We took an elevator up to the fifth floor and walked around until we found Bobby’s room. His mother was the only other person in there. She was sitting in a chair, doing a crossword puzzle.
Bobby was propped up in bed, staring at a high-mounted TV set. Bobby’s right shoulder was heavily bandaged and bulged out from under his blue gown. When Mrs. Smalls saw us, she closed her book, stood up, and turned off the TV, using a button on the side of the bed. She said, “Mr. Coleman! Thank you so much for coming. Hello, Tom. Hello, Uno.”
Bobby corrected her. “He doesn’t want to be called that anymore, Mom! He wants to be called John.”
“Oh. I am sorry. Hello, John.”
John muttered, “No problem.”
Dad asked, “How are you feeling, Bobby?”
“How am I feeling? I’m feeling hungry.”
“You’re not eating?”
Bobby made a face. “The food here is horrible.”
His mother interrupted. “You’re in a hospital, Bobby. They’re giving you hospital food. Nobody likes hospital food.”
“I sure don’t. It’s horrible.”
Dad tried again. “How is your wound feeling, though? Your shoulder?”
Mrs. Smalls answered for Bobby. “The bullet passed right through, under the shoulder blade. It severed veins and arteries, and it damaged muscle tissue, but it didn’t break any bones.” She shook her head. “Bobby has low muscle tone to begin with; that’s part of Down’s syndrome. He has a very delicate system. It’s not like yours and mine.” She added bitterly, “You can’t go shooting holes in him.”
Dad asked, “Is he going to be okay, though?”
She replied, “Yes, of course,” but she did not sound totally convinced.
Bobby suddenly shouted, “The guy who shot me is dead!”
Dad nodded. “Yes. Yes, that’s true.”
“I’m glad he’s dead!” No one replied to that, so Bobby asked, “Who was he?”
Dad raised his shoulders. “I didn’t know him.” He turned and looked at me.
I told Bobby, “His name was Rick Dorfman. He went to Haven High. He played on the football team.” Everybody was looking at me like they wanted more, so I added, “I only saw him in the store once. I know he had some legal problems, and some drug problems.”
Mrs. Smalls expanded on that. “Some meth problems.”
“Yeah, I think so, the way he was behaving.”
Bobby shouted again, “And what about Reg the Veg?”
“Well, he’s in jail, and he’s going to stay in jail.”
“No! I mean what’s his problem?”
“Oh. I don’t know, Bobby. Maybe he has a drug problem, too. I know he has money problems.”
Bobby mulled that over. “Drug problems. They all have drug problems, all the ones who shoplift. They’re all stupid thieves. They steal cold pills and make meth. They cook it up at home; then they smoke it, right?”
I was surprised at how much he knew. “Yeah. That’s right.”
He went on: “It makes them feel good for one week. Then it makes them feel bad for the rest of their lives. They’re stupid.”
“They sure are.”
“I hope they shoot Reg the Veg!”
Mrs. Smalls intervened. “Come on, Bobby. That wouldn’t be right.”
“Yes, it would.”
Mrs. Smalls stared at him until he looked away. Then he clammed up.
Dad, John, and I shuffled in place for a few more minutes after that, looking around uncomfortably. Dad finally turned to Mrs. Smalls and said, “Well, I’m glad to see that Bobby is up and talking and everything. Is there anything we can do for him, Mrs. Smalls?”
She leaned over the bed and stared at Bobby again, forcing him to make eye contact with her. Then she looked back at Dad. “Bobby thinks he is ready for a little more responsibility at work, Mr. Coleman. He thinks he could be the one who unloads the produce trucks, now that… that… Reg person won’t be.”
Dad agreed right away. “Sure. Sure, Bobby. That’s a good idea. The job is yours.”
Bobby managed a shy smile.
“And that new job would come with a raise.”
Bobby’s eyes bulged and his smile widened.
“The job will be waiting for you when you come back,” Dad assured him. “For now, you take your time and get better.”
We then muttered our goodbyes to Bobby and Mrs. Smalls.
John and I were actually out the doorway when Dad turned back to say one more thing. “And, Bobby, thank you. You’re the one who called the police, in spite of your injury. You knew just what to do. That was a smart and a brave thing to do. You’re the reason why those criminals didn’t get away, and why they’re not out shooting someone else right now. You are a hero, Bobby, and I am proud to have you as an employee.”
Bobby stared at Dad curiously, as if none of that had ever occurred to him.
Dad walked past me. He had tears in his eyes. I took a last look back at Mrs. Smalls. Big tears were running down her face, too.
After an early dinner, we drove to Pottsville to see a movie,
When we got back home, we played a short game of Parcheesi and then a long game of Monopoly. It was a busy, unusual, totally enjoyable family day.
And so was Sunday, but that was more of a day of rest. Rest for everyone except Mom, that is. She cooked and served up roast beef, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, and apple pie.
I slept in. I awoke at nine, staring directly at my Florida colleges collage. I sat up in bed, slid down to the bottom, and set to work dismantling it. I peeled off all the beautiful pictures of sunny campuses, lush greenery, and tanned, smiling people. For me, that was now Wendy Lyle land, and Christmas tree–drug bust land. I was no longer interested. Like Warren, like Jimmy, like Arthur, I was never going back to Florida.
John knocked at the front door around noon. Lilly let him in and kissed him right in front of Mom. But then Mom walked over and kissed him, too, on the cheek. She led him by the elbow into the dining room. “Welcome, John. You’re just in time.”
Dad sat at the head of the table, with his back toward the kitchen. John and Lilly sat on the window side; Mom and I were on the inside. Once everyone had a full plate, Dad said, “This is our family. There are five of us now, with the addition of a new son. Welcome to you, John.”
John was clearly moved. He muttered, “Thank you, sir.”
Lilly laughed. “ ‘Sir’? You don’t call him that at work. You call him Gene.”
Dad said, “He can still call me that. But I hope, in family matters, you’ll feel comfortable calling me Dad.”
John replied, “Yes, sir. Yes, Dad.”
Lilly and I both looked at Mom. She quickly added, “And Mom.” She told him, “I look forward to meeting your parents, John, and your siblings. Do you have siblings?”
He said, “I do. I have one older sister.”
“Ah! What does she do?”
“She works in a dentist’s office. She’s a hygienist.”
That killed the conversation, but only for a moment.
Dad reached out his hands, one to Mom and one to John. Lilly and I joined in, so that we were all holding hands. Then Dad threw me for a loop by saying, “Okay, Tom? Will you say grace for us?”
