“Yes?” Tucker hovered anxiously, trying to see the numbers.
“It’s down to 103.2.”
Tucker closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall. “Yes.”
Phil lifted Harley’s right arm out of the water and took a
pulse. “Got a towel?” He dried off the arm, draped it over the side of the tub,
and wrapped the blood-pressure cuff around it. The results made him smile. “Looking
good.” He picked up the washcloth and went back to wiping Harley down with it.
Tucker observed that his touch was coolly impersonal, and he found this
reassuring. “So you wanted to see Liz.”
Tucker took his seat on the toilet lid again. “Yeah. She was
like a surrogate mom to me. I couldn’t leave without seeing her. So instead of
hitching to La Guardia, I hitched to the train station—”
“Hitched?”
“And took the train into New York. She’s got this co-op on
Central Park West—the San Remo. The doorman wouldn’t let me up.”
Phil gave him a sideways sneer, his eyes scanning Tucker from
head to toe. “Can’t imagine why.”
“I know I need a haircut.”
Phil expelled a gust of laughter. “It’d be quicker to list
the things you
don’t
need than what
you do. You don’t need… God, I don’t know. Elevator shoes! There. You don’t
need elevator shoes. You could live without them. What you
do
need, as soon as possible, is a decent haircut, some decent
clothes, a decent pair of shoes—”
Tucker chuckled. “Where have I heard that before?” He
frowned, pretending to search his memory. “Those words, they’re so familiar. ‘Get
a haircut, get some decent clothes, what are you, an animal in the zoo?’” He
smacked his head as if the light bulb had just gone off. “Oh, I remember! It
was your father, that’s right! Standing on the front porch screaming at you
with all the neighbors listening, and you giving him the finger and slamming
the car door.”
Tucker’s legs felt too long for the little bathroom; they
kept bumping into things made out of porcelain. He lifted the bad one with both
hands and crossed it over the good one, then leaned back and tried to get
comfortable, but it was a lost cause.
“Did I really give him the finger?” Phil laughed disbelievingly,
although Tucker suspected his friend remembered the incident just as clearly as
he did. “What a
punk
I was!
I’m
the one that should have been sent
to military school.” He opened one of Harley’s eyelids, then closed it. “So the
doorman, exercising superb judgment, wouldn’t let you up.”
“Yeah, but he buzzed her and she came down.” He smiled,
remembering. “She’s… Well, she’s older. I hadn’t really expected that. But
still beautiful. She’s so great, you know? She’s just great. As soon as I saw
her, I realized how much I had missed her. When she saw me, she said, ‘Good
morning, Tucker. How nice that you’re not dead. You may take me to breakfast.’”
“I’m all choked up. You realize this is supposed to be
leading up to the Jag, which is the only part I really care about.”
“So at breakfast I told her I wanted to buy a car to drive
back to Alaska, and she said what kind, and I flashed on this hood ornament up
in my room and said Jaguar, and she drove me to a dealer, and he had a black
XJR
-S right on the lot, and I bought it,” he said, all in
one breath.
Phil frowned as he patted Harley’s forehead with the
washcloth. “Now, when you say you just bought it… People don’t just buy cars
on impulse like that, especially not expensive cars. You’ve got to arrange for
financing, there’s paperwork—”
“I don’t finance anything.” Tucker explained. “I don’t owe
money. I wrote him a check, and he’ll take care of the paperwork and plates and
stuff by tomorrow, he said.” He shrugged. “It’s a done deal.”
Phil stared at him. “You wrote him a check. You’ve got, like,
a zillion dollars sitting around in a checking account just in case you
suddenly get the urge to buy a—”
“I did have to make a phone call to transfer the funds. This
is very bad form of you, you know. We never discuss money in Hale’s Point.”
“We do it all the time in Brentwood.”
“You live in Hale’s Point now, buddy. You’re coming up in the
world.”
“And you, you who are lecturing me on decorum, live in… Elk
something?”
“Moose Pass.
Near
Moose Pass.”
“In a two-room cabin in the woods. That you built yourself
from
trees
.”
“The logs came from trees, yes. But it’s really one room and
a kind of a lean-to on the side, there.”
“Is there enough room in the lean-to for the Jag?”
“No, I’ve got to keep the Jeep in there to keep the snow off
it.”
Incredulous outrage flared in Phil’s eyes. “Is it me? Am I
nuts? Because, you’ll have to excuse me, but I’m having a really, really hard
time picturing that exquisite, magnificent piece of British engineering covered
in snow out in front of some two-room—strike that,
one-room-plus-a-lean-to-for-the-Jeep hovel that you made yourself out of
trees
! In the middle of the
woods
! In Elk, excuse me,
near
Elk Pass, Alaska, for God’s sake—”
“Moose. Moose Pass.”
“Moose, elk…” He shrugged wearily. “The point is, I am very
serious about this trade, and I want you to give it every—”
“What trade?”
“My house for your Jag. Remember?” He turned back to Harley,
and Tucker could no longer see his expression.
“Right.” Phil’s oddball sense of humor was one thing about
him that hadn’t changed over the years. It had always amused him to propose
some ludicrous idea, hammer away at it until everyone believed he was serious,
and then laugh at their gullibility. Tucker rose and put on his sunglasses. “My
turn for a break now.”
Tucker retrieved his Camels from the glove box of the Jag and
smoked two while he sat on the stone wall staring out at the Sound. That kid
from next door, Jamie Tilton, was walking along the water’s edge with the au
pair and his little sister. He turned and saw Tucker, then shielded his eyes
and peered first toward the west, then toward the jetty to the east. Probably
looking for Harley; she would be due for her afternoon run about now. He looked
again toward Tucker, frowning as if trying to make up his mind about something.
Whether to come up and ask him where Harley was? Tucker made his mind up for
him by stubbing out his cigarette and going back in the house.
He walked into the bathroom as Phil withdrew the thermometer
from Harley’s mouth. He looked up at Tucker and smiled. “Chicken’s done. What’ll
we have with it?”
“Man, you are one twisted—”
“It’s 102.2 and dropping,” Phil announced triumphantly.
“All
right
!”
Harley moaned and her head rolled to the side.
Phil said, “Let’s get her back into bed.”
Tucker moved the fan into the bedroom and went to the linen
closet to fetch a bath sheet. When he returned to the bathroom, Phil had Harley
out of the tub and on her feet, although she was still insensible. His arms
supported her against him and her head rested on his chest, as if they were
dancing. Now that she was vertical, her nudity seemed more… nude, more
sexual, especially in contrast with the fully clothed Phil. She still inspired
Tucker’s protective instinct, but now another, more fundamental instinct, as
well. Tucker wished it were his arms embracing that warm, wet skin; his
shoulder on which her head reclined. He felt a painful stab of jealousy toward
his friend, but swallowed it down, composing his features into a neutral mask.
“You want to dry her off a little?” Phil said.
Tucker scrubbed the bath sheet over her back and legs in a
cursory way. He would have loved to linger over the task, particularly as
regards that small, firm bottom, but without the good Dr.
Zelin
in attendance, and with Harley’s full knowledge and approval. He wrapped the
bath sheet around her, and Phil carried her into the bedroom, laid her on her
side on the bed, unwrapped her, and pulled the sheet up.
As he was doing this, Tucker happened to notice Harley’s
clothes in a jumble on the floor where Phil had tossed them, and he did a
double take. On top of the pile, the last item removed, was a pair of
black-and-white zebra-print string-bikini panties. He smiled. Zebra-print
panties. Who
woulda
thunk
it?
Phil said, “Are you listening to me?”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“I said, keep sponging her off until she’s down to about a
hundred degrees. I’ll leave you this thermometer. Take her temperature every
half hour and call me if it goes up even a little.” He went back to the
bathroom for his bag and snapped it closed.
“You’re leaving?”
“You don’t need me here anymore. She’s out of the woods. As
soon as she can sit up and drink, start forcing fluids on her. She cooled off
fast, so I think it’s unlikely there’s any kind of irreparable damage to the
body tissues.” Tucker sighed with relief. “Unlikely, but not impossible. Brain
tissue is particularly susceptible to those high temperatures. When she can get
out of bed, watch for signs of ataxia.”
“Ataxia.”
“Vertigo, disorientation. Call me if she can’t stand by
herself or walk. After she’s been awake for a while, that is. At first, of
course, she’ll be disoriented. I’ll stop by tomorrow to check on her.” He
slapped Tucker on the arm and headed out of the room. “I’ll find my way out. You
stay with her.”
“You’re a good friend, Phil. I don’t know how to thank you.”
From the doorway, Phil said, “You can thank me by getting a
haircut.”
Grinning, Tucker extended his right arm, the middle finger
raised.
Turning away, Phil said, “He
should
have sent you to military school. Would have served you
right, you punk.”
Harley opened her eyes
. It was night. A dim lamp shone in the corner where
Tucker sat reading a book. She was in his bed. She couldn’t remember why, but she
knew there was a good reason. It was very quiet, the only sound the soft white
noise of the fan.
Even with the breeze from the fan, it was warm in the room.
Tucker wore a pair of baggy olive-drab shorts and nothing else. His legs were
crossed, the bad one over the good. There was a small movement, a rustle, as he
turned the page. She could see the concentration in his face, the little frown
lines between his eyebrows.
She wanted to ask him what he was reading. “Tucker,” she
said, but her mouth was dry, and it came out as a parched whisper.
He looked toward her, his eyes lighting when he saw that she
was awake. He put down the book and uncrossed his legs by lifting one off the
other with both hands. She could see his chest clearly now, the muscles hard
and smooth on one side, torn by savage wounds on the other. The magnitude of
his injuries suddenly struck her; the burden of living with them day after day.
She closed her eyes and began to drift, but his touch woke
her up again. He sat on the bed next to her, pulled the sheet up, and tucked it
around her shoulders.
“Not yet,” he said softly. “You can sleep in a minute, I
promise.” His voice sounded raspier than ever. He was tired.
He lifted her into a sitting position, one long arm curled
around her while the other poured water from a pitcher into a glass. She liked
the feel of his arm against her bare back, his skin cool against hers. She
could feel his muscles tense to support her weight.
He brought the glass to her lips and she drank, then he eased
her back down again. She tried to remember what it was she had wanted to ask
him when she had said his name…. His name… it had always struck her as
odd….
She said, “Tucker—that’s a funny name.”
He leaned over her, his arms flanking her on either side. For
a few seconds he just looked at her, faint amusement in his eyes, then he
smoothed some stray hairs off her face and pressed a wet cloth to her forehead
and cheeks. “It’s an old family name on my father’s side. Saxon. It means a
tailor— a tucker of cloth.”
He picked something up off the night table, fiddled with it,
and aimed it at her mouth, saying, “Under the tongue.” While he held the
thermometer in place, he said, “Harley’s kind of a funny name, too.” There came
a beep. He withdrew the thermometer and said, “Down to 101 on the nose. Were
you named after a relative?”
Harley tried to shake her head no, but it made everything
start to reel. “A motorcycle,” was all she managed to say before oblivion
reclaimed her.
***
“What happened to my clothes?”
Tucker opened his eyes. The room was yellow with sunlight.
Harley sat up in bed, holding the sheet to her chest. Her color seemed normal,
her hair was in delicious golden disarray, and she looked angry.
He wanted to laugh, but he knew that would probably be a
mistake. He pried himself out of the chair in which he had fallen asleep, every
bone in his sorry body complaining. The book he had been reading—Kerouac’s
On the Road
—tumbled off his lap onto the
floor.