The woman at the desk said, Muriel? It’s Yvonne. I have a young man here down here at the desk, his name is She looked at me, eyebrows raised, and I gave her my name. Alan Parker. His mother is Jean Parker, in 487? He wonders if he could just . . .
She stopped. Listened. On the other end the nurse on the fourth floor was no doubt telling her that Jean Parker was dead.
All right, Yvonne said. Yes, I understand. She sat quietly for a moment, looking off into space, then put the mouthpiece of the telephone against her shoulder and said, She’s sending Anne Corrigan down to peek in on her. It will only be a second.
It never ends, I said. Yvonne frowned. I beg pardon? Nothing, I said. It’s been a long night and and you’re worried about your mom. Of course. I think you’re a very good son to drop everything the way you did and come on the run.
I suspected Yvonne Ederle’s opinion of me would have taken a drastic drop if she’d heard my conversation with the young man behind the wheel of the Mustang, but of course she hadn’t. That was a little secret, just between George and me.
It seemed that hours passed as I stood there under the bright fluorescents, waiting for the nurse on the fourth floor to come back on the line. Yvonne had some papers in front of her. She trailed her pen down one of them, putting neat little check marks beside some of the names, and it occurred to me that if there really was an Angel of Death, he or she was probably just like this woman, a slightly overworked functionary with a desk, a computer, and too much paperwork. Yvonne kept the phone pinched between her ear and one raised shoulder. The loudspeaker said that Dr. Farquahr was wanted in radiology, Dr. Farquahr. On the fourth floor a nurse named Anne Corrigan would now be looking at my mother, lying dead in her bed with her eyes open, the stroke- induced sneer of her mouth finally relaxing.
Yvonne straightened as a voice came back on the line. She listened, then said: All right, yes, I understand. I will. Of course I will. Thank you, Muriel. She hung up the telephone and looked at me solemnly. Muriel says you can come up, but you can only visit for five minutes. Your mother’s had her evening meds, and she’s very soupy.
I stood there, gaping at her.
Her smile faded a little bit. Are you sure you’re all right, Mr. Parker?
Yes, I said. I guess I just thought Her smile came back. It was sympathetic this time. Lots of people think that, she said. It’s understandable. You get a call out of the blue, you rush to get here . . . it’s understandable to think the worst. But Muriel wouldn’t let you up on her floor if your mother wasn’t fine. Trust me on that.
Thanks, I said. Thank you so much. As I started to turn away, she said: Mr. Parker? If you came from the University of Maine up north, may I ask why you’re wearing that button? Thrill Village is in New Hampshire, isn’t it?
I looked down at the front of my shirt and saw the button pinned to the breast pocket: i rode the bullet at thrill village, laconia. I remembered thinking he intended to rip my heart out. Now I understood: he had pinned his button on my shirt just before pushing me into the night. It was his way of marking me, of making our encounter impossible not to believe. The cuts on the backs of my hands said so, the button on my shirt said so, too. He had asked me to choose and I had chosen.
So how could my mother still be alive? This? I touched it with the ball of my thumb, even polished it a little. It’s my good luck charm. The lie was so horrible that it had a kind of splendor.
I got it when I was there with my mother, a long time ago. She took me on the Bullet.