He stares out the door. “Ah jeez,” he says. He puts his hands on his hips and looks across the lot. “Ah jeez. I’ll just bet.”
I STAY IN THE stock car through dinner, and then through the evening show as well. I’m afraid that if I see August I’ll kill him.
I hate him. I hate him for being so brutal. I hate that I’m beholden to him. I hate that I’m in love with his wife and something damned close to that with the elephant. And most of all, I hate that I’ve let them both down. I don’t know if the elephant is smart enough to connect me to her punishment and wonder why I didn’t do anything to stop it, but I am and I do.
“Bruised heels,” says Walter when he returns. “Come on, Queenie, up! Up!”
“What?” I mumble. I haven’t moved since he left.
“Marlena bruised her heels. She’ll be out a couple of weeks. Thought you might want to know.”
“Oh. Thanks,” I say.
He sits on his cot and looks at me for a long time.
“So, what’s the story with you and August, anyway?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you guys tight, or what?”
I haul my body into a sitting position and lean against the wall. “I hate the bastard,” I say finally.
“Ha!” Walter snorts. “Okay, so you do have some sense. So why do you spend all your time with them?”
I don’t answer.
“Oh, sorry. I forgot.”
“You’ve got it all wrong,” I say, hauling myself upright.
“Yeah?”
“He’s my boss and I have no choice.”
“That’s true. But it’s also about the woman, and you know it.”
I raise my head and glare at him.
“Okay, okay,” he says, raising his hands in surrender. “I’ll shut up. You know the score.” He turns and rummages in his crate. “Here,” he says, tossing me an eight-pager. It skids across the floor and stops beside me. “It’s not Marlena, but it’s better than nothing.”
After he turns away, I pick it up and thumb through it. But despite the explicit and exaggerated drawings, I can’t muster any interest whatever in Mr. Big Studio Director boning the skinny would-be starlet with the horse face.
Thirteen
I blink rapidly, trying to get my bearings—that skinny nurse with the horse face has dropped a tray of food at the end of the hall, and it’s woken me up. I wasn’t aware of dozing, but that’s how it goes these days. I seem to slip in and out of time and space. Either I’m finally going senile, or else it’s my mind’s way of coping with being entirely unchallenged in the present.
The nurse crouches down, collecting the spilled food. I don’t like her—she’s the one who’s always trying to keep me from walking. I think I’m just too wobbly for her nerves, because even Dr. Rashid admits that walking is good for me as long as I don’t overdo it or get stranded.
I’m parked in the hallway just outside my door, but it’s still several hours before my family comes and I think I’d like to look out the window.
I could just call the nurse. But what fun would that be?
I shift my bottom to the edge of my wheelchair, and reach for my walker.
One, two, three—
Her pale face thrusts itself in front of mine. “Can I help you, Mr. Jankowski?”
Heh. That was almost too easy.
“Why, I’m just going to look out the window for a while,” I say, feigning surprise.
“Why don’t you sit tight and let me take you?” she says, planting both hands firmly on the arms of my chair.
“Oh, well then. Yes, that’s very kind of you,” I say. I lean back in my seat, lift my feet onto the footrests, and fold my hands in my lap.
The nurse looks puzzled. Dear Lord, that’s an impressive overbite. She straightens up and waits, I guess to see if I’m going to make a run for it. I smile pleasantly and train my gaze on the window at the end of the hall. Finally, she goes behind me and takes the handles of my wheelchair.
“Well, I must say, Mr. Jankowski, I’m a little surprised. You’re normally . . . uh . . . rather adamant about walking.”
“Oh, I could have made it. I’m only letting you push me because there aren’t any chairs by the window. Why is that, anyway?”
“Because there’s nothing to see, Mr. Jankowski.”
“There’s a circus to see.”
“Well, this weekend, maybe. But normally there’s just a parking lot.”
“What if I want to look at a parking lot?”
“Then you shall, Mr. Jankowski,” she says, pushing me up to the window.
My brow furrows. She was supposed to argue with me. Why didn’t she argue with me? Oh, but I know why. She thinks I’m just an addled old man. Don’t upset the residents, oh no—especially not that old Jankowski fellow. He’ll fling pockmarked Jell-O at you and then call it an accident.
She starts to walk away.
“Hey!” I call after her. “I haven’t got my walker!”
“Just call me when you’re ready,” she says. “I’ll come get you.”
“No, I want my walker! I always have my walker. Get me my walker.”
“Mr. Jankowski—” says the girl. She folds her arms and sighs deeply.