Chapter 21

"HOME … ?"

THE PLANE LANDED WITHOUT INCIDENT AT NEWARK'S LIBERTY INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT AT 3:00 A.M. FRIDAY.

I HAD SLEPT MOST OF THE WAY, BUT I WAS STILL TIRED AND SORE AND HUNGRY, NOT NECESSARILY IN THAT ORDER. ATTENDANTS WHEELED ME OFF THE PLANE AND TOOK ME ACROSS THE CONCOURSE TO THE INTERNATIONAL CHECK-IN DESK, WHERE I WAS ONCE AGAIN ALLOWED TO BYPASS THE METAL DETECTOR. NO ONE MENTIONED MY UNUSUAL LACK OF LUGGAGE.

ON THE OTHER SIDE I PUSHED OUT OF THE CHAIR, GOT THE CRUTCHES UNDER ME, THE BACKPAK OVER MY SHOULDER AND WAVED OFF ALL OFFERS OF HELP. I REMEMBERED TO THANK THE TWO YOUNG ATTENDANTS WHO ASSISTED ME TO DEPLANE. THEY HELPED ME SETTLE THE BACKPAK FIRMLY BEFORE THEY TOOK THE WHEELCHAIR AND WHISKED IT AWAY.

I WAS TIRED TO THE BONE AND I HURT LIKE HELL. ALL I WANTED WAS TO GRAB A QUICK SANDWICH, HAIL A TAXI TO GET ACROSS TOWN AND CHECK INTO THE NEAREST HOTEL. I WAITED … NOT PATIENTLY, BUT QUIETLY … TO BE PROCESSED THROUGH THE FINAL GATE.

A BORED FEMALE SECURITY GUARD WAVED AN ELECTRONIC WAND OVER ME, AS THOUGH EACH BRIGHT METAL CRUTCH MIGHT BE FILLED WITH SUSPICIOUS CONTRABAND. AFTER NOSING ABOUT IN MY BACKPAK SHE ASKED IF IT WAS MY ONLY PIECE OF LUGGAGE.

I NODDED: "YES."

WHEN SHE FINGERED THE CANE AND ASKED LOUDLY WHETHER I'D EVER USED IT AS A WEAPON, I SAID WITH ALL THE SARCASM I COULD MUSTER: "NOT YET!"

"YOU GOT ANYTHING TO DECLARE?"

"YEAH … I DECLARE THAT YOU'RE AN IDIOT."

AFTER WHICH, SHE BENT DOWN AS THOUGH TO EXAMINE MY SOCK FOOT AND MAKE SURE THERE WAS NO CONTRABAND IN THERE.

I SAID: "I HAVE DIAMOND CHIPS STASHED IN MY SOCK, BUT IF YOU TOUCH MY FOOT, YOU'LL FIND YOURSELF ON THE FLOOR!"

ACROSS THE AISLE, HER OLDER FEMALE SUPERVISOR WARNED HER AWAY FROM ME WITH A LIFT OF HER HEAD. "GIVE THE MAN A BREAK, NANCY. CAN'T YOU SEE HE'S TIRED AND IN PAIN? GO AHEAD, SIR. GET ON HOME TO YOUR FAMILY. HAVE A GOOD NIGHT."

I MADE A NASTY FACE AT THE BROAD AND NODDED GRATEFULLY TO HER BOSS.

"THANKS …"

AND I CLOMPED AWAY.

Outside on the huge deck where passengers waited for their flights to be called, I lowered myself into one of the many seats and tried to gather enough strength to keep going. The terminal was just as chaotic at 3:30 a.m. as it was in broad daylight.

Just like hospitals, the desperation aspect at international airports never ends. Every minute brings another crisis. The panic level of nervous travelers runs at a high pitch as they scurry back and forth checking their ticket information and craning their necks to be sure they were where they were supposed to be. The novices looked at their watches every two minutes, afraid they would miss their flights or arrive at the wrong gate at the wrong time. Downright entertaining. Watching them took my mind off the ache in my leg. Seasoned travelers watched the newbies over the tops of their newspapers and smiled serenely to themselves. I entertained myself by watching the watchers and the watched.

The waiting area was cavernous, and the pitch of voices, especially unhappy infants, whining children and bitchy parents, pierced my brain like an ice pick thrust into my ear. After a time, even the amusing aspect of the place was more than I wanted to put up with.

Exhaustion was gaining and my leg insisted that I needed to move again. I waited another two minutes and then struggled back to my feet, shouldering the backpak and positioning the crutches. I moved across the plaza in search of a restaurant where I could grab a cup of coffee and a sandwich. I also needed to ask about the availability of a port where I could charge my cell phone. It had been turned off for a year and was dead as a doornail. I assumed most of these places had ports available for a fee.

I left through a door with an electronic eye that opened before me and closed after me, and I paused outside as the odor of gasoline and diesel fumes, greasy food smells and other combined odors hit my senses like a smack on the head. In Barbados there was always the sharp, raw scent of salt water and sand, ocean breezes heavy with seaweed and marine life, and tropical vegetation. I missed it like crazy for a few moments.

I thought of the small group of people who had watched over me on the island, and I missed them too. No use denying it … I was hooked on the pleasure of having friends.

I walked on then, through another electronic door and along a line of shops and kiosks and small eateries of almost every ethnicity I'd ever known, and some that I hadn't.

I wandered toward the nearest small diner and backed into the door until it popped open. It was not automatic. A tattooed young man saw me struggling and pulled the thing back to its limit until I was safely inside. I thanked him profusely and plopped into the nearest empty booth. I hung up the crutches and plopped the backpak on the seat. Clumsily I hefted my leg up also and watched as it slithered out and away from my body like a giant worm. I ordered a bowl of chili, two buttered rolls and a cup of coffee. The chili was already made and simmering on the stove. I could smell it.

I asked the waitress about a charging port for my phone. She pointed to the area near my elbow that was partially blocked by the napkin holder. She said it would be five dollars to open the port. I thanked her and got out the cord to my phone. Plugged in and waited. After she had gone back to the kitchen, the little red light came on.

I ate the chili and the rolls while the phone was charging. Actually, the food wasn't bad. By the time I'd finished the coffee and the rest, the light on the charging connection went out and I removed it from the port. I scrolled around looking for the numbers of local taxi services. I called the first one I came across and told the dispatcher where to find me. Then I took a pair of Vicodin and tried to relax. The diner wasn't busy, so I felt no pressure to leave. I dozed, woke, dozed and woke again. The waitress came back and presented the bill. I gave her a twenty and told her to keep the change. She bowed a silent 'thank you' and retreated.

Shortly I heard the door open and close, and a short man with a physique like a walking fire plug stepped inside and said loudly: "Who in here called for a cab?"

"That would be me," I said, stumbling out of the booth. I settled the crutches beneath me and hefted the backpak.

The guy's eyes widened as he looked me over: One shoe, old blue backpak with a battered cane sticking out the top: a raunchy dude who could barely navigate under his own steam, but sporting a fancy pair of rolled-steel crutches painted with bright red lacquer …

*Oh here we go …*

When the guy reached for my backpak and waggled his fingers for me to hand it over, I stared at him suspiciously. "C'mon, buddy," he said, "you're in no kind'a shape to do more than carry your own self, let along this damned thing. Let me give you a hand. I'm a cab driver, not a petty thief."

His remark struck me as funny, so I willingly handed the backpak across. "Thanks. I appreciate the help."

He nodded. "Thought you might. I'm parked right outside the concourse. Be careful your crutch there don't get caught on the door jamb …" He was holding the door for me; standing out of the way. I nodded back to him as I made my way through.

When we were in the cab, he asked where I wanted to go.

"Downtown. Drake Hotel. Corner of …"

"That's okay, buddy … I know where it is. Been doin' this gig since Christ made corporeal. I know this dirty ol' town like the back'a my hand."

I couldn't argue with that. I knew he was watching me in the mirror, so I just nodded.

"How'd ya come by the fucked up foot, buddy? Accident?"

"Yah," (Holding back a snort of laughter.) "Got t-boned by a drunk driver. Smashed me under the dash. It was bad. Still might lose it ..."

"Ah jeez! I'm sorry, buddy. I didn't mean to pry. I was just curious."

"That's okay. Shit happens, I guess."

"Bother you much?"

"Every day."

After that, he shut up.

When we pulled up in front of the Drake, I handed him a C-note and his eyes got even wider than they had been at the diner. "Thanks, Man!"

He carried my backpak into the lobby and up to the registration desk. I thanked him … with sincerity. He was a busybody, but he meant well. Surprisingly I was beginning to take notice of small nuances in people that hinted to me that, given the chance, most of them were actually decent.

"Take care, buddy," the driver said as he walked away.

"You too," I replied, even as the lobby door closed behind him.

I turned back to the desk to face a handsome older woman standing behind the counter. I looked at the clock on the wall behind her. It was almost 4:30 a.m. No wonder my ass was dragging. I'd been awake for almost twenty-four hours, part of that with a quart of morphine coursing through my veins.

"I'll need a room for about a week," I said. "Maybe not as long as that, maybe longer. Can I pay ahead?"

She studied my face for a moment, probably appraising my looks and the pain lines etched there. I gave her the blue-eyes treatment and she smiled slowly. I guessed she had not judged me as someone who had been sleeping under a bridge …

When she nodded, I thought she might tear up.

*Oh for chris'sake!*

"Would you like a room with handicap accommodations? You look like you could use it. Actually, you look like you're about to fall over." She smiled tentatively.

I couldn't help it. I dipped my head and shrugged slightly. She was pretty close to right. I had been given sympathy by a 'Goody-Two-Shoes'. A year ago I would have given her the cold shoulder and stomped off. Such accommodation to my physical limitations had occurred three or four times today. It was actually becoming pleasant for me to see that some people actually tried to help after appraising my situation.

"Yeah, please. I'd appreciate that. I get tired pretty easy and sometimes I need all the help I can get." I'd already said more than I intended, but my tank was running on 'empty', and she looked like a nice person.

I signed the register and gave her five hundreds and pocketed the receipt. She seemed shocked at the large denominations, but I begged off, explaining I'd been out of the country for some time, and needed to reestablish my accounts. (Such bullshit, but she seemed satisfied.)

She scanned the bills and then slid them beneath the tray of the cash register. She led me slowly across the dimly lit lobby to the elevators, even insisting on carrying my backpak. She told me she was Mrs. McIvers and she was the night clerk.

I told her my name was Kyle Calloway. She probably already knew that from my signature in the log book, but said nothing.

My room number was 317, and she unlocked the door, snapped on the lights and handed me the key on a small wooden paddle. (How quaint!) She laid my backpak on the bed and led me through the rooms to acquaint me with the amenities. The doorways were wide to accommodate wheelchairs, and the large bathroom looked like a practice arena for The Flying Wallendas. A folding wheelchair was stashed behind the door, and there was a dim night light at every wall plate.

I shook my head. "Reminds me of a gymnasium in here …"

"The contractor whose team installed this suite uses a wheelchair herself, so I took her word that she knew what she was doing …"

I smiled to myself. *Bobbie Mae Chambers. I remember her. Feisty ol' broad. She designed and built the new therapy room at PPTH about seven years ago. Small world.* However, I did not voice any of that. Just nodded.

She left me to my own devices then, after showing me where all the emergency call buttons were located.

When she had gone, I flopped on the bed beside the backpak, feeling a cloud of exhaustion lower over me like a blanket. I could have used a shower at the very least, but I had no strength left to pull it off. The only thing I could pull off at the moment was my top layer of clothing. Which I did. I dumped the whole works on the floor, including the crutches and backpak, and settled into that soft, comfortable bed. I didn't even turn off the lights. And that was all she wrote …

When I finally drifted up from the fog of sleep, it was because of a restlessness in my leg that wouldn't let me alone any longer.

Deep in the ruined muscle beneath the scar I could feel a cramp building and expanding up and out, seizing the truncated nerves even tighter than I could have done it with both hands. The pain was sharp and stabbing, and it snatched my senses like an automaton; straight up in the bed. I was suddenly wide awake, both hands grabbing at the spot and pressing roughly, willing the pain to let go.

Even when it started to ease after thirty seconds or so, I was a puddle of jelly; too weak to move and too damn sore to try. Just happy that it had progressed no further. I collapsed where I lay. Limp and torpid, making a deep dent in the bed covers. There were hazy halos surrounding every object within my sight, so I closed my eyes against them and willed myself to ride it out.

I could feel the tingling in every nerve ending when the synapses began to return tactile sensation to the cells one by one. Funny. From puddle, to sponge, to symbiant, to fetus, to human being. All in slow-motion. I could feel every upward movement, clicking along the evolutionary transition as I returned, finally, to the ability to create movement with my own force of will.

I opened my eyes again and the room returned to normal. No halos, but my leg still hurt like hell and was demanding medication.

I sat with my hands on the muscle that still pulsed with residual tremors. I should dig out the Vicodin and feed the damned thing what it wanted.

I had the backpak on the bed in front of me and the crutches leaning on the mattress when the phone on the bedside table rang with a trembling sound like a keychain being shaken. Since no one of my acquaintance could possibly know where I was, I decided it must be Mrs. McIvers … checking up on me.

I was right … and wrong. When I lifted the receiver and answered, a somewhat younger female voice said: "Mr. Calloway?"

"Yeah … who's this?"

"My name is Margo Mason, Mr. Calloway. Mrs. McIvers asked me to call you about two o'clock to check on your … ahh … check to see whether you're all right? Since you're in the handicap suite and … sorry, I don't mean to pry … But are you okay? She was concerned …"

I sighed. This was going to be an interesting stay. Not one, but two 'Goody-Two-Shoes' females with cow eyes for the wounded-and-bloody males in their midst. How the hell could I get so lucky on my first day back in the states? I hoped the damn hotel had a few male staff members who would just look me up and down and go about their business.

"I'm fine, thanks. I just got up from a very nice, long sleep. Thanks for checking, but I'm good. Really." I was biting my lips raw from the flow of lies erupting from between them.

*Get the hell off the phone, Nurse! I'm a big boy now.*

"That's good to know, Mr. Calloway. If you need anything, please call. Goodbye."

"'Bye," I said, and hung up and said a few choice words under my breath. She was insulted. I could tell by the abruptness.

*Well shit!*

I dragged my sorry ass to the bathroom and plopped the backpak on the counter by the sink. I dug out the Vicodin and took two with a tiny paper cup of water. After relieving myself I sat back down on the commode seat and undressed the rest of the way to the skin. I rubbed my palm experimentally over the scar. The recovering nerves reminded me not to press too hard or they would become angry again. I sighed and stretched my leg out to relax it.

Looking down in appraisal of my knobby body, it was obvious I'd been in the sun in a much warmer climate than this one. My arms and legs were dark from the Barbados sun. My face, with the newly trimmed beard, reminded me of Robert DiNiro on a bad day.

I pushed myself up and step-hopped to the fancy turbo-tub with the aid of grab bars. I opened the door and slid onto the bench. Looking around, I closed the drain, locked the door handle and turned on the cascading water as hot as I could stand it. Modern plumbing! Blew my mind.

It filled quickly and I found that if I slid downward, I was soon immersed to my neck in luxuriant hot sudsy water. It did wonders for my pissed-off leg. Lingering discomfort from the long trip back to the states faded like melting butter. Leisurely I lathered my hair and my face and ran a washcloth across my body, pretending I was being ravished by some luscious young thing …

*Yeah … right!*

After a half hour I let the water drain out and rinsed off with the spray attachment that I pulled out of the wall. I wrapped up in a Turkish towel and followed the path of grab bars back to the sink. Quickly I trimmed the beard and mustache and shaved down the rest 'til I was satisfied with the result. With this face, one can only do so much …

The bed still looked inviting, but I needed to get some things done, and I reluctantly turned away from the temptation. I sat down and pulled the backpak to my side. Methodically I pulled item after item out of its murky depths until I was completely surrounded by a litter of "stuff", including my wallet and a mountain of crumpled, wrinkled and smelly cash. I sorted it according to denominations and came up with 16,477 dollars and about ten bucks worth of change from the poker playing. After a year on Barbados, I figured I'd pretty much come out ahead of the game. I rolled the biggest bills and put a rubber band around them. The rest I stuffed in the wallet to use for incidentals. Finally, at the bottom of the bag, I found what I'd been looking for: One pair of blue jeans, two white tee shirts, two pairs of grey socks and two pairs of boxer briefs. Except for my laptop and its charger and my beard trimmer, I dumped everything else back in the backpak and set it aside. It was significantly lighter.

I had to stop first at Vince Crane's place to get the Dynasty, providing he hadn't got sick of it sitting around and sent it off to that big junkyard in the sky …

I must register my new name at the court house, but I could probably do that by mail or online. I figured a spoken name didn't necessarily have to coincide with the written one … did it?

I must also find a ground-floor apartment, or a second-floor or third-floor place with an elevator: a place where I could roost while I researched for the right surgeon to evaluate my leg and make arrangements for the inevitable amputation. (I needed to stop fooling myself.)

First the Dynasty. Then the storage unit. Then the apartment. I hoped my endurance lasted long enough to get it all done.

I called Vince Crane, bracing myself for the explosion at the other end of the line when he realized who was calling.

I wasn't disappointed.

"Jeezuschrist! Greg! Greg House? Is it really you? You've returned from the dead. I was beginning to think you disappeared into a black hole. How are you? Where are you?"

I was laughing. There was just no other way to greet what came over that phone line, detonating a land mine against my eardrum. "Take it easy, Vince. Slow down. I said I'd be back to settle up, didn't I? Well, I'm back, and I'd like to pick up my car … if it's ready …"

"Ohmigod! It's so good to hear your voice … I can't tell ya … whaddaya mean, 'if it's ready?' It's been ready for eight months. It looks so damn good that I could've sold it ten times over. Even Jimmy said it looked good. So when are you coming by to get it?"

The bottom dropped out of my stomach. He had talked to Wilson. I gulped back the implications and let it drop.

"How about now? I kinda need it, y'know? Figure up a final bill and I'll settle up when I see you. How've you been? You sound the same."

There was a slight hesitation. We had been on the line for more than a minute and I had not called him an obscene name or insulted his manhood or his intelligence. It stood to reason that he might wonder if I was an imposter. "I'm good," he finally said. "Except you haven't called me an asshole yet. Are you sure this is really you?"

I laughed again. "Knew you were thinking that. I'm coming over there, so if you want me to call you an asshole, that can be arranged … in about a half hour."

I decided not to tell him about my name change. If he still had contact with Wilson, then my little game of making Wilson come to me would go down the drain and all my scheming would be for nothing. The taxi dropped me off in front of his dealership and I made my way through the front door very cautiously. Vince was at his desk, but when he heard the door open, he came hurrying around it to meet me as I approached him.

"Aw Greg … no-o-o … ! You told me you were going away until your leg healed. I put the hand controls in your car, but I didn't think you'd need them. What the hell is this?"

I shrugged. "Sorry, Vince … didn't work. It got worse. I guess one of these days I'm gonna lose it."

"Ah man … that sucks. I'm so sorry. Are you still in pain? And what's with the foot?"

Turns out, I told him everything. When I'd first had the infarction, Vince was so horrified that it took years before he could gather the courage to even face me. Now, things were changing for both of us. I didn't call him an asshole, and he didn't cringe from the sight of me. My leg was worse, but his courage had grown and moved into sorrowful acceptance. To my surprise, he moved closer and took me into his embrace, rubbing my back and whispering: "I'm so damn sorry … you didn't deserve this, my friend." I was embarrassed to the tips of my reddened ears, and Vince knew it, but it seemed he couldn't help himself. We stood with shoulders touching long enough that he was embarrassed as well, and we backed away slowly.

Later, he mentioned that he had talked to Wilson briefly, and sold him an older model car because he had moved to a rougher part of town. Wilson intended to move on, Vince said, but he didn't know where yet. I stored the information, but didn't comment on it, other than to say it was a shame that all of us had to break up the way we did.

After that, I approached my own beautiful old car … bill paid in full … somehow Vince said I'd sent enough … and opened the door. There was nothing left for us to talk about.

When I started it up, the Dynasty purred like a kitten. I waved to Vince and drove out the back way. I waved to Joe too, set the hand controls and pulled into the sunlight.

Now to the storage unit.

Home was the cripple … home from Fantasy Island …

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