Requiem for the Bone Man (25 page)

Leni, Cathy, June!

The emotion overwhelmed him. He wanted to crouch down, to bury his head in his hands. But something tugged at his shirt sleeve. He opened his eyes and felt young hands on his arm.

“Why are you sad, Tio?”

Suddenly touched, he dropped to his knees—and lied.

“I’m not sad, Tonio. I’m just very happy to be here with you.”

The little boy smiled and threw his arms around the old man’s neck. Galen collected himself. He picked Tonio up and held him close for a moment then put him down again.

“Come on, let’s go inside. Your brother and sister are waiting for us. It will be dinnertime soon, and Tia Nancy will wonder where we went.”

They trudged back up the path leading to the house, bear and cub, one trying to walk in the footsteps of the other.

A few weeks passed. Galen remained deeply troubled by the recent events. Why do such bad things happen to such good people? Was it really a zero-sum game? Save three, lose three?

Maybe those religions that believe in capricious deities are right. Maybe Loki, Crow god, the Greek fates, and their ilk really do roll the dice and play with us like pawns.

One day he almost fell off the deck, so immersed was he in his thoughts.

Edison had been watching him carefully. Despite the years apart he understood his friend well enough to know he was still carrying the full load of the recent tragedies.

Talk about bad luck or no luck at all
, he thought.

Three loves, three losses. It was almost as though Galen was meant to go through life alone.

Nancy was not so pessimistic. She had noticed how Tonio was following Galen around like a shadow—just as little Federico, who now wanted to be called Freddie, was doing with Bob. Truth be told, she had grown very happy, having quickly and comfortably bonded with Carmelita. The two of them would sit for hours reading aloud or take long walks in the woods.

The experience had planted a thought firmly inside her.

Maybe this is a second chance. Maybe in old age we’ve finally been blessed with the family we’ve always wanted.

“Dinner!” Nancy called. “Come on, guys and gals, wash up and take your places.”

One by one they squeezed around the circular mahogany table, which used to be more than big enough for two but now was overflowing with the three adults and three children.

It was early August, so there still was plenty of daylight as they began the evening meal. The sky had taken on an umber hue prefacing a storm, and flashes from distant lightning faintly illuminated the expansive window pane facing the valley below. They watched as the dark clouds rolled in and brighter streaks of light shot across the horizon. Then the rain began to shotgun-pellet its way to earth while the flashes increased in size and intensity.

The rain performed a steady tattoo on the picture window as they ate. Just the right background for Mussorgsky’s “Night on Bald Mountain,” Edison thought, as he popped the CD into the player then rejoined his wife and friend and the children in the dining room, where the aroma of pot roast and jasmine tea filled the air.

Thunder rumbled again, a post-prandial celebration of Nancy’s good food. When a nearby lightning strike caused the power to wink out, she reflexively got up from the table and went to flip the light switch off and on. At her first try, the lights returned but only momentarily, and the ghostly flash of the light striking the table triggered a memory in the quietest member of the circle.

...

“Mr. Galen, hold that retractor more firmly, unless you want me to slice through this patient’s aorta.”

He was rotating through general surgery. Rounds—that military march of the attending surgeon, his chief resident, the other yearly residents, interns, seniors, and finally the lowest of the low, the third year students—began at 5 a.m.

The daily routine repeated over and over, grinding away at the determination and idealism of even the most dedicated among them. Endless presentations of patients with mild or mortal conditions elicited constant pimping, a game of one-upmanship among those rounding to see who could stump the others with the most obscure journal references.

And then, OR at 6 a.m. Hour after hour, standing in gown, cap, shoe and head coverings, having learned the sacerdotal rites of hand-and-forearm scrubbing under the hawk-eyed supervision of the OR nurse, whom the students assumed was really an escaped Nazi concentration-camp guard who enjoyed tormenting them.

“Hold the retractor” was the common command, extending an arm for excruciating lengths of time between the real players bent over the
spécialité du jour
lying naked and unconscious atop the brightly lit table. Galen often wondered, could he detach his arm and leave for a bathroom break without anyone knowing it?

How did the surgeons do it, standing there, hour after hour? By senior year he had the temerity to ask a chief resident that question. He blanched at the reply: “Depends on how tough the guy is. Some can hold it. Others use diapers, and the real masochists use catheters with bags strapped to their legs!”

...

Another zap of lightning briefly illuminated the still-darkened room.

...

“Galen, you have another patient to work up.” The intern had called him at 3 a.m. “Oh, by the way, it’s a LOL with no veins and totally out of her gourd. She’s an alcoholic with terminal liver disease, heart failure, kidney failure, bed sores, and contractures of her legs and arms.”

The nursing home had decided she needed help about two hours earlier.
Some place
, he thought. It looked as though they hadn’t given her a bath in a week.

...

The power flickered on and off once more. Again Nancy got up to flip the switch, and this time the lights returned.

Galen felt a strange epiphany as he watched her rejoin the group, precipitated by the recollection the power outage had elicited.

And there you stood, Galen old boy, looking down at what was once a human being who had loved, had family, and was now being plucked apart by time. Remember what you thought? “Why is there no on/off switch to help these people?” Is that the note your own life will end on—helpless, alone and unwanted? Have the deities rolled craps on your behalf?

The echoes became deafening.

“What’s your name?” … “Robert Galen.” … “No, kid. From now on, it’s Dottore Berto.” … “Why do you want to know, kid?” … “I want to be like you.” … “Non ho figlio!” … “Hi, I’m Bill Crowley.” … “David Allen Nash, and it looks like we’re gonna be roommates.” … “June Ross, will you marry me?” … “Will you marry me, Leni Jensen?” … “Yes, Tony.” … “Bob, Leni’s spirit wants me to call you Tony.” … “Cathy Welton, will you marry me?” … “Yes, Tony.” … “Are you going to live with us, Tio?”

“Tio?”

As the lightning and thunder matched the symphony almost beat for beat, he noticed Antonio had climbed onto his lap, his little arms clutching the old man tightly.

The long-forgotten warmth of being needed, a memory buried in grief and loss, suddenly erupted in Galen’s soul.

This was his family now.

R.A. Comunale is a semi-retired physician in family practice and specialist in aviation medicine who lives and works out of his home office in McLean, Virginia. He enjoys writing, gardening, electronics, pounding on a piano, and yelling at his dimwitted cat. He describes himself as an eccentric and iconoclast.

The cat has provided no comment.