“I’ve listed it as a car accident,” Dr. Temple says.
They are in a room of white tiles and green walls and white cabinets and stainless steel sinks. The room smells of antiseptic and the white tile floor sparkles with hot September sunlight.
Dr. Temple is in his mid-fifties, balding, a lean jogger in a white medical smock. He has very blue eyes and very pink skin. He is an old family friend.
“You’ve taken care of the records, then?” Mrs. Garth asks. She is sixty-eight and regal in a cold way, given to Dior suits and facelifts.
“Yes.”
“There’ll be no problem?”
“None. The record will show that he was transferred here two weeks ago following a car accident.”
“A car accident?”
“That will account for the bandages. So many lacerations and contusions we had to cover his entire body.” He makes a grim line of his mouth. “Very dramatic and very convincing to the eye. Almost theatrical.”
“I see. Very good. I appreciate it.”
“And we appreciate all you’ve done for the hospital, Ruth. Without your generosity, there’d be no cancer clinic.”
She stands up and offers her delicate hand in such a way that the doctor fears for a terrified moment she actually expects him to kiss it.
From a police report:
I thought the dog might have attacked her after the killer fled. But when I looked closer, I found the mosaic of knife wounds, and nothing else. He must have stabbed her dozens of times. I checked the immediate vicinity for footprints and anything that might have fallen from his pockets. I found nothing that looked useful.
A new elevator, one more necessity her money has bought this hospital, takes her to the ninth floor.
She walks down a sunny corridor being polished by a dumpy, middle-aged black woman who has permitted her hose to bag about her knees. The woman, Mrs. Garth thinks, should have more respect for herself.
Mrs. Garth finds 909 and enters.
She takes no more than ten steps inside, around the edge of the bathroom, when she stops and looks in horror at him.
All she can think of are those silly movies about Egyptian mummies brought back to life.
Here sits Steve, his head and both arms swathed entirely in bandages. All she can see of him his face, his eyes, and his mouth.
“My Lord,” she moans.
She edges closer to his hospital bed. The room is white and dean and lazy in the sunlight. Above, the TV set mounted to the wall plays a game show with two fat contestants jumping up and down on either side of the handsome host who cannot quite rid his eyes of boredom.
“Aren’t you awfully hot inside there?” she asks.
He says nothing, but then at such times he never does.
She pulls up a chair and sits down.
“I am Zoser, founder of the Third Dynasty,” he says.
“Oh, you,” she says. “Now’s no time to joke. Anyway, I can barely understand you with all those bandages over your face.”
“I am Senferu, the Warrior King.”
“Oh, you,” she says.
From a police report:
Her neck appears to have been broken. At least that was my first impression. The killer's strength must be incredible. To say nothing of how much he must hate women.
An hour after she arrives in the hospital room, she says, “An old man saw you.”
Inside the mummy head, the blue eyes show panic.
“Don’t worry,” she continues. “He has vision trouble, so he’s not a very credible witness. But he did describe you pretty accurately to the press. Fortunately, I told Dr. Temple that some drug dealers were looking for you. That’s why we needed to hide you out for a while. He seemed to accept my story.”
She pats him on the arm. “Didn’t that medication Dr. Gilroy gave you help? I had such high hopes for it. He said you wouldn’t any longer want to... You know what I’m trying to say.”
But now that he knows he’s going to be safe, the panic dies in his blue eyes and he says, “I am King Tut.”
“Oh, pooh. Can’t you be serious?”
“I’m not serious. I’m King Tut.”
She clucks.
They sit back and watch the Bugs Bunny cartoon he has on. He says, through his bandages, “I wish they’d show Porky.”
“Porky?”
“Porky Pig.”
“Oh, I see.” My God, he’s forty-six years old. She says, “In case there’s any trouble, Dr. Temple is going to tell the police that you’ve been here two weeks and that the old man couldn’t possibly identify you because even if you had been out and about, you’d have been wearing bandages.”
“They won’t arrest Senferu the Warrior King, Mother. They’d be afraid to.”
“I thought after that trouble in Chicago you told me about—”
“There’s Sylvester!” he exclaims.
And so there is: Sylvester the cat.
She lets him watch a long minute, the exasperated cat lisping and spitting and spraying. “You were very savage with this one,” she says. “Very savage.”
“I’ve seen this one before. This is where Tweety really gives it to Sylvester. Watch!”
She watches, and when she can endure it no more, she says, “Perhaps I made some mistakes with you.”
“Oh, God, Sylvester — watch out for Tweety!”
“Perhaps, after your father died, I took certain liberties with you I shouldn’t have.” Pause. “Letting you sleep in my bed... things happened and I don’t suppose either one of us is to blame but nonetheless—”
“Great! Porky’s coming on! Look, Mother, it’s Porky!”
From a police report:
Down near the creek bed, I stared at it. I started getting sick. By this time the first backup was arriving. They had to take over for me for a few minutes. I wasn't feeling very well. I hadn't seen anything like this.
In the hospital room, sitting there in his mummy bandages, his mother at his side, Steve stares up at the TV set. There’s a commercial on now. He hates commercials.
“Maybe Daffy Duck will be on next, Mother. God, wouldn’t that be great?”
Now it’s her turn for silence. She thinks of the girls in Chicago and Kansas City and Akron. So savage with them; so savage. She will never again believe him that everything’s fine and that his medication has gotten him calmed down once and for all and that she should let him take a trip.
But of course this time he didn’t even go anywhere. Most dangerous of all, he did it here at home.
Right here at home.
“Wouldn’t it be great, Mother?” he asks, wanting her to share his enthusiasm. He loves those occasions when they share things.
She says, “I’m sorry, darling, my mind just wandered. Wouldn’t what be great, dear?”
“If it was Daffy on next.”
“Daffy?”
“Daffy Duck,” he says from inside his mummy head. And then he does a Daffy Duck imitation right on the spot.
Not even the bandages can spoil it, she thinks. He’s so clever. “Oh, yes, dear. That would be great if Daffy came on next.”
He reaches over and touches her with his bandaged hand and for a horrible moment she almost believes he’s been injured.
But then she sees the laughter in his blue blue eyes inside the mummy head.
She pats his bandaged hand. “You’ll get nice rest here for a few weeks and then we’ll go home again, dear, and everything will be fine.”
He lays his head back and sighs. “Fine.” He repeats the word almost as if he doesn’t know what it means. “Fiiiine.” He seems to be staring at the ceiling. She hopes it’s not another depression. They come on so quickly and last so long.