Chapter 7
"Argument Therapy"
TURNED OUT IT WAS BOTH …
THE SOUP WAS CREAMY; TINY BITS OF BROCCOLI SEEMED TO MELT ON MY TONGUE, FILLING THE EMPTY SPACES I HAD LEFT FALLOW FOR A LONG TIME. THE FLAVOR EXCITED MY TASTE BUDS AND THE DELICIOUS RICH, CREAMY SAUCE … IT WAS TOO THICK TO BE CALLED 'BROTH' … SATISFIED MY HUNGER WITHOUT MAKING ME UNCOMFORTABLY FULL. THE COFFEE WAS HOT AND STRONG AND EXCELLENT.
HOOLEY ASSURED ME THAT MY SECRET WAS SAFE, AND I TOLD HIM I APPRECIATED EVERYTHING HE HAD DONE FOR ME. INSTANT VALIDATION FOR BOTH OF US, I THINK …
WHICH GAVE ME LEAVE TO INSULT HIM IN A FRIENDLY MANNER AT LEAST ONCE A DAY. WHO KNEW? MAYBE I WOULD HAVE MY FILL OF INSULTS AT LAST AND TRY TO ACT LIKE A FRIEND. IT COULDN'T GET MUCH BETTER THAN THAT. NOT RIGHT AWAY, ANYHOW. TRYING TO BECOME A DECENT HUMAN BEING WAS GONNA BE A LONG, DRAWN-OUT PROCESS. MAYBE IF I PRACTICED MY MANNERS ON HOOLEY, I COULD LEARN TO DO THE SAME WITH WILSON … IF I EVER SAW HIM AGAIN.
WHILE MY LEG SLOWLY BEGAN TO HEAL … AT LEAST THE WOUND PART … I MADE MYSELF FAMILIAR WITH THE WAY THINGS WORKED AROUND THE CABIN. IT WAS A PAIN IN THE ASS TO HAVE TO GET DOWN ON THE FLOOR TO LIGHT THE PROPANE TANK EVERY TIME I WANTED TO COOK SOMETHING, BUT IF I WANTED TO EAT REGULAR, I HAD TO DO IT. THEN I LEARNED TO DRAG THE RATTAN FOOT STOOL OVER BY THE STOVE TO SIT ON WHEN I NEEDED TO FUTZ AROUND WITH THE GAS FEED, AND IT GOT A LITTLE EASIER.
I FOUND ALL KINDS OF OBSOLETE GOODIES STASHED ON THE SHELVES OVER AND UNDER THE WORK AREA BEYOND THE SINK. AN OLD KNIFE SHARPENER WITH STEEL WHEELS KEPT THE KITCHEN KNIVES HONED TO WEAPON-LIKE SHARPNESS, AND A HAND CAN OPENER WITH A BOTTLE OPENER ON THE HANDLE, SLICED THROUGH TIN LIKE A TABLE KNIFE THROUGH BUTTER. THERE WERE OLD SOUP BOWLS, OLD RESTAURANT PLATES WITH SEPARATED SEGMENTS, AND A CARNIVAL GLASS WATER PITCHER THAT SOMEONE HAD PROBABLY WON AT A PENNY-PITCH WHEN BULL WAS A PUP …
I WAS GETTING INTO VEGETABLE PEELING AND OMELET MAKING WITH A VENGENCE … ANYTHING TO DIVERT MY ATTENTION AWAY FROM WANDERING AROUND AND TAXING MY LEG IN A MANNER THAT I KNEW WAS NOT GOOD FOR THE HEALING PROCESS.
ONE DAY I FOUND MY CANE HANGING FROM THE BOTTOM BED RAIL WITH AN EXTRA BLANKET THROWN CARELESSLY OVER IT.
*WELL HELLO OLD FRIEND … FANCY MEETING YOU HERE …*
I PUT IT IN THE BATHROOM. HOOKED IT OVER THE SHOWER ROD TO HELP LEVER MYSELF IN AND OUT. I DECIDED HOOLEY WOULD APPROVE. IT WOULD BE NICE WHEN I COULD SHOWER WITHOUT HAVING TO GUARD AGAINST GETTING THE NEW STITCHES WET.
ANOTHER THING I LEARNED WAS TO KEEP THE DAMNED SCREEN DOOR CLOSED. HENCE, NO FLYING INSECTS INSIDE THE CABIN.
AND LIFE WENT MERRILY ON …
Behind the ugly old Damask draperies at the windows, I discovered, were heavy wooden shutters that could be closed during foul weather. There was also a plank door against the porch wall that could be secured over the screen door. When it rained around here, it must rain like the hammers of hell. The heavy hardware hinted at tropical monsoons of galactic proportions.
I found out that it was easier to sit in the old rattan chair when I needed to check the bandages on my leg. Being able to lean over the scene of the action without groaning in pain made it twice as easy to smear cream antiseptic and apply gauze and adhesive tape. In the daytime I began to wear cutoffs exclusively. Much easier for me and more comfortable for my leg.
My increasing independence made it easier on Hooley too. Now he had more time to devote to his other clients instead of having to check on me all the time. The new stitches were holding well because I bore no weight. After a few weeks, I began to see pink skin and scar tissue slowly emerge around the open wound. It looked like the underbelly of a newborn kitten; naked and paper thin. I still had my other old friend, the pain. But that was just my version of 'normal'.
When Hooley wasn't around to harass me, I began to lay one of the crutches on the end of the bed and hobble around on just one of them. I could place a small portion of weight on my right foot, which slowed the advance of the ankle contracture, as well as giving small stability to my calf. I did what I could to gently force it to straighten. When Hooley was around though, I did not place any weight at all. He kept telling me it was not ready. I didn't want to turn him into a real-life Wilson, so I made sure to do everything he said … when he was there. When he was not, I fudged it as I pleased.
I didn't argue. Not yet. He was helping me out as a favor. The arguments, I was sure, would come later when I was well enough to feel restless … and useless …
One day I was bored and too sore to sit still. I figured out a way to shimmy down the front steps one-at-a-time on my butt. I had long wanted to make my way around to the back to check out the Mickey Mouse handiwork that kept the cabin running on Twentieth Century technology. (Hah!) Once on solid ground, I placed the arm canes carefully to keep them from getting tangled in weeds and jungle growth and having myself a mini-disaster … and another lecture on not trying to commit suicide.
The big generator … and I mean B-I-G … had definitely been brought from the states and installed here. I could see the marks left behind by somebody trying to file off the "P.R.R." logo. The thing ran on diesel fuel, because the distinctive odor was present, but not overpowering. I stayed back far enough so Hooley wouldn't smell it on my clothing. Next to the generator a big water tank had a direct line leading to the indoor plumbing underneath. Besides that, the fuel tank probably held more diesel than I could use in a year. Who would want to turn on the heat in Barbados? Hot water seemed to be its only purpose. The thing had been jammed into the niche beside the water tank, and had similar dispersal apparatus. Both were jigged in against the wood planks of the cabin, and between the two of them, would have shored it up through even a tidal wave.
I wondered where my landlord had found all this stuff. No wonder the rent was a grand a month. Whoever he was, he was probably still making payments on the hardware. All the connections looked to be relatively new.
I could see ruts running through the field grass and underbrush where supply trucks and fuel wagons no doubt wove in and out to refill the tanks. The crisscross of tracks reminded me of a rabbit warren, zigzagging all over the place.
Suddenly I sensed movement to my right. I jerked my head in that direction and saw a slight human figure, bent over by half, darting from one scrub bush to the next. A small man, dark-skinned. Never fully visible; hiding in shadow just out of sight, his light clothing blending with the sand, but not the greenery. He was dirty; cotton pants smudged. Something black was smeared on the side of his face, probably from crawling through the dirt in an effort not to be seen. He was purposely trying to remain invisible to my eyes. Whoever it was could obviously tell I was hardly able to engage in pursuit.
Was someone sneaking around my cabin for a definite purpose? If so, what? Might he be casing the place in search of valuables? Drugs? Not likely, since I still resembled a fugitive from 'Cardboard City'. Could I be making a big deal out of nothing? I pretended to be oblivious, hurting more than I really was, and wobbling around. I wondered: how often would a cripple on crutches go for a stroll among the wildroot and underbrush of his estate?
The trip back to the front of the cabin was tedious. Twice I paused to rest and look out over the ocean and gaze at the horizon where sky met water. I took a few deep breaths and squinted my eyes toward the sun. In reality, my peripheral vision was working double-time, searching for signs of the figure I'd spotted in the bushes. Nothing moved except distant specks; tourists further down the beach who rented cabins close to Amos's Tiki Bar; splashing in the water near the shore. Birds flitted around in the trees. I finally turned, struggled my way to the porch and slid back up the steps to perch on the deck floor and lay the crutches beside me. I looked back across the blue water again … for real this time. Wondering if the person I'd seen was some kind of cruel illusion …
Down the beach I watched the distant figures enjoying the water as their kids ran around in the waves that broke on the sand. Their voices echoed aloft on the warm air like ripples in the breeze. I closed my eyes to turn my thoughts away from 'cloak and dagger' images for a moment.
I heard the dune buggy's putt-putt motor overriding the voices and intruding on my reverie. But it wasn't the dune buggy. A large black motorcycle was making its way in my direction at a pretty good clip, and from here I could tell by the colorful hat, it was Hooley.
*Oh shit!*
There were still telltale wisps of dry beach grasses adhering to my socks and crutch tips, and I reached down to brush them away quickly and scatter them to the breeze before he noticed. The bike pulled up to the porch and he killed the engine, looking at me suspiciously.
I wasn't looking at him, but at the bike. It was a Harley Hog. About 1995. In pristine condition from the look of it, except for a thin layer of sand and dust. It was black, plenty of chrome. Nice.
"Cool bike," I said noncommittally.
"Thank you. It belonged to my father who is no longer with us. Were you just out back?" He changed the subject without pause.
I sighed. "Yeah … didn't get all the dead grass off me in time to fool you, huh?"
"You did not. Also, many telltale crutch tracks in the sand. Went back to check out the water tank and generator, right?"
"Yeah … I was curious … and bored. And my leg hurt. I saw somebody sneaking around out there …"
That got him. "What?"
"You heard me."
"I did. I am most interested in what you thought you saw."
"I didn't think it. I saw somebody …"
"Where?" He was still sitting on the bike, but his body had gone tense.
"Back near the generator and fuel tank. Small guy. Dark skin, but not quite as dark as yours. I startled him, I think. He took off and circled behind the cabin, hiding in the bushes, crouching low where he thought I couldn't see him … knowing damn well I couldn't chase after him."
"How long ago?"
"Just now … maybe fifteen minutes … as long as it took me to walk back here. Why?"
"Because, Kyle Calloway, we have had other reports … people telling us they also have seen someone slinking around near their cabins … both renters and permanent residents. We suspect there is a group of off-islanders running drugs. We have not been able to determine who they are, or exactly what they are doing.
"'We'?"
"Myself, Amos, Packy … a few others." He got off the bike and stood with hands on hips.
I raised my head quickly. "Packy? The old dude who flew me over here in that rattletrap plane?"
"Yes. He lives on the other side of the island. Flying the plane is his hobby. We are all deputized and we have been watching for anything suspicious for a few months. The clinic I work from has been missing drugs and money and supplies. Our medications are locked in a safe room, but they still come up missing. As yet there are no leads. Your sighting may have changed the picture."
"Yep," I said grinning. "Now you have a lead. Sounds like somebody has a stolen key. You should have the locks changed." I pushed myself slowly upward and got the crutches under me to move inside. My leg pounded like a hammer on an anvil and the new stitches pulled as I moved.
Hooley moved back toward his bike, and from inside the screen door I saw him reach into one of the saddle bags and lift out a large, white deli bag. Food! I held open the door and closed it firmly after he entered. Something smelled like oven-baked fish.
"I brought lunch," he said.
"I would never have known, but the white bag and the fish smell kinda gave it away …"
"Hush, Kyle Calloway."
I laughed.
Over lunch we discussed further what I had seen, and he explained about the "deputies" from all over the island who were on the lookout for drug dealers and thieves. Unlikely deputies they were: a nurse, a bartender and a fly-by-night pilot in a broken-down plane, and some other local volunteers.
After that day, things quieted down for awhile. Hooley and Packy and Amos searched around the fuel and water tanks, but found exactly nothing.
I could've told 'em …
Precisely at the end of the month I began to press Hooley to let me ditch the crutches and use the cane again. I didn't mention that I had already been using it on and off inside the cabin for nearly two weeks. I didn't have to.
His only answer was a shrug of his shoulders and an uplifted palm. He was fixing lunch, as usual, and his back was turned as he leaned over the lunch counter. I couldn't see his face. "Jus' keep on doin' what you been doin' …" he said in a noncommittal tone.
I hadn't expected that answer. "What's that supposed to mean?" I countered.
He straightened slowly and turned. "Oblivious American! If you ever dusted under your bed, I would not see where you been hidin' the crutches in the daytime … hmmmm?"
Snookered. I had no fast or easy answer. He knew what I'd been up to, and his quiet manner cloaked a steel-trap mind and a pair of dark eyes that missed nothing. How many times did the man have to prove it?
I sighed, feeling a little guilty. "You knew, huh? How can you see dust or no dust on eighty-year-old red and gray linoleum?
"Not just dust, Mon. You got a woolly bear farm under there. You are sloppy. You leave tracks everywhere you go. Ever since I let you take the bandage off your leg and allow it to heal in the fresh air, you been puttin' the crutches away … an' puttin' 'em away." The smile on his face as he handed me a plate of pork chops and fried potatoes with a salad of fresh lettuce and tomatoes, was a study in one-upmanship. "Is not fish. See? So … your foolish curiosity has confirmed the presence of drug dealers on the island. Therefore I will discontinue harassing you and say 'thank you' instead."
I smiled back at his method of subtle apology. (I should practice it more). "You're welcome," I said, "even if it was mostly luck." The food smelled wonderful. I attacked it with vigor and took the remaining opportunity to keep my mouth shut. "Damn, Hooley … this is good."
"Thank you." He turned off the stove and the propane tank and brought his plate to the table. He sat down across from me and dug into his meal. It was a standoff between us. He said nothing further, but I could sense him checking me out. His head was bent over his plate, but I also sensed the electricity of his attitude, daring me to say anything further.
Instead I kept quiet. Just sat and stuffed my face.
Finally I heard his flatware being lowered to his plate. "You are a doctor, Kyle Calloway, and I am not. I wish to help you as I can, but I have no place telling you what is best for your body. You have lived with your disability for a long time and I cannot presume to tell you how to treat it. Do you wish for me to continue here? Or would you rather I withdrew my influence?"
I laid knife and fork across my plate and looked up. "I'm not ungrateful," I said. "You helped me out of a painful situation, and I can't thank you enough for that. I'm just very uncomfortable with anyone who has to wait on me. I'm kind of private about my person, and my hair stands on end when someone sees my scar and it horrifies them. You have dressed and undressed me while I was under an anesthetic, and that kind of gives me the creeps, if you know what I mean.
"I used to have this best friend who drove me nuts doing stuff for me that I should have been doing for myself. I bitched him out over and over again, but he did it anyhow. Then one day he and our boss got together and told me that my pain was mostly in my head. They stopped my meds and gave me a 'morphine injection' that turned out to be saline solution. They ended up sending me to the looney bin, but it didn't help because I knew I wasn't looney. I had to get the hell out of there."
I knew if I lied to Hooley, I could get caught up in my own deception, and I didn't want to do that. "In my sorry state of mind, I wrecked my car, hit the steering column and messed up my leg again. Had to have more surgery … same area as the old infarction site, ironically. You saw the result. I came here not just to rest my leg and allow it to heal … I also came to try to get my head on straight and decide what I want to do with the rest of my life. In my other reality I never leveled with anyone the way I've leveled with you. I'm still a sorry mess and I know it, and I need to fix it if I can."
I was sidestepping and smoothing over a lot of issues and ignoring others. It wasn't really Hooley's concern, or his problem. I told him most of the actual story, but had to stop talking or I'd be tearing up … and I hadn't done that since I was a kid.
"I understand what you are saying, Mon." Hooley pushed back his chair, gathered our dirty dishes and placed them in the sink. "We all have our windmills to tilt … our boulders to push uphill. I will never intrude on your privacy again without your permission. I value your trust in me, and what we say here will never go beyond these walls.
"So, may I say that you will find a vial of Vicodin, a vial of Gabapentin and a large bottle of Vodka on the top shelf of the supply closet. You will also find a bottle of Ibuprofen and a supply of first aid products and skin softening conditioners for your scar when you need them. Please do not abuse the Vicodin. Fair?"
I looked at him and his eyes were kind. Surprised, I nodded once and it was settled. "I appreciate that. Thanks."
"Most welcome."
On the first of the month I handed him a thousand dollar bill, folded into a tiny square. "For services rendered, above and beyond the call of duty. And for all the old Mrs. Joneses out there who had to wait while you were tending to me …"
He grinned and thrust the money into a pocket. "We are cool, Kyle Calloway."
(I continued to do this every month I remained on the island …)
I didn't see him again for awhile. I guessed he was tending to his other clients and paying his own bills. Or else he thought I was healed enough to begin taking care of my own needs and cleaning up my own messes. It was a bit lonely, but I did it. I also pushed a dust mop around under my bed and into the kitchen and into dark corners in the 'sitting' part of the place. And I changed my own bed linens, which took me what seemed like hours. I wondered if Hooley and Packy and Amos "and others" were out combing the underbrush for drug-stealing suspects … or if they were just hellishly busy with everyday life.
After a time … maybe a week or so … I retrieved my laptop from the old blue backpak. It was dead as a doornail, so I plugged the charger into the only outlet in the kitchen. Plugged the laptop into the charger and sat in the dark while the thing came to life. There was a case study on Nephrology I'd intended to submit to JAMA and a few other medical journals. Now was the time. This one, however, would be authored by someone quite new to the submission process. Perhaps to a lesser journal first, to let the name gain some familiarity …
I wanted to get 'Kyle Calloway' up and floating in the ether; maybe reach out a couple of cautious tendrils here and there; write a series of short articles and submit them. If they drew a response, I'd extend the reach. Calloway, of course, had to remain a fairly mysterious character. He had no history of collegiate study, no alma mater. He had no M.D. after his name … except the one I gave him … and no glorious recommendations from prestigious hospitals. It would turn into a useless endeavor if someone decided to look up his actual credentials, other than a few cursory inquiries …
So I plunked away at my small keyboard, writing intricate stuff that had lived inside my head, but which had never been written down because I was experiencing too much physical pain, or was too pissed off at some stupid situation at PPTH … or my department was under too much pressure to find a solution to another critical case. Actually, I was just too stubborn and bullheaded to sit down and concentrate on it long enough.
One excuse after another.
Now I was out of excuses. Truth be told, I wanted to hear from Wilson again. I was not able to go in search of him, so it was up to him to come in search of me.
Dr. Kyle Calloway was going to blaze a trail in the only method open to him. One of these days though, he would have to show up back in the USA to make it happen …
47
