“And then you’d be all smoothed out, baby,” Harper had written.
“Oh, and by the way,” he’d added, “That old fuck McFarlane died a week ago. Tried to give himself a bath in the middle of the night. Drowned himself in three inches of water. That’s what I call a damn fool thing to do.”
“Stay smooth, m’man. You’re going to do great. I know it. Just remember to thank me when they gives you an Oscar.”
TWO
“Kiddo?”
Todd was floating in a blind black place, his body untethered. He couldn’t even feel it.
“Kiddo? Can you hear me?”
Despite the darkness all around, it was a comfortable place to be in. There were no predators here in this no-man’s-land. There were no sharks circling, wanting ten-percent of his flesh. Todd felt pleasantly removed from everything. Except for that voice calling him.
“Kiddo? If you can hear me, move your finger.”
It was a trick, he knew. It was a way to get him to go back to the world where once he’d lived and breathed and been unhappy. But he didn’t want to go. It was too brittle that place; brittle and bright. He wanted to stay where he was, here in the darkness, floating and floating.
“Kiddo … it’s Donnie.”
Donnie?
Wait, that couldn’t be right. His older brother, Donnie? They hadn’t talked in months. Why would he be here, trying to seduce him out of his comfortable hideaway? But then, if not Donnie, then who? Nobody else ever called him Kiddo.
Todd felt a dim murmur of anxiety. Donnie lived in Texas, for God’s sake. What was he doing here?
“Talk to me, Kiddo.”
Very reluctantly, Todd forced himself to reply to the summons, though when he finally coaxed his lips to shape it the sound he made was as remote as the moon.
“Donnie?”
“Well, howdy. I must say it’s good to have you back in the land of the livin’.” He felt a hand laid on his arm. The sensation, like Donnie’s voice, and his own, felt distant and dulled.
“You had us a bit stirred up for a while there.”
“Why’s … it … so dark in here?” Todd said. “Will you have someone turn on the lights?”
“Everything’s going to be okay, buddy.”
“Donnie. Please. Turn on the lights.”
“They are on, Kiddo. It’s just you’ve got some bandages over your face. That’s all it is. You’re going to be just fine.”
Bandages on his face.
Now it all started to come back to him. His last memories. He’d been going under Burrows’s knife for the big operation.
The last thing he remembered was Burrows telling him to count backwards from ten. Burrows had been smiling reassuringly at him, and as Todd counted-had thought: I wonder how much work he’s had done on that face of his? The nose for sure. And all the lines gone from around his eyes —
“Are you counting, Todd?” Burrows had said.
“Ten. Nine. Eight — ”
There hadn’t been a seven. Not that Todd could remember. The drugs had swept him off to their own empty version of La-La land.
But now he was back from that dreamless place, and Donnie was here at his bedside, all the way from Texas. Why? And why the bandages over his eyes? Burrows hadn’t said anything about bandages.
“My mouth’s so dry,” Todd whispered.
“No problemo, buddy,” Donnie replied gently. “I’ll get the nurse in here.”
“I’ll have a vodka … straight up.”
Donnie chuckled. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Todd heard him get up and go to the door, and call for a nurse. His consciousness wavered, and he felt himself slipping back into the void from which he’d just been brought by Donnie’s voice. The prospect of that lush darkness didn’t seem quite as comforting as it had a few moments before. He started to panic, scrambling to keep hold of the world, at least until he knew what had happened to him.
He called out to Donnie: “Where are you? Donnie? Are you there?”
Footsteps came hurriedly back in his direction.
“I’m still here, Kiddo.” Donnie’s voice was tender. Todd couldn’t remember ever hearing such tenderness in it before now.