Shamrock Alley (16 page)

“Both of us,” Kersh said. “Do you want to tell us about your hand, Doug?”

“My
hand?”
Clifton’s bleary eyes widened. There was an exhale so powerful John was nearly knocked unconscious by the stench. “What about my hand?” His voice was suddenly pleading: a trembling bridge on the verge of collapse. “You have my hand?”

“This is useless,” John muttered, disappointed. “This guy’s out of it. He couldn’t tell us his birthday.”

“My hand,” Clifton continued. And laughed. He suddenly looked insane. John watched the man’s Adam’s apple vibrate. “Don’t know what you’re
talkin’
about. Goddamn.” A second burst of laughter.
“Goddamn!”

A minute later and they were both back out in the hallway. John stood against the wall staring at Clifton’s hospital room door while Kersh paced like a caged animal, furiously rubbing his temples. Kuhmari was paged and took a long time coming.

“When’s this guy get out of here?” Kersh asked the doctor, one hand still working at the side of his head. He’d bore a hole through his skull before long, John thought as he watched him from against the wall.

“Maybe three, four days,” the doctor said, “depending on how well he responds to the surgery.”

“Well, this guy’s going to be placed under arrest the second he’s out of here,” Kersh told the doctor, “so I want you to call me before releasing him. Also, you been giving him something for the pain?”

Kuhmari uttered a contemptuous laugh. “Are you serious? Of course. Do you have any idea what kind of pain he’d be in—”

“No,” Kersh said, shaking his head, “I don’t care. Cut out the meds. We’re going to be back tomorrow to talk with this guy. I want his head clear and his eyes on me. Besides, a little pain never hurt anyone.”

Kuhmari, not impressed by Kersh’s humor, shuffled his feet and glared at Kersh from atop his glasses. When Kersh handed him his business card, the doctor took it without so much as a glance and moved quickly along down the corridor. His shadow had a difficult time keeping up.

John pushed himself off the wall and saddled up beside his partner. “I’m glad you talked with him. I would’ve knocked him out.”

“Might’ve done him some good—get those neurons firing properly.” Kersh winked at him and it made John suddenly feel very tired. The gloom of corridor shadows and the sodium ceiling lights were getting to him, wearing him down. And making him feel somewhat guilty, too. Once again, his mind was with his father, and he was thankful when Kersh spoke, thankful for having something else to think about. “I’m gonna run this guy through N
CIC
, C
CH
,” Kersh said. “This fool has got to have a record. Meanwhile, I’m gonna rush the prints on those folded hundreds, see if any of this guy’s prints are actually on them. Same for the gun and silencer we took out of the trunk. I got a guy who’ll dust it for us quick. I want to have as much ammo as possible for when this skel gets out of the hospital. No chances on this one. You wanna grab some lunch?”

John shook his head. It was useless: the hospital’s sounds and smells had appealed to a different part of him, a part that wasn’t completely cop. “Skipping lunch today,” he said. “Think I’m gonna go see me dad.”

Kersh smiled, squeezed John’s shoulder. “Life’s one big hospital visit after another, huh?” Looking in Kersh’s eyes, John could tell the man wanted to say more. But he was too slow finding the words.

K
ATIE WAS THERE WHEN HE ARRIVED
. A
N
undetected ghost, he stood just outside the doorway of his father’s hospital room and listened while they talked.

“‘It’s this strange, strange thing,” he could hear his father saying, “you women have, like some witch’s power. Who can understand it? I don’t even think
women
understand it half the time.”

Katie laughed. He felt a pang of sadness and envy at hearing their candid conversation, at the sound of his wife’s laughter. Leaning further into the room, he could see her seated in a small folding chair at his father’s bedside, her hand gently on one of his. She looked so young sitting there that her innocence startled him, almost embarrassed him, as if he were the perpetrator of some great crime against her. The tender swell of her belly rested in her lap, hidden beneath an oversized knitted sweater.

“I
certainly don’t understand it,” Katie said.

“Well, you’re not supposed to. I don’t
think
, anyway. That’s God’s job; leave it to Him, let Him sort things, explain things. But you know, Rachel was the same way, felt the same things.”

“John’s mother,” Katie said. And although it wasn’t phrased as a question, the tone of her voice betrayed her unfamiliarity with the name.

“She knew from the first month we were gonna have a boy. She didn’t bother considering girl names, and she wasted no time running out every chance she got to buy clothing—little blue pajamas with baseballs on them, anything you’d want. I kept telling her not to get her hopes up, that the baby could just as well be a girl, but she’d say no, no, no, that she knew it was a boy and that was final and I would just have to wait and see. And she was right.”

“That’s amazing,” Katie said. “I wish I’d known her.”

“She was beautiful,” his father said. “Kind … and generous … and …” He smiled. “All the stuff husbands say, right?”

“It’s still nice to hear.”

“Well…” He pushed back against his pillow, patted her hand. “We were young and carefree and what-have-you. She was a good wife. She … she was good …”

“Special lady,” Katie said. The tone of her voice suggested she craved more information, but dared not ask. Looking up, she noticed her husband standing in the doorway. “Hey, you. Eavesdropping?”

“What are you doing here?”

His father frowned. “That any way to talk to your beautiful wife?”

Katie stood with some difficulty and gave John a one-armed hug. “Had some time before class, figured I’d say hello to Dad.”

“She’s a good kid, this one,” his father said. “Puts up with a crotchety old bastard like me.”

“And a crotchety young one at home,” she added, grinning.

“How you feeling, Pop?”

“All right.” The old man turned to a wall-mounted television set, flipped through the channels with a remote.

Standing between them, Katie looked as though she could feel their discomfort like a solid thing. She crept to the side of the old man’s bed, bent and kissed him on his forehead. “Bye,” she told him.

“Wait!” His father patted one hand against her arm. “You owe me one name before you leave.”

Laughing, Katie picked up her books from the night table beside the bed. “Oh, I was afraid you wouldn’t let me get away with it …”

“Come on,” his father scorned playfully, “you know the deal. One name per visit.”

“It’s just that I don’t think you’ll like this one …”

“Why not? If it’s a good, wholesome name, I’ll like it.”

Katie frowned, pouted, put a fist on her hip. Her eyes narrowed, and a meager smile crept along her thin lips. “Fielding,” she said finally.

“Fielding?”
his father said. “This is one of the names you’re considering for my grandson?
Fielding?
Sounds like an old Jewish guy. You can’t do that to the poor kid.”

“I said you wouldn’t like it.”

“You can do better,” he said. “Next time.”

She bent and kissed his head again. “Next time,” she said. “Always next time. Get some rest and quit watching those trashy talk shows, all right?”

“You’re leaving?” John nearly whispered, putting his hand against the small of her back as she brushed past. He followed her halfway out into the hall. “Stay.”

“I have class.”

“Let me drive you.”

“I’ll get a cab. I’m a big girl.” She rubbed her swollen abdomen. “See?” She caressed his cheek, pinched his chin. Yet she looked upset about something.

“What?” he said. “What is it?”

“The hospital. They’re going to discharge him, send him home.”

“Jesus. When? Who told you?”

“The doctor. Sometime after Thanksgiving.”

“Does Dad know?”

“Not yet. I didn’t say anything. The doctor just told me right before you got here. John, this was going to happen sooner or later.”

“He’ll be all alone in that house. He can be taken care of here. He should stay right here.”

“You don’t have to convince
me
. But that’s not how things work.”

“Damn it.” He pressed two fingers to his forehead, squeezed skin between them. Turning, he looked at the blinds on the window, at the water fountain against the wall. Things always had a way of falling apart. “Just gonna send him home to die then, right?
Damn
it.”

“It’ll be all right,” she promised. “Now go in there.”

“Christ, Katie …”

“Quit grumbling.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. Smile.” She hugged him, her belly awkward but beautiful between them. There were no other feelings like it in the world. “Will you be home for dinner tonight, or am I eating alone again?” she asked.

“I’ll try to be home.”

“I’m making a London broil with scalloped potatoes, seasoned asparagus, apple pie for dessert, all washed down with a nice, smooth bottle of Dom Pérignon.”

“Sounds delicious.”

“I’d hate to have to eat it all myself.” She winked, and turned down the hallway. “I’ll save you a couple of hot dogs. Talk to your dad.”

Back in the room, the old man continued to flip soundlessly through television channels. When he spoke, he did not look in John’s direction; like a greenhorn reporter swiping cues from a teleprompter, he kept his eyes focused on the television,. “She’s something, that wife of yours.”

“Yes, she is.”

“She misses you at home. All your late hours. You should spend more time at the house.”

“Pop, please. I’m not a kid.”

“Knows for damn certain that baby’s gonna be a boy. I had some feeling, too—did I tell you? I guess sometimes people just know.”

John’s eyes scanned the room—the walls, the bedspread, the tile floor, the machinery beside the bed. He sat in the chair next to the bed, watched the slow rise and fall of his father’s small chest from beneath the sheets. He was thankful for the television, thankful that he needn’t meet his father’s eyes. The disease—even the dying—itself wasn’t the worst part; rather, it was the weakness that went along with it. Fathers were not made to be weak, and he was angered by the old man’s inability to hold true to that principle. Like a resurrection, the words of Bill Kersh surfaced briefly in his head:
Life’s one big hospital visit after another, huh?

“Heard you talking about Mom,” he said.

His father’s hand slowed on the television remote. Perhaps he was lost in reverie of his own. “Your mother,” he said, his words dry and brittle like ancient cloth. There was no sentiment in his voice. “Katie was talking about the baby, about how she knew it was a boy. I told her your mother felt the same way.”

“I didn’t know that. You never told me.”

“She came up with the name John, too. From the Bible. Said it was bad luck for Catholics to name their first child anything but a biblical name. You got lucky. My choice was Deuteronomy.”

“Do you miss her?” The words were out of his mouth before he had time to think about them.

“Every day,” his father said, not taking his eyes from the television. For lack of something better to do with his hands, he began flipping through channels again. Faster than before. “She was a good woman.”

“I wish I could’ve known her.”

His father began coughing. His frail legs shifted beneath the sheets with the simplicity and helplessness of a small child’s, and the television remote clacked against the floor.

“Should I get someone?”

The old man shook his head adamantly, holding one bony hand up to assure John he was going to be all right. When the fit finally subsided, he eased himself back against his pillow, his face flush with color. The linings of his eyelids were rimmed with pink, the sclera tinged a milky yellow. He gasped once, twice for breath before regaining composure.

“You want me to get you some water?”

“No.”

“We’re going to Katie’s parents’ house for Thanksgiving,” he said from nowhere and thought he felt a small shift in the room’s pressure as his father exhaled.

“Oh?”

“She didn’t tell you?”

“No.”

“We’ll just be gone for the day. I’m going to leave the number with one of the nurses in case they need to reach me.”

“You should leave early,” his father said. “That’s the worst day of the year to travel.”

“I know, Pop. Will you be all right?”

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” the old man muttered, and coughed twice more. They were like small bursts of gunfire. “Just do me one favor tonight, will you?”

“What?”

“At home, on the post by the front door is my black wool coat. Bring it to me.”

“You need a coat? Is it too cold in here? I can have them turn up the heat if you’re cold, Pop.”

“I just want the coat.”

“The coat …”

“Be careful with it. Don’t jostle it around. It’s old, and it can tear easy.”

John sighed inwardly. Was his father’s mind slipping now, too? “Okay,” he said after a moment’s hesitation.

“Can you do that? If you have time?”

“Sure. Okay.”

“Good boy.” The television remote was attached to a cable that was connected to the bed frame. His father pulled the cord, retrieved the remote from the floor, and turned the television off. “I’m just a little tired. If I’m asleep when you come back, just put the coat on the chair here.”

“Sure.”

“I’ll see you later, Johnny,” the old man said, and turned over on his side.

John stood by the doorway for a long time, watching his father’s back. The nape of his neck looked frighteningly tender and unguarded. He remained there for a second longer and continued to watch the old man sleep. He couldn’t see his father’s eyes and didn’t know they were still open.