Chapter 1
Based on a true story
A sniper, hidden
by a glittering chandelier hanging above the vast towering ceiling of New
York’s Plaza Grand Ballroom, sifts through the opulence with his rifle
sight. He is positioned so high that his rifle looks like a speck
in the filigreed facade.
His sight goes in and out of focus as, one table at
a time, he moves through the enormous room. Forty-five years old,
tall and fit, dressed in a tuxedo, the rifleman could easily mix with those
below.
Arriving
at the head table he slowly moves his sight from one person to the
next. The women have spent weeks preparing for tonight. The perfect
shoes, hair, make-up, the right dress- our assassin settles on a stunning
blonde in her thirties wearing serious jewelry. By her side is
Martin MacDonald, a silver-haired man with a jutting chin, and a physique
chiseled at his club.
MacDonald
has told a joke which the men at the table are finding very funny, the women
less so. He stands up, winks at his wife, and goes to the podium.
Buoyed
by opportunities that have been opening up for him at an accelerating rate, he
inspires confidence in the audience. The
right man at the right time-they want in on it too. He was asked to speak tonight because of a
May article in Business Week telling his story. It was the usual, but it never
gets old. Beginning with an office in
his garage, MacDonald is now unfazed by billion dollar figures. The
audience is there to soak up the details.
Can they replicate the outsized profits he is earning at Liberty Health?
MacDonald’s
boy wonder quality has remained despite it being 25 years since his graduation
from Macalester College, in St Paul, Minnesota. His second team All American quarterback days
created an enduring aura, as he knew it would.
But more importantly, running a company with multiplying profits has
kept him young and vigorous. Despite
being raised by his mother and her scrappy Sicilian brothers, MacDonald
inherited his father’s clan’s Scottish way with money and just as importantly,
his father’s good looks and persona.
Scottish and Sicilian. Not a
common blend, but it has served him well in the insurance industry. He adjusts the mike, taps it with his
finger a few times. Then he
begins. His voice is strong.
“My
thanks to the American Insurance Association. I am honored that you are
having me tell you what you already know. We need to stick
together. Stand as one. We share the same mission, to find a way to
deliver health care at a reasonable cost.”
The audience applauds enthusiastically.
The
rifleman, ever so slowly, ever so softly, scopes MacDonald between his eyes. “Now!”
a voice inside urges. His other side takes charge.
He
pulls his rifle back into the utility room above the ceiling. The sight
is fogging up. He wipes off the condensed vapor with his thumb. He
double-checks that everything else is in order. His tightly gloved index
finger rubs over the filed off serial number. He pulls at the ends of his thin
leather gloves to tighten them still further. He cocks the trigger
mechanism: the sound of precision steel snapping into place with a bit of an
echo. He repeats this a second time with military efficiency. He takes a
cartridge case from his pocket and loads.
Soon
enough he again has MacDonald’s forehead perfectly centered. Carefully,
calmly–he can almost feel the bullet drilling in to the spot, into MacDonald’s
skull.
There
is a noise somewhere down the hall. The sniper freezes. He listens carefully for another sound. He soon recognizes the scratching of a busy
mouse.
“Stay
with this,” he commands himself. He must follow a series of steps, practiced
so often, that when his eyes and trigger-finger have the target in sight, what
follows is automatic. His finger tightens slowly.
Slowly. He is almost there.
Macdonald’s wit is knocking the audience
out. The applause keeps growing, mingled with congenial laughter
from MacDonald’s admirers.
The
laughter agitates the rifleman, stirs up his anger.
That puts a halt to everything. During
training they drilled it in. “Don’t act
unless you’re emotionless.” Focus
requires brain silence. The mind must
disappear as the momentum of the plan closes in on the target. Anger is the natural emotion before a kill.
It undoes your skill. He learned the hard
way. He got excited, furious at an
enemy. He shot wildly, like he had never
learned a thing. Fortunately his
adversaries were even more under the influence of their passions. He got it
done but he could have easily gotten killed, be rotting flesh six feet
under. Killing is a serious
business. There is no room for emotion.
Twenty-six years ago, at army sharpshooter
school, the idea was simple. Repeat
every step again and again, until nothing else is possible other than the next
step. The final decision to kill is not in your control. It is muscle memory.
That’s not happening now. The opposite.
When things are right, obstacles that may arise are quickly absorbed as
interesting new wrinkles to be patiently
overcome. Instead, they are rattling
him.
His chin tightens, “Focus,” he repeats.
He began so determined. Righteous
anger can move mountains. Or drive you crazy until you act. For months, endless unanswerable questions
had wormed their way through his mind and exhausted him. First heartbreak, then an endless assignment
of blame. Then insight and clarity. All of it completely disappeared once the
specifics of his plan to kill MacDonald took hold of him.
The army had taught him how to get it
done. The plan’s priorities must be clarified, then
every detail exactly executed. He had to find a well camouflaged spot with
perfect vision of the target. That was
easy. Locate a high range rifle which breaks into 3 parts easily dropped into a
violin case. From his former contacts as
a crime reporter years ago, it took only an hour and a half to find someone
selling one. Everything just fell into
place.
He expected that to continue, his way led by
his vision of a successfully carried out mission . Finally he was going to get the guy.
It isn’t happening.
In truth, even in the army it wasn’t simple.
During his sniper training he had no difficulty pulling the trigger. When
he graduated he carried out three missions successfully. Didn’t have a second thought. Killed who he
was assigned to kill and was pleased with himself.
His fourth assignment messed everything
up. He noticed that his target had red
hair. That did it. His precision, which had been so easily
summoned a moment before, deserted him. His trigger-finger and
eye were no longer one. There was no flow.
It wasn’t a morality thing-no specific
thoughts about right and wrong. No
thoughts at all. But the red hair kept
coming into his mind. After that, he’d miss his target again and again. It ended his short career as a sharpshooter. When the time came he didn’t reenlist. His
sergeant more or less made certain that was his plan.
Once again our gunman pulls the rifle
back into the utility room. We get a better look at him. He is
sweating. His face is alive with emotion. As opposed to our
initial impression, he is anything but a
professional.
“Take your time,” he commands himself. Useless. His mind remains scattered . Drifting thoughts grab his
attention, one after another without rhyme or reason.
He
had imagined the exact instant in detail. Macdonald, bathed in
adulation, just after he’s made a clever observation, the audience smiling,
congratulating itself for being there.
A split second before the applause
erupts. Bang!
Blood is the perfect punctuation.
A single shot.
Sweet!
Bang.
It will put them on notice.
Someone’s watching. Someone who
clearly sees what you’re doing.
Like a politician at a
convention, MacDonald
ends his talk. He waves to the audience
. They shower him with love as he
returns to his table.
Now
will be perfect.
Now!
He
doesn’t pull the trigger.
The
rifleman-we’ll give his name, Michael, quickly adjusts to the new facts. He’s okay with it. His fantasy about the moment of MacDonald’s
death was self indulgent. The booby prize will be more than
enough. The joy of catching him at
exactly the right moment isn’t all that important. MacDonald, with or without a proud smile, doing
anything, reaching for a French fry, wiping off the ketchup from his lips,
blowing his nose-any of it will be okay.
Shot
and killed is the main point! If the
deed gets done, the meaning will get across. Dead is dead.
This
last thought enables Michael to cool off a bit.
MacDonald will remain in target range for at least an hour. Later will
be fine.
Michael
wipes the sweat off his forehead. He’s hot and clammy all over. He takes
off his tuxedo jacket, sits down on the floor, using a huge cable roll to lean
against. Trying to regain his composure, he closes his eyes and takes
several deep breaths.
No
luck. He can’t seem to catch his breath. His mind is still all over the
place. Doubts. Memories. More doubts.
Until it settles…
Twelve years
ago. Two tents have been pitched at a
clearing high in the mountains. It is a
day to worship the fall foliage, sunny, the air with a bite to it, crisp,
clear, newly cold.
Far below,
the farm fields form squares of contrasting green color, fall crops of lettuce
and broccoli, waiting to be harvested.
Orange pumpkins are piled high near the corner of one of the squares.
That square is half brown and half orange, half picked and half unpicked.
Twelve years younger Michael Russell is a
devil with light green, deep set eyes.
Calm and carefree, he hardly resembles the gunman. At 30 Deborah Russell’s striking blonde,
still thick, almost hippie curls are the first thing that catch people’s
attention. She is petite. She moves like
a cat. The children are adorable. Six-year-old Ritchie is quiet and observant,
seven-year-old Lisa feisty. They are
lucky. Both have Deborah’s thick, fantastic hair, and Michael’s luminescent
green eyes. Both have their parents’
grace of movement which makes effort silent.
Michael is
eight feet up in a tree. He’s taped his brand new Nikon on a limb above
him. Seated on a lower limb, he looks
through the eyepiece at the family portrait he is constructing. He’s in heaven. He screws a cable in to the camera that he
purchased for this very picture. The
cable will invisibly run to the spot he has designated for himself. With the cable, his thumb will remotely
control the shutter.
This shot has been in Michael’s plans for a year. He
told Deborah about it before they arrived.
It was hatched while they were making their first visit here and Michael
sat on this exact tree trunk, saw this great view as he looked down at Ritchie,
and wished he had his camera. This time
he is prepared.
He moves them to their places, plays with the
shutter speed. Deborah is beginning to
lose her patience. Lisa, in less than 5
seconds, has done enough posing.
“Dad, how long do we have
to stand
here?”
Happy to have an ally,
Deborah gives Michael an “enough already” look.
“Good things come to those
who wait.”
“Daaad!”
His fortune cookie wisdom
has never amused her, or for that matter, any of them, especially the second
time around.
“One more second,” he
shouts excitedly.
He will not be
rushed. He studies the shot. It will be an unusual family portrait. The
Russells look like they are suspended in air, two thousand feet above the
farmland in the valley.
Quite a picture. Behind they are regaled by the final glory of
maple trees and oaks preparing for their winter slumber, infinite hues of
orange and red, intersected by brown tree trunks. Ahead, the vast empty space of the mountaintop, the reason they are
here.
“ Okay, everyone stay
where you are.” “ Look up.”
Ritchie breaks ranks.
A little too emphatically
Lisa grabs Ritchie and returns him to his
place.
“Ouch” he cries out
angrily.
To deaf ears. Lisa looks up at her father. He smiles, his ‘we are partners on a mission’
smile. She loves that.
Still sitting on the limb,
he positions Ritchie first to the right, then Lisa to the left. Then he moves Ritchie left again. Lisa pulls on her brother. “Ritchie! Over
here,” she commands.
Michael again reminds everyone that they have
to look into the camera.
Lisa is getting more
exasperated.
“Daddy take the picture
already.”
They are very close to perfection. He likes
the way Lisa’s arms are thrown around Harry, their mutt. He likes the way Harry is smiling, half
giddy, panting away, ready for the next bit of action.
“Just one more
minute.” Ritchie could be up a little
higher. A look from Deborah warns
him. She has a temper. She has complained to Michael many times
about this kind of thing. Why does she
have to get angry for it to register?
Michael will have to settle for the picture he
has now or get nothing at all. He
hurriedly fiddles with the cable one last time, then swings down and hangs by
the branch, imitating King Kong.
“Careful,” Deborah shouts.
He drops to the ground
almost bouncing up as he lands. Score one for him against the nay- sayers. Extending the cable he joins them.
“Okay everyone, Look up…
Cheese”.”
They shout, “Carrot
juice.” “Carrot juice” has become a
tradition since it made them laugh the first time. This time is no exception.
He clicks.
“Okay, one
more”
It is the signal the kids
have been waiting for. They are outta
there.
“Wait!” he yells
Lisa yells back ,“No way.”
Ritchie imitates Lisa.
“Yeah. No way.”
Happy noise: laughter,
barking, Ritchie emits a wssssss, the airplane sound he makes when he flies his
model plane. Chin level he wsssses past Lisa.
She drops her coat to the ground, spreads her arms wide so that they
resemble airplane wings, and takes off.
She shouts to Ritchie.
“Catch me.”
He reverses course and runs with his airplane
after her as she circles the campfire. Then Lisa turns around and with arms
still held wide, she makes Ritchie’s wsssss sound and chases Ritchie. Harry comes into the picture. They join forces, two wssssers united,
chasing Harry. He gallops far away. Lisa
shouts for him to return. He barks at her from a distance.
She once again runs around
the fire. Harry watches, continuing to
bark. Lisa calls to him. He returns to chase her, finally catching
her, jumping on her back, a perfect
tackle. She screams happily as he
brings her down. Ritchie simply stands
and watches them with a big fat grin.
The campfire is dying
down, the sun is low in the sky. The children are still going, but it won’t be
long until exhaustion takes over.
Deborah yells for them to come to her, which
they do without a protest. It has become
routine. Putting a dab of toothpaste on
each toothbrush, she hands the yellow tipped one to Lisa and the green tipped
to Ritchie. Lisa inspects hers to be sure she’s been given the right
toothbrush. She holds it up. From a canteen Deborah pours water on her
brush, then does the same for Ritchie.
They get to work. Ritchie hums as he goes. Lisa is a more competent brusher. Soon however, they are making more noise than
actually brushing.
“Okay enough.” Deborah
orders them.
She hands Lisa the canteen for a swig
of water. Lisa gargles noisily then
spits it out, aiming for the longest distance.
She enjoys the idea of spitting on the ground.
It’s Ritchie’s turn. He gargles and spits not nearly as far as
Lisa. As compensation Ritchie sticks his
toe on Lisa’s wet spot for good measure.
Deborah’s voice breaks
through their procrastination. They know perfectly well what comes after
brushing their teeth. They deliver their
toothbrushes to Deborah. They love the
absoluteness of the rules in this routine.
Like a game of Monopoly, “Go to Jail, Go directly to Jail. Do not pass
Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.”
The excitement is only
possible if you don’t ask why, why do I have to go to jail. Why can’t I collect $200 dollars. Why?
No why’s are allowed. No why’s
are needed. The fun comes from totally
living within Monopoly.
“Okay. March to the tent.”
They march. When they get to the entrance she calls to
them.
“About face.”
They do so with military
precision.
“Wow. Do that again. No wait.
Let me call Daddy.”
She shouts from some
distance away, “Michael”
He shouts back, “What?”
“Watch this.”
Happy marionettes. They
repeat their about-face.
“That’s cool.”
She yells to him, “I’ll be there soon.”
She turns to the kids,
“Okay. In your tent. I’ll come in to kiss you good night in a
minute.”
No protest. Sleeping in the tent is a treat. Off they go.
Deborah washes their
toothbrushes while listening to the crackling timbers in the fire.
She shouts to
Michael. He waves from the distance. She inches her skirt little by little up her
long legs.
She definitely has his
attention.
He loves her legs. He’s told her many times
that he married her for her legs. She
swims miles at the YMCA pool every other day to keep them that way.
She enters the children’s
tent, picks their clothes up and folds them. They are excited. This is a
treat. Normally they sleep alone in
their rooms at home. They are sitting side by side with their legs in their
sleeping bags.
Lisa is wearing a ring that Deborah had found
in her mother’s attic and sized to fit Lisa.
She was told that it belonged to her grandmother’s great aunt, a beauty
who had never married. The ring had been given to her by a young man who was
killed in a duel for her. She remained
true, wore the ring for the rest of her life, never marrying. Deborah told the story to Lisa when she gave
it to her. Lisa wouldn’t take it off
even when she took her bath. She loved
that story.
Lisa hands her ring to
Ritchie, “Put it on tonight. It means we are married.”
Ritchie counters, “I can’t
marry my sister. Right Mommy?”
“Make believe,” Lisa
argues.
The boss interrupts.
“Come on guys.”
Lisa ceremoniously puts
the ring on his finger. Ritchie lies
back, enchanted with the thought of being Lisa’s husband.
Deborah snaps him out of
it. She has him slide further into the
bag and zips him up. Next Lisa. Deborah looks into her eyes. Her lips are
parted. As Lisa brings her arms inside
her bag and Deborah zippers her up they smile at each other. Deborah gives each a kiss. As soon as Deborah leaves the tent, giggling
excitedly, Ritchie and Lisa give each other a look of complicity. Lisa unzips and flashes her hidden Hershey
Bar.
She puts her finger in front of her lips.
“Shhh.”
Their arms disappear inside their bags.
From outside the tent Deborah warns them.
“Shh…”
They giggle again. Deborah
sticks her head back in the tent. They
let out a startled scream. Then more
giggles. Deborah sees the chocolate bar
but pretends she hasn’t. After it
disappears under the cover she points her finger at them. Gives them a "that's enough"
face. They settle down quickly.
Smiling, Deborah walks
away and settles by the fire. She
listens carefully. Every once in a while
she thinks she hears an animal stepping on a twig. A cougar jumps out of the darkness! She reassures herself that it is her
imagination. She feels a chill. She puts on a sweatshirt and gets closer to the
fire. She sits on a boulder, lights a
joint, unwinds, stares into space, calming herself with the quiet.
After 10 minutes she reenters the children’s
tent. They are asleep. Her eyes embrace them.
She listens to their gentle breathing.
Lisa coughs. Deborah continues to listen. Lisa’s breathing is clear. As she parts the door flap of the tent she
can make out Michael 100 yards away`.
He is literally seated on
the edge of the cliff, where they took the picture thousands of feet above the
valley. The ledge is tilted slightly downward. Deborah appears. She is feeling the marijuana, grinning like a
happy child, stoned happy.
She approaches carefully,
gripping the rock with her strong fingernails for extra traction as she slides
next to him.
She almost slips, but quickly recovers.
“Wo. That was close,” he says with concern.
“I’m all right.’ She examines her finger. “I broke a nail.”
She sits close to him,
looks straight out.
“How is your book going?
How’s Cornelius?”
“Amazing- as always. What a guy.”
‘I still don’t get what’s
so interesting about Vandebilt?”
“I guess because he came
from nothing.”
“But two years on this
guy. It’s like he’s part of our family.
Truthfully I think he’s a macho schmuck.”
“ You don’t know anything
about him.”
“Is that what you really
wanted to be, a macho guy who wins all the time? You know that means everyone else loses?”
“Yeah, but it must be nice
to win all the time.”
“Don’t know how I landed
up with someone like you.”
You don’t want to win?
“ I don’t get it. Yeah I hate to lose, but win. I don’t think about it much.
Truthfully you got a bad case of it.” She tells him that with a superior tone which
he hates every time he hears it.
“Debby” he utters in a
warning tone.
They both stop. Time out.
They have learned to be quiet when the tension starts to build. She
bites her lip a bit. He looks straight
ahead.
Far away the sunset has begun. They stare at it dreamily, embracing the
clouds now painted with color. Beyond is
the distant line where the sky touches the ground. A soft whistling wind is
occasionally punctuated by ospreys calling out their dominance over the valley
below.
The minutes pass
intensely, felt in their fingers, in the air going in and out of their lungs,
but mainly in their vision which grips them- the sky saturated with the
deepening colors.
” This is our fourth year. How did we find this place? Remind me.”
Deborah asks.
“Joe told me about it.”
“Well he’s good for
something. Is Joe still giving you a hard time about your Exxon story?”
“Not as much.”
“Doesn’t surprise me. It’s a good story.”
Again they are silent
until Deborah laughs to herself.
“What?”
“Something Amy said.”
“What?”
“She said in a past life
you must have been Japanese. Your perfectionism. Always trying to take it to
the next level.”
“Do you think so?”
They both know it is true.
Neither understands it. He is forever
reaching for the ultimate. He can’t help
himself- the ultimate truth, the ultimate lie, the ultimate orgasm, the
ultimate rose, the ultimate truffle flavored anything, the ultimate barbecued
beef, cranberry soda, the ultimate view.
Whatever he likes, he
wants to bring to the next level. And when
he gets there he wants something better. “ Why not?” he asks. “If you are alive why not want the best there
is, just so that you know what that is like?”
Greed she calls it. Deprivation, he explains, but understanding will not
change it. It is simply a given.
What they are seeing isn’t just the pot. The sun is, in fact, huge, the sky orange with hints of red.
Beyond the farms, high sea grasses define a creek which leads to an
inlet. From there the ocean.
Off to the right, leaves dance in the fading
orange light, which ever so slowly is changing to a reddish hue. Very, very far away a tractor, looking like
a toy, moves slowly along, leaving mounds of dirt looking like anthills, its
driver a tiny dot.
Her body feels buoyant. For a moment she almost feels like she is
floating. Is it the pot or the thin air?
A cool crisp breeze blows across their
foreheads, as a sliver of red sun shimmers at the very edge of the
horizon. Then it disappears. They exhale
in appreciation. He hands her a plastic
cup of wine. He is excited by a new
thought.
“I can see why they used
to worship the sun.”
“Who are they?” She loves
to tweak him when he becomes child like.
“Ancient people. People
who lived outside. Not knowing how things work, not knowing things through
books, just what’s in front of them, the sun, huge, hot. Or cold on a winter day. Completely gone on a cloudy day. Can you imagine that?”
She is elsewhere.
“Sorry.”
He doesn’t pause for a breath.
“For someone in that state
of mind the sun is in charge. Happy moods on bright sunny days . Dark moods on grey winter mornings. If you’re trying to make sense of things, worshipping
it makes perfect sense. What else is a
god if not something powerful that control things.”
She stays silent.
“ Except you can see the
sun! It’s actually there. I’d be a worshipper if I lived back then.
She says nothing. He is
stirred up. His voice has become
louder. Michael and God, not the makings
of a peaceful evening,
He’s close to blasphemy. A Jew is not allowed to flirt with ancient
gods. Michael hasn’t been righteous
since his teen years. He’s long since
blasted away at God in his mind and in conversations. His heart is unmoved by the rituals his
parents practiced. Still, blasphemy is blasphemy.
He knows he is close. That has been part
of his giddiness. His voice becomes
quiet and respectful, almost humble.
“God’s done a pretty good
job here,” he tells Deborah.
She smiles, acknowledging
the thought. Saying that calms him a
bit. He feels better when he is on better terms with Yahweh, the God he’s
certain doesn’t exist.
He holds up his cup. It is the weekend of Rosh
Hashanah.
“To the big guy in the
sky.”
He points his wine glass at Deborah” Shana Tova” ( a good year)
“Shana Tova” she repeats.
Deborah holds her cup up,
points to where the sun has descended.
“To the Sun God.”
He gulps the wine. She sips it. A gust of howling wind can be
heard in the distance. Leaves fly in the
air in front of them. A moment later stillness returns. They smile at each other, lucky to be a
witness to “His” magic.
She points skyward
straight above his head. A sliver of the
moon is already visible. He turns
around.
She whispers, “To the god
who owns the night with a whisper.”
“Only one god allowed.”
“Come on. If there is a sun go there is a moon god”
He smiles
She opens her arms.
“Come here Mr.
Vanderbilt.”
Chapter 2
Two hands
slap at an overturned card, a jack. Lisa and Ritchie try to out shout each
other. Michael watches quietly.
“Slapjack!”
Ritchie, now eleven, is
sitting on twelve-year-old Lisa’s hospital bed. Both want to win badly. Happy rock n’ roll
plays in the background. Lisa has
mastered her bubble gum, cracking it emphatically, rhythmically, repeatedly
blowing small bubbles then sucking them in. With one hand behind her back, she
draws the next card.
Ritchie fakes slapping the
pack. Lisa, just in time, freezes her
hand. He points at it.
“You moved your hand.”
She shakes her head, “No!”
“You did!”
They prepare for the next
draw. Lisa sneaks a look at the covered card. Another jack! Keeping a poker
face she uncovers it. She beats Ritchie’s slap, smiles triumphantly.
Ritchie is not happy.
“You cheated. You snuck a look.”
“I did not.”
“You did. I saw you.”
“Daddy!
“Leave me out of it.”
She brings the back of her
hand to her chest, swallows hard with a little too much theatre. Ritchie
suspects this might be a ploy, but by the second swallow it looks like she is
fighting nausea. Concerned, he looks at his father for reassurance.
Another tentative swallow. She gags.
This is clearly not under her control. Michael, who has been reading, comes to
life.
“You okay?”
She smiles at him a bit
tearfully but then her discomfort passes as quickly as it came. In very short
time, her mischievous grin takes over as she imitates the sound of a drum roll
as she prepares to turn over the next card.
Ritchie protests the drum roll. He is not amused.
“Stop,” he orders.
Deborah noisily enters the
room. Lisa doesn’t look up. For a
crucial moment she tries to stay with her game.
Finally she gives in.
As Deborah’s mother once
did to her, Deborah moves the back of her hand across Lisa’s forehead, then
puts her cheek against it, checking her
temperature. “How’s the patient?” she asks cheerfully, as she deposits some
bags of snacks on a chair.
“Is the food any better in the cafeteria? What they bring me here sucks.”
Deborah glares at Lisa.
She doesn’t like that kind of talk.
Lisa’s eyes drop. Michael tosses a bag of potato chips to her. Deborah tries to intercept it.
“Doctor said only hospital food.”
Lisa throws it back to her
father, “I wasn’t hungry anyway.”
Ritchie moves off to the
corner of the room. He pretends to be busy shuffling his deck of cards, but he
is watching everything.
Deborah again touches
Lisa’s brow with the back of her hand.
“She definitely has a fever.”
“Again?”
“I’m pretty sure. Here, feel her brow.”
Michael ignores her and
plops into a chair by the bedside. He
takes the TV remote and puts on the New York Jets.
Deborah strokes Lisa
forehead.
“Are you okay?”
“No different.”
“Does anything hurt?”
“It’s the same Mom, the
same. Stop asking me. That’s the hundredth
time you’ve asked today.”
“When did they bring your
medicine? Michael, check with the
nurse.”
He reluctantly starts to
get out of his chair. Lisa intervenes.
“Mom. This is a big game. Ritchie you go.”
Ritchie goes forward with
his task. He leaves the room and heads
towards the nursing station. The once
grand hospital is showing its age. The corridors have been scrubbed and
scrubbed, but the marble trim around passageways has passed the point of a pleasant
ivory toned patina to simply looking brown and dingy. The high ceilings seem to amplify the cold
creepy institutional feeling. Ritchie
shuffles down the hall. He shoots a look in the first room he encounters. A doctor and two assistants are busy
preparing for a procedure. He catches
the eye of seven-year-old Billy sitting up on his bed.
“Hey Billy.”
Billy,
pale and clearly ill, points his index finger at him, pretending to shoot a
gun. Ritchie returns the gesture. The
door closes. Ritchie moves on down the
hall when suddenly Billy’s scream rips through the quiet.
“OWWWWW”
“Hold him still. I can’t do this if he keeps
moving.”
CHAPTER 3
As soon as they return
from the hospital to their fifth floor West 70th Street apartment,
Ritchie goes to his room. Michael turns
on the Jets game in the living room. Deborah settles by the window that looks
out at the asphalt playground five stories below. It is late afternoon but the
children’s energy has not let up. From up high their screams are soothing, like
birds chirping in the countryside, each with a different call, talking back and
forth to each other through the airwaves.
Laughter, anger, silliness, pleading, a little boy’s voice over and over
in Spanish, “Mira! Mira,” then another and another, “Higher…” “Get away….” “Stop that Joey...” Then a mother, “Get over
here… Now!”
When she was playground age Lisa used to call
Deborah over to this window. Within
seconds their coats were on and they were on their way out. They both loved that about the apartment- the
nicest view in town, the playground right below them.
Leaning against the windowsill, Deborah looks
for little Maria and her mother. She’s been drawn to Maria ever since she heard
her screams, punctuated with laughter.
Frightened squeals as her mother pushed her to the highest point,
laughter as she came swooping down. That soon changed. “Higher, higher” she shouted, as she glided
back to earth for her mother to send her flying again. Then quiet determination as, by herself, she
kicked harder and harder, pumping to swing to the highest point possible. Like Lisa, when she tries it is with total
abandonment as she reaches for her goal. A week after that came stunts, standing on the swing, first on
two legs then one, anything to revive her apprehension and conquest of her
fear.
Tonight Maria is not
there. Deborah settles on a different child who is swinging calmly,
ritualistically performing exactly the same kick every time. It’s not enough distraction. Billy’s cries from the hospital sneak back
into her mind. She stands in front of
Michael blocking his view of the Jets game.
He tries to see around
her. When that doesn’t work he looks up.
“It’s the fourth quarter.“
That doesn’t go over too
well with Deborah. She glares at him just
short of fury. He mutes the TV sound
with his remote. She waits for his full attention. She still doesn’t have it. It’s her or the Jets. Not much competition when the score is 7-7 in
the fourth quarter.
“Enjoying the game?” she asks, heavy with
sarcasm.
No sooner is that out of her mouth than she
regrets coming across so strongly.
“Debby, just tell me what
you want.”
She’s been doing that a
lot, starting badly. Already he’s pissed
off. But nothing compared to her. She can’t stand the way Michael leaves her
during Jet games. Her father did the same thing with the Giants. He tuned
everyone out except her sister Doreen, always her father’s favorite. Her mother couldn’t stand football Sundays either.
In the earliest years when the current of
Deborah and Michael’s love was powerful, there was no wrong moment, no good
time or bad time to talk to him. There
was no right way or wrong way to say what she had to say. She commanded Michael’s attention effortlessly and he got it on the first try. That is long gone.
“I want to take Lisa out
of the hospital.”
She sees Michael’s eyes move closer together,
fire coming out of them. That silences
her. She returns to the window. She breathes a sigh of relief. Maria’s there.
Lately, Maria’s one of the few people
Deborah can connect to. Anne has grown
impatient with her. “You gotta get
yourself together. Get out more. You
can’t let this get the best of you.”
Laura’s the opposite, over solicitous, talking in a droopy “poor
Deborah” voice, which depresses Deborah even more each time she sees her.
Cheap encouragement from
anyone has started to make her angry.
She gets a lot of that. It’s no
ones fault. What else can people do? They mean well. Practically anything they
might try would not work. Still it’s a
disappointment. She always knew her
friendships were wanting, but not to this extent. She thought there was more there, that if
they really tried they could get through to her. That’s what Michael believes. But then he hasn’t been close to anyone since
college.
Most of the time she finds
it easier to be alone. At least then she
can feel what she feels without the added concern of whether or not she is
being creepy by being so morbid about Lisa.
When people ask about Lisa, her
answers must stay short. They have
politely registered concern. She has her
part to play. “Fine. Thank you for asking.” That’s it.
Anything more and, invariably, she is
upset by the interchange.
Too often she crosses the
line. It makes others fidgety. The more
desperate Deborah feels the shorter the time to that line becomes. It can upset her for hours as she goes over the conversation again and again. Has
she been a creep? Michael says that’s
how you find out who is your real friend, how much leeway they allow you. When she goes too far with Michael they may
quarrel, but she doesn’t have to worry that he’ll stop calling. He’s a given.
Maria has bumped it up to
still another level. Standing on the
swing, holding on to the ropes, she lifts her body into the air. Deborah erupted when Lisa tried that. Grabbed her.
Lectured her. It didn’t stop her.
Michael liked that wildness in Lisa.
He took credit for it.
Deborah’s voice is
calm. She speaks from the window. Anticipating Michael’s reaction she doesn’t
look at him.
“Amy told me about her
cousin who also had a lymphoma. Everyone
said nothing could be done… She took shark cartilage. They’ve used it in China for thousands of
years.”
He does his eye rolling thing. “Yin and yang is just not going to cut
it. Lisa’s not going to be treated with
health foods.”
“It’s natural.”
“Oh
Jesus. I hate buzzwords?”
“Oh!
Daddy has spoken.”
“Here
we go. Not tonight Debby. You want to fight, fine, but no
politics. We are talking about Lisa…”
“Lisa!” he repeats.
Her
eyes move to the park. To Maria. She was a pip squeak when she was 3. How she’s grown! Giving her mother a run for her money. Deborah regroups, looks him straight in the
eye.
“I’m not going to let them
torture her.”
“Torture? Debby. Torture?” He fumbles with the remote
control. He hates the drama queen in
her.
She repeats. “They’re not going to torture Lisa.”
“Come on,” He answers
emphatically. As usual that
doesn’t work.
“God only knows what they were doing to Billy
today. I swear. They get off on it.”
He says nothing.
“The needles they stick
into Lisa are nothing. It’s when they
can’t find a vein, when they cut into her arm.”
She continues. “They make her
swallow disgusting stuff. Foul tasting
syrups. Yesterday it was a plastic tube.
She has trouble with pills. A tube?
Where do they come up with this stuff? Tell me. What stupid person dreams these procedures
up?”
“These stupid people are
mostly Harvard trained.”
“Oh Harvard. Mr. Harvard.
There are fewer sadists at Harvard.
Right? People are really nice
there, soft spoken, nice.”
She takes a breath then
continues. “Did it ever occur to you
that maybe all that bookishness makes for better ways to torture children? They finally get to do something besides read.”
He says nothing. He knows what’s coming.
“Leopold and Loeb. Turned on by Dostoyevsky. Brilliant.
The two of them bored out of their minds. Bored silly. Willing to try anything. That
brings out the animal. Attacking their
prey, anyone weak enough to put up with their shit. Meaning killing a baby.”
“Jesus! Come on!”
“It’s true.”
“Dr.
Clark doesn’t have time to get bored.”
She
won’t let it go. “You think being smart
makes people nicer.” She looks him
straight in the eye. “It just makes for better bullshit.”
She’s
said all of this before. Many times. Her
ferocity evens the fight against
Michael’s education. At first, it got to
him. Not any longer. He waits for what is coming next.
The phone rings. It is Michael’s mother. They both get on.
“How are the two of you
holding up?”
“We’re okay.”
“Anything new?”
“Not really.”
She can hear from their
voices that she is interrupting.
“Is this a bad time?”
“Well…”
“Okay, fine, put Ritchie
on. His birthday is coming up isn’t
it? Any ideas?”
“Not really… a video
game?”
“Which one?”
“I don’t know?”
“Okay, just put him on.”
Michael screams down the
hall to Ritchie.
“Pick up…It’s Grandma.”
“Hi Grandma.”
“Some one told me you have
a birthday coming. Are you going to have
a party?”
“No.”
Your Mom didn’t say
anything?
“No.”
“What video games are you
playing now?”
“ Duke Nukem.”
“That’s your favorite?”
“I’m at level 3.”
“So you’re good at it?”
“Well…”
“Is there a new one coming
out?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Find out. It’s getting
harder to find presents for you. Duke
and Nukem?.”
“Okay.”
“How’s school?”
“Okay.”
“Are you doing your
homework?”
“Yes.”
“You and Lisa getting
along?”
“She’s still in the
hospital? Well…”
“I know honey. Will you give her a kiss for me?”
“Yes…”
They get off. The phone call has done nothing to end the
tension between Deborah and Michael. The
moment they hang up they’re at it.
“I know you
think Billy’s a cry baby.”
“I was wrong about Billy
okay. I admit it. Last week I saw
him. They barely touched him and he was
screaming.”
“You called him a
wus. Do you know what he has been
through?”
“I was pissed, okay? I
took it out on him. I’m not allowed to get pissed?”
“You said it loud enough
so that his mother heard you.”
“You really think she
could hear me?”
“Are you kidding?”
His face drops. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know she was there.”
Deborah knows it was not
intentional. She believes Michael’s
sorry, but she can’t bring herself to forgive him.
“I was wrong,” he repeats. “Okay?”
It is not okay and won’t
be. She talks about Billy all the time.
The other patients on the ward and their families have become
family. They are the only ones that
understand.
He knows that.
It’s nice for Deborah, but he has never felt part of it. At that moment he couldn’t stand the
whimpering. No it wasn’t the
whimpering. It was when Billy began to
scream.
She stares at him
waiting.
“What do you want me to
say? I was wrong. I know Billy’s been
through hell.”
She continues to stare at
him coldly. He counters.
“We’re talking about a
lymphoma. Dr. Clark knows what he is doing.”
“Lisa’s not going to end
up like Billy. They’re not going to
break her.”
“No one is trying to break
her.”
“Oh no!”
“Do you really believe
that?” He stops, studies her as she prepares to answer. It tones her down.
She begins in a measured
tone. “Most of what they do they
probably have to do. But some of
it…. I swear! One day they are going to do one thing,
which they tell me is critical. Then
they change their mind and don’t do it.
Or they do something else instead.”
“There’s nothing wrong
with that. It means they are thinking
things over, not just following a cookbook.”
Michael continues. “When they were
following protocols, that I hated. Everything preordained. The doctor’s instincts totally shut
down.”
“But they knew what they
were doing.“
“They didn’t know
anything. They were just following a
protocol.”
“Michael, the protocols
meant they knew what they were doing.”
“They knew all right.”
They
are both quiet for a moment.
“The
good old days,” he says to no one in particular..
She speaks slowly. “The last month or two, it scares me. They
really don’t know what they are
doing. Half of it is just to do
something. Anything. I’m sure of that.”
“They’re trying. It is better than nothing.”
“Not when what you are
trying is to prove that you are a great doctor.”
“Deborah. Come on… Maybe Dr. Fabian is like that. But not Clark. He usually talks to me about what he wants to
do. He reads somewhere about a
procedure. He goes over it with
me. We both agree. If it will help, why not?
“Why doesn’t he talk to
me? Is this a man thing?“
There is no way you can
listen to him when he’s talking about the pluses and minuses of a procedure. You go bonkers.”
“Maybe it’s something
else. Do you look at those bills? Every time they do a procedure they get paid
a fortune, what you earn in a month.”
“Deborah, the money goes
to the school not them.”
She is only half
listening.
He raises his voice.
“They’re doing their
best.”
She won’t look at him.
He glances at the TV hoping nothing
has gone wrong for the Jets.
She shuts off the TV
manually.
He clicks it on with his
remote.
“I hate that TV.”
“Deborah!”
“Fine. You want to watch it. But what about me?”
“Deborah it’s not about
you. I need to unwind.”
“Okay. But less… okay? Less.”
Her anger softens. Her eyes water
“I can’t do this alone.”
She sits down on the arm of his chair. The
tears seem to help. Soon his fingers begin kneading a knot at the back of her
neck.
“Over here?”
“A little higher. More to the left. That’s it.
You got it.”
The tension seems to be
diminishing.
“You are not at the
hospital during the week.”
His fingers stop. He thought they were done.
“I have to work. We got bills to pay.”
“Still.”
“I’m not going to apologize. I have a job. We need money.”
“ Fine, but understand,
you miss half of what is going on.”
“Like what?”
“Everything. Okay, not everything. But a lot.”
“Like what?”
She doesn’t answer.
“Like what”
“Like Lisa’s spinal tap
Tuesday.” Deborah smiles proudly … “Your daughter was a trooper… .”
“She had that little scared smile. Remember…at her birthday party…She was
three? The clown broke a balloon? She
was startled but it was her “princess” party.
That’s what you called it. Those crinolines. She looked like a princess. And she knew she was one. A princess doesn’t get scared. So she didn’t. She smiled, a scared smile.”
Michael does
remember. It is on video. Her hands on her hips like she is about to
sing out a verse from Oklahoma. Scared but not scared. Hamming it up.
Deborah continues. “It was
like she had invented one of her stories.
She always did that. Pictured herself in a story. I don’t know who she was playing, what
story.”
She continues.
“Maybe it wasn’t a
story. I don’t know what she was
imagining, but during the spinal tap she did whatever the neurologist told her
to do. No resistance…”
Deborah smiles again,
“She’s a trooper…” Her eyes water. She whispers
with a tightly controlled lips,
“Lisa.”
“The neurologist asked her to lie down on her
stomach. . Not even a flinch. She did everything he
asked. Waited for the next
direction. She had it under
control. She was determined to trust the
doctor.
They told her to roll on her side. She
did. The nurses rubbed Betadyne on her
back. They moved her higher up on the examining table. That’s when the trouble
started.”
“What do you mean?”
“Her hospital gown got pulled up, showing her
underpants. She tried to pull it
down.
But, suddenly they were in a hurry. The
neurologist had had enough pussy footing around. He was on go.
They had her pinned down
and they weren’t going to let go. Her
fingers kept moving, trying to catch her gown.
A nurse saw that. She held her
wrist even tighter.”
“So what did you do?”
“I was whispering into her ear, kissing
her. I could see what was going
on.” Her voice raises. “I
thought nurses are supposed to know about twelve year olds. About her underwear showing…I swear. They
aren’t really nurses. They’re doctor
wannabes.”
“Some of the
nurses are good. Lisa loves Barbara.”
“Barbara wasn't there. It was that tall one with the braids, and
that
other short
one. I wanted to shout “Let go of her hand. Let go of her
hand.” Deborah hesitates.
She is fighting her tears.
“I said nothing. Nothing”
Deborah’s rubbing her wrist.
“They could have waited
two seconds so she could cover up her underpants…She’s a twelve year old girl.”
She rubs her wrist some
more.
“I don’t understand why I
said nothing.”
“You didn’t want to get
them upset. You wanted them to have a
cool head. They were going to stick something in Lisa’s spine.”
Deborah’s face
hardens. “It’s not that. It’s that they’re in charge. What time we come, what time we go, what they
feed her. They are just automatically in
charge.”
“It’s their hospital.”
“It’s our daughter. Lisa’s ours. Michael she’s ours.”
“Debbie, Amy’s health food
stories are wacko. Remember that line?
“The more you need the truth the more you must lie.””
“Yeah John Lennon.
So?” She is getting irritated. She doesn’t want to hear theories.
“True believers. You can’t
trust them. Their cures get more miraculous every time the story gets
repeated.”
“Doctors are no better.”
“Dr. Clark studied for years, studied hard. He's not stupid.”
“Were back to that.
Good. He's not stupid. But you
know what? It doesn't matter… Sometimes the cancer calls the shots. I just want
Clark to admit it if nothing is working.”
“He’s trying.
Deborah. He’s trying”
She looks out the window
“If he’d slow down. Not just Clark. All of them, ... In and out of the room. Dr. Clark should stop staring at Lisa’s chart
and look into her eyes.” Deborah's eyes
water again. “Just once.” She wipes her
eyes.
She pushes Michael’s hand
away as he tries to stroke her.
She shouts angrily “He's gotta tell me if he can't do anything.”
She looks imploringly at Michael.
“Am I asking too much?”
He doesn’t answer
“Am I?”
“No.”
“I’ve gone along with you all along, but now we’re done. Lisa’s
there for us. She puts up with them for us.
For us! “
“Deborah, No more. I can't
do this.”
Deborah ignores him. She
continues. “She's waiting for me to say it. "Come on. We're out of here. She's waiting.”
“Deborah…”
“I'm going to take her home.”
“Deborah. Please. We’ve been
here. Again and again”
“What do you expect? I
should have come home today and done my nails?”
“ No, but-“
“One more incident like this morning and we're out of there.”
“Taking her home will make everything worse!”
She stops.
She knows that particular pitch and volume. Michael is about to
blow. She is suddenly very quiet, like
she has heard thunder in the distance.
They've been here too many times. The argument has gone on way too long She goes to the window. One person is still in the park, a fourteen
year- old girl on a bench, fixing her hair, waiting for her boyfriend.
He
arrives. They talk earnestly. Biting her lip, Deborah watches them, gets
lost in them. Finally some calm.
“Remember the time I had
that flat tire with them in the car?
Lisa was about six.”
“No.”
“AAA? I had a fight with
you that night?.”
“Right.”
“I never told you the
whole story...” She has his attention.
“I was screaming at
Ritchie and Lisa to stop fighting, I got out.
Opened the trunk. I couldn’t find
the jack. Meanwhile the back door opens.
The traffic is buzzing by. I screamed. “Close the door. Close the door.” Lisa steps out anyway. ”Get back in the car. Get back in the car” She just looked at me and understood
everything. I didn’t have to fake that I knew what I was doing. I couldn’t fake it. She knew that I didn’t. But she also knew it was going to all turn
out ok. I wasn’t going to let anything
bad happen. Lisa and Ritchie used to get
that from me.”
She smiles, “Lisa pushed her body against the car and
slipped over near me at the back. When
she was close enough she stood next to me,
"Mom. Call AAA." She ignored that I didn't know what to do because she did. Or
thought she did. Either way it didn’t matter. She knew I wasn't going to let
anything bad happen. Lisa and Ritchie
knew that. That was my job. I was good at it.” More tears She smiles
“Sorry about
AAA.”
“It’s okay, Michael. We
didn’t have much money back then.”
“Yeah but you were pissed
about it and you were right.”
“Well you said no. I wasn’t going to let you get away with
that.”
She refocuses. Her voice changes. “I understood. We had to economize.”
“ So okay we agree?”
“Yes.”
“One more time like this
morning and we are out of there.”
Her relentlessness! “ No we are not agreed. We’re going to do whatever Dr. Clark
says. We have to.”
She screams at him “Clark doesn’t give a shit. It’s just a job to him.”
He’s also now shouting. “You said that already. Clark tries
to do his job right. That’s enough. That’s plenty.”
There is a trace of
resignation in her voice. They are both exhausted, saddened by their inability
to get to the same page, but lately that’s how it’s been.
She trails off “If we’re
not going anywhere, he better admit it.”
Practically mumbling, “Fuckin’
Clark’s’ ego.”
She pours scotch into a large glass,
fills it half way up. She sips a little,
then downs it. She stares down Michael’s
disapproval.
“You think your praying is
any different? You think you’re gonna
get a miracle here?”
She downs another, then
continues.
“You think God listens to your
mumbling? He’s old Michael. He needs a hearing aid and better glasses. Because if he hears okay and sees okay he’s
definitely a sadist.”
“Shut up. Debby”
In his room Ritchie is
playing his video game. It fills the
entire apartment with a pounding noise:
laser gun screeches, grunts from splattered monsters as they are gunned down
Despite his game’s screeching and
moaning he can still hear parts of his
parent’s fight, especially the “shut
ups”. He turns up the volume of his game
still more, to the point where it is now banging on eardrums. It pisses Michael off. He says nothing. The action gets more furious. Deborah shouts from the foyer.
“Ritchie do your
homework.”
