Round Rock - Michelle Huneven [118]
Lewis couldn’t stop thinking about the last time he’d seen him. Before leaving for Ventura, Red had come to get the food order. He told Lewis he was taking Libby to Yosemite in a few days. He seemed harried, distracted. “Oh, live it up, Redsy,” Lewis told him. “You guys deserve a break.”
Then that conversation on the phone—was he the last person to talk to Red?—and the revelation about Gustave. … Last night, before all the people poured in for the meeting, Lewis tied the dog to a tree and left him howling and baying his terrible cry.
After being turned away at the morgue, Lewis went up to the hospital’s third floor. He didn’t know if Libby would want to see him, so he waited outside her door for Barbara. Pacing the hall, peering into rooms, he saw extremely old people sprawled in their beds. Why Red? he thought. Why not these people already fragile as tissue?
When Barbara came out of Libby’s room, she was crying. Lewis held her, breathing through her crumpled curls. “She wants to see you,” Barbara said, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. “She’s really distraught, so just ride it out with her. It’s okay if you give in to it.”
Libby’s face was gray, her eyes sunken. She looked drugged and gaunt, and Lewis was frightened both for her and by her. An older, deeply tan woman with a cap of white hair sat in a chair close to the bed. “Mom?” Libby said, and the woman stood up on cue and moved toward the door.
“I’m Evelyn, Libby’s mother,” said the woman. She regarded Lewis with evident, probably chronic disapproval. “Please don’t stay long. She doesn’t need so many visitors, it’s getting her all worked up.”
“Mom,” Libby said.
“The doctor told you to stay quiet,” she said, then left before Lewis could introduce himself.
Libby motioned him to sit down in the now-empty chair. “I was hoping you’d come,” she said.
He sat there, not knowing what to say or do.
“Here,” she said, reaching out. She took his hand, smoothed it flat, turned it over. “I remember this hand. Your yellowish skin. Long fingers.” She clasped it between her hands. “Red would always say to me, the two men he loved the most were you and Frank.”
“He saved my life,” Lewis said. “He knew I wanted to get sober even before I did. He saw that far inside me.”
“He saw inside a lot of people. But he got a kick out of you. He wanted me to lighten up toward you.” With hair matted against her head, Libby looked like her own ghost. “He asked me to cut you some slack, to stop being so mad.” She put the back of one hand to her mouth, holding Lewis’s hand fast with the other. “I was mad, but mostly I was playing around.” Libby bit her hand, trying not to sob. Tears coursed from her eyes. “I … I … I …” She kept trying to speak until the effort became spasmodic, like hiccups. Frightened, Lewis stood up, but she held on to him. It took every ounce of self-control for Lewis not to cry, too. He thought his throat and chest would split open from the effort. Not crying felt like swallowing a dagger sideways.
He took some deep breaths and Libby followed suit. Somehow, they both calmed down.
She managed to speak, finally, in a half-whisper. “He wanted you to come over for dinner, and I wouldn’t invite you. He wanted to spend more time with you. He wanted the three of us to pal around again. If I’d known this was going to happen, I would’ve had you over for dinner every night.” She put her hands over her face.
Lewis found a washcloth, wet it with cool water, and squeezed it out. Sponging Libby’s face, he said, “Don’t worry. Besides, I couldn’t have come every night. I had to cook dinner at the Blue House.” Warmth rose from her body. Her skin smelled familiar. Before he could stop them, his tears fell onto Libby’s chest. Then he got ahold of himself and again they calmed down.
In a normal, factual tone, Libby said she and Julie Swaggart were working on funeral arrangements. “We only want three people to speak. Otherwise, it could go on for a year. But we want you to speak, Lewis. You