He realized that someone was asking him if he were okay. He looked around. The jeep was mashed into his front end, steam hissed from his radiator, jars of baby food were on the dash, the floor, in his lap, strained prunes and tapioca pudding oozing into the carpet. He shook his head. His head hurt. “People in the jeep okay?” he asked.
“We’re fine,” said a teenager with the unbuttoned shirt at his window. “Are you okay?”
Pain shot through his right shoulder and elbow and lodged in his hand. He looked down at his hand and realized that something might be broken. Slowly he turned to face the anxious boy. “Eureka,” he said, his eyes watering with pain even as he smiled.
They gave him something for the pain after they took X-rays and punched, kneaded, prodded, and probed. He was glad that Ginger was in the emergency room with him, even more glad that she had ridden with him in the ambulance. He had been near hysteria, not from the pain or fear, but from the absurdity of it all — two blocks from home, his house in sight, his precious car bleeding water and antifreeze and spouting steam, and him immobilized by the idiots from the jeep. He wanted to get home, to see the twins, to tell Ginger he was all right. He heard his own voice babbling, saw his left hand pointing to his house. “No sir, you stay right there, we’ve called an ambulance, don’t move, you might hurt yourself, stay put, sir.” A girl was crying somewhere. His frustration was blinding. Finally he made someone understand and someone ran to his house and got his wife. Only then had the sense of helplessness faded.
Now here in the hospital lobby it was back again, only slightly dulled by the painkiller. He held the phone away from his ear to protect his eardrum from Fat Chance’s howling. “You’re a real pip, Adam, you know that?” The voice carried far in the room. Heads turned. “I know you’re serious because you don’t have a sense of humor. And if you’re serious, you’re nuts. Now why don’t you go home, go to bed, and...”
“Marvyn, have you still got the report?”
“It’s right here on my desk. I’m not touching it until Monday morning. I’ve got a big meeting now, Adam old chap, so I’m going to hang...”
“Just look at the injuries, okay? Just open the file and look. Don’t they strike you as odd? Marvyn? Are you there, Marvyn?”
“You’re off your doodle, Adam. You’re bonkers. Goodbye.”
Hearing the dial tone was something of a relief.
“He didn’t believe you,” said Ginger. It was not a question.
Adam didn’t really respond to her remark until they were in the cab, and even then he talked as much to keep his mind off the fact that he was on the streets again as to discuss the problem.
“Well,” he said. “Well.”
“Well?” said Ginger, teasing.
“Well, he’s probably right, Ginger. He deals with this sort of thing daily. I don’t know anything about it. Imagine my reaction if he was to tell me I had mistranslated a section of Beowulf.”
“Were.”
“What?”
“You said ’if he was,’ Adam. You don’t make that kind of mistake unless you’re upset. Try to relax.”
He lapsed into a long silence. Defeat settled like dust on his shoulders. He’d smashed his car. He’d hurt himself and frightened his wife. He’d missed his afternoon classes. He was underpaid, he hadn’t saved, he couldn’t sell his writing. He was too old for the twins, too old for Ginger, too old to drive, to teach, to think. There wasn’t enough money, wasn’t enough time, wasn’t enough anything. And he’d made a fool of himself in front of Fat Chance — of all people.
“And I use the word loosely,” he mumbled.
“What?” said Ginger.
“What?” answered Adam, looking up suddenly as if he’d been caught sleeping in class.
“What did you say, Adam?”
“Damn,” he said, surprising even himself. “Driver, take us to 2607 Craig Road, please.”
Dark eyes squinted in the rearview mirror. “That okay by you, lady?”
“Yes,” said Ginger, and they sat in silence until the cab came to a halt.
“Wait,” Clay ordered as he got out of the cab. The driver shrugged and lit a bent cigarette.
Just act as if you know what you’re doing, Clay thought as he lengthened his step into what he hoped was a purposeful stride toward Fat Chance’s office.
“Marvyn still in, Miss Andress?” he asked almost casually as he passed the desk and reached for the office door.
Miss Andress half rose as if to stop him. “No, Mr. Clay. He’s gone for the day.”
“Fine,” he said as he opened the door. “He said he’d leave a folder on his desk,” and with that he was in the office. It wasn’t a lie exactly, he told himself, any more than Marvyn’s meeting. But at the sight of the desk he felt his confidence drain again. It was chaos, paper piled everywhere. Not a square centimeter of desk top was visible. He walked around the desk and stood at Fat Chance’s chair, his eyes dancing furiously for the report. The secretary appeared in the doorway.
“Ah, Miss Andress. Now I understand why my brother-in-law requires such a competent secretary.” He waved his left hand vaguely, looking helpless. “If you’d be so kind...”
Miss Andress allowed a smile to twitch at her lips. “Exactly what do you need, Mr. Clay?”
“The Cannon file, please.”
She plucked it from the mess with a dextrous flick of a magician’s wrist.
“You amaze me, Miss Andress. Marvyn would be lost without you, I’m sure.”
Another twitch encouraged him.
“Indeed,” he continued, “I dare say that he is often lost despite you?” He made it lilt like a question, this time intentionally, and received a genuine smile in return.
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, Mr. Clay.”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t say it, Miss Andress.”
They allowed themselves a small laugh as they left the office.
“I hope you don’t have much you need to do, Mr. Clay. Those reports can be so tedious.”
“Not much, Miss Andress.” Just the name of the ambulance attendant, he thought. “Good day.”
He was beaming as he got back into the cab. “Home, James,” he announced.
The driver jerked his thumb at his ID. “That’s Jimbo, Mac.”
“Adam,” said Ginger as she reached for his hand, “are you all right?”
“All right?” He kissed her cheek. “I was terrific.”
It didn’t take long for Adam to feel his confidence drain yet once more. The ambulance that had picked up the Cannons was based in DeWitt, in the next county, a rural county with miles of narrow country roads twisting away from the interstate. Too far for a cab. That meant hiring a sitter. It also meant riding in Ginger’s ’72 Volkswagen Beetle on those roads where traffic came at you just inches away, and the Bug lacked for Adam the comforting dead weight armor of excess steel. He spent a restless night and decided finally to go, shame winning over fear, because Hogan Lewis, the EMT he had reached, had changed his plans in order to meet with Adam the next morning, and Adam was too embarrassed to call back and cancel.
He survived the drive by concentrating on what he was after and on trying to discover exactly how he had gotten himself into this situation. Why was it so important to pursue this? Cannon’s insult? Fat Chance’s laughter? This is idiocy, he thought. He had no experience in these matters. Surely he could accept Fat Chance’s opinion as valid. Good Lord, he thought suddenly. Is it that I’m seeking Marvyn’s approval? The idea horrified him.
“Do you like your brother?” he asked, then realized how strange it must sound since he had said nothing at all for the last fifteen minutes.