Deadman (13 page)

10

Heather

T
he minute she laid eyes on Cate Yoder, Heather was smitten. The lovely little blonde was wheeling a muffled patient along the sidewalk around the hospital to a place overlooking the large park that spread down the hillside. The patient seemed to be a young man, his face partially bandaged and hidden by dark glasses. His head was covered with a woolly cap, and he wore a warm coat over which was draped a thick plaid wool blanket. He didn't speak or even move.

Heather approached them. “Nice day,” she said.

Cateyo looked up, a little wary and defensive for some reason, but smiling. She too wore a woolly cap, and her lustrous gold hair escaped to cascade onto the shoulders of her own warm jacket, a colorful down-filled affair.

It was, in fact, a brilliant, sunny day in October, the temperature barely 40 degrees Fahrenheit. There had been frost but by now, ten-thirty, it had gone.

“Yes, it's lovely, isn't it?” Cateyo said. “I hope it isn't too cold for Paul.” She fussed with his blanket for a moment.

Heather noticed the nurse uniform under the jacket and said, “Is this your patient?”

“Oh yes, he is,” Cateyo replied, rather possessively, Heather thought. “This is his first time out.”

Heather stooped and looked at the patient more carefully. “Hello,” she said. Her voice was low and soft, and in her warm ski hat she didn't look unpleasant. Cateyo was disarmed. The patient did not respond.

“Paul doesn't speak,” Cateyo said. “Actually, his name isn't Paul. We don't know what it is, really. He's not been able to tell us.”

“My goodness,” Heather said, straightening up. “Auto accident?”

“No, no,” Cateyo said, carefully. “He was . . . a head injury. But he's getting better. Aren't you, Paul?” She laid her mittened hand gently on his shoulder. “He's just recovering from surgery.” She gestured at her jaw and ear, as if to indicate the surgical site. “He'll be up and about, one of these days.”

“Poor man, what sort of head injury?” Heather smiled at the young woman. She really was delicious, Heather thought, taking in the rosy cheeks and bright blue eyes, the soft pink lips. The bulky jacket didn't offer a very good notion of the woman's body, but Heather was sure it was strong and supple.

“It was a gunshot wound—not self-inflicted,” Cateyo hastened to assure the woman. “He was just left for dead, on the highway. Can you believe that people could be so cruel?”

“Oh, I can believe it. Men are very cruel. That's why I had to get away from Detroit.”

Below them, some mothers were watching and playing with several young children who were tumbling about the brown grassy hillside. Their voices rang in the clear air. Beyond the hillside and houses one could see in the distance huge white-capped mountains. A large black bird, much too large for a crow, sailed down across the broad hillside toward the Dumpster behind the IGA supermarket below them. Heather thought it must be a raven.

“It's very pretty here,” Heather said, “and peaceful.”

“Yes. You're from Detroit?” Cateyo asked.

“It's awful back there,” Heather said. “I've just moved out to take a job here. I'm looking for an apartment. You wouldn't know of anything?”

“There's usually lots of rentals available. Have you looked in the
Standard?"

“I looked, but I didn't really know what I was looking for,” Heather said. “I was kind of hoping for a roommate . . .”

“Gee, I don't know,” Cateyo said, “I'm sure there are people looking for a roommate, but . . .”

Their conversation faded in and out of Joe's consciousness. The word “Detroit” caught his attention, bringing with it an odor of alarm, but it faded away when the word wasn't repeated. His hands were cold. This new woman made him uneasy. Poking her huge face down into his. Why didn't she go away? He wanted Cateyo to talk to him, to stroke his hands, to sit and look at him as she generally did. He didn't even mind if she babbled on about Jesus. It was nice to be outside—the sun was warm on his face—but the breeze was chilling. He was worried. What if he got chilled? Cateyo looked after him very well, but she wouldn't know he was cold, especially if this awful woman kept talking and talking, as she seemed to want to do. His sunglasses were slipping and Cateyo hadn't noticed.

He lifted his head slightly. Not much, only a millimeter or two, but even so, he did it carefully so as not to reveal that he could move at all. Through the dark glasses—somewhat blurry, unfortunately (was it his vision or were they dirty?)—he could see the new woman. She was, as his first view had indicated, quite awful. He hated her now. He wanted her to leave. He concentrated furiously, willing her to leave.

Instead, she took hold of the near handle of the wheelchair, saying to Cateyo, “Here, let me help you with that.” There was a low curb over which Cateyo wished to move the chair so that it could be rolled onto the grass.

“No,” said Cateyo sharply and struck the woman's hand away.
It was done without thought, but forcefully. Cateyo was appalled. She hadn't meant to react so violently and she was immediately apologetic.

“I'm sorry,” Heather said sweetly. “Of course, he is a patient and you are his nurse. You are responsible. I didn't mean to interfere. You take very good care of the poor dear.”

The chair had lurched insignificantly, but Joe took the opportunity to groan as loudly as possible.

“Paul! Are you all right?” Cateyo fell to her knees before him, clutching his hands and gazing up into his dark glasses. She pushed them up onto his nose properly.

“Nnnnghhh,” Joe muttered.

Cateyo stripped off her mittens and clutched at Joe's hands. “Oh lord, his hands are freezing! I'm sorry, Paul.” She tucked his hands under the blanket. “There, that's better. Let's just take a little stroll down along the path.”

A narrow footpath descended on a long slant across the shoulder of the hill. There had been a hard frost in the night and the ground was quite hard underfoot. Cateyo began to push the wheelchair slowly but carefully along the path with Heather walking alongside, still chatting about apartments and the clear weather. Joe resisted the tendency to lean sideways, downhill, but then he gave the effort up and toppled. Instantly, the chair capsized and Joe, to his horror, was tumbled out. The brutal, hard earth flew up at him and he only just managed to twist so that he didn't strike his face on the injured side, taking the blow first on his right shoulder and then his right temple. The pain was fabulous and he blacked out.

“Oh my god!” Cateyo screamed and she leaped to save him, but too late. Furiously, she snapped at Heather, “Now look what you've made me do! My god, he might be hurt!” She knelt over him, examining his bandaged face with obvious concern. “Are you all right, Paul? Are you all right?” She struggled to lift him then looked in panic for the chair, which lay on its side.

“Help me,” Cateyo said to the woman. “The chair.”

“Here, let me lift him,” Heather said. “You get the chair.” She spoke briskly and Cateyo leaped to do as she suggested.

“He seems all right,” Heather said, “but maybe you better run back for some help. I'll watch him. Hurry.”

Cateyo dropped the chair and knelt over Paul/Joe. His eyes were open and he blinked encouragingly. “No, I think he's all right,” she said. “Let's get him back to the parking lot.”

Heather picked up Joe's fallen sunglasses, then scooped him up in her arms. “He's not heavy,” she said. “I'll carry him back to the walk. You bring the chair.”

She set off up the path and Cateyo, alarmed but uncertain, followed hastily, dragging the chair over the bumpy earth, trying to keep up to Heather's rapid strides and calling after her, “Is he all right? Wait. Wait.” But Heather strode on.

Heather stared down into Joe's face intently. His eyes were blue and clear and they stared directly into hers. His mouth was slightly open and a thread of spittle drooled from one corner. “He's okay,” Heather called back over her shoulder. The woman carried him briskly and easily. It occurred to her as she reached the paved sidewalk that she could “accidentally” stumble and drop him directly onto his head. There was a good chance that it would do for him. Or, she thought, glancing across the blacktopped surface of the parking area, she could carry him to the side of the hospital and bash his head against the rough brick wall until she was sure he was dead. The girl wouldn't be able to stop her. She set off across the parking lot.

Behind her, Cateyo had stopped to set up the chair and rearrange the fallen plaid blanket, so that Joe/Paul could be resettled in it and wheeled back into the hospital as if nothing had happened. She glanced up when she realized that the woman was walking on.

“Stop!” Cateyo cried out. Her voice was strikingly clear and commanding. “You! Stop!”

The woman stopped and turned toward Cateyo, cradling Joe in her powerful arms. She smiled. “My name is Heather,” she said.

“Bring him here,” Cateyo commanded.

Heather stared at her for a long moment, then looked down at Joe. He showed no emotion, just stared at her.

“Oh. Sorry,” Heather said, and carried her burden tenderly back to the chair, where she carefully lowered him and stood by while Cateyo fussed over him, rearranging the blanket, examining him to be sure that he wasn't hurt.

Finally, Cateyo stood and said, “I think he's all right. No harm done, I guess. But it must have scared him. Poor dear. Well, I better get him inside. I'm sorry I yelled at you . . . Heather. It wasn't your fault. It was my fault. I didn't realize how steep that path was. I should have paid more attention. Please forgive me. I can't thank you enough for helping out.”

“Oh, don't think of it,” Heather said. “I shouldn't have distracted you. Not when you have such an important responsibility. I'm glad I could be of help. Are you sure he's all right? Good. Well, no harm done, I guess. Listen, what's your name? Could I call you later and we could talk? I really don't know anyone here in Butte, and it's kind of . . . well, lonely. Maybe you could give me some advice on an apartment.” She stood casually but firmly in the way of the wheelchair, smiling but not yielding.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Cateyo said. “I'm Cate Yoder. I'm in the book. Bye!” And she wheeled the chair around the larger woman and whizzed back toward the warmth and safety of the hospital.

Joe was intensely relieved. He had no idea who the woman was, but she had given him a terrible scare, the way she looked at him, the way she held him. He remembered her hands particularly, large and red, and she flexed them constantly, squeezing him. He had seen something odd in her face, as if she hated him, but he could not imagine why a perfect stranger would hate him. Even before the accident,
which he had in a sense willfully precipitated, those spasmodically clenching hands had alarmed him. Perhaps it was why he had allowed himself to tumble.

Once back in his room, however, he forced himself to forget about Heather. He leaned quietly against the bed while Cateyo undressed him, moving his arms one way, then another. He wore flannel pajamas that she had brought him. They were warm and comfortable and they had hockey players on them. He liked that. He liked it too when Cateyo sat him in bed and laid him back, then covered him.

“Oh, you poor thing,” she said, talking more or less constantly under her breath, “what a ninny I am. How could I have not noticed how steep that path was? And then to just stand there talking to that woman while you're freezing to death. I'm sorry. I should be more careful. I will be more careful. Are your hands still cold? They are.” She began to chafe them, then tucked them under the covers.

“Are you comfy? Is my guy comfy? My handsome Newman. Yes you are, a New Man, the New Man, the newest man there is.” She adjusted the covers, checked his pulse, felt his brow, looked into his clear blue eyes. Then she glanced around and knelt to give him a swift kiss on the lips. Joe liked this part best.

Now she would sit, he knew, and talk to him for a while, at least until another nurse came along. All about Jesus, of course. About her theory of the New Man, the one who was coming to save the world from sin. She pointed out the similarities between his life and that of Christ. An unknown person, she said, who came out of nowhere, was killed and then rose from the dead. Of course, she had no idea who Joe was or what his life had been about, but then he wasn't too sure about it himself. Perhaps she was right. Maybe he was some kind of New Man. He wanted to be a New Man. He wasn't sure what he had done to fetch up here, in this bed with this lovely woman babbling at him, but he had a feeling it didn't bear too close examination.

On the other hand, he felt unaccountably anxious. He was
afraid of something, he knew, but what? Perhaps it was that awful woman, Heather, and her mention of Detroit? But he couldn't imagine what she could have to do with him. And more than that he felt he had something important to do, but he had no idea what it was. It had something to do with money, he thought. Yes, whenever he thought of money he got a strange, satisfying feeling. It was good to think about money. He wasn't exactly sure what money was, but he kind of knew, and he had a feeling that very soon it would all be perfectly clear.

Already his face felt more whole, more solid, and his tongue could move, he had discovered. But to move everything at once, the jaw, the tongue, that was too much. But soon. Perhaps in the night, when no one was around, he could practice.

Heather went directly to Smokey's Corner. Smokey was standing at the end of the bar. A skinny woman with hair dyed too red was pouring drinks. Heather nodded to Smokey, and he followed her back to a table in the rear.

“You see your man?” he said.

“I saw him,” Heather said.

Smokey nodded. “You're s'posed to call Mr. Rossamani,” he said. He gestured to a phone hanging on the wall near the end of the bar. “You can use that. No charge.”

When she got through to Rossamani she said, “It was Service, all right. The nurse was taking him for a ride around the hospital, in a chair. The face is still bandaged and he wore dark glasses, but I got a good close look. It couldn't be anybody else. He's not talking, not even moving. He makes little noises, though. He'll talk, eventually . . . if he lives.”