The Hearing (25 page)

Hardy’s bile continued to rise. His pulse pounded in his ears. He knew that if he remained seated here across the desk from this liar, his commitment to
la politesse
was going to be tested. And found wanting.

He didn’t believe he could endure any more conflict today.

He knew where they were coming from. It didn’t matter anyway. He noticed that his knuckles were white on the sides of the chair as he stood up. “Well,” he said, “as long as it’s a matter of principle . . .”

G
litsky thought they certainly liked to keep those beds empty in the ICU in case somebody got admitted who needed one.

He hadn’t had a heart attack in all of about a day and a half, so by hospital lights he guessed he was out of immediate danger, although it didn’t seem so to him. They moved him to a semiprivate room at a little before five in the afternoon. He had been sharing his thoughts about this with his new roommate, Roy, an elderly gentleman who was getting over pneumonia—trying not to sound too querulous, but voicing the opinion that maybe it was a little soon to be off the monitors.

Roy chuckled drily. “Last time I was here—I got COPD,” he explained, tapping his chest, “bad lungs, so I’m in here all the time now. But last time, I passed out at home just after I punched 911. It took the paramedics a while to pick me up, and so anyway by the time I got admitted to the emergency room, I was DOA. Dead, right?”

“Dead?”

“Right. So they slapped me around with some CPR, got me breathing again and gave me a new oxygen bottle. So I called my brother to tell him where I was, and by the time he got down here, they told me to go on home. Home! I’m dead an hour ago and they send me home. What’s that about?”

This was all new to Abe, but he was getting the hang of it—bemused resignation seemed to carry the day. “Managed care. That’s my guess.”

Roy shook his head. “My brother wouldn’t let them do it. Made a big fuss, wondered if anybody thought it possible I might stop breathing again, since I just had. Eventually they let me stay overnight.”

“One night?”

A shrug. “Hey, I lived through it. No hard feelings, because what would be the point? Is anybody going to care? So my doc comes in and says, ‘See?’ I could have gone home after all.”

“Nice of him.”

“Hell of a guy,” Roy agreed. “Probably figured a little guilt never hurts. Maybe next time I get admitted dead I wouldn’t push so hard for a bed.”

“You were actually DOA?”

“Yeah, I saw it on my chart. Admitted two-nineteen. DOA. I love that, telling people I died.” He broke a smile. “I’m in my resurrection phase now, though I’ve been disappointed to discover it’s pretty much the same as last time around.”

They fell into a silence for a while, until Glitsky shifted in his bed and sat up straighter. “You mind if I ask you something, Roy?”

“Shoot.”

“Did you see any white light or anything like that while you were dead?”

He thought about it briefly. “You know, I can’t say I did. One minute I’m dialing 911 and then I’m in the ER here with a tube down my throat and somebody pushing on my chest. How about you?”

“No. I wasn’t dead. Heart attack,” he explained. “I didn’t see anything either, though.”

“My wife died of a heart attack,” Roy said. “They gave her all the tests and everything and told her it hadn’t been a bad one. She was fine. She ought to come get another checkup in a week, but meanwhile she didn’t need to be in a hospital. She should stop smoking and lose a little weight, change her lifestyle, which she didn’t get much of a chance to do, seeing as she died about two hours after she got home.”

“I’m sorry,” Abe said.

“Hey.” Roy lifted his shoulders. “Mangled care.”

***

Glitsky hadn’t seen his oldest boy, Isaac, for the winter break. With a group of his friends, he was skiing at Mammoth for the first week, then they were all going to the Grand Canyon until school started again. He told his father he’d try to make it back up for spring break, but everybody was talking about a road trip up to Chico State, a college in the northern foothills of California which was getting itself something of a reputation for throwing a weeklong revelry—Lauderdale West. Naked chicks, loud music! Dancing and fights and all-night raves. Vandalism, riots, rivers of beer!

Or Isaac could come home to the spring fog and watch TV in their duplex while his dad went to work.

Tough choice.

But now, no planning for it, here he was coming through the door to Abe’s room. He seemed bigger somehow, but then he always did after an absence. His head was shaved—a shock—but Glitsky realized at a glance that it looked powerful and terrific. There was a lot of his mother in the face, though without her coloring—Isaac was a few shades darker than Abe or the other boys. The words came without warning, as did the gloss over his eyes. “Oh my beautiful boy.”

Isaac either didn’t hear or chose to ignore the remark. The handsome face wore a smile, concern all over it, a completely adult expression. A tiny gold Star of David glittered in one ear. The black body shirt said he’d been working out a lot. Abe almost felt whiplashed by the impressions—but above them all rode the flood of emotion and relief. He and Flo had raised a fully formed, civilized, wonderful person. Isaac might not be a finished product, but he was certainly no longer any kind of a child.

He leaned over the bed and rested his head a long moment on his father’s chest, gripping him tightly. Abe kept an arm over him, patted a few times, hugged him closely a last second. Then Isaac pulled up and looked in his dad’s face. “What is this bullshit?” he asked.

***

By the time Hardy arrived with Frannie and the kids at a little before eight, it was a full-fledged party. Orel and Isaac were on chairs on either side of Abe’s bed. Rita, his housekeeper and Orel’s daytime guardian, hovered near his head, ready at any opportunity to get him more ice or refill his cup of tea. Nat, Roy and Roy’s brother Fred had struck up their own conversation about forming an Infirm Old Men unit for the Bay to Breakers race in May.

Glitsky was all the way up to a full seated position. He’d removed the morning’s plastic tube from his nose. To Hardy, it appeared that he’d been up out of bed. There was a gloss to his hair as though he’d washed it. Any trace of the morning’s pallor was gone—beyond that, he simply looked good, talking with some animation to his boys.

“Dr. Diz,” he said by way of greeting. Then to Frannie, “Mrs. Dr. Diz.” Because Abe’s own children had been trained that it was proper to stand when a woman entered the room, they stood up. If Hardy didn’t know from years of experience that it was physically impossible, he would have sworn his friend was smiling. “And these would be the young children of Dr. and Mrs. Diz.”

“Uncle Abe!” The ever-flamboyant Rebecca ran to his bedside, put her arms around him. “I’ve been so worried.”

“There’s nothing to worry about.” He gave her arm a welcoming squeeze. “People have heart attacks all the time.”

Orel snorted a laugh. “Good one, Dad. Pretty reassuring.”

The glare. Watch it, junior. “I mean they have heart attacks and get better.”

Frannie had moved up behind her daughter. “Completely better, Beck.”

“Sometimes even better than when they started,” the older son said from the other side of the bed.

Hardy took the opening. “That wouldn’t be too hard.”

Frannie was staring over Abe’s bed. She put a hand to her face. “Oh my God. Isaac?”

A smile played at his mouth. “That’s me.”

“I wouldn’t have recognized you.”

The smile broadened. “I think you just did.” When Flo Glitsky had died, Abe’s boys had lived with the Hardys for a month. Isaac and Frannie had become especially close, even if they hadn’t seen each other now in three or four years.

“Isaac!” Beck shrieked, coming around the bed, hugging him. “I didn’t know who you were.”

“Just me, girlfriend, same old me.”

“Like . . . not,” she said.

“Okay, maybe stylin’ a bit more.” He picked her up with one arm, kissed her on the cheek, put her back down, then narrowed his eyes at Hardy’s son. “Yo, Vin.”

“Cool hair, Isaac.” Vincent, eleven years old and the quiet one in the family, finally logged in.

“What hair?” Hardy put in. “He doesn’t have any hair.”

Vin ignored him. “Can I shave my head, too, Mom?”

Hardy answered for her. “The next time Uncle Abe smiles, Vin.”

“He’s smiling now.” Vincent thought he had him.

“This time doesn’t count. In fact, tonight doesn’t count.”

“Your father means the next separate time on another day.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Why not?” Frannie asked.

“Because Uncle Abe never smiles.”

“He does sometimes,” Hardy said. “And when he does, you can shave your head. Promise.”

“Promise?”

Glitsky joined the discussion. “You remind me, Vin, and I’ll make a special effort.”

Hardy turned to him. “It’s got to be a sincere smile. Not one of those phony ‘I’m going to rip your legs off in a minute’ smiles like cops make.”

“You can’t change the rules,” Vincent said. This was serious stuff. “You said a smile, Dad, just a smile.”

“Sometimes he smiles at home.” Orel was a hero to Hardy’s kids. “I could call you at home, Vin.”

“This whole discussion is pathetic,” Isaac said. But he was clearly enjoying it. “I go away for a few years and the level of discourse devolves to this point?”

“Discourse?” Hardy said. “Devolves? What is that? Is that college?” He turned to the bed. “Abe, you’ve got to help us here.”

But suddenly, Glitsky had lost all interest in the conversation. He was staring over Hardy’s shoulder. He was wearing his old face, his everyday face. The smile gone. All trace of it gone.

“Abe?” Hardy repeated.

And suddenly everyone else became aware of something, a different vibration. Heads turned. The silence was profound.

Just inside the doorway, Treya Ghent had stopped where she stood. She was holding a large mixed bouquet of winter greenhouse flowers—daisies, daffodils, carnations. Her daughter shifted nervously beside and a half step behind her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to interrupt. I just wanted . . . I thought . . .”

Glitsky cleared his throat and the awkwardness held until Frannie turned completely, broke a wide and genuine smile, moved toward her. “Those are beautiful,” she said. “Abe loves flowers. I should have brought some myself.”

It was nothing like Treya thought it would be. It hadn’t really occurred to her that he had a family, friends, a life. Since he had never functioned as a father to Elaine, she’d assumed he didn’t have that gene. Until he’d collapsed yesterday morning, he’d only been a cop to her, not a person.

Now here was Glitsky’s father, an old Jewish man of all things, yarmulke and all. Two well-behaved and good-looking boys. That awful attorney Hardy—Elaine’s killer’s lawyer—from the arraignment, and his pretty wife and sweet children.

She’d heard the conversation about one of them shaving his head before they’d seen her. The obvious, warm connection between everybody. It was the last thing she expected. The tough and heartless Lieutenant Glitsky. Uncle Abe?

People.

And now here she was in the midst of them. Introductions to Frannie, Dismas, Isaac, Nat.

A Hispanic woman, Rita, taking her flowers, exclaiming over them. Raney and Orel checking each other out, but cool about it. Fast eyes.

“We can’t really stay,” she said. “I just wanted to see if you were all right.” She felt she had to continue. “About yesterday, Lieutenant.”

“It wasn’t you,” he said.

But she shook that off. “I didn’t think . . .”

The lieutenant raised a palm. “Please. Stop. Okay? It wasn’t you,” he repeated. He turned to Frannie. “Somebody needs to tell Ms. Ghent she didn’t make this happen.”

“Yes, sir.” Frannie went with it. “You didn’t make this happen,” she said to Treya. She made eye contact, somehow making her feel welcome. Then back to the lieutenant. “What, though?”

“I’m starting to think it didn’t happen at all.” Frannie’s husband was being inclusive, too. There was none of the anger Treya had seen from him in the courtroom. He spoke matter-of-factly to her, humor in the tone. “Abe will sometimes do this kind of thing to get attention. He lives a sad and lonely existence.”

“We all feel sorry for him,” Frannie added.

The little boy, Vincent, couldn’t follow the irony. “We do? I don’t. I like Uncle Abe.”