The man on the stretcher stared up at me from the gloom, his broken neck bulging in a shiny skin-covered doorknob at the nape. I cant move my fucking toes, he said.
I kissed him on the corner of the mouth (it was my special place, I guess) and was backing out when one of the paramedics grabbed me. What in the hell do you think youre doing? he asked.
I pointed to the watch, which now lay beside the stretcher. That was in the grass. I thought hed want it. By the time the Escort driver was able to tell someone that it wasnt his watch and the initials engraved on the inside of the lid meant nothing to him, we would be gone. Did you get his medical bracelet?
The paramedic looked disgusted. It was just a piece of chrome, he said. Get out of here. Then, not quite grudgingly: Thanks. You could have kept that.
It was true. I loved that watch. But spur of the moment. It was all I had.
Youve got blood on the back of your hand, the ex-marine said as we drove back to my house. We were in his car, a nondescript Chevrolet sedan. There was a dog leash lying on the backseat and a St. Christophers medal hanging from the rearview mirror on a silver chain. You ought to wash it off when you get home.
I said I would.
You wont be seeing me again, he said.
I thought of what the black woman had said about Ayana then. I hadnt thought of it in years. Are my dreams over? I asked.
He looked puzzled, then shrugged. Your work is, he said. I sure dont know anything about your dreams.
I asked him three more questions before he dropped me off for the last time and disappeared from my life. I didnt expect him to answer them, but he did.
Those people I kissdo they go on to other people? Kiss their boo-boos and make them all gone?
Some do, he said. Thats how it works. Others cant. He shrugged. Or wont. He shrugged again. It comes to the same.
Do you know a little girl named Ayana? Although I suppose shed be a big girl now.
Shes dead.
My heart dropped, but not too far. I suppose I had known. I thought again of the little girl in the wheelchair.
She kissed my father, I said. She only touched me. So why was I the one?
Because you were, he said, and pulled into my driveway. Here we are.
An idea occurred to me. It seemed like a good one, God knows why. Come for Christmas, I said. Come for Christmas dinner. We have plenty. Ill tell Ruth youre my cousin from New Mexico. Because I had never told her about the ex-marine. Knowing about my father was enough for her. Too much, really.
The ex-marine smiled. That might not have been the only time I saw it, but its the only time I remember. Think Ill give it a miss, mate. Although I thank you. I dont celebrate Christmas. Im an atheist.
Thats really it, I guessexcept for kissing Trudy. I told you she went gaga, remember? Alzheimers. Ralph made good investments that left her well-off, and the kids saw that she went to a nice place when she was no longer okay to live at home. Ruth and I went to see her together until Ruth had her heart attack on the approach into Denver International. I went to see Trudy on my own not long after that, because I was lonely and sad and wanted some connection with the old days. But seeing Trudy as she had become, looking out the window instead of at me, munching at her lower lip while clear spit grizzled from the corners of her mouth, only made me feel worse. Like going back to your hometown to look at the house you grew up in and discovering a vacant lot.
I kissed the corner of her mouth before I left, but of course nothing happened. A miracle is no good without a miracle worker, and my miracle days are behind me now. Except late at night when I cant sleep. Then I can come downstairs and watch almost any movie I want. Even skin flicks. I have a satellite dish, you see, and something called Global Movies. I could even get the Pirates, if I wanted to order the MLB package. But I live on a fixed income these days, and while Im comfortable, I also have to keep an eye on my discretionary spending. I can read about the Pirates on the Internet. All those movies are miracle enough for me.
A Very Tight Place
Curtis Johnson rode his bike five miles every morning. He had stopped for a while after Betsy died, but found that without his morning exercise he was sadder than ever. So he took it up again. The only difference was that he stopped wearing his bike helmet. He rode two and a half miles down Gulf Boulevard, then turned around and rode back. He always kept to the bike lanes. He might not care if he lived or died, but he respected the rule of law.
Gulf Boulevard was the only road on Turtle Island. It ran past a lot of homes owned by millionaires. Curtis didnt notice them. For one thing, he was a millionaire himself. He had made his money the old-fashioned way, in the stock market. For another, he had no problem with any of the people living in the houses he passed. The only one he had a problem with was Tim Grunwald, alias The Motherfucker, and Grunwald lived in the other direction. Not the last lot on Turtle Island before Daylight Channel, but the second-to-last. It was the last lot that was the problem between them (one of the problems). That lot was the biggest, with the best view of the Gulf, and the only one without a house on it. The only things on it were scrub grass, sea oats, stunted palms, and a few Australian pines.
The nicest thing, the very nicest, about his morning rides was no phone. He was officially off the grid. Once he got back, the phone would seldom leave his hand, especially while the market was open. He was athletic; he would stride around the house using the cordless, occasionally returning to his office, where his computer would be scrolling the numbers. Sometimes he left the house to walk out to the road, and then he took his cell phone. Usually he would turn right, toward the stub end of Gulf Boulevard. Toward The Motherfuckers house. But he wouldnt go so far that Grunwald could see him; Curtis wouldnt give the man that satisfaction. He just went far enough to make sure Grunwald wasnt trying to pull a fast one with the Vinton Lot. Of course there was no way The Motherfucker could get heavy machinery past him, not even at nightCurtis slept lightly since there was no Betsy lying beside him. But he still checked, usually standing behind the last palm in a shady stretch of two dozen. Just to be sure. Because destroying empty lots, burying them under tons of concrete, was Grunwalds goddam business.
And The Motherfucker was sly.
So far, though, all was well. If Grunwald did try to pull a fast one, Curtis was ready to empty the holes (legally speaking). Meanwhile, Grunwald had Betsy to answer for, and answer he would. Even if Curtis had largely lost his taste for the fray (he denied this to himself, but knew it was true), he would see that Grunwald answered for her. The Motherfucker would discover that Curtis Johnson had jaws of chrome jaws of chrome steel and when he took hold of a thing, he did not let go.
When he returned to his home on this particular Tuesday morning, with ten minutes still to go before the opening bell on Wall Street, Curtis checked his cell phone for messages, as he always did. Today there were two. One was from Circuit City, probably some salesman trying to sell him something under the guise of checking his satisfaction with the wall-hung flatscreen hed purchased the month before.
When he scrolled down to the next message, he read this: 383-0910 TMF.
The Motherfucker. Even his Nokia knew who Grunwald was, because Curtis had taught it to remember. The question was, what did The Motherfucker want with him on a Tuesday morning in June?
Maybe to settle, and on Curtiss terms.
He allowed himself a laugh at this idea, then played the message. He was stunned to hear that was exactly what Grunwald did wantor appeared to want. Curtis supposed it could be some sort of ploy, but he didnt understand what Grunwald stood to gain by such a thing. And then there was the tone: heavy, deliberate, almost plodding. Maybe it wasnt sorrow, but it surely sounded like sorrow. It was the way Curtis himself sounded all too often on the phone these days, as he tried to get his head back in the game.