The Song of David (36 page)

Someone on Cordova’s payroll had delivered my truck to the hospital, as well as all my things. I got a nurse to help me up—I was shaky and dizzy, but I could get around well enough—and I positioned the player by my head on the flattened out hospital bed, talking into it so I wouldn’t have to hold it up to my face. They wouldn’t keep me here much longer. We would be heading back to Utah in a day or two. Axel would be driving my truck home. When I said I could do it, Millie had cut me off immediately and the nurse had laughed.

I hadn’t been alone with Millie. Not once. She’d stayed close, her hand on my arm, always touching me, but we hadn’t had any time to ourselves. I didn’t want a repeat of the scene with Moses, and I had no idea what to say to her. The seizure had left me exhausted and sleep was a relief. When I was awake and she was nearby I could only stare at her, cling to her hand, and try to imagine what she was thinking. What she was feeling. I think I knew, and her agony only made me want to sleep again. I’d tried once to tell her how sorry I was, and she just nodded and said, “I know, big guy. I know.” But her eyes had filled up with tears, and she’d laid her forehead down on my chest to hide them from me. I’d smoothed her hair until sleep pulled me under.

The guys—Axel, Cory, Mikey, Paulo and Andy—were in and out. They refused to head back home without me. I got the feeling they were taking turns guarding me, like I would slip away again. None of us talked about why I was here. We tiptoed around that elephant like talking about it would make us all fall apart. So for now, we pretended it was the fight that landed me here. A fight I had won in fairly glorious fashion. It gave us something to talk about.

Moses hadn’t come back. Moses had never been capable of pretending. He delivered Millie and Henry and picked them up again when Henry got restless and needed to head back to the hotel. I could tell Millie wanted to stay. But duty called, and she left without protest, a squeeze to my hand, her arm looped through Henry’s, and none of the things that needed to be said were discussed.

It was late. The guys had all finally left, heading back to their hotel for the night, after making a big show of tearing up the contracts my lawyer had sent them, saying the gym was mine and they weren’t going to sign anything. They were gone, but I was pretty sure someone had stayed behind to sit outside my hospital room door.

I was finally alone, talking to a tape recorder that was easily as old as I was, telling my story in hopes I would figure out an ending that wouldn’t devastate the people I love.

THE NEXT MORNING, Henry arrived at my hospital room first. I almost didn’t recognize him. His hair was gone, just like mine, and only a shadow of stubble remained.

“Henry! Is that you, man?”

“It’s me,” he whispered, nodding. He looked troubled. Obviously, Millie or Moses had explained a few things to him. I wished they hadn’t, but I guess there was no way around it. I had hoped they would let him believe I was only here because of the fight. I didn’t want him worrying about the rest of it.

“Where’s Millie?” I asked as the silence stretched between us.

“On the phone, in the hall.”

“And Moses?”

“He went to get some breakfast for us, in the cafeteria.”

I nodded, grateful. Moses was taking care of them. Good. Andy, Cory, Axel and Mikey had been looking out for them too, but they were on their way home now.

“What’d you do to your hair, Henry?” I asked when he refused to come closer than the foot of my bed.

Henry rubbed his smooth head with both hands, obviously aggravated. His face looked so different without all the hair, and for the first time I could see the resemblance between Millie and her brother. It was in the eyes. Millie’s eyes would look just like Henry’s if she could see. As it was, the shape, the pale color, the thick black lashes were the same, but Henry’s eyes were wide with questions.

Henry sat down at the end of my bed abruptly, and when he looked at me again, his eyes were glassy, and his lips trembled.

“Brian Piccolo was a running back for the Chicago Bears.”

I stared at him, puzzled. I had to think about that one for a minute. Then I understood.

“Yeah. He was.” He was. And Brian Piccolo died of cancer at age twenty-six. Same age as me. I had made Moses watch
Brian’s Song
with me, cried during the whole damn thing, even though I’d seen it a dozen times before, and then called him Billy Dee for a month afterwards. It was more fun than calling him Gale, after Gale Sayers, Piccolo’s best friend. Moses didn’t appreciate the nickname, but the dynamic between James Caan and Billy Dee Williams in the movie was pretty spot-on to Moses and me. I guess it was my own, Henry-esque way of communicating to Moses that I loved him without telling him. Apparently, I reminded Henry of Brian Piccolo too. I was honored. And I was terrified.

“Did you shave your head for me, Henry?”

Henry nodded and rubbed his head nervously once more. “Moses took me to a barber.”

“Did he really?” My heart ached at the thought of my friend. “Feels pretty good, doesn’t it?”

Henry nodded again. “Shaquille O’Neal, Michael Jordan, Brian Urlacher, Matt Hasselbeck, Mark Messier, Andre Agassi . . .”

“We’re twins,” I commented, interrupting his nervous recitation of bald athletes.

“I know,” Henry answered. “I want to look like you.”

The ache in my heart spread. Henry was irresistible sometimes.

“Can I rub your head?” I just wanted to get him to come closer. I needed to hold onto him for a minute.

Henry stood and moved until he was standing beside me. I tugged his hand and he sat next to me, his head bowed, eyes on the floor.

I placed my left hand on his head and rubbed in gentle circles, wanting to comfort him, hating that I was helpless to do so.

With a sudden sob, he fell against my chest, and I wrapped my arms around him, stroking his shorn head. He cried for a minute, soaking my hospital gown, clinging to me like he was afraid to lose his grip. Then he started to speak.

“David ‘Tag’ Taggert, light heavyweight contender with a professional record of twenty wins, two losses, twelve knock outs.” Henry sounded like a fight announcer who had been on the sauce, all hiccups and slurred words, his voice muffled against me, and I noticed he had added my recent wins to the bio.

“Not a bad record, huh?”

“You’re a fighter,” he cried.

“Yeah. I am,” I said.

“You love to fight,” he insisted.

“I do.”

“You’re a fighter!” Henry’s voice rose, and I realized what he was saying.

“This is a different kind of fight, Henry.” I kept stroking his head.

“Same.”

“Nah. Not the same at all.”

“You’re a fighter!”

“Henry—”

“Millie fights!” Henry insisted, interrupting me.

“She sure as hell does. Every damn day.”

“Mikey fights,” he lifted his head from my chest.

I could only nod.

“Moses fights,” he said.

My throat closed.

“Henry fights?” This time it was more a question than a statement.

“You do,” I whispered.

“My dad didn’t fight.” His eyes met mine, the pleading in them so heartfelt, so determined, so beloved, that I couldn’t answer. Son of a bitch. He was killing me.

“Tag Taggert is the best fighter in the universe,” he implored. “The best fighter in the universe.”

I don’t know how I ever thought Henry wasn’t a good communicator.

“I NEED YOU to pull over, Mo,” I insisted, my hand on the door handle. I was sitting in the back with Millie, and Henry was in the passenger seat beside Moses. We were on our way home from Las Vegas, and the trip couldn’t have been more miserable if they’d tied me to the roof like Aunt Edna in National Lampoon’s Vacation. I was trapped. I couldn’t disappear again. I was on anti-seizure medication, and I was informed that it was illegal to “operate a motor vehicle for three months in the state of Utah after suffering a seizure.” Some states, like Colorado, never allowed you to drive again. Legalize pot but don’t let someone like me ever drive again. Made no sense to me.

Mo’s eyes found mine in the rearview mirror. He had only spoken to me in grunts and single syllables since our heated conversation at the hospital, and I could feel his anger and frustration battling my own.

“Pull over,” I barked. He could pull over or he could clean up my puke in his back seat.

He ground to a halt, gravel and debris kicking up as his tires dug into the asphalt on the side of the road.

I pushed the door open, climbed out, took several steps, and threw up all over Mo’s rear right tire. He was going to be so pleased. I should have known better. Pain pills always made me sick. Now I was shuddering, braced against the truck, dizzy and weak, and it all just pissed me off. I was a badass. I had worked hard to become one. I was tough, I was powerful, and all I could do was sway and cling, begging the world to hold still so I wouldn’t fall down.

We were north of Cedar City, south of a town called Beaver, which left nothing but open space and endless room for contemplation. The fields dotted with purple flowers on either side of the highway rolled serenely as the mountains looked on like indulgent parents. It was all so tranquil and benign it made me furious. It was such a lie. All of it.

“Do you need to pee, Tag?” Henry called from the interior of the truck. “Does he need to pee, Amelie? Can I pee too?”

Millie climbed out and gingerly felt along the side of the truck, her hands out-stretched until her fingers brushed my back. I heard Henry ask Moses if he could get out too, and Moses asked him to wait for just a minute. I appreciated that. I loved Henry, but I didn’t want an audience. The fact that Millie couldn’t see me was comforting.
She
was comforting.

She handed me a bottle of water without comment, and I took it gratefully, swishing my mouth and spitting a few times. I felt better and took a few careful breaths, filling my lungs to see if the nausea was gone.

“Better?” she asked softly.

“Yeah.”

“You can lean on me, you know. Rest your head in my lap. It will make the rest of the ride easier if you sleep.”