Then, he slept.
In the morning, the massage hurt even worse. Mom bit her lips in as she pushed her thumbs deep into Clarence’s thigh muscles, and she rubbed and bent and twisted and grinded and pinched for weeks until Clarence couldn’t hold his breath any longer. He released his pain in short gasps, concentrating on the radio as she dug her thumbs deep into the back of his thighs. The news reported Britain, France, Australia and New Zealand declared war on Germany. Then a commentator argued America should stay out of the conflict.
“There. Not so bad, was it. Just ten minutes this time,” said Mom. She used the back of her wrists to wipe her eyes. “We’ll have you walking before Christmas.”
When she left, Clarence lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. Polio, he realized, had made him a little kid again. He couldn’t see the tops of tables without someone lifting him. He couldn’t reach the upper drawers on the dresser. All he saw when looking up at the window were clouds and the leafy branches. With the casts, he could at least slide himself around the room and even get to the bathroom without help, although it took a gymnastic maneuver that left his arms quivering to get himself onto the toilet.
From the higher vantage point of the bed, he could see most of the tree. Someone yelled to someone else, and their feet pounded on the sidewalk as they ran by. Maybe they were playing tag. Maybe they were throwing a ball back and forth. Clarence couldn’t see enough to tell. Then the trolley rattled down the middle of the street. The trolley stopped at the end of the block and ran all the way to downtown Denver, passing the radio station with its soundstage. Even now, Professor Gilded could be preparing for today’s show.
Clarence rolled onto his side. The crutches and leg braces rested in the shadow next to the window. Professor Gilded’s show began in two hours. By trolley, he could be there in fifteen minutes, if only he could get to the trolley’s stop at the corner.
It took most of an hour to get into his pants. The pant legs folded over and kept twisting, so he had to inch them up his legs. He looked up every time the house creaked, afraid Mrs. Bentley would choose this moment to check on him, sitting on the floor in his underwear. His feet wouldn’t cooperate, and when his toes caught the cloth, sharp pains raced up the back of his legs. By the time he buttoned the top button, perspiration ran into his eyes and dripped from his chin. Getting into the braces took less time, but the leather was stiff and fastening the heavy buckles hurt his fingers. When he finished, he rested on his back. Placing the crutches under his arms while maintaining his balance seemed an impossible task, but there was only fifty minutes until the show started, and his legs felt so much lighter and flexible without the casts that he was sure he could get to the trolley on time.
He clumped through the hallway to the front door. In his left pocket nestled the quarter eagle; in the right, five dimes. He had no idea what the trolley cost. At the door, he rested his hands on the doorknob. For a month he’d been lying or sitting. His head hadn’t been this much higher than his feet for weeks. Every muscle from the hips down tingled and ached. Clarence bit the inside of his mouth and opened the door, clenching the crutches tight under his arms. When he stepped outside, he realized he hadn’t felt the sun on his face since he’d gotten sick.
The trolley man took a dime for the ride after lifting Clarence to a seat. “You hurt your legs, son? Where you going?” He smelled of garlic and cigarettes.
“The KLZ radio studio.” Clarence tried to keep the tremor out of his voice. The half block walk to the trolley stop had been the longest sustained effort of his life. Every crack in the sidewalk, every pebble, every movement threatened to pitch him over. In the house, he’d used a footstool and chair to get himself upright enough for the crutches. There was no way to help himself in the open. He would just have to lay there until someone saved him.
The woman on the seat next to him, holding a basket full of knitting, nodded and smiled. “You’ll need to get off at 15th street. I listen to KLZ all the time.” She glanced at his leg braces. “Must be hard getting around in school. I hope your schoolmates are kind.”
Clarence leaned the crutches against the trolley’s wall, careful to keep them from falling. The trolley lurched into motion, clacking over the tracks toward downtown Denver. Even the jiggling hurt. He focused on the shops passing by the windows and smiled through the pain. The radio station was only fifteen minutes away, now. He fingered the quarter eagle. It’s here and it’s not here, he thought. Only thinking makes it so.
A few minutes later, the trolley passed the hospital. A pair of marble lions, their jaws open, flanked the double door entrance at the top of a flight of stairs. To the left, a wheelchair ramp rose along the side of the building for the crippled. The building’s severe white face rose six stories into the sky punctuated by rows of dark windows. Clarence’s breathing tightened just looking at it. Somewhere inside, Sean Garrison stared at the ceiling, the iron lung squeezing his chest to expel the air, then reversing the pressure so he could inhale. Clarence could almost hear the wheezing sounds. He wondered, how does he itch his nose? He couldn’t move a muscle below his neck. What does he think about? Clarence was glad when they left the hospital behind.
KLZ wasn’t directly on Broadway, it turned out. The conductor lowered Clarence to the sidewalk, clamping his arms to his crutches so he hit the cement ready to go. “The station’s a block that way, son,” he said, pointing. “Watch your step.”
Clarence’s legs quivered beneath him as the trolley rumbled away. The radio station’s sign looked awfully far. He gritted his teeth and leaned forward.
Ten minutes later his arms ached with the effort to keep him upright, but he stood before KLZ’s front door, a heavy metal and glass barrier. In the shadow of the room behind the door, he saw a secretary looking at him, a prim blonde with dark-framed glasses, like a librarian. Before he could brace himself to pull the door open, she was holding it for him.
“My word, child, what are doing here by yourself? Where are your parents?”
“They’re at work. Do you mind if I sit down?” Clarence lowered himself gingerly onto one of the two worn leather chairs in the lobby. He sighed, his eyes closed, as the weight fell from his arms and legs. A ceiling fan creaked through slow revolutions and stirred the smell of furniture polish and old magazines. Across the small receiving area, in the other chair, a balding man wearing a blue bow tie and a white shirt studied a newspaper. He glanced at Clarence, briefly meeting his eyes, then turned a page and returned to his reading. Behind the secretary’s desk, three doors, marked STUDIO 1, STUDIO 2 and SOUND ENGINEER, were closed. Drooping wires high on the wall connected to a bare speaker, playing KLZ’s afternoon news softly, a litany of political reaction to the events in Europe. Polish soldiers were in retreat. British bombers attacked German war ships.
“You look like you could use a glass of water.” The secretary disappeared through the sound stage door.
Sweat soaked the sides of Clarence’s shirt. His legs throbbed from the arch of his feet, where the braces’ metal bar clamped against his shoes, to the grinding spots where the leather upper straps dug into his hips. Even his fingers hurt from squeezing the crutches, and he doubted he could make the one block trip back to the trolley stop, but he was here. He had arrived! He couldn’t keep a smile off his face.
The secretary returned with the water. Clarence rolled the cool glass against his forehead before drinking half of it in one long swallow.
“Is Professor Gilded here?” he asked. “I’d like to meet him.”
“That old fraud?” said the man in the bow tie, putting his newspaper down. He winked at the secretary. “He’s a bore.”