Elaine Orr - Jolie Gentil 03 - When the Carny Comes to Town (3 page)

Ramona and I had just begun to compare notes on the carnival — which for Ramona is a commentary on what people wore and for me includes a lot of questions about whether Ramona thinks I knew someone from the brief time I lived in Ocean Alley — when a black Ford sedan rolled to the curb outside the store.

“Uh oh,” I said.  “Do you remember me doing anything lately that would annoy Sgt. Morehouse?” 

“Don’t think so,” she replied, and we watched for a couple seconds while he slammed the car door shut and walked the short distance to the store. 

Sgt. Morehouse and I have a sometimes uneasy relationship.  If you can call me trying to get information from him when he wants me to mind my own business a relationship.  He’s only about ten years older than Ramona and me, which puts him in his late thirties or early forties, though he looks older.  He wears more polyester than I do and he can be grouchy when he wants me to go away, but he’s done me a couple big favors.

He half opened the door, and barked at us.  “I need you two to come with me.”  As we both looked at him mutely, he added, “Now!”

Ramona gestured one arm in a circle.  “I’m the only one here…”

“Roland’s coming in.”

The back door to the store opened and we heard Roland’s voice from the storage area as he walked toward the sales floor.  “I’m here.  Get going.”

Ramona grabbed her purse and I hitched mine on my shoulder.  “What the…” I began.

Morehouse interrupted me.  “It’s Scoobie.  He’s hurt bad.” 

CHAPTER THREE

MOREHOUSE SHOUTED DOWN our barrage of questions.  “I just got the damn call.  I told you what I know.”  He put the cherry light on his dashboard so we got to the hospital pretty fast.  He parked the car at the curb near the emergency entrance and we ran inside. 

I’m not sure why I was running.  I had no idea where we were going, but wherever Scoobie was I wanted to get there fast.

“He still in there?”  Morehouse nodded at the emergency room nurse standing by the “patients only” door as she opened it for us.

“They just took him to surgery.”

Morehouse stopped and Ramona and I collided with each other.  He pointed to a small room behind the triage desk.  “In here.”

I was ready to scream at him to tell us what was going on.  Ramona doesn’t scream, but she looked as confused and scared as I felt.

“Sit.”  He pointed to two of the six chairs in the small room and pulled one around to face us.  “Found him about seven-thirty this morning.  He was face-down in the sand under the boardwalk.”

Ramona and I both shouted almost the same question.  “He was out there all night?!”

Morehouse looked at the nurse, who had followed us into the small room.  I realized it must be for families of people who died, since there were booklets about the stages of grief on a table. 
Not a good omen.

“I don’t think we know.  We can be pretty sure he was injured not too long before he was found.”  The woman glanced at us and back at Morehouse.  “His injuries…I doubt he would have lived through the night.”

“What are they operating on?” Ramona asked.

“It’s okay,” Morehouse said, in response to the nurse’s hesitation. “These two and Madge are the same as his family.  Couldn’t tell you wherever the hell his lazy-assed parents are, anyway.”

“There’s a head injury,” she said slowly.  “The doctors want to reduce pressure from swelling.”

“They do that here?” I asked.  I’d been in this hospital briefly.  Though it’s been added onto through the years, it’s a community hospital, not a place you’d associate with brain surgery.

“Time was of the essence,” she said.  When she saw the silent tears coursing down my cheeks her tone softened.  “He did make it here, that’s an important first step.”

Morehouse stood up.  “Stay here for a second.”  He left and the nurse followed him.

Ramona and I stared at each other, and she dug in her purse for a handkerchief.  I grabbed a tissue from the table.

“Did he stop by to see you and Madge?” she asked in between a couple good blows.

I shook my head.

“Was that a no?” Morehouse asked as he walked back in and sat down.  With him was Dana Johnson, who is a more junior officer.  Even Jazz would have trouble turning around in the tiny room.

“We left the carnival without him,” I said, and looked at Ramona.

“I didn’t see him the last hour or so.  I was back to my drawings.”

“And I was over at the dunk tank,” I added.

Dana pulled out a small notebook and began to read from her notes.  “We got the call about seven-thirty this morning.   Caller wanted paramedics to come to the boardwalk, near the steps close to Java Jolt.  Dispatch said the guy who called was pretty calm, had a raspy voice.  That’s really all we know.  Lieutenant Tortino’s down there with a couple officers now.”

“What did Scoobie say?” Ramona asked.

I glanced at Morehouse and he looked away.  I didn’t figure Scoobie did any talking if he had brain swelling.

“He wasn’t conscious,” Dana said, gently.

“So other than you two, who was he with yesterday?”  Morehouse commanded. 

We kind of played off each other, remembering the day.  We both remembered that Scoobie didn’t seem to want to go back to the High Striker.  “He looked right at the guy,” I said, “and I’d swear the carnival guy was giving Scoobie a funny look.”

Morehouse nodded at Dana.  “Find out which one of the carnies that was and talk to him.”  She left.

Carnies.  Why is that familiar?  I racked my brain.  I could almost hear Scoobie say something about carnies, or carny, or something like that.

“What?” Morehouse asked, looking at me.

“I think Scoobie said something…”  I sat up straighter.  “We were at Gracie’s grandmother’s house, on the porch.  But…all he said was, like, I should remind him to tell me about his carny days, or something.”

“Ocean City, I think,” Ramona added, and we both looked at her.

“Ocean City, what?”  Morehouse asked.

She shrugged.  “He went away for a few months.  After the last time he got picked up for smoking pot.  Or maybe,” she scrunched her face, “maybe it was after the time he got picked up for selling an ounce of pot.”

I knew about the pot stuff, but not that Scoobie had left town for awhile.  “What about Ocean City?” I asked.

“I remember he said he wanted to be near the water but he thought he ought to get away from people here, so he worked at…I don’t think a carnival, maybe an amusement park.”

Morehouse wrote in his small notebook.  “I’ll figure it out.”

A man I assumed to be a doctor opened the door.  “You wanted to talk to me, sergeant?”

Morehouse waved him in.  “Whaddya know?” he asked.

“It’s not the worst TBI I’ve seen, but it’s a pretty decent one…traumatic brain injury,” he said, nodding to Ramona and me.

The door opened and Aunt Madge came in.  She still had on the apron she wears when she’s making bread for afternoon tea at the B&B.  “Is it true?” she asked, almost in a whisper.

“Sit down, Madge.”  Morehouse gestured to the chair next to him. 

We all looked at the doctor, whose name badge said he was Dr. Nobles, and he continued.  “It’s from a pretty severe blow to the back of the head.  An injury like that causes the brain to collide with the skull, and in response the brain will swell.  In some cases, the surgeon will do what’s called a craniotomy, which means they will reduce the increased intracranial pressure so as to avoid brain damage.”

He kind of stumbled over the last few words, which I took to mean he couldn’t guarantee Scoobie’s brain wasn’t already messed up.

“There are choices, but whatever they choose to do, it shouldn’t take long to relieve the pressure.  But,” he glanced at Aunt Madge, as if trying to ascertain who was a close relative.  “It will be a…”

“In English, Dr. Nobles,” Aunt Madge said.  “What is a craniotomy?”

“Please,” Ramona said, in a soft voice.

I gave her a tiny smile and we both looked again at the doctor.

“Now this sounds more dangerous than it is, plus keep in mind that there are less invasive methods.”  He looked at Sgt. Morehouse and then Aunt Madge.  “A craniotomy entails drilling holes in the skull.  Generally a piece is removed and then placed back when danger of swelling has ended.”

“And the less invasive methods?” I asked.

“Another option is to insert a catheter into the brain to drain fluid.  Sometimes it can be drained once, other times the doctors put in a shunt so they can use a catheter on more than one occasion.”

“But you don’t know which for Scoobie?” Sgt. Morehouse asked.

“That’s a decision to be made in the operating room, in this case.  The good news is that the surgeon who was here today has done both surgeries, many, many times.  I’m actually not as concerned about the brain swelling as the back injury, which could be more problematic.”

“More than drilling holes in his skull?” Aunt Madge asked.

“The brain is incredibly resilient.  Crushed vertebrae in the back maybe not so much.”  He nodded at Sgt. Morehouse and Aunt Madge.  “We should know fairly soon if there is substantial nerve damage.  I’ll keep you posted.”

What are we, bedpans?

As Dr. Nobles left, Sgt. Morehouse began to tell Aunt Madge what had happened.  I didn’t bother to wonder how she knew to come to the ER.  She knows everyone.  Instead, I thought about Scoobie, trying to remember if he had said anything about anybody being mad at him.  All I could see was him sitting at the table in the library, head bent over a steno pad, writing his poetry.

“Hey,” I said aloud.  “If they found him at seven-thirty how come we’re just hearing about it?”

“He didn’t have any ID on him, and he couldn’t tell them who he was.  When he first came in apparently they were more focused on his injuries than who he was.”  Morehouse looked up and then went out to talk to a uniformed officer in the hallway.

After Morehouse left the small room Ramona, Aunt Madge, and I went over yesterday again and rehashed what Morehouse had told us.  Nothing made sense.  We had been sitting silently for a couple minutes, waiting to know when we could see Scoobie, and I let my thoughts wander.

As far as I know, Scoobie knows half the town but he does not have close friends other than Ramona and me, and I guess Aunt Madge.  I certainly never heard him talk about any enemies.  A few months ago I would have said I knew a lot about Scoobie’s schedule and habits, but since he started taking classes in January I’ve only seen him a couple times a week.  I think I know most people in his life.  There’s an English teacher at the community college Scoobie said gets mad every time he corrects him on something, but Scoobie hasn’t talked about anyone else being annoyed with him.

Who would hurt Scoobie?  I remembered the man I thought smirked at Scoobie.  Now, of course, it seemed important.  But it could have been something simple, like earlier in the day he’d insulted Scoobie about his 1920s-era bathing suit.  If Scoobie is uncomfortable with someone he usually walks away, and that’s what it looked like he did yesterday with the guy at the High Striker.  All I could remember was that the carnival worker had a swarthy look and a solid build.  Probably only about twenty thousand people like that in this part of Jersey. 

The woman from the reception desk looked in at us.  “You can go up to the third floor.  When he gets out of surgery the doctor will want to talk to you.”  She pointed toward the elevator and added, “Walk right when you get off.  You’ll see a room called surgery waiting area.”

Ramona and I trailed behind Aunt Madge, who knows the hospital as well as she knows every other building in town.  There was no one else in the waiting room, so I helped myself to coffee and sat to one side of Ramona.  Aunt Madge was on her other side and had a hand on Ramona’s knee as she sobbed softly into her handkerchief.  We all looked up as a tall man in scrubs and a paper hospital hat walked in.

He sat sideways on the arm of a large chair so he could face all of us.  “The head injury could have been a lot worse.  If I hadn’t been visiting a couple old friends in the hospital ER when they brought him in we would have lost valuable time.  I had the exact skills he needed.”

I’m not usually keen on people who toot their own horn quite that loudly, but in this case I was thrilled. 

“Exactly what is wrong with him?” Aunt Madge asked.

“He has a fractured skull…”

Ramona sobbed harder.

“…which is not as bad as it sounds,” he continued, and picked up a small piece of paper and pencil from the table with the coffee and quickly sketched a skull. 

I shivered, remembering a real one I’d seen last November.

“It’s not a deep fracture, but it did cause swelling, and no injury to the skull can be taken lightly.”  He drew a tiny line from just below the crown and down an inch.  “Judging from the size, I’d guess he was hit with something a couple inches wide.  Not good, but it could have been much worse.”  He pointed to a spot on the drawing.  “This is where I drilled a very tiny hole to insert the catheter…”

Aunt Madge grabbed a nearby trash can and shoved it at Ramona in time for her to throw up in it.  The doctor walked out and came back a few seconds later with a wad of damp paper towels.