Loot the Moon (3 page)
Authors: Mark Arsenault
“Easy now,” the man told her gently. “We can't
ever
let him see us this way. We need to keep his attitude positive. Don't scare him.” The elevator button was already lit, but he jammed his thumb violently against it, as if to show the machine how urgently they needed to leave the trauma wing.
ever
let him see us this way. We need to keep his attitude positive. Don't scare him.” The elevator button was already lit, but he jammed his thumb violently against it, as if to show the machine how urgently they needed to leave the trauma wing.
“He barely knew who we are,” she said.
The man took her in his arms. “He's drugged,” he told her, “for the pain.” His voice was matter-of-fact, but Billy saw him press his eye to her shoulder for an instant, to crush his tear into her cotton shirt. “We'll know more when the swelling goes down, but the X-rays told them a lot, and they wouldn't have moved him from intensive care if he were in danger of ⦔ He paused a moment to edit a grave thought, then said: “If he were in danger.”
They were in their late forties, Billy guessed, judging by the lines
in her face and the gray whiskers on his, though they could have been younger people who had not slept well in a long time. The elevator yawned open, then gobbled them up after they stepped inside. Their desperation for their son to survive clashed in Billy's mind with his old man's desire to die. He pushed the thoughts from his head and slipped into the room the couple had exited. The name on the door tag said:
Tracy, Stuart M
.
in her face and the gray whiskers on his, though they could have been younger people who had not slept well in a long time. The elevator yawned open, then gobbled them up after they stepped inside. Their desperation for their son to survive clashed in Billy's mind with his old man's desire to die. He pushed the thoughts from his head and slipped into the room the couple had exited. The name on the door tag said:
Tracy, Stuart M
.
The room was dark but for a bleak white light, above a lump on the bed.
Jesus Christ, look at him!
B
efore he heard the door click shut, Stu had sensed he was not alone. He marveled at how quickly his other senses had sharpened to compensate for what he could not see. Just one week since the crash, five days since Stu had woken up. Could his senses have grown more acute so quickly?
The ability of my other senses must have always been there
, he thought.
I just didn't notice them.
Perhaps the subtler signals from his ears and his skin had for decades been squeezed to the edge of his bandwidth by the flood of information from the eyes. But now, as he lay blind, the weaker signals had a clear path to the processor. In his time of need, his ears and his skin were doggedly serving him, despite all those years he had failed to appreciate them. Such loyalty! He felt a warm column of pride in his chest for body parts that were so faithful.
efore he heard the door click shut, Stu had sensed he was not alone. He marveled at how quickly his other senses had sharpened to compensate for what he could not see. Just one week since the crash, five days since Stu had woken up. Could his senses have grown more acute so quickly?
The ability of my other senses must have always been there
, he thought.
I just didn't notice them.
Perhaps the subtler signals from his ears and his skin had for decades been squeezed to the edge of his bandwidth by the flood of information from the eyes. But now, as he lay blind, the weaker signals had a clear path to the processor. In his time of need, his ears and his skin were doggedly serving him, despite all those years he had failed to appreciate them. Such loyalty! He felt a warm column of pride in his chest for body parts that were so faithful.
Wow, I am so stoned!
“Mom? That you? Pop?” Stu's mouth would open just half an inch and made him sound like he was a hundred years old.
“Excuse me, Stu ⦠uh,” said a voice from the other side of the bandage over Stu's face.
“You a doctor?”
“No, no. I'mâare you okay to talk?”
“It only hurts when I exist.” Stu smiled at his best line. That joke had cracked up the nurse with the cool, dry handsâAngelaâthe second-shift angel who smelled of Calvin Klein's Obsession.
Mmmmm.
Stu slid out of the moment, and smiled at the recollection of her scent ⦠that time she had leaned over him.
She must rub the perfume on her neck ⦠.
Mmmmm.
Stu slid out of the moment, and smiled at the recollection of her scent ⦠that time she had leaned over him.
She must rub the perfume on her neck ⦠.
“Stu? Stu?” The voice rang with agitation. Or was it worry?
“Sorry,” Stu said, not really sorry at all. “I drifted.”
“Not a problem, I understand,” said the voice; it was a man's voice, low and a little nasally. A pleasant voiceâclean, with no scratchiness or crackling. Stu had auditioned dozens of men for his band and could identify a great singer by the way he said hello. This voice speaking to him couldn't sing “Yankee Doodle.” But this was a voice for fine speechmaking. The words came at Stu from a low angle, just above the bed. Was this man four feet tall?
“My name is Povich,” the man said. “And I am, well, I guess I'm an investigator, for lack of a better term, working for the lawyer that represents Judge Harmony's estate, and I want to ask you a few questions.”
A barrage of yellow fireworks exploded on the inside of Stu's eyelids. “They told me this was a private floor,” Stu said. “Only family is allowed in here.” His fingers felt for the call button that would bring the nurse.
The man who called himself Povich paused for a second. Stu heard his shirt ruffle and the cartilage click in his shoulders.
Amazing. I can hear a shrug!
Amazing. I can hear a shrug!
Povich said, “Sure the room's private, it just ain't impenetrable.”
“You snuck here? How?”
“I'm using my old man's wheelchair right now. He had a stroke some years ago, and doesn't walk more than a few steps at a time. He's
downstairs getting dialysis, so I borrowed his ride. Comfortable. Low miles. Handles like a dream. And I borrowed a white smock from the laundry room.” He made a long sniffing noise. “Smells unwashed, so I hope whoever wore this last was here for something like a broken ankle, not the Ebola virus.”
downstairs getting dialysis, so I borrowed his ride. Comfortable. Low miles. Handles like a dream. And I borrowed a white smock from the laundry room.” He made a long sniffing noise. “Smells unwashed, so I hope whoever wore this last was here for something like a broken ankle, not the Ebola virus.”
Stu laughed. He felt a stabbing in his ribs. He groaned, stiffened against the pain until it passed, and then chuckled. Not so bad. The laugh was worth it.
“You're an honest dude, Povich,” Stu said.
“It's Billy.”
“I think you're the first honest person that's come see me, Billy.”
What had been worrying Stu was not the pain that raked him from the inside, like a trapped animal trying to bite its way out; it was the awkward distance he sensed from his parents and the hospital staffâan odd formality, as if nobody dared get too close, because Stu might not be here much longer. He sensed it in the pauses between his questions and his parents' answers. When he asked about his prognosis, he got encouragement in response. When he demanded answers, they gave him drugs. He could not
see
his parents exchanging glances but he could
feel
it. Their secrecy terrified him
. What is wrong with me?
see
his parents exchanging glances but he could
feel
it. Their secrecy terrified him
. What is wrong with me?
Stu said, “I know I've been hurt bad, but nobody will tell me how bad.”
Povich paused a moment. “They don't want to worry you.”
“Everybody says I'm gonna be fine, and they can't wait for when I get home and we play touch football in the snow this Thanksgiving, and all this happy horseshit. Nobody will tell me the truth.”
He heard Povich smack his lips, then a light scrape as Povich passed a hand over the stubble on his chin.
So he's unshaven but doesn't wear a full beard.
Stu tried to picture him, but his imagination produced only a silhouette.
So he's unshaven but doesn't wear a full beard.
Stu tried to picture him, but his imagination produced only a silhouette.
“What do you look like, Billy?” Stu asked.
“Huh? Me?”
“I can sorta tell when the lights are on or off in the room, but that's all I can see at the moment. My world is opaque, dirt-colored. I've been burned, battered. I hope to recover my sight, but who knows? How will my eyes work once the swelling goes down? For now, I have nothing to see but my imagination. Tell meâwhat do you look like?”
“Like a bodybuilding anchorman,” Povich said, “but with a better tan.” He chuckled. Stu grinned, as wide as his swollen lips would stretch. Povich confessed: “Actually, I'm a tall, skinny Polack, with a face full of trianglesânose, chin, the hairline around my cowlick.” He laughed. “My teeth are real straightâtoo straight, maybeâbecause they aren't real.”
“What happened to the real ones?”
“Punched down one storm drain or another, a tooth or two at a time, by the impatient men who collect overdue bills in this town.”
“So you know hospitals.”
“I got a bump on the bridge of my nose, right where it always breaksâthere's another triangle for you, though more like a pyramid with round edges.”
Stu moaned happily. He could
see
him, floating in front of Stu like a character projected onto a dark screen. There was no wheelchair in the image. As Stu stared at the man his imagination helped create, Povich's head sprouted a tall, pointed magician's hat, blue and covered with yellow stars. “Man, I don't like being so wasted,” Stu said, more to himself than to Povich.
see
him, floating in front of Stu like a character projected onto a dark screen. There was no wheelchair in the image. As Stu stared at the man his imagination helped create, Povich's head sprouted a tall, pointed magician's hat, blue and covered with yellow stars. “Man, I don't like being so wasted,” Stu said, more to himself than to Povich.
“It's for the pain,” Povich said. “You must have a lot of it.”
“Billy, you have to help me. Tell me, how do
I
look?”
I
look?”
A pause. “Well, shitty.”
Stu laughed until the pain shocked him like two hundred volts, seizing his body for a few seconds of torture, and then dropping him limp.
Okay, that time the laugh wasn't quite worth it.
Okay, that time the laugh wasn't quite worth it.
“Your face is bandaged with white gauze, stained pink a couple places,” Povich said. “The skin that I can see is swollen, raked with scabs and scratches. Your arm is hooked to an IV hanging on a silver hook. It's dripping a liquid the color of chamomile tea into you.”
“Is that decaf?”
“Probably would be, if it was actually tea. Jeez, you
are
wasted.” Povich chuckled. “Both your legs are encased in soft casts; the left cast is more complicated and rugged than the right. Makes senseâthe police report I've read said you nearly lost your left leg. It broke a couple places, apparently, when you got thrown from the wreck.”
are
wasted.” Povich chuckled. “Both your legs are encased in soft casts; the left cast is more complicated and rugged than the right. Makes senseâthe police report I've read said you nearly lost your left leg. It broke a couple places, apparently, when you got thrown from the wreck.”
Povich paused, breathed deep, and Stu thought he could also hear the wet click of his eyeballs turning in their sockets, but that
had
to be the drugs. Povich said, “There's a sheet over your midsection that I don't dare lift, with some tubes coming out from under there. And there's, ahâhmm, a bag of urine hanging from under the bed.”
had
to be the drugs. Povich said, “There's a sheet over your midsection that I don't dare lift, with some tubes coming out from under there. And there's, ahâhmm, a bag of urine hanging from under the bed.”
“Got it,” Stu interrupted. He couldn't believe nobody had told him he'd nearly lost a leg.
“I know you had internal injuries, spent nearly a week in critical,” Billy continued. “I heard you're going to need a few more operations on that left leg. You're supposed to make it. But when you fly, the metal detector at the airport will ring like a slot machine.”
Stu glimpsed his near futureâfirst a wheelchair, then crutches, then a cane, then just a limp. Sorrow poured over him, but then poured off just as quickly, like a bucket of water over some rainproof fabric. He was too doped to be morbid, and he embraced the feeling of well-being the drugs created. Fake, but useful. He took a silent minute to shove the thoughts about his future into a heap in some back corner of his mind. He would sort through that pile later. “Thank you,” he croaked, “for the truth.”
“The truth sucks,” Povich said, in what sounded like an apology.
“Truth is a relief,” Stu said. “Sometimes when I can't decide if I'm asleep or awake, I wonder if I'm already dead.”
“What happened in that car?”
Stu told him about the gunman and his prisoner at the side of the road, about the pistol in his face, the slalom down the old country road at seventy miles per hour in a car built for Sunday drives and backseat necking at the drive-in.
“Do you remember the crash?”
“I can't know if this is a memory or a dream,” Stu admitted, “but I'll tell you.”
Â
Â
Stu listened to the voices. Were they real? He struggled against sleep and opened his eyes. Through a blur, like through a smear of grease on glass, he saw tree trunks, looking like gray scratches on the black night. A trickle of cold water ran over his left arm. He was on his back. His whole left side was soaked. He wondered, embarrassed:
Have I pissed myself?
He listened to the gurgle of a tiny spring and realized he was on the ground. The earth beneath him was soft and smelled mossy. He was on a bed of pine needles.
This would be a good place to camp,
he thought. He listened for the voices. Somebody moaned. Footsteps shuffled through the underbrush. Stu's breathing was shallow. He balled his hands into loose fists and wiggled his right foot. The left foot ignored him. What he felt was not pain, exactly, but a stunned detachment from the broken parts of himself. He understood that his mind had erected a dam to delay the flood of pain that would drown him if he felt it all at once. He was hurt deep inside his bellyâthat much, he knew. He was hurt in places only a doctor could reach. He tried to lift his head, but it weighed too much. He could not save himself; he would have to wait for help.
Have I pissed myself?
He listened to the gurgle of a tiny spring and realized he was on the ground. The earth beneath him was soft and smelled mossy. He was on a bed of pine needles.
This would be a good place to camp,
he thought. He listened for the voices. Somebody moaned. Footsteps shuffled through the underbrush. Stu's breathing was shallow. He balled his hands into loose fists and wiggled his right foot. The left foot ignored him. What he felt was not pain, exactly, but a stunned detachment from the broken parts of himself. He understood that his mind had erected a dam to delay the flood of pain that would drown him if he felt it all at once. He was hurt deep inside his bellyâthat much, he knew. He was hurt in places only a doctor could reach. He tried to lift his head, but it weighed too much. He could not save himself; he would have to wait for help.
He inhaled deeply and smelled the car. His nose wrinkled at the stench of gasoline, burnt rubber, and the sickening fumes of smoldering vinyl and foam. There was a spicy metallic odor, too, he could not
place at first, until he felt the hot rivulet down the side of his nose and realized he could smell his own blood.
place at first, until he felt the hot rivulet down the side of his nose and realized he could smell his own blood.
He thought about his parents and felt a pressing sadness. They had decided twenty-five years ago to invest all their love in just one child, and now were too old to have another.
Someone moaned again. Stu thought about calling out but decided to save his strength. The moan had come from atop a steep embankment that began at Stu's feet. He could make out the dark scrape on the hillside where his sliding body had gouged the forest floor. The underbrush crackled. Stu's field of vision steadily narrowed as the flesh near his eyes swelled around his injuries.
With a hollow roar, a sudden explosion upon the hill flung yellow light against the trees. A fireball spun skyward in the shape of an unraveling question mark, and then burned out, leaving a thousand tiny orange fireflies where the flame had singed the pine trees. Stu waited to feel the heat of the explosion on his face. He felt just the coolness of the air beneath the hill, and was disappointed. He watched the fireflies die out to black. He listened to the fire excitedly explore the innards of his old Lincoln. The car had been his grandfather's. His grandfather had been a spiteful eccentric, and Stu had not cried when he had died. He cried for the old bastard now.
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