“I know. And both Mom and Louis and I want to see you. We’ll come another day. Next weekend. But next weekend you’ll be leaving there. So we’ll see you when we pick you up and drive you and Mom home.”
“Good enough. Let me speak to her please.”
“I don’t think she’s in the best of moods to talk to you right now. That’s another reason we didn’t want to bring her in. She seems very depressed. I don’t know what from. We’ve given her everything here, treated her royally. Maybe it’s not seeing you. Or the boys could be making too much noise, but she’ll be fine soon. We’re having a friend stay with her while we’re in the city. Which is also why we can’t get to the hospital. Our friend can only stay so long.”
“I understand. But there’s nothing wrong or changed with your mother’s physical health, is there?”
“No no, I’m not holding anything back. She’s the same, don’t worry — just depressed. You know how she sometimes gets. I just don’t want her to upset you, that’s why I don’t want to put her on.”
“Just let her say hello.”
“No, Dad, really. She might cry or break down.”
“Okay. Give her my love.”
“He gives you his love, Mom.”
“Give him my love back,” I hear Merry say.
“She says to give you her—”
“I heard, Alba. Thanks.”
“Then all right. We’ll see you next week. Though I’ll call lots before then and Mom will speak to you and maybe the boys. And you’re feeling much better?”
“Now that I’m out of intensive care, much.”
“Great. Bye, Dad.”
Maybe my son will come. But he really is a busy man. I shouldn’t be unfair and forget that. Much busier than I ever was and with a lot more pressures. He’s a doctor too. He’s been phoning in every day on my case my doctor here says, and the doctor says Rom really knows his stuff. When I get discharged Rom’s going to make me close my office. Only open three half-days as it is, but he’s probably right. I’ll just go to the hospital twice a week as I’ve been doing and continue my medical work there. Seeing how the people are in the geriatric wards. Taking their pulse. Mostly cheering them up and telling them they’re going to live long lives. All that new research and drugs and equipment is just too much for me to learn about now. Rom is a specialist though. Much different than me in every way. High liver. Three wives and working on a fourth. Kids from each one also, though we only see the two from the first. Money he makes tons of, but he needs it with his court settlements and office and apartment and vacations and homes here and there and cars and now a boat. He complains about me. His actual words are that I’ve money up my ass and I’ll die with it stuck up there while he never will. He should know better. About my money and that I don’t like to curse or hear the words. I have a little money put away for Merry and me and that’s all. Just enough in case I’m forced to retire not only from the office but the little I make at the hospital too. In the beginning it was mostly chickens and things and a few dollars I took in. Meat, cheeses, fight passes and cases of beer. But I don’t operate. I don’t live big. I’m a general man. I examine people, fix little things and try to prevent worse things from happening, make out prescriptions or recommend my patients to higher men. Our big luxury was the car for my house calls and hospital work and a week’s vacation in a small Connecticut beach resort twice a year. We lived sort of frugally and always will. What does he mean money up my ass? Lost a little in stocks. Sending him through schools and helping him start his practice took a big bite. And Alba all the way with her degrees and paying off her first husband and every summer her children’s summer camps. So I don’t have a lot. Some doctors don’t. Rom says I lie to him on that. I tell him I’m not. He laughs, says “Listen, I understand. No doctors likes to say how much he’s really worth. Somebody wanting a tax informer’s cut might get wind of it and then you’ve lost most of what you’ve stored up.” But he does well. Good for him. And also does teaching work. And maybe he’ll come. Or his first ex-wife. Or his oldest child who’s now old enough. Or my sister. Or my sisters-in-law and their husbands. Or my brother in New Mexico who hasn’t called or sent a card. Or someone. An ex-receptionist of mine or patient I haven’t seen in years. Who knows? Word gets around.
“Nurse,” I say. It’s night. I must have dozed off. My dinner tray is on the table next to my bed. They must have thought I wanted to sleep. “Nurse,” I say when she passes my door again.
“Yes?”
“Could you undress me and give me my bedpan and then get me into bed?”
“Certainly, Doctor. Have a nice Sunday?”
“To be honest, I was a little disappointed.”
“What happened? Nobody come and visit you?”
“No, my family’s all right. Just little things. But I’ll be okay. Thank you very much.”
HEADS
There were two heads. I don’t know. Let me repeat. There were these two heads. I mean two heads. I don’t know. I know I don’t like going into it, two heads, just two heads, like that, in the grass, in the park. The grass of the park. The small park called Four Corners Park in the center of the city. A poor section of the city where I live, and a park where I always pass on my way to work every clement workday. A small square park about four blocks square. Square park, in the grass, grass almost over the heads of these heads, over their hair. I saw them. There we are. Saw their hair. Hair of these heads, just two heads, nothing else, maybe necks. I didn’t see those. But no shoulders. Though there could have been. I didn’t stay around to look. But I don’t think anything but heads.
This woman comes in. She says “Two heads.” I say “What?” “Two heads,” she says. I say “What do you mean two heads?” “Two heads,” she says. “I’m saying two heads what?” “Just two heads.” “Just two heads,” I say, “right.” “That’s right,” she says, “two heads.” “I know: two heads,” I say. “No you don’t know,” she says. “More than two heads?” “No, more than two heads.” “Excuse me, but what else: two necks?” “No,” she says. “You saying no meaning no there aren’t or weren’t more than two heads?” “No,” she says, “just two heads.” “That’s what I said I said,” I say. “Two heads: right?” “Right,” she says. “No two bodies or two necks on the heads, right?” “Right,” she says. “Right,” I say. “Right,” she says. “Where?” I say.
Coburn told us to check it out. We drove over to the address. Not really an address. One of the four corners of Four Corners Park. We looked. Found nothing. No two heads or one head or body or even a pinky finger of a body was there. Well, maybe there was a finger there. We didn’t comb the place out. We looked, that’s all. But nothing, at least not in the part of the park the lady told the station they’d be. So we called in. “Coburn,” Coburn said. “Coburn, Pretty Boy Josephus here. That Four Corners spot was Sixth and Bridge, check?” “I knew it was another wild goose chase,” Coburn said. “Think she could mean someplace else?” I said. “Like where?” “Like another park?” “Let me ask.” “She still there?” “You hold on,” he said. He came back. “She said definitely Four Corners Park as there can’t be another park she can walk to on her way to work on clear days, but possibly another corner of it. She says she was that scared when she saw them and so isn’t so sure now.” “Maybe you ought to send her out here,” I said. “You holding where you are?” “We think we’ll try Sixth and River as long as we did Bridge.” “I’ll send her first thing,” he said. “Her coming was of course what we should have done right off, you know.” “You telling me my job, Smarty-brains?” “Just thinking out loud,” I said, “thinking out loud.”