“Dad,” I said, “you know—” I stopped; Arthur had grabbed ahold of my hand and the sudden pressure startled me.
“Are you all right?” he whispered. “Are you happy?”
I nodded.
“I want you to go back to her. Today. Tomorrow. Soon. It’s a little risky here, until we work everything out with the court. I’m not saying some arrangement can’t be made but until then I want you to be careful. You’re taking a big risk coming here, I hope you know.”
“I had to.” I put my hand on the side of his face. “It scared me to hear you were sick. I really love you, you know. I love you a lot.”
Arthur suddenly let go of me and his eyes focused on the white ceiling. Taking his cue, I sat straight in my chair and a nurse came in holding a tray with a glass of water and a little pleated cup on it. She had dyed yellow hair and wore dark glasses; she looked more like a waitress at a truck stop than a nurse.
“Medicine woman,” announced Arthur. With great eagerness he grabbed the paper cup and poured three pills into his open palm. His face fell like a child’s at a disappointing birthday.
“Three?” he asked. “Where’s the little orange one? The…the…whatever it’s called?”
“Doctor’s orders,” said the nurse.
“What do you mean?” Arthur showed me the pills and furrowed his eyebrows, as if asking my opinion.
“The orange was a sedative,” the nurse said.
“Well, I need it,” Arthur said, with a moan. “I’m not so relaxed.” He stared miserably at the pills in his hand, like someone who’s been underpaid.
The nurse held the water out to him. “Down you go,” she said.
The disappointment left my father’s face, to be replaced by a look of fear. He turned the pills over in his hand and shook his head. Across the room, from behind the curtains drawn around the second bed, came a low, distressing sound, a grating, bubbling noise such as one would make sucking up the last of a milkshake through a paper straw.
“Nurse,” a voice said. The curtains parted and a tall black man emerged. “Nurse? It’s making that noise again. You want to take a look?”
“Your mother is being drained,” the nurse answered, exasperated. The man nodded uncertainly and disappeared behind the curtains. “Poor soul,” the nurse murmured. “He’s been sitting with that woman for eleven days and she doesn’t even know he’s…” the nurse’s eyes happened to rest on the pocketbook Arthur cradled beneath the sheet, but with a shake of the head she decided not to notice.
Moments after the nurse was gone, Rose returned.
“Everything OK?” asked Arthur.
“Yes. Fine. Everything’s fine.” She pulled her purse away from Arthur and tucked it under her arm. She looked warily at both of us; she was sure we’d been talking about her. Then she looked over her shoulder to make certain we were alone and said, “That parole office Eddie Watanabe called the house about an hour ago.”
“Oh boy,” said Arthur, softly.
“Dinah took the call,” said Rose. “She said that we were here.”
I was standing. I walked to the window, expecting, perhaps, to see a squad car pulling in, but Arthur’s window looked on nothing but other hospital windows, grimy and opaque, like the view from a cheap, desperate hotel.
“Did she say anything else?” I asked.
“Who knows?” said Rose.
“Did you say anything to her?” Arthur asked. “Does she know he’s here?”
“I don’t know. I may have,” said Rose.
“You don’t know?” said Arthur.
“I think I’d better be going,” I said.
“Where are you going?” whispered Arthur.
“Back?” asked Rose.
“I don’t know. I’m scared.” But even as I said it, I knew I was leaving. I would leave without talking to Arthur’s doctor, leave without discovering anything more about my parents’ new and difficult truce, leave immediately to save myself.
I heard footsteps coming down the hall. They sounded deliberate, official. My life seemed to be balanced like an
“I better go right now,” I said to Rose.
“I’ll take you,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“But don’t get excited. Don’t react to things before they happen. Do you understand me? You’ll wear yourself out just by worrying?”
I nodded. I was thinking: she’s stalling; she wants me to be caught.
“You’re a little fish in a big pond,” said Rose. “I know how these people work. He was sitting on his fanny in his office, making calls.”
Arthur patted the bed. “Come here for a minute,” he said. “Sit.”
I lost control. “No,” I shouted, nearly at the top of my lungs. The world flapped like a flag before my eyes. “I want to get out of here right now!” My voiced echoed in the room. The enduring son peeked through the curtains around his mother’s bed. Footsteps were hurrying toward us. “I really think I should be going,” I said, bringing my voice as much under control as I could. My parents were looking at me, a huge beam of disapproval coming from their eyes: I was behaving like a fool, humiliating them.
I bolted from my father’s room just as the nurse in sunglasses was entering. I jostled her but didn’t look back. I hoped I was heading toward an exit. I heard running behind me and looked over my shoulder, against my better judgment. It was Rose, holding her purse like a football, moving with astonishing grace. I stopped and waited for her. In silence, we walked out of the hospital and we maintained the silence until we were in the car and she’d started the engine.
“Have you gone out of your mind again?” she asked, glancing into the rear-view mirror.
“Yes. Completely. Now please, take me to the airport. And you’re going to have to loan me the money for a ticket, too. I’m broke.”
“You think I carry that kind of money around?”
“Then charge it on a credit card.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking to. I don’t have a credit card, except from Weibolt’s.”
“Then pay by check. I don’t care.”
“I don’t know how much money is in my account.”
With a lunge, I grabbed her behind the neck and squeezed her with my fingertips. She let out a scream and slammed her foot on the brake. We both swung forward but I kept my grip on her, only incidentally aware of what I was doing. “Then take me to the bus station,” I said.
“You’re hurting me,” she said, with a small cry. She reached behind and dug her fingernails into my hand.
I let go of her. I was shaking uncontrollably. I pulled my suitcase from the back of the car. Our car was stopped in the middle of Stony Island Boulevard and the cars behind us were sounding their horns.
“I’m sorry I hurt you,” I said. “Please, if you could just take me—”
A couple of cars managed to swing around us. The rest—I don’t know how many—were still sounding their horns.
“I’m not moving,” said Rose. She rotated her head, testing the soreness of her neck muscles.
I closed my eyes, covered my face, and saw myself grabbing her shoulders, shaking her back and forth, back and forth, smashing her…I threw the door open and set off down the street, my suitcase banging against me like a separate self.
The bus route from Chicago to Stoughton was a complex one, and the bus that would bring me there left the Randolph Street terminal at four that afternoon, a three-and-a-half-hour wait. It seemed unsafe. Rose would know I was there; it would not be beyond her to convince herself that I was in the pain of psychosis and to take me out of my misery by turning me in. I could not stand to look at the people who filed around the station. Even the derelicts
