Vexation Lullaby (23 page)

Peter stepped onto the treadmill. He wanted to get his head out of his head. The machine accelerated to a comfortable pace, but he didn't want to be comfortable. He bumped up the belt's speed. The sound of his pounding feet made him feel like he was being chased. Had he always been such a loud runner? Perhaps something was wrong with his running stride, something fundamental. Wouldn't someone have said something, probably when he was a schoolkid?
Boom. Boom. Boom.
Another hotel guest came in and took her place on the farthest machine. She had to be seventy; she wore white linen pants. Peter mashed the Increase Speed button. What did it take to be a runner? A little athleticism helped, but discipline was the key. He'd run 10Ks. The hardest part of training for a marathon is telling everyone that you're training for a marathon. That cracked him up. It was impossible to laugh and run at the same time. He focused on his breathing. He was getting after it.

Sweat quivered at the end of his nose before splashing onto the electronic display. Without stopping, he clung on to the polished grips and waited for the machine to read his pulse. The red flashing heart blipped and blipped. The machine didn't want to give him a number; he had to will it to read his pulse. Then he saw it, 193. Holy shit, he thought. Holy shit, your heart's going to explode. He slapped at the machine and the treadmill ground to a halt. The screen told him he'd run 0.89 miles.

Ms. Linen Pants kept on walking; in each hand she held a tiny yellow dumbbell no larger than a hot dog roll.

Peter picked up the spray bottle of disinfectant and a paper towel and wiped down the machine. He would run every day, he decided. Maybe more moderately. Or not. What had moderation ever done for him? He saw his flushed face reflected in the elevator doors. He'd name his dog Boomer or Whiskey.

B
Y THE TIME
he reached his room he almost felt well. Almost, though he needed a shower, though he needed some sleep. And then the surprise of finding the TV on, making him, for a moment, question if he hadn't, somehow, entered the wrong room. But, no, there was his suitcase. Perhaps some lonely chambermaid, in the middle of freshening his unused room, had been summonsed to some housekeeping emergency and forgot to turn off the tube.

The channel changed.

Peter edged farther into his room.

A pair of charcoal-colored cowboy boots perched on the under-window climate-control unit. He saw the satin-seamed tuxedo pants, the shapeless sweatshirt, then, beneath the battered brim of a cowboy hat, the singer's unforgettable profile.

“You some sort of health nut?” Cross asked. His heels skated across the metal venting before dropping to the carpet.

“Did I leave my door open?”

Cross aimed the remote at the television and turned it off. “Get dressed. You and I have an appointment at this German place around the corner. I'm mostly vegetarian, but Tony granted me a special dispensation.”

Peter said he needed to shower first.

“You're fine. I'm not taking you to a wine bar.”

Peter's cell rang.

Cross said, “That might be Cyril.”

When Peter answered, the bodyguard said, “Is he with you?”

Peter looked at Cross, who nodded.

“He is.”

“You guys at the hospital?”

“Why would we be at the hospital?”

Cyril said, “Tell him either he comes clean or I'm on the next plane to Arizona.” The line went dead.

Cross didn't look surprised when Peter relayed the message.

“Throw on some pants,” said Cross. “We can talk on the way.”

Opening the lid of his suitcase, Peter exposed Martin's memorabilia, the albums, the 45, the cellophane pouch with the yellowing chapbook.

“I hadn't pegged you for a fan.” Cross picked up the collection and carried the items back over to the window to take a closer look. He slid the records out of their sleeves, turning them to sight along their edges. “This is some rare vinyl.”

Correcting the singer's assumption seemed counterproductive; instead, Peter handed Cross a permanent marker. And, while he pulled on a pair of pants and dress shirt, Cross signed Martin's treasures, fanning them out on the dresser so the ink could dry.

On the 45, Cross wrote, “Fuck Marty Diamond.”

“Is that a lyric?”

“
Ha
. Marty's a collector. He's the reason I'm the only person to ever pay three million for a split ranch in Wisconsin.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because it was the house I grew up in,” said Cross, heading out into the hall.

Peter caught up with the singer by the elevator.

“Cyril can make all the threats he wants, he's not going anywhere. His wife's a Chinese girl from Queens who wants their four kids to go to a Waldorf school. You have any idea what those places charge these days?”

Peter shook his head.

The elevator delivered them to a white service tunnel beneath the hotel.

Cross's boot heels sounded like hammer blows. “I avoid lobbies. There's always some thirsty soul waiting to latch on to me.”

Peter recalled the photographer who'd ambushed him in Rochester; certainly that man had looked thirsty.

After hiking up a parking ramp, they emerged onto a shaded side street. The air smelled of baked goods and dry-cleaning chemicals.

None of the people they passed gave Cross a second glance. Peter suspected that the contrast in their manner of dress served to conceal the singer. Cross looked like he'd fished his clothes from a charity box, while in his button-down and khakis, Peter resembled a caseworker out with a client.

“Are you going to tell me why Cyril thought we might be at a hospital?”

For two blocks Peter kept abreast of Cross, waiting for the singer to acknowledge the question. Finally he stuffed his hands in his pockets and froze.

Jimmy took two steps, stopped, went back, and, grabbing Peter by the elbow, towed the doctor across the street. Even after they'd reached the other sidewalk, Cross didn't release his grasp on Peter's arm.

“I used to have a talent for pissing people off, but these days I'm better at generating worry.”

They were on the shaded side of the street—Peter felt the cold cut through his shirt, except where Cross's hand hung on him.

Cross stopped in front of a damp-looking wood door that was held together with wrought-iron strapping.

“You okay with a German place?”

Peter wasn't certain he understood the question. Was he being asked about Germans or German cuisine? “I'll give it a shot,” he said.

Inside, a heavyset woman in a dirndl led them to a table with a little placard that read Reserved.

“So,” Cross said, sitting down, “I was behind Allie getting off the plane. He's got this patch on top of his head—I guess I'd never noticed it before—where his hair is starting to thin. It looks sort of like Antarctica. I leaned forward to tease him about it when I missed a step.”

“Did you fall?”

Before Cross answered, their waitress arrived to take their orders.

“He and I tumbled down together,” Cross continued. “Allie got the worst of it. Trouble always lands on top of him.”

Peter reached across the table and grabbed Cross's wrists. He turned the singer's hands.

“How far did you fall?”

The waitress delivered mugs of coffee and a little painted pitcher of cream.

Cross reached a finger up and tested a spot above his ear. “I've got a bit of a bump.”

“You hit your head?” Peter reached out his hand. “Show me.”

Cross guided Peter's finger to the spot.

“That's a real goose egg.”

Pushing back from the table, Cross escaped the doctor's touch.

Questions lined up in Peter's mind. “Are you having headaches? Blurry vision?”

“I'm just a bit sore.”

Peter filed the answers, moved on. “Any dizziness?”

“No.”

“How far did you fall?”

“Does it matter?”

Peter looked around the restaurant, as if searching for questions he'd misplaced. Across the room, a busboy paused while wiping down and stared at Cross. After a moment, he returned to his task.

“Why didn't anyone tell me about this?”

“Remember, you weren't there.”

“Did Alistair tell you how I ended up on the bus in the first place?”

Cross waved his hand. He was having none of it.

“Have there been any other issues?”

“Cyril stopped by my room this morning to check up on me.” Cross leaned forward, his voice a mere whisper. “He asked what I was up to and I said I was watching the spoon.”

“What's the
spoon
?”

“I don't know. It just came out of my mouth. I had the television on.”

Peter checked the time on his phone. It had been about seven hours since Cross fell. There were tasks he needed to complete, an optimal order in which to proceed. He felt calm. He hardly had to think. Ohio State's hospital was nearby. They could walk, but a cab ride would be better. Peter needed to speak with Martin; someone from neurology should meet them at the hospital, the best guy in Ohio.

“We have to get you checked out,” said Peter, “but you know that. That's why you were in my room.”

Cross shook his head.

The waitress delivered their plates, deli meats rolled into scrolls, a fanned-out stack of tomato slices, a jumble of charred sausage links, triangles of hard cheese, and, at the center of the plate, on a bed of romaine, a deviled egg.

“You can't eat any of this,” Peter said.

The waitress seemed to consider whether it was worth her time to drag him out of the restaurant.

“Excuse us for a moment,” Cross said, his voice as cold and rigid as a tire iron.

The waitress left the food and walked away.

Peter shook his head. “You might need surgery.”

Cross picked up his fork, rolled it between his fingers so the tines flashed. The fork did a slow swan dive, burying itself in a sausage. Cross lifted the food to his mouth and delicately bit off the end.

“Maybe you think I'm being too cautions, but these sorts of things can deteriorate quickly.”

Cross finished chewing. Swallowed. “Believe it or not, I went to your room to get away from the people who want to help me.”

“If I don't get you in a tube, I'm staring at a slam-dunk malpractice case.”

“I'm not going to sue you.”

Peter set his hands on the table. “In the scenario I'm worried about, you won't be around to call the shots.”

Patients knew all sorts of things, but they didn't know what they didn't know.

“What sorts of ghouls would you be looking for?”

“Sometimes ‘senior moments' prefigure something much more destructive. It can be like the difference between a tremor and an earthquake.”

Cross stood up. “Don't smile when you tell a person about earthquakes in his head. You think I want my memories trapped beneath mud walls? Tony isn't perfect, but he never gives me a shot without telling me it's going to sting.”

Peter raised his palms as high as his shoulders, patted the air.

“I'm just trying to help you,” Peter said.

“Then get Cyril off my back. He and Bluto look at me like I'm about to whisper ‘Rosebud.'”

“I can't do that until we know everything is okay. It'll only take an hour. You can spare an hour.”

“Listen. Right now I'm going back to my room to work on a libretto. After that, I'm taking Allie out for an early dinner and try my best to make him happy. Finally, tonight, I'm playing a show for a bunch of hardworking people who've scrimped and saved, swapped shifts, arranged babysitters, all so I can have the privilege of performing songs written by a young man I barely remember. So, what makes you think you know what I can and can't spare?”

Would Peter ever utter a sentence with that much conviction?

“I thought I was your doctor.”

“Sure you are, but I never asked you to save my life.” Cross stuffed his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt. “You'll have to get the bill. I don't have any money on me, or cards.”

Before Peter could find the words to respond, the singer walked out.

T
HE WAITRESS SET
the bill facedown on the table. “He's famous, yes, your friend?”

Peter said he was.

A man wearing a white paper hat and a damp, short-sleeved shirt joined them. “I told her. That was Robert Reich, Clinton's labor secretary.”

Peter corrected them.

The couple exchanged a look.

“‘Long Gone,'” Peter said. “‘Absolutely Nowhere.'”

“What's he doing in Columbus?” the waitress asked.

“He's playing here tonight.”

“He still plays?” the man asked.

49

Even though we are divorced and
not on the best of terms
, Patricia and I have continued to sleep together from time to time. This is not something that happens monthly, or even yearly, but every so often we'll find ourselves together and sometimes when we're together we have sex—it's nothing I'm proud of. When we have sex, part of me is with the young woman she was when we met. And I feel like she is with the young man I was. It's not that I want to be that person again, but I also don't want to turn my back on that person, who, after all, was me.

If Patricia's husband, Mike, ever found out, he'd probably put me in the hospital. He calls Patricia his “partner in crime” and his “songbird.” Last year, on their fifteenth anniversary, he took her to Tahoe for a week and gave her a fox coat—her “foxy coat.” He calls Gabby “Abba-Gabba.” He calls me “A.P.,” which are my initials, though Mike likes to claim they stand for Absent Parent.