"Now you're supposed to ask me whether my intentions are honorable. The answer is we have no intentions. Not until I get out of service."
"And how long is that?"
"Unless the war ends, about five years."
"Blaze will be fifty."
"Fifty-two, actually. I'll be thirty-seven. Maybe that bothers you more than it does us."
"No," he said. "It might bother Marty."
Marty gave him a hard look. "What have you been drinking?"
"The usual." Franklin displayed the bottom of his empty teacup. "How long has it been?"
"I only want the best for both of you," Marty said to me. "You know that."
"Eight years, nine?"
"Good God, Franklin. Were you a terrier in a former life?" Marty shook his head as if to clear it. "That was over long before Julian joined the department"
The waiter sidled over with the wine and three glasses. Sensing tension, he poured as slowly as was practical. We all watched him in silence. "So," Reza said, "how 'bout them Oilers?"
THE NEUROLOGIST WHO CAME to see Amelia the next morning was too young to have an advanced degree in anything. He had a goatee and bad skin. For half an hour, he asked her the same simple questions over and over.
"When and where were you born?"
"August 12, 1996. Sturbridge, Massachusetts."
"What was your mother's name?"
"Jane O'Banian Harding."
"Where did you go to grade school?"
"Nathan Hale Elementary, Roxbury."
He paused. "Last time you said Breezewood. In Sturbridge."
She took a deep breath and let it out. "We moved to Roxbury in '04. Maybe '05."
"Ah. And high school?"
"Still O'Bryant. John D. O'Bryant School of Mathematics and Science."
"That's in Sturbridge?"
"No, Roxbury! I went to middle school in Roxbury, too. You haven't – "
"What was your mother's maiden name?"
"O'Banian."
He made a long note in his notebook. "All right. Stand up."
"What?"
"Get out of bed, please. Stand up."
Amelia sat up and cautiously put her feet on the floor.
She took a couple of shaky steps and reached back to hold the gown closed.
"Are you dizzy?"
"A little. Of course."
"Raise your arms, please." She did, and the back of the gown fell open.
"Nice bottom, sweetheart," croaked the old lady in the bed next to her.
"Now I want you to close your eyes and slowly bring your fingertips together." She tried and missed; she opened her eyes and saw that she had missed by more than an inch.
"Try it again," he said. This time the two fingers grazed.
He wrote a couple of words in the notebook. "All right. You're free to go now."
"What?"
"You're released. Take your ration card to the checkout desk on your way out."
"But... don't I get to see a doctor?"
He reddened. "You don't think I'm a doctor?"
"No. Are you?"
"I'm qualified to release you. You're released." He turned and walked away.
"What about my clothes? Where are my clothes?" He shrugged and disappeared out the door.
"Try the cabinet there, sweetheart." Amelia checked all the cabinets, moving with creaky slowness. There were neat stacks of linen and gowns, but no trace of the leather suitcase she'd taken to Guadalajara.
"Likely somebody took 'em," another old lady said. "Likely that black boy."
Of course, she suddenly remembered: she'd asked Julian to take it home. It was valuable, handmade, and there was no place here where it would have been secure.
What other little things had she forgotten? The John D. O'Bryant School of Mathematics and Science was on New Dudley. Her office at the lab was 12-344. What was Julian's phone number? Eight.
She retrieved her toiletry kit from the bathroom and got the miniphone out of it. It had a toothpaste smear on the punch-plate. She cleaned it with a corner of her sheet and sat on the bed and punched # – 08.
"Mr. Class is in class," the phone said. "Is this an emergency?"
"No. Message." She paused. "Darling, bring me something to wear. I've been released." She set the phone down and reached back and felt the cool metal disk at the base of her skull. She wiped away sudden tears and muttered "Shit."
A big square female nurse rolled in a gurney with a shriveled little Chinese woman on it. "What's the story here?" she said. "This bed is supposed to be vacant."
Amelia started laughing. She put her kit and the Chandler book under her arm and held her gown closed with the other hand and walked out into the corridor.
IT TOOK ME A while to track Amelia down. Her room was full of querulous old women who either clammed up or gave me false information. Of course she was at Accounts Receivable. She didn't have to pay anything for the medical attention or room, but her two inedible meals had been catered, since she hadn't requested otherwise.
That may have been the last straw. When I brought in her clothes she just shrugged off the pale blue hospital gown. She didn't have anything on underneath. There were eight or ten people in the waiting room.
I was thunderstruck. My dignified Amelia?
The receptionist was a young man with ringlets. He stood up. "Wait! You ... you can't do that!"
"Watch me." She put on the blouse first, and took her time buttoning it. "I was kicked out of my room. I don't have anyplace to – "
"Amelia – " She ignored me.
"Go to the ladies' room! Right now!"
"Thank you, no." She tried to stand on one foot and put a sock on, but teetered and almost fell over. I gave her an arm. The audience was respectfully quiet.
"I'm going to call a guard."
"No you're not." She strode over to him, in socks but still bare from ankles to waist. She was an inch or two taller and stared down at him. He stared down, too, looking as if he'd never had a triangle of pubic hair touch his desktop before. "I'll make a scene," she said quietly. "Believe me."
He sat down, his mouth working but no words coming out. She stepped into her pants and slippers, picked up the gown and threw it into the 'cycler.
"Julian, I don't like this place." She offered her arm. "Let's go bother someone else." The room was quiet until we were well out into the corridor, and then there was a sudden explosion of chatter. Amelia stared straight ahead and smiled.
"Bad day?"
"Bad place." She frowned. "Did I just do what I think I did?"
I looked around and whispered, "This is Texas. Don't you know it's against the law to show your ass to a black man?"
"I'm always forgetting that." She smiled nervously and hugged my arm. "I'll write you every day from prison."
There was a cab waiting. We got in fast and Amelia gave it my address. "That's where my bag is, right?"
"Yeah ... but I could bring it over." My place was a mess. "I'm not exactly ready for polite company."
"I'm not exactly company." She rubbed her eyes. "Certainly not polite."
In fact, the place had been a mess when I went to Portobello two weeks earlier, and I hadn't had time to do anything but add to it. We entered a one-room disaster area, ten meters by five of chaos: stacks of papers and readers on every horizontal surface, including the bed; a pile of clothes in one corner aesthetically balanced by a pile of dishes in the sink. I'd forgotten to turn off the coffeepot when I'd gone to school, so a bitter smell of burnt coffee added to the general mustiness.
She laughed. "You know, this is even worse than I expected?" She'd only been here twice and both times I'd been forewarned.
"I know. I need a woman around the place."
"No. You need about a gallon of gasoline and a match." She looked around and shook her head. "Look, we're out in the open. Let's just move in together."
I was still trying to cope with the striptease. "Uh ... there's really not enough room...."
"Not here." She laughed. "My place. And we can file for a two-bedroom."
I cleared off a chair and steered her to it. She sat down warily.
"Look. You know how much I'd like to move in with you. It's not as if we hadn't talked about it."