“I really appreciate this,” she said.
“No trouble at all,” Allen said.
As usual there was no mention of Earl down in the basement.
She led him through the living room. He approved of the way the house was a little cleaner every time he visited. More of Hank’s clutter had been pruned and removed to the basement and the garage.
Seeing the light filter into the house through the slats of heavy wooden Venetian blinds, and the black Bakelite plastic rotary phone on the living room desk, Allen understood that Sommer had been born twenty years too late. On more than one occasion, he had heard Hank quip that he would have liked to jump into Normandy with the Airborne and kill Germans, but he was only two years old at the time. Spiritually, Hank belonged in the tar pits with the generation of blue-collar smokers who’d fought in World War II.
They went through the kitchen and down the circular stairway. “The canoe guide called,” Jolene said. “He’s bringing down Hank’s truck this afternoon.”
“Broker,” Allen nodded. “He’s a good guy. Doesn’t say much.”
“I’d completely forgotten about leaving it up there.”
“It’s all right.”
“No, it’s not, it’s a detail. Details are important.”
“Yes, they are. For want of a nail,” Allen recited.
She stopped and cocked her head. Allen explained, loving the bare slate of her face, “It’s an old saying, from a poem. ‘For want of a nail the shoe was lost. For want of a shoe the horse was lost. For want of a horse the rider was lost. For want of a rider the battle was lost. For want of the battle the kingdom was lost.’ ”
She nodded, filed it away, and they resumed moving through the master bedroom, past the open door of the bathroom where the mirror was still beaded with the moisture of her shower. The king-size sleigh bed looked like it hadn’t been slept in for a week.
Then they turned into the spacious studio where Hank Sommer’s loose body was arranged on a cranked-up hospital bed. Allen startled at a flurry of gray movement on Hank’s lap.
“Just the cat. She likes to curl on his stomach,” Jolene said.
Allen watched the gray, short-haired animal dart from the room. He disliked cats and he hated surprises, so he especially hated this cat’s name: Ambush.
Hank wore a baggy blue shift and as they entered the room his eyes lurched back and forth. His hands clenched up, strangled invisible tormentors, and fell down.
Allen smiled tightly at the narrow single bed at the foot of the hospital bed where Jolene kept vigil. She had never been this devoted to Hank when he was whole. Now she kept to the care schedule like a martyr, and he had a real worry she’d hurt her back, moving him through the turning and ROM exercises.
It was more denial. Like the radio and TV and the vase of fresh flowers that sat next to the bed and that she changed every other day. Some days she tuned the boom box to his favorite oldies station. On other days it was C- SPAN or the History Channel.
It annoyed Allen the way she clung to hope.
A diagram of instructions for turning and feeding was taped to the wall. She’d set up a regular baby-changing station on a cart next to the bed. Diapers, baby wipes, oil, talc, Desitin for rash. The most ironic of her makeshift innovations was the baby monitor with speakers positioned throughout the house.
Her hand drifted up and touched his forearm, and Allen felt a jolt of excitement. It curdled to pique when she said, “He always does that when I come in, like he’s looking at me.”
“Random eye movement; he blinks, he drools, he grunts. It doesn’t mean anything,” Allen said stiffly.
“Well,” Jolene said, “sometimes I come into the room and his eyes pick me up.” She approached Hank’s bed, stopped at a distance of one foot, and stared into him like he was a department store window.
Allen’s face flushed slightly. He folded his arms tightly across his chest and kept his voice low and under taut control. He gave it to her straight and clinical, and then some.
“We had the best man from HCMC neurology evaluate him. He found ‘no visual pursuit.’ That means his eyes cannot fix and follow an object. Diagnosis: persistent vegetative state. We can run CAT scans, MRI’s, EEG’s; they will probably show brain shrinkage.”
Jolene pointed. “Look, he did it again.”
Allen went on, a little heated. “The eye movement is a primitive auditory response, just electricity firing down in his brain stem. It’s not human, it’s reptile. Remember what the neurologist told you-the diving-seal syndrome.” Allen paused, visualizing the image of Hank plunging into blacker and blacker arctic depths. “The deeper the seal goes, the more nonessential physical systems it shuts down.”
Jolene wrinkled her nose.
“Look, I, ah. .” Allen stammered. Immediately he recovered, overcompensating with a technical barrage: “When Hank’s body reached a crisis it had to choose between supplying oxygen to his brain or to his core organs- the heart and lungs. Peripheral functions lose to core functions. Unfortunately, in that scenario, the cerebral cortex is a peripheral function. And brain cells die within four to six minutes without oxygen. So along with consciousness, the voluntary motor fibers that control the face, the arms, and legs were wiped out. The involuntary muscles continue to function, intercostal muscles and the diaphragm survive to support the lungs which powers the heart.”
“All I know is that he looks at me,” she said as she went to the bed and fluffed the pillow behind Hank’s head. As she stepped back she fingered his thick hair. “Okay. I fed him and changed him. He doesn’t need turning for two hours.”
“I’ll be just fine,” Allen said.
“Well, I have to get dressed.”
Out of habit, Allen threw back Hank’s gown and checked the incision. There was no sign of infection, it was healing normally. As was the feeding-tube insertion. Then he opened his bag, removed a blood-pressure cuff and a stethoscope, took Hank’s blood pressure, and listened to his lungs. The vital signs were regular. One hell of a resilient lizard fought for life within Hank’s human husk.
Then he took a pencil light from his shirt pocket and moved it back and forth in front of Hank’s eyes, which blinked rapidly as the pupils tightened normally to the light. Allen dismissed this lizard reaction, more attuned to the rustle of material on skin and the lily scent of body lotion coming through the open doorway to the bedroom that adjoined the studio.
Hank’s blue flotsam eyes sloshed from one side of his head to the other. His hands spasmed, clenched, and dropped. Just the lizard again, some nerve pathway twitching.
Allen heard heels strike hardwood. She stood in the doorway wearing a simple gray dress, panty hose, and half-inch heels. The white-faced widow.
“I’m not sure exactly when I’ll be back. Milt mentioned having lunch after we meet.”
“Go,” Allen said. “You need to get out of the house.”
She turned and disappeared and Allen overheard some muted conversation as Earl ascended, troll-like, from the basement. The door closed and Earl’s van started, and a moment later Allen heard the tires spit gravel against the tree trunks as he swerved down the long, twisting driveway.
In the more immediate vicinity he focused on the music playing in the background: Bob Dylan singing “Blowin’ in the Wind.” Allen walked to the radio and punched the off button.
They were alone.
Not they. It was a curious gray area. The definitions were inexact. Hank was more an
He walked up to the bed and-Jesus-a needle of pain pierced his right ankle and snagged in his sock. Allen lurched back and kicked at the husky gray fur ball. The goddamn cat had snuck back in the room and had been hiding under the bed and had lashed out a paw.
The cat evaded the kick, which infuriated Allen who aimed another powerful kick. Missed. The animal skittered in a scramble of claws on the polished oak flooring and disappeared into the hall.
Allen pulled down his sock, inspected his ankle, and found a thread of blood and a scratch. He rubbed the spot and hoped the cat had its shots. Then he turned his attention back to Hank.
“She’s gone into town to talk to Milt. He’ll flirt with her over lunch, I expect. We all do.” He patted Hank’s
