Interstate (13 page)

“It's your privilege, I'm talking about seeing her, if you want to do that now.” “I do. And whatever you want to do, Margo.” “No, sir, I don't think it's a good idea for the girl,” the doctor says, “at least not now.” “Then I won't,” Margo says. “If you don't,” he says to her, “maybe then I shouldn't too. I don't know what to do. And there's so much to. I think I should stay with you, for your sake and mine.” “Give us the twenty minutes or even a bit more,” the doctor says. “Then maybe decision-making will come a little easier, and there are the police who want to see you right away.” “I don't know. What am I going to do about my wife? That's something I'll never be able to know, though I know I'll have to do something.” “As you said before, you have time to think about it and decide, and I and several other people on the staff will be more than glad to assist you.”

He's supposed to say that's nice, thanks? Can't say anything. As they pass through the second automatic door police get out of seats in the waiting area and go to them. In uniform, out of, different colors, beige, blue, maybe some from some city, others troopers, starched bright white shirts and dark ties, union or feder ation pins in their lapels, anyway, some fellowship or order, but all officials or police official-like-looking, even those in plainclothes, and two take their hats off and hold them at their sides. Respect, he thinks, I don't want it. Give me back Julie; take all the other shit and jam it. He says “Police, police, where were you? I know you tried speaking to me outside but I'm talking about way before when I was looking all over, this is my other daughter, for miles on the highway while we were being stalked by those two dogs. If you had been there and I had pulled over to you, which I would've risked our lives doing across the road for I almost knew they would shoot, what a break it would've been if I'd've made it. Everything now would be the opposite. We wouldn't be here, you wouldn't be with us, she wouldn't be there,” pointing past them to double doors some hospital people are going in and out of, “no coroner would be waiting. It's amazing, beyond the beyond and into the unthinkable.” “
Daddy
,” Margo says. He squeezes her hand. “It's all right, sweetie, they understand my rant and anger, for what was I saying?” “We do,” a uniformed man says, brass on his shoulders like an army captain, “and we're extremely sorry, sir, young lady, for everything, and especially your youngest. She is that? You have others?” “No. By three. Listen, I'm in no condition.” People around when they walked in, now, maybe waiting for treatment, others their relatives or friends with them, or just waiting for others inside undergoing treatment, through those doors he saw, looked at him and Margo, look now. He looked at them then, glimpsed, glanced, they stared, looked sad, word had passed fast, then looked away. Doesn't want to see what they're seeing. Sympathy, wants none of it. Give back Julie, stash all the other shit. It doesn't mean or help anything, though people got to react to something like this; or it works for most people, words, gestures, hand on the back he's getting now from the captain, but not him. Shuts his eyes. So they see him crying. This big hand lifts him up and sits him in a tree. Trees again, but she's not in it with him, and no birds. Tries to make her appear but can't. Is this what he's going to do rest of his life? He's worthless in every respect now, will be for years. Then a voice but it's somebody saying something from outside his eyes, he thinks to him, but doesn't hear what? Not Margo's, it's deep. Then he's back on land and this big hand, maybe the same, lifts him through the hospital roof into space. Stars shoot by but no shots. Lots of police around, so of course not. He reaches down to pick up Margo, other hand up to reach Julie, good thing for years he hasn't lessened his stretches and push-ups, together when he gets them he'll carry them in his arms to any place but down there. He has Margo and Julie's saying “Only two more inches, Daddy, two more,” when it all stops, freezes, blanks. Tries to bring it back but can't. Squeezing his eyes tight as he can doesn't work. What other tricks could he use? Be nice to be a Bible reader and have that faith. For other than seeing to Margo now he'd just pore and pore. The answers to how to tell his wife and when might be in it, capital
I
? chapter two, patriarch three. His wife too, he'd hope, a Bible reader and quasi-religious zealot; then their madness would be justified or rerouted or decontaminated or whatever the word, none of those but on their knees, and things might begin to look good or just pick up. “Nathan?” and he opens his eyes, heard that, a man's, the captain. “Nathan, listen, we're losing a lot of valuable time. We sympathized, outside, that you weren't in terrific shape, but now—” “I gave info outside?” “Not enough of it, which is why we stayed. You mentioned two men and we want to get these guys, for you, for everybody.” “What'd I say?” “You said too little. Car and a gun and these men and a red tie. Most was mumbled. Let's face it, you were incoherent. We can respond to that, then. But now—” “Look, I can't see or talk to anyone now. My kid's just been killed. Maybe to you an hour ago isn't ‘just being killed.' But to me it's
just
,
just;
in an hour it'll be
just
,
just
. In three hours, four, tomorrow, next days. I'm a nut case from it, so what could I possibly do for you—I'm sorry, Margo,” patting her hand; “I won't be this way forever. But one of you be nice and get me a Bible?” he says to the police. “You'd like a Bible?” the doctor says. “We have a priest here, he's supposed to be down any moment, I don't know what's delaying him, but any particular kind? I believe we have the King James, Good News, Holy Scriptures if that's what the Jewish one is called, the one without the end.” “I don't want a priest. I don't read those things except for the poetry and plots, which I haven't for years and aren't interested in now. But say, wouldn't it be great if I was. If I just had time, as at home, you know, my two kids finished with their dinner, reading their own books or playing quietly with each other—loudly, savagely, anything, for after a while I'd know how to tone them down and bring them around—and I got out the house Bible, glass of wine by my side on the arm of my armchair, Tanakh, whatever that means, once looked it up but it wasn't there and I've a good dictionary, and red, and just turned to some of my favorite stuff in it or what I remember was, not the brutal, revengeful parts of God's or the Israelites, Solomon, songs of his or was it Ezra's or Samuel's? Saul hunting down David in the cave and that spider, Joseph when he sees his father again after so many years, if Joseph wasn't the father and it was his son who saw him after so long, something about Ruth, search for a couple of proverbs and psalms that once struck me but will be hard to find. See how bad I am at it? but wouldn't that be a scene. And then I'd call my wife and wouldn't have any trouble how or when. ‘Dearest dear, miss you. Kids are fine and fed and asleep, what a relief.'” “Daddy, you're talking that way again, I'm sorry,” Margo says. “Am I? I am. It's embarrassing you?” “It's not that so much. But these people are wanting to speak to you and I can tell by some things that they're just being nice in waiting.” “Okay, I'll stop. I'll try.” “Please, Nathan, down this hall, if you would,” the captain says, extending his arm, doing something like a head-waiter or restaurant hostess, table this way, sir, miss, nonsmoking, an upside-down wave, to show where he wants them to go, of course. Hey, I'm beginning to catch on to things, he thinks; I'm not so bad off as before. Maybe a help, maybe a hindrance. “Maybe we should follow,” to Margo, “what do you say? Give them what they want in a few minutes and then we can be alone to forgive and forget, I mean to figure out what I now can't, like what to say to Mommy, like I must see poor Julie.” Starts crying, someone has his arm, it's that damn word poor, he thinks, Margo the hand of his other arm, doesn't want to look at her, she'll start crying if she isn't, down the hall, through doors, up Spook Hill, left, right, left, right, cadence count, another hall, and what's with this ‘cadence count'? he was never in the army, will he ever find his way out of here if he has to make a dash? Has to pee, badly, he thinks when he sees a sign on a door Men, and says “Do you have to go to the bathroom, sweetheart? We probably should while we have the chance.” “I'm okay.” “Go, sweetheart, so you won't have to later, that's what I'm going to do.” “If I have to later, I will, Daddy. Please don't force me.” “I'm sorry, but why not go now? Later, I don't know, there might not be—we could—anything—stuck in some room, but do what you want.” “Okay, I'll go if it means that much to you, and also to wash my face from crying.” “Me too.” A policewoman goes in with her, ladies' room next to the men's. An officer follows him in. “I don't need company or assistance.” “You're not the only one who's got to piss,” the officer says. “Of course,” and he does, officer beside him pissing. “I used to say, though I don't know why because I was never in the service, that as they say in the infantry, you never want to pass up a latrine. Maybe they said it because of the long marches with no breaks, or sudden sentry duty or something where you couldn't budge from your post for several hours straight. I don't know why I brought it up. Of course, all those uniforms.” “I was in four goddamn years and I never heard that line, but I get it,” the officer says. First piss since Julie was killed, he thinks, looking at the tile wall in front of him, smelling his or the officer's piss. Maybe both, a real stink. And is it the first piss? Yes. First time too looking at a tile wall and smelling piss since she was killed. That's not true. Thinks he smelled her when he held her, piss and shit. So no doubt lots of firsts. First night to come, day to go, evening breezes, but not thoughts of poetry, without her. First time he stopped at a hospital in this state. First time he stopped anywhere around here with them that wasn't connected to the Interstate. First time shaking his prick after a piss, shoving it back in, feeling a few drops on his thigh, zippering down, up, flushing a toilet, and he flushes. First time flushing one twice, and he flushes. First time this, that, what other thing? Doesn't want to look into the urinal as a first. Look at it! Ugly. No butts, but always ugly. Life is ugly, pissing is, shitting, butts, men's rooms, the works. Throwing up. When will be the first time he does that since? Maybe when he next sees her. What hands have touched the handle of this urinal? Why think of it, where'd it come from, and why'd he think he had to look? Crazy, man, I'm crazy. Why not stick your prick in it, your face, nose, lick it? And if you wash your hands after touching the handle, what's the problem? though wash them well. Hasn't washed anything since she was killed, and looks at them. “You all right?” the policeman says from the sinks. “Yeah, fine, just thinking. I'll be over. Everything's going slow.” Blood on a shirtsleeve, blood on the other, what seems like blood on a few nails. So, blood on his hands or close, and probably if he looked close, blood on those. Oh that's rich, rich. Doesn't want to think of it, hers of all bloods. But maybe later he'll cut out a piece of the sleeve of it, put it in a little plastic box, carry it around with him for whenever he wants to look at it, or just leave it on his night table, kiss it or the box before he goes to sleep. He'd do it. The box, for the blood might run. Anyway, has to remember to cut out part of the sleeve, maybe two pieces in case he loses one. Maybe three pieces if there are three, and so on, though has to be some cutoff point. Sees her face, down on the car floor, sleeping, oh my darling, and shoves his fists into his sockets and grinds hard. Stars instead. “You still all right?” and he says “Sure, sure, just thinking.” “How about if you stop for now so we can get out of here and do our business?” “In a sec. Sometimes pissing comes hard for me.” There was a joke. Should he tell it to him? He'll think he's stupid and nuts, coming here and now. Good, inject him, put him away, keep his mind off it forever, and he won't have to call. Something about after a woman kisses the narrator's lips he says he's not going to wash them for a week. Or was it the cheek? And was it something his father used to occasionally say to him when he was a kid and kissed his cheek? So just an affectionate remark, not a joke. But how does it relate? Well, to the blood. If Julie kissed his lips now and that was it, last kiss, he wouldn't wash them for a week. Whenever, a month, a year, but probably his cheek, and he'd stay out of the rain and wouldn't swim and so forth. But he'd have to shave, wouldn't he? and if he didn't the spot would be covered and he'd forget where it was. Don't be silly. But when did she kiss him last? That's an earnest question. He knows she came into his in-laws' living room this morning when he was reading the paper and having coffee, but did she kiss him or he her? Is there a difference? She'd just got out of bed, first one up after him, and he was disappointed when she came in for he wanted to read some more and have another cup, had pajamas on, the orange-and-yellow-striped ones, bare feet, because soon after that Lee said “Get some socks on.” No: “Please get your socks on, Julie, there's a draft.” Her little feet. He liked to grab one around the arch and squeeze it, can feel it in his hand now. Forgets what socks she had on when she came back in. And she must have seen how he felt when she first came into the room, for she said “I'm sorry,” and he said “For what?” though he knew and felt lousy about it right after. Isn't it strange, what could be more odd? when he thinks what later happened to her. Why, if she came into the room now, it was morning, he was reading and having coffee, same place or any place and he wanted to continue to read in peace, he'd put down the paper, make sure the coffee was out of the way so it wouldn't spill on her, and hold out his arms and say “Good morning, my dearest, how lovely to see you so bright and early and you so beautiful, or you so bright and early and everything so beautiful, because everything's so bright and early which makes everything so beautiful, but you know how Daddy likes to go on,” and so on. Anyway, not the white socks she had on in the car, for this morning's were last night's and would have been put in the dirty laundry bag he threw into the car trunk. He knows he kissed her goodnight several times last night, never just one kiss for his kids unless he's sick with a possible contagious illness, so she must have kissed him, for they both always do except when they're angry at him or they've suddenly fallen asleep when he's talking or reading to them, let's say, and neither of those happened last night. He pictures it: she's holding out her arms from bed, is on her back, room's dark, he leans over her and she says, this is almost exactly what she said, “Me want hug, no go sleep without hug, won't stop baby talk which you hate without hug,” and he let her hug him and he put his cheek against hers, she said “You scratch,” and he said “I only shave in the morning,” and she said “How does it work then?—the shave-hairs only grow at night like people?” and he said “Too complicated a subject to go into now, I'll tell you at breakfast, now go to sleep,” and he probably kissed the air beside her ear or even her ear, forgets. Then she released him and grabbed his wrists and said, and this is almost exactly what she said, he just knows it, “Now you're handcuffed and can't get out unless I let you.” He has to remember this. It was the last night; has to, and he'll write it down at the sink if he didn't leave his pen in the car and if the policeman asks what he's writing, he'll show him. He said okay and sat on her bed. Margo was saying “Now me, my turn for goodnight,” and he said “I'm coming, sweetie,” and Julie said “He can't go because I have him in handcuffs and he can't get out of them for all of tonight,” and he said “You mean I have to sleep here?” and stayed there another minute, maybe he was finding it relaxing, resting in the dark with his eyes closed and her hands around his wrists, and she said, maybe she was tired now and wanted to get it over with so she could go to sleep, “I bet you can't get out if you really tried,” and he said “Bet I can,” and pretended to wrench free. She was laughing, he liked it that she was enjoying him but he also had Margo to say goodnight to now and she'd probably want equal time, so he pretended to wrench some more, gritting his teeth and making straining noises and arching back as if he were trying to pull free and then pushed her hands till they couldn't go any farther over his fists and her grip snapped. “Goodnight, darling, no more noise,” and quickly kissed her forehead. “More, more,” reaching for his wrists but staying flat in bed and he said no and sat on Margo's bed and let her hug him, kissed the air or her ear, she grabbed his wrists and said “You're locked forever,” Julie said “Copycat,” and Margo said “No way, J. I did the lock-forever trick, but around Daddy's neck mostly, long before you were even born,” and he said “It's sort of true, Julie, though maybe not that long before and maybe even a bit after, though nobody can pattern it,” and she said “What's pattern?” and he broke Margo's grip the same way and said “No definitions, no more delays, goodnight, all,” and left the room. “Don't forget to keep the light on in the bathroom outside” were Julie's last words. What were her last words today? Can't think of them. This is important. Tries harder to, eyes squeezed tight, nothing comes. But did she kiss him, can he picture her kissing him last night? Must have, on the lips and cheek, one after the other which is how she usually did it, cheek first, then the lips, sometimes both cheeks, oh so French without knowing it—no, he's told her: “Whoo-whoo, so Frenchie,” and then having to explain it—Margo just a lip peck. But the door handle going out, he thinks at the sink. Lots of people don't wash after they shit and pee. Policeman's right beside him, looking at himself in the mirror but probably at him. Half, he bets, and what did he once say he discovered about toilet seats in public restrooms and even in his home with guests—say to whom? to his wife—maybe ninety percent of them by men are left up. Which might mean ninety-five percent by men who just pee standing up, since he has to account for those who sit down to shit and pee. And first time washing his hands anywhere since, but he thought that. Then turning cold water on, any water on, splashing some on his face, taking his glasses off first to wash them and