Perhaps the most frustrating aspect was that I could do nothing but wait. Wait for next week’s operation, wait to see if I ended up paralyzed, wait to see if the bullet proved useful. I paced my bedroom. Picked up a book, tried to concentrate, snapped it shut after I found myself reading the same paragraph on Jean-Paul Sartre a fourth time. I resumed pacing. Feeling frightened, furious, and at loose ends—all at once—proved a dangerous combination. By six that evening I gave in to temptation.
Will’s cell did not answer, and his work phone went straight to an answering service. His house, then. It surprised me to realize I had only a vague notion where he lived. Helpfully, Zartman is an unusual name. The white pages online listed a phone number and a home address. Lorcom Lane in Arlington, Virginia. Just across the river.
I could hardly drive there myself. Not after the burglary, not after what Beasley had told me. I was a prisoner in my childhood home. I sat pondering the problem. Then I called Martin and told him I needed to see someone, that we were headed to Arlington, and that he would have to wait in the car.
He picked me up an hour later. “Let me guess. Your Dr. Sprockets.” Martin smirked.
I shot him an annoyed glance, said nothing.
“Tony said he’s a great guy. Why don’t you just invite him up to the house? Are you hiding him from Mom and Dad for some reason?”
“As it happens, he’s not returning my calls.”
My brother cocked his head sideways. “I hate to break this to you, but generally speaking, that’s a sign that a guy isn’t interested.”
“Thank you for that deep insight into the male mind,” I retorted. “I know what it usually means. But I think—I’m hoping—he’s avoiding me because he’s trying to do the honorable thing.”
I explained about doctor-patient relationships being verboten. About Will’s squirming and then storming out the other night.
“You could switch doctors,” Martin said.
“That’s what I told him.”
It was quiet on Lorcom Lane. The streetlights had switched on to illuminate two-and three-story brick colonials, well-kept, typical American suburbia. I felt uneasy. I had imagined Will living in a condo, maybe a converted loft, all exposed brick and soaring ceilings.
When we reached the right address, Martin swung the car into the driveway.
His headlights picked out Will’s Jeep. A basketball hoop hung suspended above the garage. Below it a child’s bike lay on its side.
All of a sudden, I understood.
? ? ?
YOU WANTED A scene? You wanted to read about me bursting into tears, about the clichéd confrontation with the pretty wife who answers the door, about who slapped whom first?
I’m not that girl.
I told you already: I’m not prone to outbursts, not a volatile person.
Martin, on the other hand, was outraged. He trained his brights on the child’s bike, trying to make sense of what this object could be doing in my boyfriend’s driveway. He took a second or two longer than I had to figure out that Will must be married, that he was a father.
“Do you want me to kneecap him?” Martin asked. “Spell out dickwad on his lawn?”
“Just turn around. Hurry up. Before someone comes out of the house and sees us.”
We drove home in silence, me staring out the window, clutching my right wrist, wishing I’d let Tony buy me that 9 mm Baby Glock after all.
? ? ?
MARTIN WALKED ME up our parents’ front steps and onto the porch, muttering, “He’s a dickwad, whether we trash his front lawn or not. You are so out of his league. Christ, do I want to call Tony and invite this guy to join us for a friendly beer. Give him a little education on how to treat our sister.”
“Thank you, but I’m fine.” I was turning my cheek for him to kiss me good-night when I saw it. The gray car. Parked just as before, across the street and a few spaces down. How could such a nondescript car be so noticeable?
“Martin,” I whispered. “Do you see that car?”
“An education that would leave him unable to walk for the next week.” My brother was still muttering.
“Martin! That gray car. Do you see it?”
He turned, shaded his eyes against the porch light. “What about it?”
“It was parked outside my house on Q Street the other night. The same car.”
“Are you sure?”
No, I wasn’t sure. It was your run-of-the-mill, gray, compact car. Utterly unremarkable. But either I was going crazy or I had seen this car before, and I went with the latter. “I—I think so. There was a man inside.”
My brother scowled, squinted across the street again, started loping down across the lawn.
“Martin!” I hissed, “Stop!”
The car’s ignition started up. The headlights blinked on, and suddenly it was reversing. It knocked into the bumper of the car parked behind, then lurched into the street, engine roaring, tires squealing.
“Get inside,” said my brother.
I stood frozen, glued to the porch.
“Sis! Get inside!”
I didn’t wait for him to tell me a third time.
Thirty-three
* * *
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 26, 2013
Dr. Gellert commenced operating at 11:07 a.m.
He was assisted, I was later told, by the on-duty anesthesiologist, two nurses, and three residents who had had their plans for a lazy weekend morning rudely interrupted by urgent summonses from the hospital. The procedure was not filmed. No cameraman could be located on such short notice.
The gray car had achieved what Beasley had wished for but had not been able to achieve: instant surgery.