Ch. 26
Friday
5.
He began regretting having sold his sneakers almost as soon as he started walking.
Frenchie had thoughtfully let Jack take his flip-flops in the exchange, but the thin rubber sandals were not only a size too small, and no protection from the rain, but they gave his leg neither support nor cushion. Each step jarred painfully and, combined with the stiffness and pain of the infection that was now thriving in the gash in his knee, it meant he was soon forced to proceed without using his right leg at all. His left leg thought little of this arrangement and said so. For its part, the right thigh quickly grew too tired for even the small task of keeping his right foot airborne, and he was reduced to dragging his right foot behind him. At some stage the flip-flop got tugged off, or broke, he was too tired to find out which, too tired to even consider bending over to put it back on.
The heat radiating off Jack's body had dried his clothes at some point in the night, but he was soon soaked again. Rain dripped steadily off the brim of his baseball cap, which was snugged beneath the parka hood that covered as much of his head and face as he could manage. Still, he could feel cold drips making their way down his neck and back. He had more and more trouble breathing and had to stop to pant for breath every few steps, making small clouds of steam in the raw air. He stumbled on, trying to remember the directions he'd been given for Princeton Plainsboro Hospital, a task that seemed to grow in complexity with every step he took. Was it "first right and second left?" Or "second right and first left?"
One mile was a huge distance, he was discovering. Still, he'd gotten an early start, and he could afford to stop and rest at every stone wall, bench or guard rail that came along. If worse came to worse, he could always try hitch-hiking. He wasn't the most attractive specimen—he was well aware of that—but he hadn't even left the sidewalk or stuck out his thumb and there, ahead of him, a silver Volvo was slowing down, its brake lights winking on. Jack stupidly hesitated, instead of picking up his pace or signaling to the driver, then watched as the brake lights blinked off and the Volvo continued on without stopping. Driver probably got a better look and decided not to risk the damage to his leather upholstery.
Jack lowered himself onto a stonewall that ran along the sidewalk and turned his burning face to the sky, trying to catch some raindrops in his mouth. He was not only parched but famished and he reached into his pocket for the chicken he'd hoarded there, chicken scrounged from a table in South Station when the owner of the Caesar salad—a well dressed commuter, by the look of him—had suddenly bolted for the train without touching his meal. It took Jack a moment to remember that he'd left the chicken on the bus. The napkin he'd wrapped the chicken strips in had congealed to the greasy meat, and he'd been trying, with shaking fingers, to peel it off, when he'd dropped it and watched the whole thing slide out of reach under his seat.
He sighed and pushed himself to his feet. Propped the crutches in place. Ahead was a traffic circle. What had the person said to do here? Take a left? But as he headed around the roundabout, he couldn't figure out which way was left. All the roads were on his right, weren't they? Round he went, trying to recall, trying to make sense of it.
Maybe he would never get there. Maybe he'd be stuck here forever, going around and around.
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