8 March 1980
Seconds
“What time is it?” Nat asked again.
“Four thirty.”
Nat could feel the slight rocking of the train as he sat with his eyes squeezed shut. He wished for the hundredth time that they had taken the bus instead. Smoother ride. He opened his eyes and looked out the window. Watched the occasional lights of some little farming village flash by. But it hurt too much, so he closed them again. Even though it didn’t seem to help.
Every second seemed an hour long, and he ached to be home. Even knowing that home wouldn’t make the pain stop. And yet he felt that if he could simply lie curled up on his side on his own bed in the dark, everything would somehow be all right, in a way that it wasn’t now.
Especially if Carol would curl up against him.
“You got any more of those aspirin?” he asked Little Manny.
“You already took six.”
“Just another two or three.”
“They’re gonna make you throw up.”
“So, go get me something to put in my stomach.”
“Café car’s not even open at this hour.”
“Coffee with a whole bunch of cream. You could go up to business class and get it.”
“Yeah. All right.”
“My neck is so stiff.”
“Not surprising. Is that what’s bothering you? Or is it your head?”
“My head. But my neck is so stiff.”
“Get used to the headaches.”
“I am used to them. This one is special.”
“Get used to the special ones, too.”
? ? ?
The lights came up inside the train car and Nat, who had no idea he’d fallen asleep, lurched awake with a cry of pain. He shielded his eyes with one arm.
He’d been dreaming of flashes of colored light in front of his closed eyes. If they could be considered dreams.
“Why’d they turn the lights on?”
“We’re at a station I guess. Might be Albany. Anyway, we stopped. Told you not to fall asleep,” Little Manny said. “Not good to fall asleep when you’ve got a concussion. Here.”
He picked up his hat from his lap and placed it over Nat’s face. An old-fashioned hat like men used to wear on the street in the fifties. It hurt where it touched his temple, but the light hurt more, so Nat left it in place.
“How do you know I have a concussion?”
“What? I can’t hear you under the hat.”
Nat lifted it a few inches. “How do you know I have a concussion?”
“Because I saw the freight train that hit you. That’s how.”
“Oh.”
He gently set the hat back in place, and stared into its light-ringed darkness, surviving the pain of each second individually. What was the point, though, really, of surviving an hour-long second if another waited right behind it, also needing to be survived? But it made him feel panicky to think about that, so he returned to the one-second-at-a-time plan.
The train began to move again. Nat breathed carefully until the light leaking in through the edges of the hat went dark again. Then he gave the hat back to Little Manny.
“That was the most humiliating thing that ever happened to me,” he said quietly.
“There’ll be more.”
“Thanks loads.”
“What’d you expect? To win without breaking a sweat every time?”
“No, but I thought I’d do better than that. Can you tell if my ribs are broken by feel?”
“I dunno. Raise your arm.”
“It hurts to raise my arm. That’s how I got in this trouble to begin with.”
“No, you got in this trouble when you said yes to that fight. Against my advice. Raise it anyway.”
Nat slowly, gently coaxed his right arm to about shoulder height. He felt Little Manny’s hands run over his side.
“Ow! Gently, please.”
“That’s as gentle as I can be and still feel. I dunno. They’re not out of place as far as I can tell. So prob’ly just cracked. But first thing Monday morning, go to the doctor, get an X-ray. And tell him you took a mean one to the head. Let him give you one of them neuro exams.”
“Yeah. Whatever.”
“No. Not whatever. Promise.”
Long pause. Nat figured he probably wouldn’t bother to go. “OK.”
They rode the rest of the way home in silence.
? ? ?
Nat sat on a bench at the station, shivering miserably in the morning cold, his head in his hands to block out the light.
Several paces behind him, he could hear Little Manny talking on the pay phone.
“Yeah, he don’t feel so good. Got a mean headache. Otherwise I’d just tell him to walk home. But he feels so lousy, that’s why I’m asking. Hate to make him walk all that way.”
A pause. Then, “Yeah. OK. Good. Thanks, Nathan.”
Little Manny came back and sat next to him on the bench. Patted him on the back. Which hurt. Not because his back hurt. Just because it moved everything slightly.
“He’s coming to pick you up.”
“Promise me you won’t tell him,” Nat said. “Promise me you won’t tell anybody. Ever.”
“Don’t worry,” Little Manny said.
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning I don’t come off too good in the story, either.”
? ? ?
Carol came into their bedroom about seven P.M.
“What are you doing in bed? It’s like seven o’clock.” She flipped on the light.
Nat yelped out loud. “Turn it off, OK? Ow. Jeez.”
“Wow. Sorry. You OK?”
“I have a headache.”
She flipped off the light again and crossed over to the bed, where Nat lay curled in a fetal position.
“Want me to get you some aspirin?”
“I already had eight. They didn’t help much.”
“Poor Nat. Is there anything I can get you?”
“How ‘bout a morphine drip?” He reached a hand up to her. “Come lie down with me.”
She kicked off her shoes and settled next to him on the bed. In front of him. He uncurled slightly to make room for her. Then he threw an arm over her and tucked in close.
“That’s better,” he said.
“Than what?”
“Than anything.”
“How was your sparring match? Were you as good as in Golden Gloves?”
“Not quite that good, no.”
They lay together in silence for several minutes.
So, this was the brass ring, the great finish line that he had promised himself all the way home. Lying on his own bed, with her.
He still hurt like hell. But if you have to hurt, he figured, there are worse places to do it.
“I’ve been dreaming about this,” he said.
“What?”
“This.”
“Just this?”
“Yeah. Just this.”
“But we do this every night.”
“No. We didn’t do it last night. And I could have used it, too. I just wanted to get home and hold you. That’s all. Is that so weird?”
“Yes and no. I mean, no. It’s not weird. Not exactly. It’s just that … you don’t usually talk like this.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Almost like … like you need me. I’m not saying you don’t. Just that you don’t usually talk like you do. That must be some headache.”