The Family Fang - Kevin Wilson [30]
On the third day of Buster’s recovery, one day before he was to be released, Joseph showed up, wheeling in Buster’s luggage from the hotel. “Hey, soldier,” Buster said, and Joseph reddened and stiffened. “Hey, Buster,” Joseph finally said, flinching at what Buster assumed to be his own distorted, swollen face.
“You got me pretty good,” Buster said and tried to smile, but it was a facial expression that was beyond his abilities for the time being.
Joseph looked at the floor and would not respond.
“I’m kidding around,” Buster said. “It’s not your fault.”
“I wish I was dead,” Joseph said.
He dragged the luggage to the corner of the room and sat gingerly on the suitcase, opting against the seat next to Buster. Joseph rested his elbows on his knees and held his face in his hands. He looked like ominous weather, about to sputter and cry.
“I just, honest to god, wish I was dead,” he repeated.
“But I’m fine,” Buster said. “It’s no big deal.”
“Have you seen your face, Buster?” Joseph asked. Buster had not, having taken great care to avoid looking in the mirrors placed strategically around the room and over the sink in the bathroom.
“I’m being released tomorrow,” Buster said, changing the subject. “I don’t know if it’s because I’m better or if it’s because I don’t have any money.”
Joseph said nothing, seemed unable to meet Buster’s lopsided gaze.
Buster reached for his plastic sippy cup and took a few tentative sips of water, dribbling most of the liquid down the front of his gown. “Where are the other guys?” he asked.
“They can’t come,” Joseph said. “I’m not supposed to be here either, but I wanted to tell you I was sorry and I wanted to bring your luggage from the hotel.”
“Why aren’t you supposed to be here?” Buster said, confused. “Are visiting hours over?”
“My parents talked to a lawyer and he said I’m not supposed to have any further contact with you.”
“Why?”
“In case you sue us,” Joseph said, now actually beginning to cry.
“I’m not going to sue you,” Buster said.
“That’s what I told them,” Joseph responded, his breathing ragged and his voice cracking, “but they say our relationship now has an adversarial quality and for as long as you can legally file charges, I can’t talk to you.”
“But you’re here right now,” Buster said.
“Even with all the crazy stuff that’s happened,” Joseph said, smiling for the first time since he arrived in Buster’s room, “I’m glad we met each other.” Buster, twelve grand in the hole, face reconstructed and still tender, agreed.
He left the hospital with several photocopies regarding his medical status, several official notices of payment due, and his plastic sippy cup. As he waited for a taxi, he realized that he wasn’t entirely sure where to go or, more important, how to get there. Because he had been unsure of the length of his trip, he had never purchased a return flight. He had maxed out his credit card. He tried to imagine the worst way to travel and, just as the taxi arrived, he understood how to proceed. He stepped into the backseat and said, “Bus station.”
All around him, Nebraska remained flat and frigid, and Buster fought the urge to sleep until the taxi reached its destination. He stared at the ice-tinged fields, the inexplicable birds nearly frozen to the power lines, and understood that whatever he was returning to, wherever it was, would be surprised to have him back.
Standing in line at the bus station, he realized that he did not have enough money to get back to Florida. Unable to control the tremors of his hands, he laid out his cash on the counter and then asked, “Where does this get me?” The ticket agent smiled and patiently counted out the bills. “You can get to St. Louis and still have five dollars left,” she said. “I don’t know anyone in St. Louis,” he replied. “Well,” she said, her kindness the