“Mr. Eng…”
I don’t finish the name. He’s on the floor in front of the sink.
(I rush to him.)
I rush to him.
My knees slam down to the vinyl floor and I reach for his hand. The man is so wrinkled and dried up that I’m afraid I’m too late. Maybe this is just a desiccated corpse, turning into human jerky in the heat of the kitchen. He’s on his side and facing towards the cabinets. I can’t see his eyes. A tiny moan escapes him when I touch his hand and he starts to roll towards me.
“Mr. Engel, are you okay?”
What a stupid question to ask.
What’s he supposed to say? “Why, yes, good sir, I’m just taking a quiet nap on the sticky-hot vinyl of my kitchen floor. I often lounge here in the summer. Please forgive my sleep moans.”
I help him roll to his back and his eyes scan the ceiling. The one closest to me is milky white. The other is yellow and brown. His good eye locks on me for a second and then slides off again. His lips smacks and he works his tongue around like he’s trying to form words.
“Mr. Engel, you hold on, okay? I’m going to call for help.”
I pull out my phone. Even though I don’t get any signal here, I still slipped it into my pocket when I got out of Uncle Walt’s truck. No bars are showing on the display. It’s time to test out the idea that 9-1-1 will always work.
It doesn’t.
My phone complains of no signal. There’s a message I’ve never seen before, informing me about emergencies. I don’t bother with it.
“Where’s your phone, Mr. Engel?”
All I can think about is the phone in my Uncle Walt’s house. I know precisely where that is. If I jump back in the truck and drive about five minutes, I could call from there.
He looks like he might not last that long.
I see it. The phone is mounted on the wall right next to a door that must be a closet or pantry or something. It’s one of those old, heavy, rotary phones with a long and curly cord. I lay his hand down gently and spring to my feet. When I dial the nine, it feels like it takes an entire minute for the huge dial to rotate back around. My adrenaline is pumping so hard that everything is moving slowly.
The line clicks and buzzes and then an angel answers.
“9-1-1 what’s your emergency?”
“My neighbor has collapsed on his floor. I think he has heatstroke or something. Maybe a heart attack. I don’t know.”
“What’s your address?”
I give her the road number. I don’t have any idea what the address is. “Tell them it’s the white house on the right before the end of the road. It’s the only other house on the road except for my uncle’s. Mr Engel—that’s his name. I don’t know. Can you look it up or something?”
“Absolutely,” she says.
She could have said a lot of things. “Stay calm,” would have been appropriate. I love her for choosing that word instead.
“Now, how is Mr. Engel? Is he breathing? Can you feel a pulse?”
I don’t want to return to him. I’ve handed off this problem to the angel on the phone. It’s unfair that I have to go back to him and again violate his personal space as well as my own. I have to do what the angel says though.
I lower myself to my knees, barely tugging the phone cord. This is the kind of cord that could reach all the way to the front porch if required. The angel waits while I lean close to listen for his respiration. She says, “Good, good,” when I count off Mr. Engel’s pulse.
“Do you have water handy? Can you wet a towel and begin to cool him off.”
“I will. Someone is coming, right?”
“Yes. Help is on the way.”
I tuck the phone between my ear and my shoulder and grab the dishtowel that’s hanging next to the sink. There are two big knobs—one for hot and one for cold. The tap squeaks as I rotate it and the water sputters from the spout between blasts of air. Below me I can hear the pipes chatter and groan. The sound is matched by Mr. Engel.
“Sir?” the angel asks.
“It’s the pipes. The pipes are making that noise.”
“Are you still there sir?”
“Yes. I’m waiting for the water to cool a little before I wet the towel.”
The intermittent stream from the spout is warm. It almost feels oily or something. It’s too slick between my fingers.
“Sir? Are you there? I’m going to stay on the line. Are you…”
The phone clicks several times and then the buzzing dial tone comes back.
With another blast of air, I finally get some cool water from the tap. I soak the towel until it’s dripping and then shut the water off. The receiver is still buzzing in my ear as I kneel next to Mr. Engel again.
“Here,” I say, lightly dabbing the wet towel on his forehead.
It was better when the angel was in my ear. It was like she was possessing me—working through me. Now, it’s just me and Mr. Engel again. I can’t disconnect from the reality of the suffering man in front of me.
His dry lips are cracked and split. In the bottom of deep chasms I see dark red that must be muscle tissue. The hand I’m holding resembles tissue paper draped over bird bones. Mr. Engel could blow away in a stiff breeze.
The phone is still buzzing for a moment and then it clicks again. I set down the receiver and the cord recoils it back towards the wall. It’s retreating before another strike.
When I dab his face and forehead, he blinks and swallows.
“You’re thirsty,” I say, a little too loud. “Hold on.”
I push to my feet, thinking of Kimberly. Until now, I have been desperately trying to not think of her. They only let me give
