Portland Noir - Kevin Sampsell [46]
Eileen said, “Thanks a lot. Got years ahead’a me.”
I said, “Isn’t that how every story goes?”
I gave her a kiss on her pale forehead. I wasn’t glad to see her, but that wasn’t her fault. She was the only patient in a room with two beds, wearing a powder-blue hospital gown. She leaned against pillows.
“’S good to see you,” she said. Her voice was slow and stuttery.
Tino pulled a can of beer from his paper bag.
Eileen asked, “How ’bout a cig-rette?” There were two No Smoking signs.
Tino pushed the door closed. I sat on the windowsill. Rebar leaned against the wall too close beside me. When Tino passed around the rest of the six-pack, I said, “This man’s got the shoes and the booze.” I wouldn’t’ve said it without a few drinks in me already, but I wanted a little space. To set Rebar back. I ran a hand over Tino’s shoulders, that bony armature of a human.
Rebar looked at the shoes, his shoes, on Tino’s feet, and he took a beer.
I said, “What about your bracelet?”
“I’ll try not to sweat.” Rebar tipped the can. He drank like drinking was breathing, like he’d been held under water and here was his can of air.
“Rebar just got out of the other one. On the hill,” Tino said.
“No kiddin’?” Eileen lit a cigarette, keeping an eye on the door. “Haven’t ’moked all day.”
“The alarm’ll go off,” I said.
“What’ll dey do if dey catch me—frow me out?” This was the lisp of her stroke, her brain stutter like a car with sugar in the tank.
I sat on the empty bed. Tightened my rain coat around me in case some fire alarm sprinklers went off. “What the hell happened?”
Eileen said, “Went out for drinks after work … my hands started feelin’ weird.”
Tino said, “Must’ve felt pretty weird if they brought you to Emergency.”
I felt my own hands, imagining my head as light, losing blood and circulation. I looked for Ray at the door, waited for the alarm to scream. I was ready to skedaddle.
“It was,” Eileen said. “Cut my head open like dis.” She drew an invisible L on the bandage, down from the top and across one side.
Rebar said, “How many channels you get?”
The dark circles under Eileen’s eyes made her beautiful, like a face-lift patient or a drug addict in treatment. She was being taken care of, and that meant cared for. The blue hospital robe rested against her skin at her clavicle in a way that said fragile and yet still living, meaning strong. Who would’ve known light blue and bandage white could be so dreamy?
I said, “You’re gorgeous.”
She patted the bed beside her. I lay down, watching out for tubes and her food tray. She said, “You know, Ray doesn’t talk about you at all.”
“Music to my ears.” I sipped my drink. Tapped the can.
Tino and Rebar watched TV like TV mattered.
She said, “I mean, he’s doing it on purpose. Like if he said your name, it’d all come back …”
My nail polish was chipped red. I chipped it off more, letting red flakes rest on Eileen’s white sheets.
She whispered, “If you wanted Ray back, you could do it.”
I said, “Don’t worry. I don’t take anything that doesn’t belong to me.”
“Since when?”
“Since now, okay? He’s yours.” My purse was bulging with the ashtray, the salt shaker, who knows what else.
Rebar crumpled his empty can. He made it small, and put it in his coat pocket. Tino hit the remote, changed the channel.
Rebar said, “Hey, who’s the asshole?”
Tino waved the remote, raised his hand. Asshole: present and accounted for.
I said, “You going to let him get away with that?” Like it mattered.
Rebar let the TV be his pacifier, eased into a new channel.
Tino changed channels again. I got up, off Eileen’s bed. I put a hand on Rebar’s arm, said, “Keep a level head.”
Rebar said, “What’re you, some kind of counselor?” He ran his fingers through my hair.
“I’ve got a few good tips.”
He let his fingers latch on, tug, and he laughed, like a joke, but he pulled my head back and my neck gave in so easily, Rebar’s face was close to mine. My hair was long, he held it, then he let go.
I was done there.
Time to go home, pack, get out of Rebar’s shack in