“You got a point there.”
“You’re damned right I do.”
“But.”
“But what?”
Grinning, the boy said, “You’re no teenager.”
“I can pass for one.”
“No way. You’re an old guy.”
“Is that so?”
“A real old guy.”
“You’re in big trouble when I get out of this bed, mister.”
“Yeah, but until your shell’s dry, I’m safe.”
The next time Toby came to the hospital–Heather visited every day, but
Toby was limited to once or twice a week–Jack was wearing a colorful
headband.
Heather had gotten him a red-and-yellow scarf, which he’d folded and
tied around his head. The ends of the knot hung rakishly over his
right ear.
“Rest of the uniform is still being designed.” he told Toby.
A few weeks later, one day in mid-April, Heather pulled the privacy
curtain around Jack’s bed and gave him a sponge bath and damp-sponge
shampoo to save the nurses a little work. She said, “I’m not sure I
like other women bathing you. I’m getting jealous.”
He said, “I swear I can explain where I was last night.”
“There’s not a nurse in the hospital hasn’t gone out of her way to tell
me that you’re their favorite patient.”
“Well, honey, that’s meaningless. Anybody can be their favorite
patient. It’s easy. All you’ve got to do is avoid puking on them and
don’t make fun of their little hats.”
“That easy, huh?” she said, sponging his left arm.
“Well, you also have to eat everything on your dinner tray, never
hassle them to give you massive injections of heroin without a doctor’s
prescription, and never ever fake cardiac arrest just to get
attention.”
“They say you’re so sweet, brave, and funny.”
“Aw, shucks,” he said with exaggerated shyness, but he was genuinely
embarrassed.
“A couple of them told me how lucky I am, married to you.”
“You punch them?”
“Managed to control myself.”
“Good. They’d only take it out on me.”
“I am lucky,” she said.
“And some of these nurses are strong, they probably pack a pretty hard
punch.”
“I love you, Jack,” she said, leaning over the bed and kissing him full
on the mouth.
The kiss took his breath away. Her hair fell across his face, it
smelled of a lemony shampoo.
“Heather,” he said softly, putting one hand against her cheek,
“Heather, Heather,” repeating the name as if it was sacred, which it
was, not only a name but a prayer that sustained him, the name and face
that made his nights less dark, that made his pain-filled days pass
more quickly.
“I’m so lucky,” she repeated.
“Me too. Finding you.”
“You’ll be home with me again.”
“Soon,” he said, though he knew he would be weeks in that bed and weeks
more in a rehabilitation hospital.
“No more lonely nights,” she said.
“No more.”
“Always together.”
“Always.” His throat was tight, and he was afraid he was going to
cry.
He was not ashamed to cry, but he didn’t think either of them dared
indulge in tears yet. They needed all their strength and resolve for
the struggles that still lay ahead. He swallowed hard and whispered,
“When I get home. . . ?”
“Yes?”
“And we can go to bed together again?”
Face-to-face with him, she whispered too: “Yes?”
“Will you do something special for me?”
“Of course, silly.”
“Would you dress up like a nurse? That really turns me on.”
She blinked in surprise for a moment, burst out laughing, and shoved a
cold sponge in his face. “Beast.”
“Well, then, how about a nun?”
“Pervert.”
“A girl scout?”
“But a sweet, brave, and funny pervert.”
If he hadn’t possessed a good sense of humor, he wouldn’t have been
able to be a cop. Laughter, sometimes dark laughter, was the shield
that made it possible to wade, without being stained, through the filth
and madness in which most cops had to function these days.
A sense of humor aided his recovery, too, and made it possible not to
be consumed by pain and worry, although there was one thing about which
he had difficulty laughing–his helplessness. He was embarrassed about
being assisted with his basic bodily functions and subjected to regular
enemas to counteract the effects of extreme inactivity. Week after