"Yuh done somethin' t' the booze, Hickey," he muttered in a thirties dialect. "What yuh done t' da booze?"
The mutter was for my benefit, but Dr. Mortimer was roused from his doze by the window.
"What's that, Joe?"
"Nothing, Doctor." Joe slid the bottle out of sight. "Just a line that came to me from O'Neill's The Iceman Cometh. It's in the last act, after Hickey's given them all 'The Word,' so to speak, and one of the barflies says something to the effect of 'The booze ain't got no kick t' it no more, Hickey. What yuh done t' da booze?' "
"I see," Mortimer answered, and dug his head back into the little airplane pillow. He saw about as well as anybody did, I guessed.
With the help of Aspergum and overpriced airline cocktails I was still in front of the thing when we landed in Portland, but it was closing fast. The banging in my skull heralded it like the rising toll of a storm bell. Mortimer phoned his wife from the airport to have her meet him at the big Standard station on the edge of the hospital grounds. He said he simply did not have the energy to check on the ward just now. Joe said he would do it. Dr. Mortimer gave Joe a grateful smile but allowed as how the nuts had been cracking right along without either of them for two days and nights now; another night probably wouldn't hurt.
"Besides, our guest has to be driven home," he added. "Unless he'd like to lay over a night with us. Devlin? It would give you an opportunity to study the set sketches the producers sent up."
"Yeah, why don't you?" Joe put it. "You can check out my collection of bad religious art from Ireland."
I shook my head. "I promised I'd be back. My dad was scheduled for a spinal this morning. I thought about phoning from Denver," I said, "but you know how it is."
They both nodded that they did and no more was said about it.
We dropped Dr. Mortimer off at the gas station. His wife was nowhere in sight, but we might not have seen her; there was still a jam of cars stretching around the corner of the block both ways. Joe began to fret as soon as the looming complex of the hospital came into sight. "I think I ought to swing in, anyway," he said. "We can make a quick round while they're gassing us up at the motor pool."
He braked to make the turn and the guard at the gate waved us on. He pulled to the NO STOPPING curb in front and motioned the aide sweeping the lobby to come out.
"Mr. Gonzales? Would you mind driving this bomb around back and filling it up?"
Gonzales didn't mind a bit. Grinning at his good fortune, he gave Joe the broom and took the wheel. Joe shouldered it and marched around to my door.
"Come on," he implored, "you can stand it if I can." He even added an enticement. "Maybe I can scrounge up another pink pill."
I could see he was needing the company; the hopeful glow had gone out of his eyes, leaving a gloomy smudge. I caught the strap of my shoulder bag and followed him toward the lobby, resolved to stand it.
The lobby was empty and completely changed. The renovation was nearly finished and the workers had knocked off for the weekend. There was gleaming new tile on the floor and fresh white paint on the walls. The veteran squad of khaki couches had been discharged and a replacement of recruits waited in close-order file, still in their plastic shipping bags. All the Venetian blinds had been removed from the windows, and the wooden window frames replaced by chrome. It glistened in the harsh sunshine streaming through the big windows.
The only thing about the lobby that was the same was the fluorescent lights. They still buzzed and fluttered even in the shadeless sunlight. They made me think of the ward above. And this suddenly made my resolve start to flutter like the chilly light in those long tubes. I backed out when the elevator door opened.
"I'll wait down here," I had to tell Joe. "Maybe I'll finish that Ching you interrupted the other morning."
"Right," Joe said. "So you can find out whether to go or not to go to Florida." He handed me the broom. "Find out for me too, why don't you?"
The elevator took him up and left me standing there, knowing that I had let him down. I leaned the broom against the wall and went to the drinking fountain and spit out my last piece of Aspergum. I tried to rinse out the taste but it wouldn't go away. It tasted like pennies, or a lightning storm in the making. I walked to the receptionist's deserted desk. Two of the buttons on her switchboard were blinking. As I watched, they both stopped. Calls were probably being relayed to another board during renovation.
I managed to get an outside line and dial my parents' house. I listened to it ringing at the other end. Maybe they were still at the hospital. Maybe something had happened. I should have tried to call earlier. I had lied about Denver. I hadn't thought of calling from there at all.
I tried awhile to ring Information for the number at the clinic, but I couldn't decipher the complicated switchboard. I finally gave up and walked to the couches. I took a seat in the one at the front of the rank, right at the windows. New louvered sun shades waited along the baseboard. They would replace the old blinds. Now the sun boomed in dead level, like cannon fire.
I got up and went around to the couch at the rear. It was still in the sun but I managed to pull it over into the bar of shade from one of the window frames. I sat down in the narrow shadow and closed my eyes.
Joe was gone a long time. The sun angled along. I had to keep scooting on the plastic to stay behind that shadow. I slumped back and folded my arms, hoping I might appear calm and relaxed should a guard happen past. I just about had the flutter in my breath under control when a thumping crash right at my feet made me jump a mile. My shoulder bag on the couch had been spilled by my fidgeting – the thump was the I Ching hitting the floor; the crash was the martini glass I'd swiped from Szaabo.
I tried to make fun of myself: Whadja think, one of the guys in white gotcha with his butterfly net? I was leaning to gather up the spilled stuff when I saw something that got me worse than any net ever could. It was on the front cover of the book, one of the pictures taken years before-of a little boy in pajamas looking over the rail of a crib at the back of a cluttered bus. God Almighty had that been all there was to it? Nothing but a spell of déjà vu! a commonplace phenomenon triggered by that glimpse of Caleb standing on the porch in his nightclothes? It seemed to be that simply: the image on the porch had resonated with the photograph of that other time I traipsed off to see this mysterious Wolf Doctor. Always one of my favorite of Hassler's bus pictures. That's why it's front page center in my collage. A ringing moment from the past, and it happened to find a corresponding note in the present. This could account for all these shadows that have been haunting me. Reverberations. The nuthouse reverberations. Woofner repeated. Separate splashes in the same pond, the ripples intersecting. Resonating waves, that's what it is, clear and simple -
yet…
there must be something more to it than surface waves to get you so good. It stirs too far down, rolls from too far away. To roll that far, wouldn't the two moments have to share something deeper as well? some primal heading? some upwelling force from a mutual spring that drives the pair of times to join forces and become one many times more lasting than either original time alone, a double-sided moment that can roll powerfully across years and at the same time remain fixed, permanently laminated in a timeproof vault of the memory, where the little boy stands longing yet, in unfading Kodachrome, in flannel pajamas and Grateful Deadshirt both, on the porch at the farm and holding to the crib rail at the back of the bus, eyes shining forever brave down that dim and disorderly tube -
and yet…