It had been his idea to go and see Brian in the hospital the next day, after calling the hospital all on his own that evening and ascertaining that his friend was still alive.
“Honey, I understand how you feel, but that’s a really bad idea,” his father had said. His use of “honey,” a term of endearment long since retired along with David s stuffed toys, indicated how upset Ralph Carver was. He had looked at Ellen, but she only stood by the sink wringing a dishcloth nervously back and forth in her hands. Obviously no help there. Not that Ralph had felt very helpful himself, God knew, but who had ever ex-pected such a conversation. My God, the boy was only eleven, Ralph hadn’t even gotten around to telling him the facts of life, let alone those of death. Thank God Kirstie was in the other room, watching cartoons on TV.
“No,” David had said. “It’s a good idea. In fact, it’s the only idea.” He thought of adding something heroically modest like Besides, Brian ’d do it for me, and decided not to. He didn’t think Brian would do it for him, actually. That didn’t change anything, though.
Because he had vaguely understood, even then, before what had happened in Bear Street Woods, that he’d be going not for Brian but for himself.
His mother had advanced a few hesitant steps from her bastion by the sink. “David, you’ve got the dearest heart in the world… the kindest heart in the world… but Brian…
he was… well… thrown…
“What she’s trying to say is that he hit a brick wall head-first,” his father said. He had reached across the table and taken one of his son’s hands. “There was exten-sive brain—damage. He’s in a coma, and there are no good vital signals. Do you know what that means.”
“That they think his brain turned into a cabbage.”
Ralph had winced, then nodded. “He’s in a situation where the best thing that could happen would be for it to end fast. If you went to see him, you wouldn’t be seeing the friend you know, the one you used to have sleepovers with…
His mother had gone into the living room at that point, had swept the bewildered Pie into her lap and begun to cry again.
David’s father glanced after her as if he’d like to join her, then turned back to David again. “It’s best if you remember Bri the way he was when you saw him the last time.
Understand.”
“Yes, but I can’t do that. I have to go see him. If you don’t want to take me, that’s okay, though. I’ll take the bus after school.”
Ralph had sighed heavily. “Shit, kid, I’ll take you. You won’t have to wait until after school, either. Just don’t for God’s sake say anything about this to—” He lifted his chin toward the living room.
“To Pie. Gosh, no.” He didn’t add that Pie had already been into his room to ask him what had happened to Brian, and had it hurt, and what did David think it was like to die, did you go somewhere, and about a hundred other questions. Her face had been so solemn, so atten tive. She had been… well, she had been absolutely Pie eyed. But it was often best if you didn’t tell your parents everything. They were old, and stuff got on their nerves “Brian’s parents won’t let you in,” Ellie had said, corn ing back into the room. “I’ve known Mark and Debbie for years. They’re grief-stricken—sure they are, if it had been you I’d be insane—but they’ll know better than to let a little boy look at… at another little boy who’s dying.”
“I called them after I called the hospital and asked if I could come see him,” David said quietly. “Mrs. Ross said okay.” His dad was still holding his hand. That was okay He loved his mom and dad very much, and had been sorry this was distressing for them, but there was no question in his mind about what he was supposed to do. It had been as if some other power, one from outside, were guiding him even then. The way an older, smarter person might guide a little kid’s hand, to help him make a picture of a dog or a chicken or a snowman.
“What’s the matter with her.” Ellen Carver asked in a distraught voice. “Just what in hell is the matter with her that’s what I’d like to know.”
“She said she was glad I could come say goodbye. She said they’re going to turn off the life-support stuff this weekend, after his grandparents come to say goodbye, and she was glad I could come first.”
The following day, Ralph took the afternoon off from work and picked his son up at school. David had been standing at the curb with his blue EXCUSED EARLY pass sticking out of his shirt pocket. When they got to the hos-pital, they rode up to the fifth floor, ICU, in the world s slowest elevator. On the way, David tried to prepare him self for what he was going to see. Don’t be shocked David, Mrs. Ross had said on the phone.
He doesn’t look very nice. We’re sure he doesn ‘tfeel any pain—he ’s down much too deep for that—but he doesn’t look very nice.
“Want me to come in with you.” his father had asked long, lonely sound, and the cop glanced in that direction. The thread between them—maybe telepathy, maybe just a combination of fear and fascination—snapped.
The cop bent to pick up the shotgun. David held his breath, fully expecting him to see the shell lying on the floor off to his right, but the cop did not glance in that direction. He stood up, flipping a lever on the side of the shotgun as he did so. It broke open, the barrels lying over his arm like an obedient animal. “Don’t go away, David,” he said in a confidential, just-us-guys voice. “We’ve got a lot to talk about. That’s a conversation I’m looking for-ward to, believe me, but just now I’m a little busy.”
He walked back toward the center of the room, head down, picking up shells as he went.
The first two he loaded into the gun; the rest he stuffed absently into his pockets. David dared wait no.longer. He bent, snaked his hand between the two bars on the left side of the cell, and grabbed the fat green tube. He slipped it into the pocket of his jeans. The woman named Mary didn’t see; she was still lying on the bunk with her face buried in her arms, sobbing. His parents didn’t see; they were standing at the bars of their cell, arms around each other’s waist, watch-ing the man in the khaki uniform with horrified fascina-tion. David turned around and saw that old Mr. White Hair—Tom—still had his hands to his face, so maybe that was okay, too. Except old Tom’s watery eyes were open behind his fingers, David could see them, so maybe it wasn’t okay. Either way, it was too late now to take it back. Still facing the man the cop had called Tom, David raised the side of one hand to his mouth in a brief shushing gesture. Old Tom gave no sign that he saw; his eyes, in their own prison, only continued to stare out from between the bars of his fingers.
The cop who had killed Pie picked up the last shell on the floor, took a brief look under the desk, then straight-ened and snapped the shotgun closed with a single flick of his wrist. David had watched him closely through the picking-up process, trying to get a sense of whether or not the cop was counting the shells. He hadn’t thought so.
until now. Now the cop was just standing there, back-to, head down. Then he turned and strode back to David’s cell, and the boy felt his stomach turn to lead.
For a moment the cop just stood there looking at him, seeming to pry at him, and David thought: He’s trying to pick my brains the way a burglar tries to pick a lock.
“Are you thinking about God.” the cop asked. “Don bother. Out here, God’s country stops at Indian Springs and even Lord Satan don’t step his cloven feet much north of Tonopah. There’s no God in Desperation, baby boy Out here there’s only can de lach.”