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Authors: Robin Hathaway

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BOOK: Satan's Pony
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“As in apple or three point one four?”
He gave me an enigmatic smile.
“I'll give you a better one,” I said. “Doc.”
His eyebrows shot up. “I don't get it.”
“From the Seven Dwarfs. He was their leader. By the way, how did you get to be the leader?”
He shrugged.
“You're not the biggest.”
“Nope.”
“Or the prettiest.”
“Aw gee … .”
“The smartest?”
He was intent on resetting his ratchet wrench.
“Yeah. That's it,” I said, catching on. “You're the brains of the family.”
“Shhh.”
“
Brains
is a dirty word?”
Another shrug.
“Where did you go to school?”
“MIT,” he muttered.
“What happened?”
“That's a long story.”
“Give me the short version.”
“Ran outta dough.”
I glanced at his gleaming Harley. “That hog of yours would pay for a couple of semesters.”
He looked up from my bike and fixed his disconcerting blue gaze on me. “You don't recognize me, do you?”
I stared.
“Archie Hammond. Paper boy?”
Ohmygod.
He smiled. “I recognized you right away. For a kid, I had a man-sized crush on you.”
Archie Hammond. It all came back. The scrawny kid down the street who delivered our paper. He was fourteen when I was seventeen. He used to hang around our front porch on long summer evenings. If it was hot, I'd give him a Coke. And if I was really bored
I'd even shoot the breeze with him or play gin rummy. He was smart for his age. Then I went off to college and never saw him again. Later, Dad told me, “You know that kid, Archie, from down the street? Turns out he won a scholarship to MIT!” And still later, “That kid, Archie—you remember him—he got into some bad trouble and had to drop out of school. His parents are taking it hard.”
“Now you remember,” he interrupted my reverie. “Local boy makes good. Local boy makes bad. End of story.”
“I'm sorry I didn't recognize you, Archie—”
“Pi. That name went in the Dumpster years ago.”
“Pi. But you're so different …”
“Bodybuilding does wonders.” He flexed his biceps.
“Not just that. Your whole …” I couldn't find the word.
“Persona?” His eyes twinkled. “Yeah. I can see how you might have been fooled. I was quite a wimp in those days.”
“No, you were a nice kid—”
“As for you—your persona was forever etched on my boyish brain. First loves don't erase easily.”
I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. When I knew Archie, there was a three-year gap in our ages—an ocean, when you're still in school—eliminating the possibility of any relationship, other than casual friendship. Time had a way of narrowing such gaps. “So, why did you drop out of college?” I asked.
He blinked, as if splashed with cold water, and returned to my bike. I knew our conversation was over.
As I watched Pi put my bike back together, I couldn't help thinking about Archie. What had happened to him? Could he possibly still be buried under that mass of muscle and tattoos? He worked with incredible skill and speed. I liked to watch skilled people work with their hands. My dad had been skilled with his printing tools until everything went electronic: he would set type, fix the presses, prepare the press for a run, with incredible dexterity. And, of course, I never tired of watching the surgeons' hands when I was in training.
Pi stood up and stretched. His hands were coated with black, oily grease. “Boogie, boogie, boogie!” He wiggled his fingers at me.
I cringed, laughing.
“Have you got a hose in this godforsaken hole?”
“You're speaking of my home.” I feigned indignation.
His eyes widened. “You
live
in this dump?”
“I provide medical services to the guests of this motel and others in the area. It's convenient to live on-site.”
“A motel doctor!” He cut through the shit.
No matter in what fancy terms I couched my occupation, it always came down to that. I nodded.
“What d'ya know. And I thought you were headed for the big-time hospitals. Columbia or Cornell.”
I winced. “Things happen … .” I said, feebly
“Don't they, though,” he agreed with complete understanding. “But, you're still an M.D., right?”
I nodded.
“Would you take a look at this rash on my tummy?” He jerked up his tattered, grease-stained T-shirt, revealing a few pimples—probably poison ivy.
“If you want my professional opinion, you can come to my office,” I said stiffly, pulling a card from my pocket.
“Oh, hoity-toity! Is that my reward for a morning's work?” He gave my newly rehabbed bike a slap.
“I'm sorry. No, I really appreciate—”
“Forget it.” He scanned the card
“Yo, Pi. Give me a hand!” a biker hailed him from across the parking lot.
He pocketed the card. “See you at two,” and with a wink he took off.
These bikers might be a law unto themselves, but they sure jumped when one of their own barked. Pi had barely left when a hog rumbled up beside me, spraying me with dust and gravel.
“Watch it!” I raised my hand to shield my eyes.
The rider switched off his motor and pushed his goggles up. Red Beard, alias Jingles. “Aw, look at the little trikey Did Daddy let you take the training wheels off today?”
I moved away. I wished they would leave. The thing that had drawn me to Bayfield was its tranquillity. The bikers had destroyed that. And finding out that their leader was a former neighbor had shaken me more than I realized.
While I was watching Archie—er—Pi, work on my bike, my mind had been totally absorbed, but now fatigue took over and I could barely drag myself up the stairs to my room. When I got inside, I tried to put the whole bizarre morning out of my mind. I called the hospital. Bobby Shoemaker was still comatose. This news was no surprise; my cell phone had been silent during the entire bike rehab. I checked my other messages. Two. One from Dad, one from
Tom. Dad wondering when I was coming for a visit. Tom wondering what night I would be free,
not
on call.
“Not tonight, buster,” I spoke into Tom's answering machine. “Tonight I'm hitting the hay at seven o'clock.” I looked at my watch and groaned. One-oh-five. In less than an hour I had to be in the office. Dad would have to wait. I set the alarm and fell onto my futon.
 
 
I blinked in the bright sun. If anything, my short nap had made me feel worse. As I headed for the office, I passed my bike—and stopped dead. Not only was it a cool forest green, but it had a sleek silver trim. It glittered in the sun like a newly decorated Christmas tree. I walked all around it, staring, pop-eyed. The headlight and taillights gleamed. Maybe their beams would even be visible at night.
“Nice, huh?”
I turned. Pi, too, had undergone a transformation. He wasn't exactly clean, but all traces of his morning work were gone. His hands were greaseless and he was wearing a different tattered T-shirt.
“Why aren't you in your office?” He glanced at his watch—a disk the size of a poker chip bearing a giant face of Popeye.
“I was on my way till I saw this.” I waved at my bike. “It's fantastic!”
“Soap and water are great inventions.”
“How would you know?”
“Let's go. You're keeping your patient waiting.”
“What patient?”
He spread his arms and made a slight bow.
I was reminded that he'd been to a prestigious northeast school.
He followed me into the office. The crowd hadn't arrived yet. (Ha. Ha.) I left him in the waiting room while I dug up some calamine lotion. I brought the bottle out to him.
His face fell. “No examination?”
“Nope. No charge, either.”
“Gee. I'd be glad to pay—”
“Sorry. I only give exams on Mondays.”
“I'll be back,” he promised, stuffing the little pink bottle in the pocket of his jeans.
And I was sure he would. The shy, yearning paper boy I remembered was long gone, I reflected.
 
 
A few patients trickled in, and I managed to keep my eyes open until four o'clock. While they were still open I decided to go to the hospital and check on Bobby. When I left the parking lot and hit the road, I went into a state of shock. Was this the same bike I'd been riding for the past six months? It floated rather than rode. And—sniff, sniff—it smelled as sweet as a country breeze. I inhaled deeply and turned up the throttle. Heady stuff, riding a recently rehabbed bike on a May afternoon in south Jersey. Right that minute there was absolutely nothing I'd rather be doing and nowhere I'd rather be. I'd have to think of some way to repay Pi.
This mood quickly evaporated in the hospital parking lot when the young driver who had hit Bobby came rushing up. Had he been lying in wait for me?
“Any news, Doctor?”
“I just got here. But I called in about an hour ago and there was no change.”
His face, already gray, turned a shade grayer.
“What's your name?”
“Chris Connor.”
“Come on, Chris; let's find out.” I stashed my helmet and grabbed my kit.
Together we headed for the entrance.
As we crossed the lobby, a young woman came toward us.
“Any news, Chris?” Her face was pale and strained.
He shook his head. “My wife, Ruth. Dr. Banks.”
We shook hands.
“A sad business,” I said for something to say, and I guided them to the elevator. Neither answered. The sadness was etched in their faces. Yesterday they had been any young couple, wondering whether to buy a new sofa or have the house painted. Today they were sick with worry over a youngster they had never met and fearful of a lawsuit or even a manslaughter charge. We rode in silence. The doors slid open, revealing another couple, seated on a bench. Bobby's parents.
I nodded a greeting. Instead of rising to meet me and asking after their son, they remained seated in stony silence, oozing dark resentment toward my companions. Although there was plenty of room on the bench, it didn't seem sensible to leave these two couples in such close proximity. I ushered the Connors down the hall to a secret nook I used sometimes to catch my breath during especially difficult cases. Their gratitude was pathetic. I reprimanded myself for feeling more sympathy for these two than for the boy's parents. But the Connors seemed more sincerely concerned about the boy than the Shoemakers, who seemed merely inconvenienced.
And I couldn't help holding Bobby's parents partly responsible for the accident. They should have known the whereabouts of their twelve-year-old son at nine o'clock at night. And his bike should have been equipped, if not with lights, at least with reflectors. I couldn't help comparing them to the parents of Sophie, whom I had lost due to a misdiagnosis. The intensity of their anxiety had been excruciating. I shut my eyes to block out the memory.
It was a relief to enter the ICU, where people were unconscious or at least immobile.
“Doctor,” the nurse in charge said as she came toward me, “there's been some progress. His vital signs are stronger and Ms. Hamilton said she saw his eyelids flutter.”
I pulled Bobby's chart hanging at the end of his bed. His blood pressure was in a normal range and his pulse was regular. The boy lay sleeping. His breathing was even and his face had gained some color. I tried to dampen my rising hopes. In such cases there were often ups and downs before the final outcome was known. “Continue the intravenous and round-the-clock supervision,” I said. “Has the surgeon been in?”
“Yes. Here's his report.” She grabbed a sheet of paper from a pile.
Vital signs stable. Continue treatment as prescribed.
“Thanks. I'll be in later tonight. If there's any change, you have my cell phone number.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
I hastened into the corridor with my news, cautioning myself against raising false hopes. I forced myself to speak to the Shoemakers first. They listened to my report in silence. When I had finished, the mother heaved a deep sigh—of relief or exasperation, I wasn't sure. The father slouched back on the bench and shook out his newspaper. No questions. No thanks. No nothing.
The reaction of the Connors was different. Chris allowed himself the trace of a smile. Tears glistened in Ruth's eyes. Although I knew part of their relief was for themselves, I honestly felt that a major part was for the boy.
 
 
On the way home I decided to stop at the Blue Arrow for a bite. As I dismounted, a shout stopped me. Tom came up. “God, you look shot.”
“Thanks.”
“Have you been to bed at all?”
“Not really.”
His glance wandered to my bike and his expression changed. “What have we here?”
“Like it?”
“What happened?”
“One of those bikers did it. He just took it on himself to—”
“Which one?”
“Archie—Pi. What's the difference? It turns out he was an old neighbor of mine.”
“How old?”
“Fourteen when I knew him.”
“But I'll bet he's a big boy now.”
Did I detect the little green man raising his ugly head? “What of it?”
His face flushed. “Watch yourself, Jo.”
“I can handle this,” I said stiffly.
Lengthy pause.
“Have you eaten?” I asked finally.
He gave a curt nod.
“Well, I guess I'll just have to eat alone.”
He shrugged and walked back to his pickup.
I watched him charge into the road, narrowly missing an SUV
Shit.
I'd lost my appetite. I remounted my bike.
Men!
I gave the throttle a vicious twist.
What a wonderful world it would be without them.
With this grim reflection I rode back to the motel.
 
 
The lobby was blissfully empty. I was surprised to see Maggie at the front desk.
“Early adjournment?” I asked
She nodded. “The prosecution wanted time to track down some documents.” She seemed distant and her mouth was set in a thin line.
“Something wrong?” I hoped nothing bad had happened at court.
“I hear you've been fraternizing with the guests,” she blurted.
“Where did you hear that?” I snapped. Silly question. The whole staff, from the chambermaids to the trash collectors, must have witnessed my dalliance with Pi.
“Be careful, Jo.” Concern had replaced irritation.
“Sure.” Why was everyone so worried about my welfare all of a sudden? I made a quick exit.
The silence pervading the motel was palatable. Marie, one of the chambermaids, also my patient and friend, enlightened me. “It's such a nice night, those goons took off for Wildwood,” she told me.
A popular seaside watering hole for the wilder set. “Thank god!” I headed eagerly for my room—and oblivion.
But as I neared my door, I heard an unwelcome sound. Music was booming on the other side. Music not to my taste. “Oh, no,” I groaned. Only one person I knew had a taste for hard rock—
and
a key to my room. Reluctantly I opened the door.
“Hi, Jo.” Becca, my thirteen-year-old-going-on-thirty friend, raised her russet head to look at me. She had made a nest of my bed. It was littered with potato chips, schoolbooks, a Coke precariously balanced on a binder, discarded socks and sneakers. A few months ago, Becca's family had been involved in the illegal smuggling of immigrants in Bayfield—the case in which Maggie's son was now being tried. During that time, I had offered Becca the sanctuary of my room. Although her family had regained its stability, more or less, she still dropped by now and then. “Hi,” I croaked.
“You don't seem very glad to see me.” She pouted.
“I'm sorry.” I forced a smile “It's just that I've been up for twenty-four hours and I was looking forward to some sleep.” Becca and I never lied to each other.
“Well, you won't get any here.”
For a minute I thought she was being fresh, but she went on, “your neighbors have been having a fight.”
Neighbors? Oh, yeah. Vaguely I remembered that obnoxious couple from the lobby was registered in the room next to mine.
“When I came in, the woman was screeching about how she'd choose her own friends and why didn't he mind his own business. Then I think she threw something. There was this awful crash. More screeching of four-letter words. Then the door banged shut. I peeked out and I saw this little man slink off down the hall. I haven't heard anything since.”
“How could you hear anything over that racket?” I crossed the room and snapped off the CD player.
“The fight was
before
I put the CD in,” she explained patiently.
“So, to what do I owe this visit?”
“I have to write a paper on
Othello
and I need help.
Please,
Jo.”
Becca was an orphan. Ema Sheffield, her guardian and aunt, was a practicing poet. But when it came to helping with homework she was a total loss. “Because of my vast knowledge of Shakespeare?” I asked.
“No. Your vast knowledge of life.”
Becca always knew how to get around me. “You're kidding.”
“Nope. You're a doctor. You've lived in the coolest city in the world. You've had lots of lovers—”
“Wait a minute—”
“You must know something about jealousy … .” She grinned mischievously.
“You imp!” I went for her, but she rolled off the bed and pulled a chair between herself and me.
I sighed. “What's the assignment?”
“A five-page essay showing what drove Othello to murder Desdemona.”
“Is
that
all?”
She nodded. Sarcasm slid off Becca like waxed soles on a wet deck.
“I don't know why she needs a whole essay on it. I could give her the answer in one word,” Becca grumbled.
“Oh?”
“Iago.”
“Hmm. Don't you think the seed was already in Othello's head, and Iago just helped it grow?”
“Maybe.” Becca was thoughtful. “But if it weren't for that bastard, Othello and Des would probably have lived happily ever after.”
“Have you read the whole play?”
“Of course.” She was indignant.
“When's it due?”
“Yesterday,”
Naturally.
“But she gave me a one-day extension.”
“Let's see it,” I said wearily. Fortunately,
Othello
was one of the plays I had read in Shakespeare 101.
She tossed a battered paperback of the play at me and cleared some of her things off my bed to make room for me. “While you're reading, I'll make you some coffee, she offered.”
I curled up on the bed and began to read.
Enter Iago and Roderigo
RODERIGO;
Tush, never tell me! I take it much unkindly that thou, Iago, who hast my purse
As if the strings were thine … .
Why couldn't Will write in plain English? Yawning, I forced my gaze back to the page.
 
 
When I had scanned the play and we had roughed out an outline for the essay, Becca said, “How's Bobby?”
I blinked. “You know him?” Then I remembered that everyone knows everyone in Bayfield.
“He's two classes below me,” she explained. “Everybody at school had to sign his get-well card.”
“He's holding his own,” I said carefully.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, he's no better and no worse than after the accident.”
She thought about this. “What are his chances?”
“Fifty-fifty” As I said, Becca and I didn't lie to each other.
She was quiet; then she spoke. “His parents are assholes.”
I looked at her.
“They have six kids. They don't feed them right. Their lunches are crackers or a candy bar. And their clothes don't fit. They're either too big or too small. Mom and Dad are too busy slurping beer to bother.”
“Hmm.”
She started to pack up her things. “Can I see him?”
“Not yet. He's in the ICU. But when he goes to a room I'll let you know.”
“When … or if?”
“If.”
She slung her backpack over her shoulder and with one hand on the doorknob turned. “Thanks, Jo.”
“Your friendly Shakespeare scholar always at your service.”
“I'll let you know what I get.”
“If it's less than an A I don't want to hear about it.”
“Hey, this teacher's tough!”
“That's what they all say.” I waved her out.
Now that I had peace and quiet, I lay wide awake, staring at the ceiling—my thoughts spinning from Bobby, to Bobby's parents, to Pi, to Tom.
BOOK: Satan's Pony
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