Chapter 56

"The Gift of Thanks from UPS"

MID-DECEMBER:

EIGHT O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING.

I'M AWAKE … NOT 'UP'.

TODAY, 'UP' IS THE LAST THING I WANT TO BE.

IT'S BITTER COLD OUTSIDE AND THE FURNACE HAS BEEN RUNNING CONSTANTLY FOR DAYS. THE SUN IS BARELY VISIBLE, AND I KEPT STARING AT THE BEDROOM WINDOW AND THE FROST THAT'S BEEN FORMING PATTERNS ON THE GLASS. IT HASN'T SNOWED YET, BUT IT SURE IS MISERABLE ENOUGH TO LET GO ANY MINUTE.

I NEEDED TO GET MOVING BECAUSE MY BONES FELT AS FROZEN IN PLACE AS THE LAMP POST ON THE STREET CORNER. THE OLD STEREO ACROSS THE ROOM WAS PLAYING A SELECTION FROM BACH THAT MADE ME LIE HERE AND JUST ABSORB THE MUSIC LIKE COTTON ABSORBS WATER. IT'S ONE OF BACH'S MORE OBSCURE WORKS, AND I CAN'T QUITE PUT A NAME TO IT. IT HOLDS ME IN THRALL AS THOUGH TO MISS A SINGLE PASSAGE WOULD BE AN UNFORGIVABLE SIN. IT'S PART OF A CONCERTO IN D MINOR, I THINK, BECAUSE I COULD HEAR THE OBOE WAILING … OH WELL, DOESN'T MATTER. IT'S A BEAUTIFUL WORK. I LAY STILL UNTIL IT WAS FINISHED, THEN REACHED FOR THE REMOTE AND TURNED IT OFF.

THE RED NUMBERS OF THE CLOCK ON MY DRESSER KEEP MOVING TOWARD NINE …

I SIGHED AND ROLLED THE BEDCOVERS BACK ... MY LEG HURTS …

Eventually I pushed myself up and hunched my shoulders to get the nighttime kinks out. I'm slowly getting the knack of maneuvering a heavy winter sock onto my right foot without torturing myself in the process; the foot is always cold … so I did that gingerly, and pulled another sock and sneaker onto the left one. Gray sweatsuit; the one I wore to bed, will be my uniform of the day. Easy Peasy.

I wish, just once, I would wake up and not hurt.

My leg kept cramping and waking me up all night long, and I was afraid to try to go to work. I called Joe Garrett and told him I was having problems. There was a significant silence on the line for a few moments, and then he asked if I needed him to come over. I said it wasn't necessary; I'd just take it easy today and keep my leg propped up. He didn't hassle me. It wouldn't get him anywhere. By now he knows what a stubborn S.O.B. I can be.

I've been holding him off by admitting that I knew the leg had to come off eventually, and I was seriously thinking about having the team schedule the surgery. That shut him up temporarily, but I know that if I don't soon make the decision he'll be back riding my ass again.

That's why I felt justified in taking the day off to baby myself and do absolutely nothing I don't want to do.

What I do want to do is get back under the covers and catch up on my sleep …

… but instead I would begin my day with a pot of coffee and a couple of English muffins slathered with butter and Strawberry jam.

I peppered the air with a string of colorful curse words and shifted across to my wheelchair. I jammed the crutches into the holder in back. I pulled the bedcovers up and pronounced the bed: 'made'.

I took myself to the john and let the floodgates open, after which I remembered to wash my hands with anti-bacterial soap … like a good boy.

I was settled on the sofa, leg resting uncomfortably on one of the pillows. My coffee mug and the second muffin sat on a small side table next to me. I had just taken a Vicodin with an Immatrax chaser, and turned on the TV. I was ready to spend the day channel-surfing and fooling around with the 'Premium Channels' … whatever they called them nowadays … anything to occupy my mind with something besides my leg. I eyed the second muffin and the last half of the coffee, and I was about to delve into the goodies offered by HBO and Cinemax.

Somebody chose that moment to stomp across the porch and knock on the front door. If it was Joe Garrett checking up on me, I would ream him a new you-know-what!

"Who is it?" I stuffed half the last muffin into my face, muted the TV and set the coffee mug down.

"UPS," said the voice on the other side of the door. "I have a delivery for Kyle Calloway …"

*What the hell … ?*

"Hold your horses. I'm coming." I swallowed the lump of muffin, grabbed the crutches off the wheelchair and eased my foot off the cushion, which immediately caused my leg to clench up tight. Gingerly, I got myself to an upright position, searching for balance and ouching under my breath. I pushed the wheelchair out of the way across the room and slowly maneuvered to the door … which I opened to face a brown young man in a brown winter uniform beneath a heavy brown coat. He held a clipboard and a ball-point pen with a gold UPS logo …

The kid stood with the clipboard, pen poised … until he saw the crutches and the dour expression on my face. "Geez, sir, I didn't mean to …"

I cut him off with a wave of my hand. "Finish apologizing inside, kid. It's too damn cold out there to hang around with the door open." I hopped a step back to let him enter, which he did, and he also closed the door behind him, still looking apologetic.

"This apartment rents only to people with disabilities, as you can see," I continued. "You don't have to apologize for that … it's not your fault that I fit the description the sign warned you about. Now what is it you want? I didn't order anything that I can remember, so why is UPS knocking at my door?"

He stared at me like a deer in the headlights, quickly processing everything, including my attitude and the configuration of the apartment, and what the hell he might say to me in response that wouldn't make me angrier than he took me to be. What he finally said was something I least expected: "Wow, man, this is a cool place! Been looking around for something like this where I live, but they're really expensive … unhhh … sorry." He closed his mouth, raised his eyebrows and stared at me in chagrin. I was a little shaky on my feet (foot), and he wasn't sure if I needed help to sit down … or what.

I didn't want to smile. Didn't want to laugh. My leg hurt like a bitch, and all I wanted to do was get rid of this kid and hit the sofa again. But he had got to me. He reminded me of Wilson when I'd had enough of his damn lectures and lit into him like a Dutch uncle. I raised an eyebrow in return and shrugged. "Just tell me about the thing you're delivering, and maybe I can figure out what it is."

"Thanks, Mr. Calloway … you are Mr. Calloway, aren't you?"

"Yes. I'm Mr. Calloway. Who are you?"

His large dark eyes widened over the fact that I would even want to know. "Ben," he said. "Ben Burgess at your service. And honest, I don't know what it is. It's a big honkin' wooden crate, and the sticker on the front of it says it came from the island of Barbados …"

This time it was my eyes that widened.

*What the hell … ?* (Again.)

But then, immediately, I knew. After all this time …

Suddenly I was grinning. Leg pain pushed to the background; the distraction I'd wished for for twenty four hours.

Ben brought the crate inside, riding high on a two-wheel dolly. I signed the papers he held out to me, and when he handed me a copy and made ready to leave, I palmed him a twenty in return and thanked him for his service. He grinned and winked and wished me well. I knew he, and others like him, had a rigid schedule to maintain, or I'd have asked him to help me break open the box.

After he left I switched back to the wheelchair and rubbed at my leg until it began to simmer down again. I then rolled out to the kitchen for a claw hammer. When I got back, I found that the fasteners that held the front of the box in place came off easily when I placed the claw end of the hammer behind them and yanked carefully.

The front of the box came off and I lifted it away to set it aside. Layers of heavy kapok packing fell out on the floor and revealed what I already knew I would see. The beautiful old Zenith floor model radio from the 1940s that had given me so many pleasurable hours on Barbados, stood before me; its huge dark 'eye' peeking out at me with an electronic smugness that almost made me laugh. It also made my eyes sting like hell.

*Hooley Puli … I wondered what became of you. Thanks! I love you, man …*

I propped on the sofa again, babying my leg. Getting the radio out of its packing crate was impossible for me to accomplish alone. If I didn't end up damaging it by trying to work from a wheelchair, then I would probably damage myself by exerting the same effort. Since I didn't want to ruin anything on the old instrument, I let it stand in the middle of the floor with only the front panel visible. Sighing with impatience, I leaned back to channel surf the TV again until I could recruit a willing helper.

At a little past one o'clock, when I knew lunch hour was over at the Watson Inn, I called the front desk to talk to Vern or Jake or Jerry … whoever was on duty. A very deep voice answered politely: Vern at his most professional. I almost laughed in his ear. "Hey Vern …"

"Hi Kyle. Everything all right? It's unusual for you to call here in the middle of the day."

"I took the day off," I said lightly. (None of his business, and I didn't want to sound whiny.) "There's a big wooden crate standing in the middle of my living room. UPS dropped it off this morning. It has an antique floor-model radio in it, and I'm in no position to try to get it out. When somebody has some free time, I'd sure appreciate a hand getting the thing unpacked."

"Sure, Kyle," Vern said. "No problem. Lily and the kids are finishing up in the kitchen. I can't leave the desk right now. This place is like a funeral parlor over here, but about the time I take a break, someone will want a room or a sandwich or a seven-course meal. Jake should be able to tear loose in about a half hour, if that's okay with you. Are you all right? Your voice sounds a little shaky …"

I sighed and looked up at the ceiling with a roll of my eyes. I couldn't make a move without somebody asking questions … well-meaning, but infuriating. "I'm fine, Vern. Honest. I wish you guys wouldn't worry about me. I'll leave the front door unlocked. Whoever comes over, tell him to come on in. I'll be on the sofa fooling with the TV …"

"Okay Kyle … if you say so. I'll tell whoever comes out here first to check in with you. Do you need anything?"

"Nope, I'm good. Thanks Vern. Later."

We rang off and I put the phone down on the side table. Picked up the coffee mug.

"Ugh! Jesus!" It was stone cold.

I found a movie on MAX. "The Quartet." Maggie Smith. Billy Connelly. I sat back to watch it; pulled a comforter over my legs and up to my chin. Not my usual fare, but what the hell … everyone knew Maggie Smith was a rare gift from Mt. Olympus …

I woke up when Jake Harvey touched my shoulder. He pointed to the big wooden crate in the middle of my floor. "Kyle? Are you okay? And what the hell is that thing?"

I sat up slowly, rubbing my eyes, blinking away the sudden wooziness. The movie's credits were rolling.

*Shit!*

"Hi Jake. Must've dropped off for a second."

Of course he didn't believe me. "Yeah, a likely story."

"Dammit, I'm fine. Don't patronize me. I feel sorry for myself enough without everybody else jumping on the bandwagon …" I grabbed the remote and turned off the TV.

He raised his hand, palm out, to make me stop talking. "Okay, okay. You're my friend, Kyle … dammit. We keep asking because we care about you. Izzat a crime?"

"No ... sorry. My bad. Never mind. Let's just unpack my 1940 radio, okay? Then we'll talk."

I had him at "radio". He frowned. "That thing's a radio? Must be on steroids. Who would send you an eighty year old radio that takes up all that floor space, when you can get one that fits in your pocket for a couple of bucks?" I'd forgot for a minute how young he was.

"Where the hell did it come from?"

And there it was. The Question. I didn't know how it would be worded when it came, but I wasn't surprised. A radio arriving at my doorstep from Barbados begged answers to multiple questions. I knew a reckoning would sneak up and cold-cock me one day, and I'd have to tell some, or all these people, my backstory. In fact the timing was pretty good. Jake was a good friend and I trusted him. I guessed it was time I revealed a few of my dirty little secrets.

"You gotta remember there weren't any TVs around when this thing was made, and even I wasn't born yet. They built 'em fancy and powerful and almost as good as stereo. I'll show you when we get it out of there …"

Jake snorted. "'We?' I will get the radio out of the crate. I will do it very carefully, and I'll hand you the hunks of packaging as I get 'em out. Please, Kyle, stay where you are. I didn't say anything before, but you look like hell, man."

I glared at him, but he didn't glance away as he might have done before. He stood his ground and looked me in the eye. "This thing have anything to do with where you were before you came here?" He was already removing chunks of kapok.

Third question. Damn. He had pegged me smack-dab in the middle of the bull's eye painted on my forehead. He was also right about my physical status. I hurt, and I needed a distraction. I sighed and tilted my head back. Stared at the ceiling for a couple of seconds. It was time

"Yeah … it does.

"Right after the third surgery on my leg," I began, "I spent a year on the island of Barbados. I thought maybe the rest and the sun and the isolation would help me heal faster. It didn't. Instead, the problem with my leg went downhill from there.

"I met this guy who was a nurse. An APRN … Advanced Practice Registered Nurse, with a Masters' degree. He worked out of a clinic there, and looked after me and treated my leg when I was unable to do it myself, which was most of the time. The thing was, I was angry and bitter and in pain and I didn't listen to anyone unless I felt like it … and I seldom felt like it. I might be walking with a cane now if I'd followed his instructions. But that's on me. Anyway, I lived in a cabin that had electricity supplied by a generator … so no TV, WiFi, or fancy electronics. It powered the fridge, the water pump and the lights. Not much else.

"Hooley … his name was Hooley … brought that radio to the cabin for me. I played the thing night and day. When I left the island, I hated to leave it behind, but it was his. I had only borrowed it.

"While I was away, my Mom and Stepdad both died. Nobody knew where I was, because I never told anybody. So I didn't know.

"My mom kept Dad's pickup truck after he died. It was a big Dodge Ram, and it was more than I could handle. I couldn't even get into it. It was stick shift, so I couldn't drive it either. All Hooley had on the island was a dune buggy that had seen better days, and an old Harley that was even worse. I shipped him the pickup because he could sure use it … he takes care of a lot of patients … mostly retirees.

"This radio, I think, is Hooley's 'thank you' for the truck. He doesn't say much, but he has a big heart.

"That's most of the story. The rest is only details. Nobody from my former life has a clue where I am, and I think I'm okay with that."

Jake worked at the packing crate while listening to my story. "Can't believe you stayed a whole year on a damn desert island. What were you hiding from? Really?"

Oh boy! Another $64,000 question.

"Myself," I said finally. "Back then, nobody wanted to be around me. I was a bastard. I fucked over a lot of people. Patients stopped asking for me, I screamed at anybody who tried to approach me, and after a while even my last friend told me to go to hell. I got in my car and drove it up my girlfriend's driveway and smashed it through her front window and into the dining room … all because she had the nerve to break up with me. I had just gotten out of the hospital after the last leg surgery, and I was a mess. I got on a plane and went all the way to Barbados. Big mistake. Or maybe not. But it made me decide to clean up my act. Hooley was a big influence in getting me to do that.

"I always wanted to live in New England, so when I flew back to the states, here's where I finally landed. I've been trying ever since to make myself over and stop being such an asshole. I guess it's been working okay … because the folks around here seem to think I'm something special. I'm working with people I respect … and very soon I'm going to have something done about my leg. It scares the hell out of me, but I've been seeing an orthopedic team, and I'm waiting for them to set up a date for the surgery. Maybe even before Christmas."

Jake was sitting on the floor with a screwdriver in his hand. He had just removed the last panel from the back of the big Zenith and set it aside. He leaned back against the couch where I sat. His body turned slightly toward me, and his rough-skinned, working-man's hand hefted upward until it met my own, resting across my lap. He squeezed my fingers like he was dreaming that he was shaking hands with Mohamed Ali.

"I don't know what to say, man," he mumbled. His voice had a little waver in it, and dammit, I felt my eyes sting up like a little old lady whose cat had just died. "Thanks for telling me your story. You had a shitty time of it, and I feel real good that you trusted me enough to hear it. And best of all, you're going to let them fix your leg. That's really good news."

He let go of my hand and stood up. Neither of us said much as he gathered the panels and the kapok insulation and set them outside on the porch. He cleaned up the residue on the floor with a broom and dust pan and put it in the trash.

Jake plugged the radio in at the alcove across the room. The dial was set on an English-speaking station from Hong Kong. The song they were playing was "Love Me Tender".

We both sang along.

When Jake left, he asked if he could tell Lily about my upcoming leg surgery …

"Tell anybody you want to. It's not much of a secret anymore.

"Actually, it never was …"

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