“I’m staying at my mom’s for now.”
And this time he wasn’t imagining it; this time she blushed for real. Miraculously, he thought of something to say.
“Hey, did Tim get a new phone? I texted him a couple times, but I never heard back.”
Maureen moved in closer. She was now maybe three paces away—close enough that he could smell her hairspray, the minty gum she chewed.
“Timmy’s in jail,” she said in a low voice.
“Jail,” he repeated stupidly. Bad news for Tim, no question, but Anthony found it comforting. At least his buddy wasn’t ignoring him. There was a reason he hadn’t answered those texts.
“I guess it had to happen sooner or later,” Maureen said. “With what he was into.”
“Where is he?” said Anthony. “Can I go see him?”
“Not unless you want to drive to Georgia. That’s where they busted him. They say he was running drugs. They say.” Maureen shrugged elaborately. “I haven’t talked to him. This is all secondhand from my uncle. Anyway, I should get going.” She studied the package of cod in her hand, as if she wasn’t sure how it had gotten there. “It was nice seeing you, Anthony.”
“Wait.” After all these years, he wasn’t about to let her go. “Can you tell him Anthony asked about him? You know, if you talk to him.”
“I probably won’t. But yeah, sure.”
“And keep me posted, okay? Like I said, he’s my best friend. I can give you my number.”
“That’s all right,” she said quickly. “I can just stop by the store. You’re here every day?”
“Tuesday through Saturday,” Anthony said. “Till two p.m.”
“Okay, then. I’ll see you around.”
It wasn’t exactly a date. But he would see her again, and next time she’d remember him. Gratitude filled him. He was sad for Tim, but mainly he was grateful. Tim, his best friend, had given them something to talk about.
ONCE AGAIN, VICTOR PRINE WAS ON THE ROAD.
On Saturday afternoons, his stepbrother drove him to Luther’s house—thanks to its sturdy wooden ramp, the one place in Saxon County he could navigate on his own. In Luther’s driveway he hoisted himself out of the passenger seat, waited patiently as Randy took the walker from the trunk. He clomped up the wooden ramp, knocked and waited. After some while, Luther rolled to the door.
They sat in the kitchen listening to the ball game on the radio, each nursing a single beer. On Saturday afternoons only, Victor allowed himself this small pleasure. He never drank more than one, for the simple fact that beer made him piss like a racehorse. In old age, at long last, he had learned to drink moderately. He could imagine no stronger deterrent than the fear of wetting his pants.
On Saturday afternoons he drank and listened to Luther. For the moment anyway, the Ebola virus had been contained. Luther, naturally, had theories. He talked about the mutability of the virus, the shadowy malfeasance of international corporations, the inscrutable motives of the Deep State. Victor did not agree or disagree. He was happy to defer to Luther, who had made a lifelong study of these matters.
At five o’clock, Randy came to get him. Slowly, painfully, he made his way down the ramp. He lowered himself gingerly into Randy’s souped-up PT Cruiser. After a lifetime of driving big rigs, it was disconcerting to ride in a passenger car. The road raced beneath them like a conveyor belt, so fast, so close. Victor looked out at the world and read the signs.
TOUGH TIMES NEVER LAST. TOUGH PEOPLE DO.
Back at the log house he sank into the living room couch, as exhausted as if he had run many miles, and turned on the TV.
THE DETAILS OF THE ACCIDENT WERE VAGUE TO HIM, THEY LIVED in the realm of rumor and conjecture. The car he rear-ended in Massachusetts—a Toyota Prius—was totaled, though the driver was not hurt. He’d been distressed to learn, later, that she was pregnant. Though he had to wonder: What sort of female would put herself in such a situation, driving alone across the Berkshires in her condition? A pregnant female ought to take better care of herself.
The first time he came to, the EMTs were pulling him from the wreckage of the pickup. The second time, he was lying on a gurney behind a plastic curtain printed with tiny seashells. Victor verified his name and birth date and religious preference, and gave them a phone number to call.
My stepbrother, he said. We’re not blood-related.
Eventually he was moved to a different room, surrounded by a different plastic curtain—putty-colored, printed with moons and stars. On either side of the curtain, male voices made phone calls. The voice to his left was possibly Mexican. Victor recognized a few words of Spanish: mucho, hombre, gracias, nada. The voice to his right spoke a singsong language that seemed wordless, an undifferentiated torrent of sound.
When he woke from the surgery he heard a female voice. The sound was achingly beautiful, recognizable American English. Gratitude filled him. After what seemed like months of solitary confinement, he was not alone.
He heard the voice several times before he saw its source, a heavyset Black female with a round smiling face. Ernestine was his age exactly, he learned later, though at the time he wouldn’t have guessed it. The age of Black people was a mystery to him.
In the hospital he experienced a smorgasbord of humiliations, the daily trial of toileting. He could not wash or dress or shave himself. For these services and others, he was entirely dependent on Ernestine.
The services she performed were unspeakable. If she had been a White woman, he would not have survived it. The mortification might literally have killed him.
She placed the pan beneath him and removed it when he was done.
She worked in silence, which seemed preferable. On her left hand was a gold ring set with multicolored stones. Eventually his curiosity overcame him. One day as she was changing his sheets, Victor asked about the ring. His voice was phlegmy, nearly unintelligible. Except for the Indian doctor who came and went, he hadn’t spoken to another person in days.
He cleared his throat and tried again.
“It’s a mother’s ring,” said Ernestine. “My kids gave it to me for my birthday.” The gems were the birthstones of her four grown children, three boys and a girl.
Victor thought immediately of Doug Straight. A Black female born in 1950 produced, on average, four offspring. Again and always, Doug had been right.
Ernestine stripped the bed briskly, without fanfare. She maneuvered him expertly, as though rolling a log. “You never had any kids, Victor? Lift.”
He lifted. The question had taken him off guard.
“No, ma’am,” he said, blinking furiously.
There was a silence. Horrifyingly, he was near tears.
“That’s sad,” she said finally.
Victor said, “I think so too.”
Another silence.