Chapter 3
Alan has hated hospitals ever since his wife died. Denny's room is clean, relatively luxurious and filled with flowers. The thinness of the place vexes Alan. It's a cardboard recreation of a room. The flowery curtains and the faux wood laminate on the furniture hinted of a home, a cheerful middle-class home with five children and no taste.
Denny watches TV, he can't speak easily now, the words are just gone from his brain and he can't pull them together any more. Alan wishes it had been something like walking, like sex, like breathing, but Denny is made from the cloth that he weaves with his words. It's a cruel destruction of a man and it is like swallowing acid to see it.
"Hey there buddy."
Palmer is all blue, blue sweater, blue eyes and blue jeans. He's the rugged outdoors under cool summer sunshine and it makes the room just a bit brighter to have him in it. Or it makes it a little bit easier, not being alone with Denny.
"How's my pal Denny?" he says, clamping a hand on Denny's shoulder, and addressing the question expansively enough that it could be directed at either of them. Alan smiles sadly. He's had enough of people not talking to Denny. Denny can't respond though. He makes a few gestures, a few noises, before sighing in despair.
"I bought you a bunch of things, that's what I did. Some scotch miniatures, there's a steak dinner in there and, hey, this thing have a VCR? I brought you some girly movies, that's what I did."
Alan sees a ghost of a gleam in Denny's eyes, amusement at who he used to be more than pleasure at what Palmer has brought. Alan ignores the tears that redden Denny's eyes when the follow up thought, that he isn't that person any more, hits.
"Hey, Denny," says Palmer, expression marking his discomfort at putting the paper bag of supplies down in front of Denny and clapping his shoulder heartily. "I'm going to take your buddy Al here for a drink, looks like he needs it."
Alan sees a light go out behind Denny's eyes and knows he's been dismissed. Palmer ushers him out of the door and they head to Palmer's car. The nostril quivering look of disdain that Alan gave the cafeteria was enough to drive them into town to find a restaurant.
"I gotta confess, I've been wondering about you for a few days. Ain't seen you around. I looked for you. Was when I went to visit the old guy, the maid told me that he was here. It's a plum shame about that, that's what it is."
Alan barely smiles and orders a coffee. He's been by Denny's bedside for days now and he has only had a few hours of sleep and a couple of snatched showers. The coffee wakes him up and gives his brain enough clarity to see how tired he is.
"You look dog tired, buddy. Here's what I'm gonna do, I'm gonna sit with the old guy for a while, eat a few grapes, generally shoot the shit; you're gonna go back to your hotel and catch some zees, that's what you're gonna do."
Alan thinks about it for a while. What would usually be an intense thoughtful look is actually just that he's too tired to focus. He drains the coffee and picks up his coat.
"Let me know if there's any change, or if Denny needs anything."
Palmer nods and ushers Alan out of the door and into a cab. Palmer looks sad, but like he can cope with it. Alan envies him.
When Alan arrives in his hotel room, he feels like he's never seen it before. The clothes in the closet don't feel like his, the toothbrush by the sink feels alien in his mouth. Alan puts on pyjamas that feel wrong next to his skin and curls up in the bed that is from his old life. A life where Denny was there for him, solid, calm and absolutely vital.
His eyes sting when he closes them and his head aches as it realises that the sleep its longed for is within its grasp. Alan's thoughts are rusty and barbed, he can't begin to navigate them. It is almost a blessed relief that they trap him in a corner, far from damaging thoughts of a life without Denny exactly as he was. As Alan had loved him.
Alan wakes up with a jolt, half expecting to see the hospital room around him, and is possibly more alarmed when it is his own bedroom. He is bleary eyed as he checks his phone for messages. It occurs to him to check in with Palmer, but he doesn't have his number. Having his number would be like admitting they were friends. He calls his secretary and has her get him the number. Denny's in hospital, but Alan can't help resenting that he can't afford to be as ridiculous as he feels like being.
Denny's speech therapist is exactly Alan's type. She's a slender fifty-five year old who looks at Alan like she's got the measure of him. He finds that irresistible in a woman. Denny has enough speech back to manage 'she's mine', and Alan doesn't have the heart to deny him anything at the moment. It's good that he has something to hope for. Alan is certain that half of Denny's progress is that he wants to get his speech back to a point where he can sweet talk her, he's also certain that Denny's progress would be better still if he wasn't enjoying the opportunity to use lude sign language.
"How're my best buddies?" say Palmer, giving a jovial salute to the therapist as he enters the room. Evidently this is a nut job too far and she stands up to leave, brushing down her skirt and pointedly ignoring Denny checking out her ass in favour of reprimanding Alan in a voice like rapping knuckles.
"Looks like you've made a friend there, buddy." says Palmer, lounging in the chair on the other side of Denny.
"She's mine." says Denny proudly.
"She sure is. Looks like she's got more time for you than that hoot over there."
"Denny Crane." Denny manages to say, the words improperly formed and lacking their usual rhythm. He still looks content though. Alan's pleased about that. Denny has to get better, and to do that, he has to keep trying. He has to.
"She shoot you down cold yet?"
"What's his is mine. I seem to recall a vow going something like that..."
Alan looks at Denny with facaetious expectation, and Denny looks mutinous. Palmer is looking at him with an odd expression and Alan isn't quite sure how to interpret it, and if he could interpret it, he's not sure he knows how to respond. He offers Palmer a small twitch of his cheeks- the Alan Shore version of a genuine smile. His eyes gleam in response, but Palmer's look remains odd. Denny puts on the TV and watches it intently. Alan strongly suspects he's trying to ignore any interaction between his two friends. Alan sits there in silence, watching Denny watching TV, and feels and odd sense of peace. His old man is coming together again. And he's still all there; well, there as he was before the stroke. Alan doesn't think about that.
They turf Palmer out after the end of visiting hours, and though Alan can stay, Denny seems exhausted and is not so subtly hinting that he'd like some time alone tonight. Alan is still exhausted with a sleep debt of days, he might refuse a lift if it were offered, but he doesn't fight when he is guided firmly into the back of the pale gold SUV.
"I've worked with guys in prison too, I've got good at knowing what a man who hasn't eaten for days looks like. I'm gonna take you for dinner, that's what I'm gonna do."
Alan acquiesces. He looks out of the window of the car, nothing filling his mind but the city as it moves past. He doesn't think it odd when Palmer's hand moves from the gear stick to give his leg a reassuring rub, he just feels a little...well, touched.
"Come on, buddy."
They go to a steakhouse and Alan get a rare fillet steak. It is delicious, and the red wine is as velvety as the rolling of Palmer's voice. Alan is too easily detached from reality, the wine unhooking him and the waves of the calming stories in a southern drawl drift him away from himself. Before he knows it, Alan is smiling wistfully. Alan isn't capable of pure pleasure, but the idea of it is pleasing to him.
"Tell you what, I think I've drunk too much of this to drive you anywhere." says Palmer, swilling his wineglass.
"I think I'm about drunk enough to let you drive me anywhere."
"I may just take you up on that, cowboy." Palmer says, lightly seductive. Alan raises his eyebrows indolently. Palmer gives a cheeky grin but looks away, he's joking but Alan can't help but take it a little personally.
"Don't worry pal, a guy don't last long if he hits on his buddies. Surest way to get a punch in the mouth that I know of."
"It's fine." says Alan and wonders why he wants a cigar so very badly. What would Freud say?
"Since I ain't driving anywhere, what's say we move onto the hard stuff? I know you like your scotch but I'm more of a bourbon man myself."
Alan fixes on his wine, watching the last mouthful of the bottle going from pink to black with each swirl of his glass. Scotch is his drink with Denny and just imagining the taste of it hits the points which are raw with worry over him.
"I'd actually like some bourbon." says Alan, pouring the dregs of the wine down his throat. Palmer nods and salutes off his forehead. Alan isn't surprised when he comes back to the table with the bottle. The acidic honey of the bourbon is different enough that it doesn't make him long for Denny. It's syrupy sweet, with a scorch in it; it tastes of southern summers and sunsets on the porch. It is very Palmer.
"I drank bourbon throughout college." says Alan, clinking the ice-cubes in his drink together. It's practically a sin to put ice in scotch, but it just adds to the summer of bourbon. "Thought it made me look sophisticated."
"I drank beer for much the same reason." Palmer replies easily, and Alan can almost see him as a young man. Probably in a polo-shirt, collar turned up, football in hand. Drinking beer, one of the guys in a way that Alan can never be.
"Do you ever miss college?" asks Alan for no reason he can think of. He feels quite drunk and just wants to talk about meaningless things. Palmer giggles a bit. It's a manly giggle, but a giggle none the less.
"I miss the drinking, Al. The difference between a straight man and a homosexual is about ten drinks, that's what I say."
"And how many drinks have we had?" says Alan teasingly.
"Steady on Al, you're only on number four."
"I've always been a fast study." says Alan, looking artfully disinterested but trying to see if he gets any reaction from Palmer. Palmer just looks indulgently amused.
It starts to feel later in the bar- the light doesn't change, the people slump into a deeper stupor. They drain the last of the bottle and try to focus on each other.