“Oh, thank you. Thank you very much. Are you here . . . ?”
“Three to midnight. My name’s Gloria. You give a shout if you or your baby need anything at all, okay?”
“Thank you.” Fern felt strange. This was an odd place. She turned to go back into her room, but the thought of that barren place with nothing to do didn’t appeal to her. She turned right instead and knocked softly on the door to Mrs. Stimson’s room.
“Come.”
Fern pushed the door open and poked her head in. “Mrs. Stimson?”
“Yes, what is it?”
“Hi. My name is Fern Mannes. My daughter and I are across the hall. I’m kind of, well, nervous, and thought maybe I could come visit for a while.”
“Oh? Well, come on in. Love visitors.” The woman was horribly thin; her cheekbones stood out, shadowing hollow eyes and wrinkled lips. She reached a bony hand back to plump up her pillow so she could sit up better, then reached for little tight glasses. She peered out at Fern.
“You’re a young one. What’s wrong? Female trouble?”
“Oh, no,” Fern said as she pulled up a folding wooden chair, “My baby’s having surgery in the morning.”
“A baby, huh? That’s not good. What’s the matter with it?”
“Her.”
“Hah? What’s that?”
“Her. My baby’s a her. Martha. She was born without a nose.”
“Martha. Always liked that name. No nose, eh? Hah. I’d cut off my own nose if I could live with better veins. That’s what I’ve got. Veins. They’ve been stripping out the veins in my legs for years now. Damned nuisance.”
“That must be very painful.”
“Painful! Hah! Can’t hardly get around, and a youngster like me ought to be out and about, eh?” She cackled.
Fern felt an irrepressible urge to touch this woman.
“Mrs. Stimson, back home, I . . .”
“Home? Where’s that?”
“Morgan.”
“Oh, down south. Lived in Chicago all my life, myself. The windy city. Ever been here in the winter, when the wind blows?”
“No, I . . .”
“Terrible. Terrible. People freeze to death just walking down the street. It’s so cold their lungs just freeze up on ’em and they fall over. Dead. Just like that.”
“Well, anyway, back home, sometimes I can help people who are sick.”
“You a doctor?” Mrs. Stimson looked at her with a wary eye.
“Oh, no.”
“You some kind of a healer?”
“Well, I’m not exactly sure. Sometimes, though, when I put my hand on people . . .”
“You want money. How the hell does this hospital let people like you in here?”
“No, really. No money. Just let my put my hand on your legs, okay? Just let me try?”
The old woman’s face softened. This young thing seemed so sincere. What the hell. Couldn’t hurt.
“Sure. Go ahead. No money, mind you.”
Fern smiled at her. “No money. Just close your eyes and relax.”
“Close my eyes and you’ll probably steal me blind.” She took off her glasses and closed her eyes.
Fern closed her eyes and shut out all the distractions. Her right hand hovered over the woman’s knees. Instantly, she saw the trouble. The passages for the blood were twisted, knotted, dammed up in places, with reservoirs of blood pooling in pockets. They were discolored and sore. Fern raised her left hand to the sky, and a fresh sweet rain poured through her psyche and flushed out the veins. It ran pure and true, straightened out the twisted mess and reamed out the clotting collected on the sides. It emptied and sealed off the reservoirs, dissolved the little tributaries that had been formed out of necessity. When the veins looked fresh and clean, she moved her right hand to the toes, touched them gently, and all the bad blood flowed out of the toes, through her body and out her hand. Then she went back with another cleansing flush and was finished.
She opened her eyes. Mrs. Stimson’s face was pink, her breath came in short gasps.
“Mrs. Stimson?”
The old woman opened her eyes, then closed them again. “Just a moment. Let me catch my breath.” Slowly, her breathing returned to normal. She signaled for a sip of water. Fern helped her to it. She drank strongly, then fell back onto the pillows.
“Well, I never! That’s some power you got, girl. Took my breath clean away.”
“Did I hurt you?”
“Well, yes, some of it hurt, but not like it’s been hurting. More like a good hurt. Not bad at all.” Her eyes opened wide with wonder. “My feet!”
Fern was alarmed. “What? What’s the matter with your feet?”
“Nothing’s the matter, child, they’re warm! My feet haven’t been warm in years. Here. Help me get these socks off. I’ve lived in these cussed socks since I was a teenager.”
Mrs. Stimson sat up and pulled off the socks, massaging her feet. They were pink, the gnarled toes flexible. “Oh, my. My, my, my.”
“Well, I think my dinner’s here now. Is it okay if I come to visit you tomorrow, while my baby’s in surgery?”
“Okay? Hell, yes. You come on by here tomorrow, and see if I’m still here. I just might check out of this hellhole tonight!”
Fern walked to the door and opened it. She took a last look back at Mrs. Stimson, who was rubbing her feet, tears streaming down her wrinkled face. She slipped out quietly.
CHAPTER 11
Leslie was in jail. He woke up on that hard, piss-stained mattress with a hangover that would bust the balls off a gorilla. Sonofabitch! He sat up, cradling his head in his hands, but the motion was too much. He lunged for the seatless toilet and just made it, puking and heaving until there was nothing left to come up. He sank to the floor, resting first his cheek, then his forehead against the cool porcelain. What a day. What a pisser.
He crawled back to the mattress, each loud ringing sound reverberating around the inside of his cranium. Why are jails so goddamned loud? He put his hands over his ears and faced the wall. Bright, too. No consideration, no respect.
He drifted off.
He awoke to the clanging of his cell door, and two guards handcuffed him and took him to see the judge. That didn’t take long. Drunk and disorderly, one count. Armed robbery, one count. Not guilty, your honor. Bail, five hundred dollars. An attorney will be appointed. Back to the cell.
He was alone and miserable. Armed robbery, what the hell were they talking about? Then the memory of the night before rose through the murky depths of his drugged consciousness. Shootin’ his mouth off again in Mike’s. Goddamn that Ned. Squealer. Musta been him. Who else was sittin’ at their table? Priscilla. Cunt. What’s Ned see in her? Somebody else was there, somebody with big tits and a nice tight ass. Oh, Lord, he couldn’t even remember her name. Anyway, somebody ratted on him.
He remembered the job, all right. What a score. They were asking for it, in that big fancy house on the hill. What the hell did they expect? Easy, too. Just walked right in. Kitchen door was unlocked. He got no cash, didn’t want to go upstairs, but he scored a great hunting knife, lots of silver stuff that he sold for a good price over in Joliet. Good price. Shit. That jack ripped him blind. Always did.
So he shot off his mouth and the cops searched his truck and got the knife and the gun. Sonofabitch. That Ned. Gonna kill that kid.
No, not Ned, he was just a stupid kid. Cops breathe hard on him and he’d spill. No, it was her fault. Her and Leon. Him sleeping over there night after night. Two weeks now they been at it. What the hell do they do besides screw?
Leslie rubbed the stubble on his chin. He stood up and yelled through the bars. “Gimme a cigarette! Somebody gimme a cigarette!” The calls that came back reverberated throughout the cold, hard place. “Shut up.” “Get your own.” “Fuck off.” But one cigarette and a matchbook with a lone match in it landed by his feet. He lit up and collapsed back on his bunk. Mouth tastes like shit.