PART THREE
It was near dawn when I returned to Donna's penthouse. I had promised to update her. I knew she would be waiting even at this hour. I could have been here sooner but I had detoured back to the hospital to check out Harrison's story.
Supposedly he had a granddaughter who couldn't afford chemo. They had applied to the Wayne Foundation for help. They were turned down. Why? Because Neville Harrison made $500 over the Foundation's income limits. $500. Money isn't the root of all evil, lack of money is.
His story checked out. Needless to say I arranged for the girl's treatments to be covered. In exchange for Harrison turning himself in. Of course, I would've seen that the girl was treated either way. I just didn't bother to tell him that.
There was a small square of paper taped to the window. Thirty floors up. It was a good bet the note was for me.
"Gyros in the crockpot. Love, D."
I changed clothes before I entered the penthouse. Sure enough, the aroma of Donna's gyros filled the place. I grinned. When she stressed out, she cooked. For her to spend all day on her melt in your mouth gyros, she had to be going through a lot. Good therapy for her. Free food for me. Who was I to complain?
I filled a warm pita, took a huge bite. Heaven. It wasn't the Romani cooking I had grown up on in the circus, but it was a damn good substitute.
I checked the fridge. Tomatoes. Onions. Cucumber dressing. If I played my cards right maybe I could wheedle some moussaka or dolmas out of her for the weekend. I'd pass on the baklava. Didn't want to be greedy, right?
I checked the fridge again. Grabbed a bottle of Aegean Ale. For real. Aegean Ale. Brewed and bottled on the island paradise of Themyscira. Hokey name, great beer. Roy and I took turns raiding each other's stashes.
Roy.
I glanced down the hall to his makeshift bedroom. The door was closed. Lights off. Quiet. He wasn't even snoring. I would have felt better if he had been.
I loaded a plate and headed for the living room. A dark silhouette curled up on the couch. Donna. Light from the t.v. flickered across her face. I glanced at the screen. Nothing but Channel 53's station logo.
I plopped across from her. Waved my beer at the t.v.
"Hey, my favorite show! Tell me I didn't miss the best part. Hate when that happens."
"There's a best part?"
"Yeah--at 5:01 the fat lady sings." She looked skeptical.
"Seriously. At 5:01 a Metro Opera wannabe signs the station on with 'The Star Spangled Banner.'"
She gave me "the look". You know. Arched eyebrow, tilted chin, finger pressed against her lips. It was a look that every woman since Eve seemed to know from birth. It was supposed to be thoughtful. The real meaning could be anything from "If you loved me, you'd know why I'm upset." to "We are so not buying that red sportscar."
And, of course, my personal favorite I'd learned from Babs on our first dinner date. "Yes, you ordered dessert. Yes, I said I didn't want any. Hand over the cappuccino mousse or I'll have to hurt you."
I'd seen Donna pull the dessert trick, too. Maybe it's a hormone thing. Not that I would ever suggest that to either of the women out loud.
I like breathing too much.
This time, Donna's gesture was easy to decipher. She just wanted to know if I was pulling her leg or not.
Right on cue, the station cut away to a large woman in a garishly theatrical dress. I grinned.
"Would I make that up?"
She threw a pillow at me. I laughed. Caught myself before I got too loud. Didn't want to wake Roy. Donna saw me look towards his room.
"He's not here."
That surprised me.
"He's making a night of it with Ollie."
I glanced up. I couldn't remember a time when Donna had left so much unsaid.
She wouldn't look at me. Just kept swirling her fork through the frosting of half-eaten cake in front of her. I studied her face.
"Donna?"
"He's supposed to restart chemo tomorrow."
"So?"
Her eyes met mine. It was a look that tightened my heart.
God, I hated seeing Donna hurt.
"He won't go."
Her fingers trembled, sending her fork clattering to her plate. She set it down. I followed suit. The sudden nausea in my stomach had nothing to do with lack of food.
"I'll talk to him."
Her voice cracked with emotion. "He won't go."
I let the Bat creep into my voice, "I'll talk to him, Donna."
She crawled across the couch into my lap. Burrowed her head into my shoulders. Her fingers twisted in my shirt. I knew what direction Donna's thoughts--hell, our thoughts--had taken. Roy could die. How many others had we already buried between us?
Fifteen years since my parents had died. Three years since Donna had lost her son. Grief was like that. It could well up out of nowhere, wash over you, suck you back into the darkness of old heartaches.
If it had been Bruce, we would have gone down to the cave and spent a few rounds boxing each other into bloody pulps. With Donna, I wasn't sure who was crying first. She made small hiccuping noises against my chest. My tears dampened her hair.
Donna whispered against my skin. Soft and rapid. Greek. I had to concentrate to understand. When I realized what she was saying, I closed my eyes and added my prayers to hers.
