The Wooden Sea (24 page)

arrived at George's house on two feet rather than crawling on all fours. My brain felt like it had been fucked by demons on acid and then tossed away. On reaching his street I began walking faster and faster without realizing it. I

wanted to see my friend George Dalemwood, someone real and solid and an important part of the life only a few days before I had taken so blithely for granted.

I climbed the porch steps and pressed his doorbell. No one answered but that was no big deal.

Even when he was home George frequently ignored a ringing telephone or doorbell. "They want me," he was apt to say, "but I probably don't want them, no matter who it is." And he would go on doing what he was doing, oblivious to whatever bell scolded him in the background.

Before trying again, I walked back down a few steps and looked toward the roof. That's where he'd been sitting the other day when my world was a simpler place, a world where "only" dead dogs reappeared and not versions of myself past present and future. Who then subsequently got shot by Dutch industrialists from the twenty-first century.

My friend wasn't sitting on the roof today, but while looking up there I heard something that calmed my heart. George is an exceptionally good guitarist. He's such an original that that shouldn't be surprising but it is.

And knowing his strange and conservative tastes, you'd expect him to play only classical music but not so. He ranges from Mozart to the Beatles to damned good imitations of Michael Hedges or Manilas de Plata. He spends at least two hours a day practicing on the most beautiful guitar I have ever seen. I would love that instrument just for its name alone--a very rare model called a

"Church Door." When I asked George how much it cost, he swallowed hard and got colloquial on me, saying only "five figures." It's worth it. He handles that wooden box like he's making love to it and maybe he is.

While standing with one foot on a porch step, I heard him playing Scott Joplin's darkly beautiful waltz "Bethena," a great favorite of his. Relieved, I blew air out through my lips in a quiet raspberry.

Hearing it told me he was all right. George played certain pieces depending on his moods. I knew "Bethena" was performed when he was stuck in his work and trying to figure his way out.

Normally that tune meant stay away if you happened into his neighborhood; George was definitely not fun to be around when he was thinking something through. But today he would have to put that

Church Door down and listen to me.

The music flowed out from behind the house. I made my way around to the back.

George sat on the ground in the middle of his yard with the guitar propped between his knees.

An unopened Mars chocolate bar lay on the ground nearby.

Music filled the air. Chuck the dachshund sat nearby staring at his master like the dog staring at the old victrola on the RCA label.

"George?"

He looked at me and smiled. The dog ran over to say hello. I bent down and lifted him up. He attacked my face with hot fast licks. "Glad to see you back, Chucky."

George heard that and his smile widened. "Did you see Caz de Floon?

Did he find you?"

"Yes, Caz found me." I walked over with the dog in my arms. He was a bundle of warm squirm and kisses all the way. George played two chords--a resolve--and stopped.

"When did Chuck reappear?"

"Caz brought him. He said he was a gift for me. So many things have happened, Frannie."

"I know."

It was a while before he spoke again. "And you talked to Floon?"

"Yes indeedy."

"What did you think of him?" The question was unbelievable. George never, ever asked what you thought of people because he didn't care.

Neither about people nor what you thought of them. As a rule of thumb, George Dalemwood's interest in humanity was akin to the average man's interest in feldspar.

I sat down nearby and put Chuck on the ground. He walked over to George, curled confidently against his side, and closed his eyes.

"What did I think of Floon? I already met him."

George opened the candy bar. "Me too."

That straightened me up fast. "You knew Floon before?"

"According to him I did." He bit into the candy. A thin thread of tan caramel looped down and around his thumb. He licked it off. "He said we'd met back when he was in his thirties."

"Why?"

"Supposedly he hired me to write the instructions for something he had invented."

A warm gust of wind picked up the brown and red candy wrapper and flipped it into the air. I snatched it. "Do you remember him?"

"You have the fastest hands I've ever seen, Frannie. You really should play an instrument."

"Is that true about his hiring you, George?"

"No, I never saw him before. And even though my memory is perfect, I checked my records to be sure. I never worked for anyone by the name of Floon."

"So he's lying?"

"He doesn't think so. Plus he knew exactly who I was and specific aspects of my life. He cited both old and obscure examples of my work."

"He could have found that out anywhere."

"True, but the breadth of his knowledge was impressive. He must have done a lot of homework to find out what he knew. Would you like some of my Mars bar?"

"No. So Floon appears at your door with Chuck in tow as a little gift to gain your confidence.

Tells you who he is and says you once worked for him. Did you know he was carrying a gun?"

"Everyone has guns today, Frannie. You said that yourself. That's why you gave me one." He offered a piece of chocolate to the dog, who sniffed it but turned away. George shrugged and popped the chunk into his own mouth.

"I've gotta tell you what's been happening to me. It'll make you see things differently."

"Maybe, but Floon's already told me a lot."

That pissed me off and my voice reflected it. "Floon's not me, George.

He wasn't where I was. What did he say?"

For the next half hour I told him my news and he told me his. To my great surprise and dismay, everything Floon told George was true, down to the last particulars. No exaggeration, no shading of the actual details of the story so that he would come out looking better. He answered all of George's questions and then--get this--they tried to figure out what was happening to me and why.

"That's rich! You two compared notes about me?"

"Yes."

"George, Floon's fucking Citizen Kane with a gun. He just shot Gee-Gee and before he shot the dog I think he did something bad to it so it became like a killer dog. You're gonna take this man's opinion as valid?"

"I didn't say that, Frannie. I said we discussed you."

Fuming, I began pulling up handfuls of innocent grass and throwing them at innocent Chuck.

They were too light to reach the dog, but he woke up and kept an eye on me just in case. "Yeah, well, tell me, what did you two _prognosticates _decide?"

Inside his house the phone rang. Suspiciously, George got right up to answer it. That wasn't like him. I had the feeling he did it only to stall for time.

He came hurrying back out with a portable telephone extended in front of him stiff-armed.

"Frannie, it's Pauline. Magda just collapsed. She's unconscious."

In the minutes it took for George to drive me home, the ambulance I'd called from his place was already coming down the other end of our street, siren howling. As both vehicles pulled up to the house, the word "oxymoron" came to mind. Because that is exactly what this situation was--an oxymoron. Knowing what was wrong with my wife before a doctor even felt her pulse was of inestimable advantage. The irony being that I also knew her situation was hopeless. Take your time, Doctor. Because no matter what you do it's useless--she'll be dead of a big fat juicy
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brain tumor within a year. I hadn't told George about it. I'd only said that as an old man in Vienna I was married to Susan Ginnety. In typical Dalemwood fashion he'd paused, taken another bite of his chocolate bar and said flatly, "That's interesting."

The four of us raced into the house. When we slammed the door, Pauline called out to us from the kitchen. Magda lay on the floor in there next to the table.

Pauline had put a pillow from the couch under her head and lined up her arms and legs so that she looked at peace lying there but also too much like a corpse. I immediately looked to see if she had "posturing"-- where limbs twist inward as if the muscles have drawn too tight on the bones--which is one of the worst possible signs of brain tumor.

The paramedics dropped to their knees and began their grim work. I had been a medic in Vietnam and knew what they were doing. That didn't make it any easier to watch. I kept wanting to say things like "Check the Babinski" and "Is she decerebrated?" but I didn't because they didn't need anyone interfering in their very strict by-the-book procedures. Nevertheless I watched what they did very carefully.

One hand across her mouth, Pauline gestured me over urgently with the other.

George saw this and moved over behind the paramedics, as far away from us as possible.

"What happened, Pauline?"

"We were talking and her eyes, like, suddenly rolled up in her head?

Then she slid out of the chair. Like she was playing some kind of creepy joke? Mom's been having bad headaches for the last couple of weeks. She didn't tell you because she didn't want you to worry."

I'm sure she was surprised by my reaction. Probably expecting me to go ballistic because I hadn't been told about these headaches, I only looked long at my shoes and nodded.

"I haven't noticed it, but has she acted strange recently? Like has she been grouchy or irrational suddenly out of the blue?"

A paramedic pushed up one of Magda's eyelids and shone a small yellow flashlight into her eye.

He said, "She doesn't have any posturing but mere's some kind of unequal pupil response here."

I couldn't hold back any longer. There was no point to it. "Look for signs of a brain tumor."

Both men looked up at me. "She had blurred vision and bad headaches recently."

"She never said anything about blurred vision to me, Fran-me."

I squeezed Pauline's arm to be still.

"Do you know the signs, Chief McCabe?"

"I was a medic in the service. Do a pinprick test. See her response to pain."

One of the guys looked at his partner. "Christ, I never had a brain tumor case before."

Pauline stepped in close. I could smell her breath when she spoke.

"Frannie, do you really think Mom has a brain tumor?"

Lie to the girl? Tell her the truth? "I don't know, sweetheart. But I want them to check that possibility. Let's wait to hear what these guys say. It's always better to be safe in things like this.

Let them check everything." I

moved Pauline so that she stood in front of me. I wrapped my arms around her and held on for dear life. She stood stiff and trembling. I felt so helpless and goddamned sorry for her. I didn't want to know what I knew about her mother's condition.

She moaned. "Mom. Oh, Mom."

For the first time in my life, my heart began beating erratically. It was the damnedest feeling.

Suddenly it appeared to climb higher in my chest until it felt like it was at the bottom of throat.

Then it began pounding hard and unevenly. My cheeks got hot. I touched one of them and my fingers felt very cold on it. My heart pounded throughout the whole top of my chest. It went fast fast fast, then seemed to stop, go fast a couple more times, stop... The normal rhythm was gone, it was on its own, lurching around inside me like a car being parallel parked at high speed.

While still holding Pauline, I slid my hand down from my cheek to the left side of my chest. I thought I could feel my heart banging away under there. It was strange, fascinating and terrible.

"Frannie, are you okay?" George was watching me.

"Yeah, I'm just having some arrhythmia. It makes sense though with the stress."

"What is that, Frannie? What's wrong with you?" Pauline's voice was afraid.

Was I going to collapse next?

"It means my heart's beating fast. No big deal. Don't worry."

"You want me to check you out?" One of the men asked with the blood pressure cuff in his hand. I shook my head.

They moved Magda onto a stretcher and hooked up an IV. Pauline kept asking what they were doing at each step and she deserved to know. I carefully described the procedures, keeping my voice cool and confident throughout. That tone appeared to work because her shoulders unhunched and after a while she stopped nervously licking her lips every few seconds.

"We're all done here. You want to ride with us to the hospital?"

"Pauline, you want to go with your Mom? George can drive me over in his car."

I thought I needed about ten minutes alone with George to talk about things.

lust enough time to ride from our house to the Crane's View hospital.

Her body immediately clenched again. "No! I'm not riding in any ambulance. I don't want to, Frannie. Please let me go with George.

Please!"

Her quick, unexpected hysteria threw us all off. Bypassing the diplomatic, I
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took her firmly by the shoulders and gave her a shake.

"Stop! It's okay, honey, everything is okay. You don't have to go in the ambulance. Go with George and I'll ride with Mom to the hospital.

Just take it easy, huh? Everything will be okay."

While I spoke she looked at the floor, nodding the whole time like her head was mounted on a spring. "Good. Okay. I'll come right behind you.

But, Frannie? Should I ask the doctors about my tattoo when I get there? Do you think I should ask them why my tattoo disappeared?"

What the hell was she talking about? When it eventually dawned on me I had to squint to focus my mind on what had happened to her earlier that morning. "Uh, no. We'll do that another time. Right now let's take care of Magda."

"Okay. But Frannie, will Gee-Gee be at the hospital?"