Hodges told Holly he intended to spend at least part of his weekend crashed out in his La-Z-Boy watching baseball, and on Sunday afternoon he does watch the first three innings of the Indians game, but then a certain restlessness takes hold and he decides to pay a call. Not on an old pal, but certainly an old acquaintance. After each of these visits he tells himself Okay, that’s the end, this is pointless. He means it, too. Then – four weeks later, or eight, maybe ten – he’ll take the ride again. Something nags him into it. Besides, the Indians are already down to the Rangers by five, and it’s only the third inning.
He zaps off the television, pulls on an old Police Athletic League tee-shirt (in his heavyset days he used to steer clear of tees, but now he likes the way they fall straight, with hardly any belly-swell above the waist of his pants), and locks up the house. Traffic is light on Sunday, and twenty minutes later he’s sliding his Prius into a slot on the third deck of the visitors’ parking garage, adjacent to the vast and ever metastasizing concrete sprawl of John M. Kiner Hospital. As he walks to the parking garage elevator, he sends up a prayer as he almost always does, thanking God that he’s here as a visitor rather than as a paying customer. All too aware, even as he says this very proper thank-you, that most people become customers sooner or later, here or at one of the city’s four other fine and not-so-fine sickbays. No one rides for free, and in the end, even the most seaworthy ship goes down, blub-blub-blub. The only way to balance that off, in Hodges’s opinion, is to make the most of every day afloat.
But if that’s true, what is he doing here?
The thought recalls to mind a snatch of poetry, heard or read long ago and lodged in his brain by virtue of its simple rhyme: Oh do not ask what is it, let us go and make our visit.
8
It’s easy to get lost in any big city hospital, but Hodges has made this trip plenty of times, and these days he’s more apt to give directions than ask for them. The garage elevator takes him down to a covered walkway; the walkway takes him to a lobby the size of a train terminal; the Corridor A elevator takes him up to the third floor; a skyway takes him across Kiner Boulevard to his final destination, where the walls are painted a soothing pink and the atmosphere is hushed. The sign above the reception desk reads:
WELCOME TO LAKES REGION
TRAUMATIC BRAIN INJURY CLINIC
NO CELL PHONES OR TELECOMMUNICATIONS
DEVICES ALLOWED
HELP US MAINTAIN A QUIET ENVIRONMENT
WE APPRECIATE YOUR COOPERATION
Hodges goes to the desk, where his visitor’s badge is already waiting. The head nurse knows him; after four years, they are almost old friends.
‘How’s your family, Becky?’
She says they are fine.
‘Son’s broken arm mending?’
She says it is. The cast is off and he’ll be out of the sling in another week, two at most.
‘That’s fine. Is my boy in his room or physical therapy?’
She says he’s in his room.
Hodges ambles down the hall toward Room 217, where a certain patient resides at state expense. Before Hodges gets there, he meets the orderly the nurses call Library Al. He’s in his sixties, and – as usual – he’s pushing a trolley cart packed with paperbacks and newspapers. These days there’s a new addition to his little arsenal of diversions: a small plastic tub filled with handheld e-readers.
‘Hey, Al,’ Hodges says. ‘How you doin?’
Although Al is ordinarily garrulous, this afternoon he seems half asleep, and there are purple circles under his eyes. Somebody had a hard night, Hodges thinks with amusement. He knows the symptoms, having had a few hard ones himself. He thinks of snapping his fingers in front of Al’s eyes, sort of like a stage hypnotist, then decides that would be mean. Let the man suffer the tail end of his hangover in peace. If it’s this bad in the afternoon, Hodges hates to think of what it must have been like this morning.
But Al comes to and smiles before Hodges can pass by. ‘Hey there, Detective! Haven’t seen your face in the place for awhile.’
‘It’s just plain old mister these days, Al. You feeling okay?’
‘Sure. Just thinking about …’ Al shrugs. ‘Jeez, I dunno what I was thinking about.’ He laughs. ‘Getting old is no job for sissies.’
‘You’re not old,’ Hodges says. ‘Somebody forgot to give you the news – sixty’s the new forty.’
Al snorts. ‘Ain’t that a crock of you-know-what.’
Hodges couldn’t agree more. He points to the cart. ‘Don’t suppose my boy ever asks for a book, does he?’
Al gives another snort. ‘Hartsfield? He couldn’t read a Berenstain Bears book these days.’ He taps his forehead gravely. ‘Nothing left but oatmeal up top. Although sometimes he does hold out his hand for one of these.’ He picks up a Zappit e-reader. It’s a bright girly pink. ‘These jobbies have games on em.’