He’d tried grief counseling. His doctor had recommended a woman who practiced out of her home in Shaker Heights. She’d been pleasant enough. Sympathetic and well meaning. She’d asked him to find a mantra, something short that could catch his mind and focus it. He’d picked a prayer from childhood—Mercy and justice belong to the Lord. He could tell the therapist disapproved, but once he’d chosen the phrase it wouldn’t go away. There are still nights when it repeats in his head through a run of unsleeping hours.
He stared at his hand until he brought it under enough control to be inconspicuous, then moved up the stairs and into the Clinic. The EMTs passed him without a word on their way out. He walked to room 103 where he found Danny already installed in his bed. Mrs. Heller was at his side, adjusting the sheet.
Sweeney stood in the doorway. They’d cut the boy’s hair before he left St. Joe’s. It was a razor job, military close. It made him look older and made the bald patch around the shunt seem less severe. In the beginning, there had been a few arguments about the hair. The clinic’s policy, when there was any skull care involved, was to shave the entire head every other day. It made Danny look cold and vulnerable and sick and Sweeney put up a stink. He’d been a real pain in the ass to Dr. Lawton until they relented and allowed a small cover of fuzz to grow. The first crop that came in was downy, silky, and Sweeney had spent countless nights compulsively stroking his son’s head and shivering. He couldn’t believe more parents didn’t question the hair ruling. He’d have to ask Alice Peck about her policy.
Mrs. Heller sensed him, turned, and frowned.
There was nothing subtle about Mrs. Heller.
“It’s a gloomy place, Mr. Sweeney,” she said.
“They’re all gloomy places, Mrs. Heller,” he said.
“But it’s so old.”
He came into the room, sat on the edge of the bed, and picked up his son’s hand. “Dr. Lawton says they do amazing work with long-term patients.”
“They’ve had two arousals. And one of them reverted,” she said, taking some lip balm from a pocket, rubbing it on her fingers, and then running the fingers over Danny’s lips.
“Did you wash your hands, Mrs. Heller?”
It was the kind of thing that angered her the most and he knew it. He’d found a dozen ways in as many months to question the woman’s professionalism. She ignored him, recapped the balm, and snatched some Kleenex from the bedside table. Then she surprised him by saying, “I’ll miss Danny.”
“I know you will, Mrs. Heller,” he said. “But this is the best place for him right now. It was time for us to get out of Cleveland.”
She nodded and jumped back into the clinical.
“You can let the front desk know when you’re ready for the admitting team to run the checklist. They wanted to give you some time with him before they started. I’ve checked and they’ve got his list of meds. But apparently some of his records haven’t arrived yet.”
“I’m going to phone Dr. Lawton today.”
“I’ll check with him when I get back.”
He wasn’t sure he was going to ask until the words came out. “Mrs. Heller,” he said, “I was wondering what happened to Danny’s pajamas.”
She immediately looked down at the boy and then back to the father.
“I thought you packed them,” she said.
Sweeney shook his head. “He’s got two pair of those cartoon pajamas. I packed one and I wanted him to travel in the other.”
“I thought you took all of his things.”
“If you could check his room at St. Joe’s —”
“I checked the closet before we left,” Mrs. Heller said. “It was empty. I was certain you’d taken everything.”
“There’s no need to get defensive,” he began.
“I’m not getting defensive.” Her voice rose a bit. “I’m simply telling you that the closet was empty.”
“It’s no big deal,” he said. “I just thought I’d ask.”
She pulled back a little, put on her rare puzzled look. “I’ll check again, but I’m certain that closet was empty. I’ll call you if I find anything.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’m sure I can buy another pair in town.”
He wanted her out of the room and gone. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills, then hesitated. Did you tip someone for this kind of thing? Mrs. Heller looked at the money in his hand, then looked away. Apparently you did not. He put the cash back in his pocket.
“I want to thank you for the care you’ve shown Danny,” he said.
She put her hand on the boy’s forehead as if checking for a fever. She let it linger for a second and then pulled it back across the soft bristles of hair. Without looking up, she said, “He’s a wonderful little boy. And I’m sorry for all your troubles, Mr. Sweeney.”
He nodded but she didn’t look up, and then it was too late to say anything. Mrs. Heller picked up her travel bag in one hand and her nurse’s kit in the other and said, “I’ll let you know if I find the pajamas.” Then she left him alone with his son.
He stood staring at the boy for a while, as if fixing the child again into his memory. He moved to the closet, removed the Limbo backpack that Mrs. Heller had stowed there. He placed the pack on the bed and studied the grotesque illustrations screened on its flap. The chicken boy. The skeleton. The Siamese twins. All in vibrant primary colors.
Sweeney unzipped the pack, reached inside, and withdrew a fat stack of comic books, which he placed inside the drawer of the nightstand. He selected the top issue, closed the drawer, climbed onto the bed next to his son, brought his mouth to the boy’s ear, and, softly, began to read.
LIMBO COMICS: ISSUE # 2: “A Treacherous Passage”
The crossing to Gehenna was, at times, perilous, and at other times, monotonous. The seas were often stormy and nauseating, and the ship was always cold. The freaks dressed in layers of costumes and passed the time imagining the riches and the fame that they would claim in the new world. Durga braided Antoinette’s sparse strands of hair. Marcel and Vasco played poker for matchsticks. Milena and Nadja occasionally tried to cadge drinks from the surly crew in the boiler room. And Chick scribbled in his diary, last year’s Christmas gift from Kitty.
Mostly he recorded and analyzed his visions, the messages he received during his seizures. He had them, on average, every third day throughout the voyage. All of them involved the doctor, Fliess, and his enormous laboratory castle, the Black Iron Clinic. All of them relayed in the voice of the Limbo, which had come to mean, in Chick’s mind and heart, the voice of his long-lost father. Calling out to him. Guiding him in fits and starts. Leading the son to communion and healing.
Kitty sat watch during the seizures, holding her love, cradling him as best she could, stroking the feathers of his cheek, kissing the feathers on his forehead with her seasick lips.
The Touya was a tramp steamer that managed fourteen knots on a good day and boasted a skeleton crew of fifty men, all of whom had more than a passing acquaintance with the darker side of human nature, and none of whom lost any love on the freaks. The Captain of The Touya, a hatchet-face bear of a man named Karl Gunter, communicated with the freaks through Bruno, the strongman, who conveyed the skipper’s insistence that the freaks confine themselves to the ship’s hold for the duration of the passage. Here they lodged among the freight — thousands of sealed drums filled with expensive fertilizer made exclusively from the excrement of Royal Bergauer Stallions. Twice a day, Bruno brought down a crate of food, mostly overripe oranges and tins of salted pork. The conditions were stark and filthy, but these were circus folk, after all, well used to improvisation and the uncertainties of nomadic life.