A Little Help From My Friends


Part Twelve

This was more like it – this was the life. This was how real convalescence should be. Don shifted back in the recliner and turned his face to the sun. Someone, more likely dad than Charlie, had placed the sun bed and a couple of chairs in the dappled shade by the Koi pond. The weather was still off the temperature gauge, way hot, even for LA. Bees buzzed and flowers bloomed. The fish blew bubbles in the water. Other than that, Don was quite alone. It was a little slice of heaven.

The Prisoner of Pasadena had managed to evade his jailors.

He'd been out of bed for a couple of days now, on and off, slowly testing his limits. He wasn't quite up to a home run yet, but if he took things really carefully, he might just about make it to first base. Yeah, right. He needed to qualify that. It was probably just the teensiest exaggeration. There was nothing wrong with being optimistic, but he was still a million miles off his game. Truth was, he could just about stagger from the dug-out and get as far as the plate. He still coughed and wheezed like a ninety year old on three packs of cigarettes a day.

But it was better. It was getting better. At least he could walk unaided through the house, and best of all, oh, joy, oh, bliss, he could visit the bathroom by himself. His knee was a little stiff and sore, but he didn't really need the crutches. The swelling had gone down on his right hand and the cuts had almost healed. The left hand would take much longer, but that was pretty much to be expected. At long last, he'd turned the corner. It seemed like it had taken forever.

It was all down to the chicken soup, of course. Or, at least, according to Alan. Don had been force-fed so much of the stuff, he half expected to sprout a few feathers. So maybe he was being a tad unfair. His appetite had been non-existent. A combination of fever and mega-antibiotics had effectively seen to that. It was only now he was up, and moving around, that any kind of food was appealing.

Don slanted a glance down at his stomach. It was as hard and flat as a washboard. It was gonna take more than a rib-eye or two to get back up to his fighting weight again. It was one more thing to look forward to. Being able to eat with impunity. Steaks and doughnuts, and Italian food. Don began to feel inordinately cheerful. No more chicken soup – like ever. It would be fun for a while – bring it on.

On the whole, Don was forced to admit, things hadn't been too bad. Ever since the night on the landing, Alan and Charlie had been remarkably self-restrained. Amazingly self-restrained, in-fact, and decidedly out of character. No mother hens clucking and not too much fussing. Just quiet support when he needed it. Other than the ubiquitous chicken soup, there'd hardly been any poultry in sight. Not that Don was complaining, of course, but a small part of him speculated as to why.

He suspected Alan had spoken to Charlie. Probably confided in him a bit. Well, okay, Don had no problem with that, he just wondered how much dad had told him. Not everything by a long chalk. Alan was far too considerate for that. Anything he and Don had discussed in confidence would be treated with total respect.

As it was, Don was really grateful and more than a little relieved. He'd been given plenty of time and space, and allowed to recover at his own tempo. Best of all, Don smiled to himself; he hadn't been forced to send out for his gun. Most of the time, he listened to the radio and simply drowsed his days away. Too tired to do much of anything else, other than rest and recuperate. To his surprise, he hadn't been bored at all. Not once - he found it kind of astonishing. It was incredible, and just a fraction scary, how weak and exhausted he felt. He'd been unable to read for the first few weeks, concentrating on print gave him a headache. It wasn't until the concussion was fully healed he could resume that pleasure again.

There was a book on the table beside him now. Leon Uris's Exodus. He'd read it before, many moon's ago, but was enjoying it all over again. It was far less taxing and almost comforting, to dig out a trusty old favourite, his brain wasn't quite up to the challenge of tackling any job-related paperwork. And he hadn't entirely lost his marbles - discretion was the better part of valour. If Alan so much as suspected he'd had some case-notes smuggled in, his ass was as good as toast.

Star Wars and penguins, elephants and Looney Tunes. All perfectly normal in the scheme of things. Just a few of the weird and wonderful items he kept locked away in his mind. He was usually so decisive - so focused - so deeply immersed in his work. Who knew there was a whack-job inside his head just kicking up a storm to be let out?

Don Eppes – sharp as a razor – yeah, right. A blunt Bic ratherthan a cutthroat. Made him wonder how many brain cells had died from the time he'd had his run in with Coulton. Enough to make him a little Looney Tunes, that was one thing for certain. Could be a result of the concussion, Don supposed, he'd been a tad squirly ever since.

Don glanced across at the Uris again. This was another weird thing. His accident, the Pisarro and the talk with dad, all of a sudden, he was feeling more Jewish. Oh, not in the sense he would start growing a beard, or buy tickets to see Fiddler on the Roof. He had no strange yearnings for cholent or Aunt Irene's gefilte fish. Nope – it was kinda hard to explain, and not something Don felt all that comfortable with. Not a religious thing, in the strict sense of the word, but more of a spiritual pull. Back to the chicken soup again. It was dad's chicken soup, he was sure of it. Fifty or so gallons later, and it was doing strange things to his psyche.

Perhaps if you gave a man enough chicken soup, it brought out the hidden Jew in his soul?

Of course, with a pinch of hindsight, there was another, more personal reason, for his book choice. Something about it struck a chord in him, a sudden desire to find out more. Since his own brief sojourn in Israel, he could re-read it with added knowledge. Uris described some of the places Don had seen for himself.

Dad's fault - it was all dad's fault for reminding him about the Pisarro. For some reason, Don felt really inspired to start researching their family tree. It was a little like dad with the holocaust books. His own way of paying some respects. If he could retrace their last terrible journeys, at the very least, he might discover where those lost family members had died.

If he could ever shift his ass from the recliner, that was. It really was kinda comfortable out here. Don felt his eyelids start to droop and made a point of opening his eyes. Not again, he was sleeping his life away. Just call me Rip Van winkle. Maybe he would listen to the sports scores, or read another chapter of his book.

Yeah, right . . .

The next time Don awoke, it was at least two hours later. So much for an afternoon of activity. Alan would be delighted to find him asleep out here. The sun had changed its position in the sky, casting longer shadows over the yard. Flowers still bloomed and bees still buzzed, but the day had begun its inevitable slide towards evening. The quality of the light had changed. It was softer, more golden and mellow. The harsh white glare of the oppressive heat had given way to a rosy glow.

Here we go, Don always coughed when he woke. By now, he was grimly resigned to it. He shifted up in the recliner and swung his legs over the edge. It was gradually getting easier. The cough was decidedly looser. His ribcage wasn't aching quite so much and he still had the lining of his lungs. Or at least, he hoped he did, better make that a caveat. He wasn't due another follow-up x-ray until the end of the week. Of course, these things were all relative. Not quite so much – well, it didn't mean not at all. Don placed an arm across his chest and hung on until the storm had passed.

It was over after five minutes or so. Hey – he was definitely getting better. It usually took the best part of half an hour before the coughing and spitting stopped.

"What the – very funny. You can come out now, Charlie." Don reached across to the table and placed Jumbo down beside him. If he didn't know any better, he could've sworn the stuffed elephant was smirking. It sat on his lap, gazing cross-eyed at him, a self-satisfied smile on its felt face. No doubt something to do with its magical propensity for following him around the house and garden.

Charlie sauntered around the back of the recliner. He didn't look un-like the elephant. There were two tall glasses in his hands and he sported a mischievous grin. "Hey, bro, good to finally see you awake. I would have joined you earlier, but I didn't want to spoil your commune with nature."

Don scowled at Charlie as he took one of the glasses. Charlie sat down in one of the chairs. For someone who'd been at work in a heat wave all day, his little brother seemed inordinately cheerful. His curls stuck up wildly around his head and there was a streak of chalk on his nose. He was looking typically Charlie-like, a paean to what not to wear. Paisley print shirt and baggy pants, Don couldn't help a slight shudder. But he was forced to admit, with a flash of sudden fondness, the eccentric vibe looked kinda right.

"Like I said, very funny." Don gestured towards Jumbo. "Just like the time he turned up when Megan came. What, I'm gonna have to check I'm an elephant-free zone every time I get a visitor?"

"I haven't got a clue what you're talking about," Charlie wrinkled his brow at him. "Hey, you want to re-live your childhood and go to bed with a stuffed elephant, it's not like there's anyone else right now, and I think it's kinda sweet."

"Gee, thanks," Don gave him a deadly glare. "Make me feel better, why don't you? The comment on my lack of sex life, I really appreciate the reminder. Are you telling me in all seriousness, you didn't plant Jumbo out here?"

"Not guilty," Charlie said, promptly. "I've only just got back from CalSci. I saw you through the kitchen window, and thought I'd fix us a drink. Hey, Don - " he pointed at Jumbo, and widened his eyes in mock alarm. "Maybe there's something weird going on. Could be, he's an eerie elephant. A jinxed Jumbo, a terrifying tusker. A poltergeist pachyderm."

"Yeah, right," Don lobbed 'said' haunted elephant at his brother's curly head. "Or maybe, the only weird thing around here is you."

"Not a bad throw for a one-armed man." Charlie placed the eerie elephant comfortably in his lap, and studied Don with slightly more scrutiny. "In fact, you're looking a little less ghostly, yourself. You know, not so much of the undead thing."

"Know what, Charlie?" Don said, fondly, "You really know how to make my day. First the underhand jibes about my sex-life - "

"Or lack-of - "

"Or lack-of," Don continued, gamely, "and then the comments about my appearance. What next, you remark on my personal hygiene, or perhaps kick my crutches away?"

"That one's kinda moot," Charlie considered it. "Seeing as you refuse to use the crutches. However, if you want to talk personal hygiene - "

"Oh yeah?" Don snorted into his drink. "I don't think so, Charlie. I'm not the one who still thinks sartorial elegance is a character in Star Wars."

"Very funny, this is very funny. Especially coming from a man who sits around in a ratty old t-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts all day. And by the way, the Star Wars character – that was Salacious Crumb."

Don grinned at that. Touché, Charlie - there go the metaphorical crutches. So okay, he wasn't using the real ones, but Charlie still managed to kick them away. Well, all right, he might concede this time. It showed he was still off his game. Better work some more on getting his mojo back before he went off to verbal war again.

He lifted his head to admit defeat and saw the look on Charlie's face. Uh-oh, Don felt his heart sink. He knew this look of old. Enquiring and slightly anxious, a bit like an inquisitive bird. Charlie's moods had always been like this. Talk about freakin' mercurial. Up one minute and down the next, at the drop of the proverbial hat. One moment he'd be laughing about something, in the blink of an eye, feeling sad. Duh - it didn't precisely take a genius to see what Charlie was worried about now. Don squared his shoulders in readiness. He knew exactly what was coming.

"Um, Megan dropped by CalSci today to pick up some statistics. We went for a cup of coffee, and she um – she asked after you."

"It's all right, Charlie."

"The thing is," Charlie looked away from him and began to play abstractedly with Jumbo's slightly moth-eaten ears. "The thing is, I told her I thought you were getting better."

"I am." Don shrugged his shoulders. "You told the truth, so what's the big deal? She drops by here fairly frequently too. In-fact, she's coming to dad's cook-out tonight. Megan has an idea how I'm doing, it's not like any of this is a secret."

"The big deal?" Charlie laughed without humour. "The big deal is I don't really know how you are, Don. Actually, I don't have a clue. Oh, sure, I can see your health's improving - you don't cough quite as much as you used to. I even saw you eat something yesterday and dad's actually started smiling again."

"Charlie - "

"No, Don. I'm doing the talking here, and this time you're going to listen. This whole thing – this whole thing's been scary. Like a being on a giant rollercoaster. Up and down and slightly out of control. It's been one hell of a ride."

"I know, and I'm sorry." Don put his glass down. Great, this was just what he needed. DIY psych. evaluation at the end of a long, hot day. "Hey, come on, bro," he tried to make light of things. "Time to stop worrying about me. Take a look, you can see for yourself. I'm fine, or at least I will be. You need to hop off that rollercoaster, or I'll have to set the eerie elephant on you."

"You just don't get it, do you, Don?" Charlie regarded him with exasperation. Dad and I – we always worry about you. Always have, and always will, but we both accept its part of who you are. Part of the whole Don Eppes package. This time, though – I've really tried. Tried my best to do what you wanted. Do you have any idea how hard it's been to leave you coughing in the middle of the night? Or to watch you struggling to the bathroom, too damned stubborn to ask for any help?"

"Charlie," Don inhaled patiently, and attempted to speak again.

"It's okay, Don, you don't have to explain. I understand, I really do. You hate it when people fuss over you. I think we all got the message."

"Then what's the problem?" It was a level question. Did he really want to hear the answer? It struck him as vaguely ironic he and Charlie were having this conversation. Charlie – his genius brother, so used to taking centre stage. Charlie - the whiz-kid prodigy, who sucked up attention like a Hoover.

Way to go, Eppes. Don looked across at Charlie and was suddenly ashamed of himself. Charlie was clearly troubled by this, and more than a little upset. It was the same old, same old, story. Charlie had a knack of making him feel guilty. A gift for turning the emotional tables on him, regardless of who was to blame.

Yeah, so he was different from Charlie. Well, life had kinda made him that way. It was far too late to fix things now.

It was too late to change who he was.

TBC