled as he lay on his side facing the door.

“All my patients have been sleeping tonight, and you’ve been out my whole shift. I got to say it’s been lonely without you, Mr. Flory.”

“I tried to wake up, but I couldn’t.”

“Well you’re in luck now, ’cause it’s that time again,” she said.

“It’s why I started waking up, I guess,” he said. “My body could feel the pain coming on. I woke up a few times earlier, but I knew it wasn’t time for my next dose. So I made myself just stay still. I was trying to hold out before I started bothering you again.”

“You never bother me, Mr. Flory. And there’s no use being a tough guy around me.”

“I’m not tough,” he said.

“You’re a real cowboy. They seem pretty tough.”

“Some are; most aren’t, though.”

“But you ride horses.”

“I haven’t been on a horse in a long time. I just use my four-wheeler. Anyway, anyone can ride a horse.”

“Not me.”

“I could have taught you,” he said and winked.

“I bet you’d be a good teacher,” she said, smiling. “Okay, I’ll be back in a minute.”

She left the room, went to the Pyxis Medstation, and entered Mr. Flory’s information. The drawer opened and she took his pain medication, counted the remaining, noted it, and went back. She handed him two pills and he washed them down with water.

“This should take care of you for a while,” she said and began charting.

“How’s your shift been tonight, Pauline?”

“Not bad.”

“Did you do anything nice before you came in?”

“I watched TV and ate a half a pint of ice cream,” she said while typing.

“Ice cream,” the old man said.

“It’s bad for you, Mr. Flory.”

“My wife makes homemade ice cream.”

“No wonder you married her.”

“She makes peach ice cream and shortbread cookies every summer. To tell you the truth, Pauline, she makes ice cream almost every Saturday from June to August. But guess who has to turn the crank?”

“You.”

“You’re right.”

“You seem strong enough, Mr. Flory.”

“I used to be. You know I bought her an electric ice-cream maker one Christmas. One that does all the work for you, but she never even took it out of the box. That next summer comes along and it’s back to rock salt and my arm busting over the crank.”

“Women like watching men work.”

“Maybe, or maybe she was just mad at me,” he said and tried to laugh.

“I think it would be hard to be mad at you, Mr. Flory. Alright, I got to keep working but you should feel better in a minute or two. Think of something nice and close your eyes. Think of the electric ice-cream maker. I won’t see you tomorrow but the night after I will. Okay, buster?”

“Good-night, Pauline,” he whispered.

“Good-night,” she said and left.

In the hallway she took a piece of gum from her pocket and glanced at her watch. One more patient. Mr. Delgado was an overweight, middle-aged alcoholic with a gastrointestinal bleed. He was ten hours out of surgery. As she entered the room she saw a short, plump woman with dyed-red hair and black fingernail polish sitting in the chair next to him. She wore a pink sweat-suit that read
TOP SHELF
across her breasts in gold lettering.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Delgado?” she said and stood at the foot of the bed. His face was bloated and red and veined. He looked at the nurse in a fog of Dilaudid, but he didn’t respond.

“Mr. Delgado?” Pauline said again.

He looked at her but he didn’t speak.

“The TV doesn’t get cable,” the woman said suddenly. “The ones in the other rooms do. I checked.” She had her purse on her lap. She took a small plastic container of hand sanitizer from it and squirted it in her palms. “For the amount of money this is costing, you’d think we’d get cable.”

“I’ll tell maintenance,” Pauline said while she checked his vital signs and made sure the drainage tubes were working properly. She looked at the staples and felt around the incision. It seemed normal. She went to the computer in the corner of the room and began charting. “I’ll try one more time. How are you feeling, Mr. Delgado? I can see your eyes open. Can you understand me?”

“I know he’s been queasy,” the woman said.

“A lot of people get nauseous from anesthesia. We can give him something for it if he feels that way. Mr. Delgado, have you been feeling nauseous?”

He looked at her but again he didn’t respond.

“How are you dealing with the pain, Mr. Delgado?”

“He’s in a lot of pain,” the woman said.

“Mr. Delgado,” Pauline said and moved again in front of him. “On a scale of one to ten how much pain are you feeling?” The man’s skin was gray and yellow. He looked at her but he couldn’t speak. “Can you tell me how bad it hurts on a scale of one to ten? Ten being the most pain.”

His eyes suddenly watered and he broke into a sweat. He moved his hands to cover his mouth and began vomiting blood. It sprayed out through his fingers, bright red and fetid, and ran down his gown and onto the floor. Pauline hit the emergency button, and the woman began screaming.

Mr. Delgado fell back into the bed. His bloody hands dropped to his sides and his eyes closed. His blood pressure dropped and his heart raced. Another nurse rushed in and the rapid response team was called. The fat woman became hysterical. She moved to the back wall, pacing and crying.

The team entered the room: a doctor, a nurse, and two men to help lift him. It took all of them to get Mr. Delgado’s immense body off the bed. The gurney moaned under his weight. They rolled him out of the room unconscious while they worked on him, and the frantic woman followed behind them, crying. Her shoe soles, wet with blood, left faint tracks down the glossy hall floor.

Pauline went to her locker. She changed out of her blood-stained uniform into a clean one. In the bathroom she washed her face and hands twice, made sure her shoes were clean, and looked at her watch. She had half an hour until she had a night off.

At a Chinese restaurant she picked up a takeout order and drove home. She ate in front of the TV and drank a bottle of wine while Donna hopped about the apartment. It wasn’t until four in the morning that she fell asleep.

Then next afternoon she woke up on the couch, hungover, to her phone ringing. She reached across the coffee table, saw it was her friend Cheryl, and picked it up.

“I called you four times last night,” Cheryl said. “Why wouldn’t you call me back?”

“I was too tired last night,” said Pauline. “I just got Bing’s and came home.”

“Why do you still eat there?”

“I like it.”

“That was my mom’s go-to barf bag.”

“I know.” Pauline sighed.

“What about tonight?”

“I’m staying home tonight.”

“But a couple of my brother’s friends are in town. We’re all going out and I told them you’d come with us.”

“I don’t feel like it tonight.”

“These guys are good-looking.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

“We had a pretty good time last time.”

“Did we?”

“At least you did,” Cheryl said and laughed.

“Where are you going?”

“The Bucket.”

“I hate that place.”

“It’ll be fun,” Cheryl said.

“I don’t know.”

“What else are you gonna do, watch TV then cave in and make brownies?”

“I was thinking chocolate chip cookies.”

“You’re turning into an old lady.”

“I feel like an old lady . . . Let me think it over and I’ll call you back.” Pauline hung up the phone. She put the blanket back over her and turned up the TV. The rabbit hopped underneath the coffee table and Pauline reached down, picked her up and set her on her stomach.

Six hours later she left the Bucket, drunk, and got into in a white pickup truck with a friend of Cheryl’s brother, a thirty-year-old man named Ford Wrenn from Dothan, Alabama.

He was a tall and thin man with a sun-weathered face who worked on bridge construction throughout the western United States. He lived out of a suitcase ten months a year and at the time didn’t have a permanent home.

“So where do you want to go?” he asked her as he started the engine. “I’d take you back to my place, but it’s a Super 8 motel and I’m rooming with TC. We probably don’t want to go there.”

“We can’t go to my place either,” she said.

“You have roommates?” he asked.

“Just one, her name’s Donna,” she said and looked out the window.

“Would you be alright if we got a motel room?”

“The lowest I’ll go is a Red Lion,” she said and laughed.

“You know where one is?”

“Sure,” she said and gave him directions. “Is your name really Ford? ’Cause if you haven’t noticed you’re driving a Chevy.”

He laughed. “My daddy’s daddy, he was named Ford. This was before Ford Motors really got going. That’s who I’m named after. People ask me that all the time. The truth is I hate Fords. Their front ends are always loose, and their trannies are shit.”

“I feel the exact same way.”

“Sure you do,” he said and again laughed.

They stopped at a mini-mart for a six-pack of beer and then drove the rest of the way to the Red Lion, where he got them a room. He led her to the third floor and they went inside and Pauline turned on the lights, set the thermostat to seventy-five, and took off her coat.

“Is it alright here?” he asked.

“I like it,” she said and sat on the bed.

Ford opened two cans of beer, handed her one, and sat down on the bed a couple feet from her. As he drank his beer she moved closer and closer to him until their legs were touching, and then she kissed him and he kissed her back. She began to take off his baseball cap, but as she did he stopped her.

“This is embarrassing,” he said. “But I’m going bald. Do you mind that too much?”

“No,” she said.

“I’m sorry about my hands, too,” he said and showed them to her. He had the thickest fingers she’d ever seen. Two of his nails were black and the rest were chipped and cracked and ragged. The pinkie on his right hand was bent out, as was the ring finger on his left.

“Wait until you see me naked. I have my winter weight going right now.” She laughed and took off his hat and began kissing him again. She took his beer from him and set both cans on the dresser. She pulled her blouse over her head and unclipped her bra, and then kicked off her shoes and her pants. She straddled him on the bed and they took up with their kissing again.

Ford Wrenn could hardly breathe as he held on to her. She took off his clothes, took a rubber from her purse, put it on him, and got back on top of him.

“Jesus, Pauline,” he whispered. “I like you.”

“I like you, too,” she said back. She kissed him as she moved back and forth. She went faster and faster until they were both finished. But as soon as she cried out she got up and went to the bathroom. When she came out she began to dress.

“Alright, buster,” she said. “It’s time for you to take me home.”

“You want to leave?”

“If you’re too tired, I can call a cab.”

“I can give you a ride home,” he said. But as he lay under the sheets he didn’t move. He watched her dress. Her underwear was pink with black dots. She wore thick green hiking socks that she put on just after her underwear. She had to lie on the bed to pull her pants all the way up and button them.