Occasion of Revenge Page 6

  I was blowing my nose noisily into the stiff brown paper when a doctor appeared. “Mrs. Ives?”

  My head snapped around. “Yes?”

  “I’m Dr. Wainwright.” I shook the hand he extended. It was dry and very cold. “Your father’s taken a good wallop to the head. It took twelve stitches to close the wound. He’s got a concussion. I don’t think it’s particularly serious, but because of his age and the fact that it’s a head injury, we’re going to keep him a couple of days. Run a few tests.”

  “What kind of tests?”

  “In addition to a head scan, we’ll do a chest X ray and an electrocardiogram. Also a CBC, glucose, liver function, ABG—”

  “Complete blood count I know, but what’s an ABG?”

  “Arterial blood gas.”

  “For a head injury?”

  “Not exactly. The head injury may be just one of your father’s problems, Mrs. Ives. I would be irresponsible if I released him from the hospital prematurely, before we’ve had a chance to determine the full extent of his injuries, and …” He looked at each of us in turn as if trying to predict our reactions to what he was about to say. “… And determine how much his recovery may be hampered by an alcohol dependency.”

  When none of us said anything, Dr. Wainwright continued. “I can see by the expression on your faces that I’m not telling you anything you don’t already suspect.” He waved his arm toward a bank of chairs and for the second time that morning, we sat down in them. “Look, the problem is this. If your father is an alcoholic, in anywhere from six to forty-eight hours he may begin to experience ethanol withdrawal. This can lead to seizures, hallucinations, delusions, vomiting …”

  “D.t.’s?” I interrupted.

  “Exactly. These tests I’m ordering will determine that risk, and then we will know how to treat him.”

  I studied Dr. Wainwright’s earnest, caring face and remembered walking around for weeks with a lump in my breast and the wave of despair that washed over me when the very diagnosis I had feared turned out to be confirmed. Cancer. For months now, I’d worried about Daddy’s drinking. Wondered if he’d crossed that fine line between drinking when he wanted to and drinking because he had to. Alcoholism. Before long, we’d know.

  “Can we see him now?” Ruth asked.

  “Of course. Follow me.”

  Dr. Wainwright led us to a large room that was separated into cubicles by curtains hung from ceiling tracks. Daddy lay on a gurney in the cube nearest the door. A large white bandage covered his scalp and forehead and an IV tube drained into his arm. Nearby, a cardiac monitor quietly bleeped.

  “Daddy?”

  I approached the gurney.

  “Daddy?”

  Daddy’s eyes opened slowly. He shook his head and blinked several times as if trying to clear out the cobwebs and focus on my face. “Hannah?”

  “Yes, it’s me. And Ruth and Paul.”

  “Where’s your mother?”

  “Oh, Daddy!” I began to weep again.

  Paul laid his hand on my father’s. “Lois is dead, George, remember? She died last spring.”

  Daddy squeezed his eyes closed, as if to shut out this unwelcome news. He turned his head toward the wall.

  “Daddy?” Ruth took a cautious step forward.

  Daddy heaved a shuddering sigh, then reached up to touch the bandage on his forehead. “What happened?”

  “You ran into a truck.”

  His eyes flew open. “I don’t remember running into a truck.”

  “Take your time.” Paul was reassuring. “It will come to you.”

  Daddy’s fingers explored the perimeter of his bandage for a few long seconds, then suddenly he sat up, supporting himself unsteadily on one elbow. “Darlene!”

  Paul put one hand on my father’s chest and another on his back and helped him lie back down. “Don’t worry, George. You were alone at the time. You must have been driving home from Chestertown.”

  Daddy scraped the back of his hand over the dark stubble that covered his chin. “I remember crossing Kent Narrows, but nothing after that.”

  “It’s the concussion, Daddy,” I said. “The doctor says they’re going to keep you for a few days. Make sure you have no internal injuries.”

  “Does Darlene know?”

  Ruth made a sour face. “I’ll call her. Don’t worry.”

  Daddy lowered his head and seemed to notice the disordered state of his clothing for the first time. Several buttons were missing from his blue oxford cloth shirt, which lay open, exposing a torn undershirt. He picked absentmindedly at some dried spots of blood that stained his shirt. “I’m a mess.”

  I had to agree. “You sure are, but I’ll bring you some clean clothes later this morning. In the meantime, I’m sure they’ll have some cute little hospital gown you can put on.”

  “You betchum.” The comment came from a nurse who suddenly appeared in the doorway with a green-shirted orderly in tow. “Yves Saint Laurent, Calvin Klein, you name it. We got ’em all.” She positioned herself at the head of the gurney. “We’re taking him to X ray now. Check back in a few hours for his room number.”

  I ran my hand over Daddy’s short, wiry hair, and kissed his cheek. “Rest easy, Daddy.”

  The three of us stood there, watching, as the gurney with our father on it was trundled out of the room and down a long hallway. We watched, not speaking, until it disappeared through the door marked “Radiology.”

  “It’s morning,” said Ruth, “and I’m hungry.”

  But I was hardly paying attention. When I’d bent down to kiss my father, even the odor of the antiseptic they had used to treat his wound couldn’t mask the sickly sweet chemical smell of alcohol metabolizing through his skin.

  Daddy was in deep, deep trouble.

  chapter

  6

  The light of a gray dawn was spreading over the city of Annapolis when we emerged from the hospital, walking stiffly and sluggishly, like bears crawling from their dens after a long winter.

  I stretched.

  Paul yawned.

  Ruth said, “Isn’t anybody listening? I’m hungry.”

  I glanced at Paul and we said “Chick and Ruth’s” almost at the same moment. No one needed to twist my arm. I wasn’t in any mood for cooking.

  From the hospital, we walked east on Cathedral until it intersected with Conduit, then we veered left toward town. Paul held my hand the whole way and I felt light-headed, almost giddy, like back in the days when we were dating. I recognized one contributing factor, lack of sleep, and wondered when I’d get a chance for a little shut-eye.

  Chick & Ruth’s Delly, an Annapolis institution since 1965, backs on Gorham Street near the municipal parking garage and is just up Main Street from Mother Earth. Paul pulled the back door open and we hustled through it into the upper dining room, then snaked our way through the closely packed tables and down the narrow stairway toward the front of the restaurant. Behind a long counter on our right, waitresses and countermen worked the drink machines, the sandwich lines, and the grill with practiced speed.

  “This OK?” Paul indicated a booth near the front. “The Governor’s Office,” the booth that adjoined it, was roped off as usual, although I doubted that Parris N. Glendening would be bopping in for breakfast at seven-thirty on a Sunday morning.

  Ruth slid a menu toward me across the black Formica tabletop, but I tucked it back on the elevated metal condiment shelf attached to the booth. “First things first,” I said, squirming a bit to get comfortable on the lumpy vinyl chair. I extracted the cell phone from my bag. “I need to call Emily.” I punched in our telephone number. “Order me a coffee, will you?”

  Emily answered, breathless, on the first ring. “Where the hell are you?”

  When I told her what had happened, she gasped, recovered, then sounded almost relieved. “I panicked, Mom, I swear to God, I panicked when I looked in your room and neither you nor Daddy was there.”

  It was a dig, but I couldn’t resist
. “Did you think we’d run away or something?”

  “Not funny, Mother.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” The coffee had come, so I added some sugar and cream and gave it an absentminded stir. “Look, pumpkin, will you do me a favor?”

  “What is it?”

  I paused for a moment, not quite believing what I was about to say. Although I’d rather not see Darlene ever again, I had to be fair to Dad. He would want her to know.

  “Mom? Are you there?”

  “Sorry, I was just fixing my coffee. Look, honey. Would you call Darlene Tinsley and tell her about your grandfather’s accident? I have her number written down in the flip-top phone book in the kitchen.”

  “OK, but you owe me.” Emily paused. “You know I don’t like her very much.”

  “Be nice, now. She’s your grandfather’s friend.”

  “For sure. And, Mom?”

  “What?”

  “I love you.”

  I pushed the End button and stared at the tiny display screen, nearly overcome with emotion. During Emily’s troubled teenage years, I would gladly have paid a million dollars to hear her say those words. I laid down the phone and took a grateful sip of coffee, rich with cream and sugar, letting it roll over my tongue and down my throat like a soothing balm. I took time to survey the busy restaurant, but the cheerful orange booths and bright orange-and-yellow vinyl chairs and barstools did little to sunny up my disposition.

  “Do you want to see the menu?” Paul asked, even though we both had it practically memorized. In any case, the main menu options were plastered all over the walls on colorful disks the size of dinner plates.

  #311. The Parris N. Glendening. A baked potato with broccoli and cheese.

  #14. The Bill Clinton. Turkey breast on whole wheat toast.

  Al Gore was immortalized as a chicken sandwich, and when I got to Senator Barbara Mikulski, the open-face tuna on a bagel, I wondered, not for the first time, if there weren’t just a bit of editorializing going on, with a decidedly Republican bent. Years ago, the Jimmy Carter sandwich had been peanut butter and bologna. I rest my case.

  But it was too early for sandwiches.

  Ruth ordered her usual bagel and Paul and I decided on the mushroom-and-cheese omelet which (Oh, joy!) comes with fries.

  We gave our order to the waitress. Then, thinking about the copy of the citation in my purse, I said, “I wonder if Daddy knew what he was signing.”

  Paul shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, honey. He’d have been in even bigger trouble if he didn’t sign the darn thing. His driver’s license would have been confiscated immediately.”

  “Does he have a lawyer, Ruth?”

  “I don’t think so; maybe in Seattle, but not in Annapolis.”

  “I’ll call Murray Sullivan,” Paul volunteered.

  “Don’t you know anybody else?” I hadn’t laid eyes on Murray since the time Paul was accused of sexual harassment by a female midshipman and our marriage had nearly fallen apart. Thinking about it still hurt. I glanced at Paul sideways through my eyelashes. From the wistful look on his face, I could tell he knew what I was thinking.

  He shrugged. “OK. I’ll see what I can do.”

  I smiled at him gratefully.

  Directly behind my husband’s head there was a fourteen-year-old birth announcement, progressively yellowing, and every spare inch of wall was covered with photographs, drawings, and letters of appreciation to Chick and Ruth Levin who, framed newspaper articles reminded us, had passed away in 1995 and 1986 respectively.

  Son Ted and his wife kept up the family business and its traditions now. It may have been dying of neglect in the public schools, but the Pledge of Allegiance was alive and well at Chick & Ruth’s Delly. The American flag hung behind the cashier, near a sign that read “Cashier/Carry Out/Hotel Check In,” and every morning at eight-thirty, slightly later on weekends, everyone stood for the pledge. I had been sitting so long, I welcomed the opportunity to shake out the cramps in my legs and persuade my right foot, which had gone to sleep, to rise and shine.

  After the pledge, we settled back into our seats and I reached for the last french fry, but Paul’s fingers got there before me. “You know,” he said, licking his fingers, “after that I’m feeling so patriotic I may have to sing ‘The Star Spangled Banner.’ ”

  I covered my ears with my hands. “Please! Tell me when it’s over!” Although he tried, Lord knows he tried, Paul couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.

  “It’s a difficult song, anyway,” Ruth commented. “Way out of my range, especially the rockets’ red glare part.”

  “Dad doesn’t have any trouble,” I said softly. He’d taken me to an Orioles game the previous fall and I’d stood beside him, marveling as he sang the heart right out of that anthem in his rich, full baritone.

  Over my head, a bagel danced on the end of the pull cord for the fluorescent light fixture. “What turns so many veterans into homeless alcoholics?” I wondered out loud. “All those guys sleeping on heat grates in Washington, D.C.?”

  Ruth got my drift. “That won’t happen to Daddy, Hannah. He’s got his pension.”

  Paul signaled the waitress for a refill on our coffee. “She’s right, Hannah. Darlene could steal your father’s affection and everything of value that he owns, but she couldn’t take that away from him.”

  “Yes, but there’s more to life than money,” I said. “Much more.”

  Sunday and Monday we took turns visiting the hospital. Even Dante, who had Monday off, stuck his head in before disappearing for a reunion with his little family. When I showed up around noon, Daddy was in high spirits, propped up in bed reading a Patrick O’Brian novel. There was no sign of the d.t.’s. That doctor was totally wrong. He got us all spun up over nothing.

  Daddy laid the book facedown on his blanket. “Hi, sweetheart.”

  “Hi, yourself.”

  “You just missed Darlene.”

  “Oh?” I said. “What a shame.” To be truthful, I was glad I didn’t have to deal with Darlene. The way she acted around my father, all kiss-kiss and lovey-dovey, made me gag. After a few minutes of small talk, I was brave enough to ask, “What do you see in her, Daddy?”

  “She’s fun. She makes me feel young again.” He slipped off his reading glasses and looked directly into my eyes. “And that’s worth quite a lot in today’s market!”

  “I’m sure that’s true, but as long as we’re talking about today’s market, there are hundreds of widows out there for every available man. Why not date somebody closer to your own age?”

  “Seventy? Ha! I’m seventy years old, sweetheart. I’m running out of time in the life expectancy sweepstakes. I don’t want a relationship with someone I’m going to have to worry about losing at any minute.” He closed his eyes for a moment and I knew he must be thinking about Mother.

  “Darlene could get hit by a bus tomorrow, Daddy. You never know what’s going to happen.” I pointed to his bandaged head. “You just proved that.”

  It was the first time I’d heard Daddy laugh since Connie and Dennis’s wedding. “I could get hit by a truck?”

  “You could get hit by a truck.”

  He stared out the window where we could see the bare dancing branches of the trees lining Franklin Street. “When your mother died, something inside me died, too.” He turned his head toward me and winked. “Darlene’s relit the spark.” He snapped his fingers. “There’s life in the old boy yet!”

  I tried not to think about what form relighting that spark might take. “Does that mean you’re serious about this woman? Is she The One?”

  Daddy didn’t answer right away, but when he did, his voice was almost a whisper. “Your mother was The One. The only one.”

  “So, does this mean you’re not going to marry Darlene?”

  “There’ll be time enough to think about that when I get out of here.”

  “Don’t rush it.”

  “What? Marrying Darlene or getting out of here?”

&n
bsp; “Either one.”

  Daddy twisted his long body sideways, winced, then rearranged the pillow that supported his back. When he got settled again he said, “Sometimes I feel sorry for her, Hannah. Did you know that somebody tried to poison Speedo?”

  “Speedo?”

  “Her dog.”

  “No! That’s horrible!”

  Daddy nodded. And she’s been getting harassing telephone calls.”

  “Really? What do they say?”

  “Not much in the way of words. Someone breathes noisily for a while, then hangs up. Or, they make a noise like this …” Daddy gave a particularly liquid Bronx cheer. “Then they hang up.”

  “Sounds like kids. Forty years ago I tortured strangers with a very fine rendition of ‘Is your refrigerator running?’ ”

  Daddy smiled, then shook his head. “Somehow, I don’t think it’s kids.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Because she’s also getting nasty cards and letters.”

  “Nasty cards?” I sat back in my chair and thought for a moment. When I worked at Whitworth & Sullivan we used to call them Nasty-Grams—the terse communiqués emerging from the office of the office manager slash drill sergeant. But I’d never heard of a nasty card.

  “Sick. People are sick,” Daddy snorted. “Don’t know where they buy these things, but they’re sick.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’m almost embarrassed to tell you.”

  “Daddy, last time I looked, I was forty-seven. I’m a grown woman. I think I can take it.”

  “First there was an envelope addressed to Darlene in block letters. But the return address was printed on. It said Last Chance Dating Service, and at the bottom of the envelope someone had stamped Application Rejected.”

  I stifled a laugh. “But that’s funny! Surely whoever sent that envelope meant it as a joke.”

  “Darlene doesn’t think so.”

  “That’s it?”

  “No. There have been others, and she’s been getting cards, too. Cards with twisted greetings like ‘Is that your face … or are you mooning me?’ ”

  This time I laughed out loud. Daddy shot me a withering glance like I was six years old and I’d just knocked over my juice cup for the third time. I forced the muscles in my face to line up seriously. “Has she argued with anyone recently? A neighbor, for instance?”