The old woman rolls past a second time, and now I spot the cast on her left leg, running from her knee to her toes. Her hair is mussed, and her pants are rolled up above the knee, but there's a twinkle in her eyes, and she gives the officer a defiant smile when she passes by, as if it's a law she's broken, rather than a bone. Charlie told me once that geriatric patients are relieved sometimes to take a little fall, or have a minor illness. Losing a battle reminds them that they're still winning the war. I am struck suddenly by Charlie's absence, by the emptiness where I expect to hear his voice.
He must've lost a lot of blood, I say,
Paul looks at his hands. In the silence, I can hear wheezing across the partition between my bed and the next. Just then, a doctor enters the room. The officer at the door touches the elbow of her white lab coat, and when she stops, the two of them exchange quiet words.
Thomas? she says, coming to the bedside with a clipboard and a frown.
Yes?
I'm Dr. Jansen. She walks to the opposite side of the bed to examine my arm. How are you feeling?
Fine. How's Charlie doing?
She prods my shoulder a little, just enough to make me squirm. I don' know. He's been in the ER since he got here.
I'm not clearheaded enough to know what it means that she recognize: Charlie by his first name.
Will he be okay?
It's too early to tell, she says, without looking up.
When can we see him? Paul asks.
One thing at a time, she says, placing a hand between my back and the pillow, then raising me up. How does this feel?
Fine.
And this?
She presses two fingers over my collarbone.
Fine.
The poking continues across my back, elbow, wrist, and head. She tries the stethoscope for good measure, then finally sits back. Doctors are like gamblers, always looking for the right combinations. Patients are like slot machines: twist their arms long enough and you're bound to hit the jackpot.
You're lucky it wasn't worse, she says. There's no fracture, but the soft tissue is bruised. You'll feel it when the painkiller wears off. Ice it twice a day for a week, then you'll have to come back so we can take another look.
She has an earthy smell to her, like sweat and soap. I wait for her to pull out a prescription pad, remembering the cabinet of drugs I collected after the car accident, but she doesn't.
There's someone outside who'd like to talk to you, she tells me instead.
For a second, because she says it so pleasantly, I imagine a friend out in the hall-Gil maybe, returned from the eating clubs, or even my mother, flown in from Ohio. Suddenly, I'm unsure how much time has passed since they dragged me out of the ground.
But a different face appears in the doorway, one I've never seen before. Another woman, but not a doctor, and definitely not my mother. She's heavyset and short, tucked into a round black skirt down to her calves, and opaque black stockings. A white blouse and red suit-jacket give her a maternal air, but my first thought is that she's a university administrator.
The doctor and the woman exchange a look, then switch places, one leaving as the other comes. The black-stockinged woman stops short of the bed and makes a gesture to Paul, beckoning him over. They have a conversation out of earshot-then, unexpectedly, he asks if I'm okay, waits for me to nod, and walks out with another man standing near the door.
Officer, the woman says, would you close that behind you?
To my surprise he nods and shuts the door, leaving us alone.
The woman waddles over to the bedside, pausing to glance at the bed beyond the curtain.
How are you feeling, Tom? She sits down in the chair where Paul was, making it disappear. She has squirrelly cheeks. When she talks, they seem full of nuts.
Not so good, I say warily. I tilt my right side toward her, showing her the bandage.
Can I get you anything?
No, thanks.
My son was here last month, she says absently, searching for something in her jacket pocket. Appendectomy.
I'm just about to ask who she is, when she pulls a little leather wallet out of her breast pocket. Tom, I'm Detective Gwynn. I'd like to talk to you about what happened today.
She unfolds the wallet to show me her badge, then flips it back in her pocket.
Where's Paul?
Speaking with Detective Martin. I'd like to ask you some questions about William Stein. Do you know who he was?
He died last night.
He was killed. She lets a silence punctuate the last word. Did any of your roommates know him?
Paul did. They worked together at the Institute for Advanced Study.
She pulls a steno pad from her jacket pocket. Do you know Vincent Taft?
Sort of, I say, sensing something bigger on the horizon.
Did you go to his office earlier today?
Pressure is building in my temples. Why?
Did you get into a fight with him?
I wouldn't call it a fight.
She makes a note.
Were you and your roommate in the museum last night? she asks, rummaging through a file in her hand.
The question seems to have a thousand outcomes. I think back. Paul covered his hands with his shirt cuffs when he touched Stein's letters. No one could've seen our faces in the dark.
No.
The detective rolls her lips, the way some women even their lipstick. I can't read her body language. Finally, she produces a sheet of paper from the folder and passes it to me. It's a photocopy of the log-in sheet Pad and I signed for the museum guard. The date and time are stamped beside each entry.
How did you get into the museum library?
Paul had the punch code, I say, giving up. He got it from Bill Stein.
Stein's desk was part of our crime scene. What were you looking for?
I don't know.
The detective gives me a sympathetic look. I think your friend Paul, she says, is getting you into more trouble than you realize.
I wait for her to give it a name, something legal, but she doesn't. Instead she says, It's your name on this security sheet, isn't it? She lifts the paper, taking it back. And you're the one who assaulted Dr. Taft.
I didn't—
Odd, that your friend Charlie was the one who tried to resuscitate William Stein.
Charlie's a medic…
But where was Paul Harris?
For a moment the facade disappears. A curtain rises over her eyes, and the gentle matron is gone.
You need to start looking out for yourself, Tom.
I can't tell if it's a threat or a caution.
Your friend Charlie is in the same boat, she says. If he pulls through this. She waits, letting it sink in. Just tell me the truth.
I did.
Paul Harris left the auditorium before Dr. Taft's lecture was over.
