Chapter 18
"The Gift"
A WEEK PASSED SLOWLY WHILE I SPENT TIME WONDERING HOW FONZE AND MOSCHA WERE MAKING OUT BACK IN THE CITY. BIG APPLE. GOTHAM. METROPOLIS. NOT THAT IT REALLY MATTERED. THEY HAD WOVEN IN AND OUT OF MY LIFE THE SAME AS SO MANY OTHERS BEFORE THEM. EXCEPT THAT THESE TWO WERE POTENTIAL FRIENDS WHO GOT AWAY. IN DUE TIME THEIR FACES WOULD BLUR AND LIFE WOULD GO ON. IN THE MEANTIME I WAS STILL A BIT BUMMED. THE RODRIGUEZ'S HAD BEEN FUNNY AND NON-JUDGMENTAL AND A HOOT TO SPEND TIME WITH. I MISSED THEM … ESPECIALLY THAT DAMN KID.
IT HAD BEEN DIFFICULT GETTING DRESSED TODAY. MY LEG WENT INTO SPASM AFTER SPASM AND THE LIGAMENTS WERE TIGHT. NOTHING NEW. GINGERLY, I PULLED ON A PAIR OF CUTOFFS AND AN OLD TEE SHIRT. I ATE THE LAST OF THE HONEY NUT CHEERIOS, DRANK A CUP OF MOSCHA'S MINT TEA AND PREPARED TO GET BACK TO DOING MY EXERCISES.
ANTICIPATION-OF-PAIN WAS ON ME AGAIN AND I COULD NOT SEEM TO GET PAST IT. I DREADED THE EXERCISES BECAUSE I WAS HURTING ALREADY, AND I KNEW WHAT THEY WOULD LEAVE BEHIND IN THEIR WAKE.
THE ARM CANES WERE PRETTY MUCH DONE FOR. THE ONE I HAD LOBBED AT THE FLEEING DRUG DEALER WAS BENT TO THE POINT OF CREASING THE ALUMINUM AND BECOMING A PIECE OF JUNK. ONCE BENT, THE SUPPORT RODS WERE NEXT TO USELESS. I HAD DUMPED THEM IN THE CLOSET AND REVERTED SOLELY TO MY OLD CANE, WHICH WASN'T IN MUCH BETTER SHAPE.
I had the radio turned low: listening to a station in New Orleans that was playing the blues. Muddy Watters, Bessie Smith, Billie Holiday and a few others. The music helped take the edge off the pain.
I was cleaning up the kitchen after lunch. I had struggled through two sets of exercises, and the lingering ache was maddening. I couldn't sit still and I tried working it off by keeping busy. I wiped down the sink and drain board, and turned around to do the table.
My leg buckled suddenly … I was always caught off guard by that … and I staggered sideways to grab onto the nearest stable object to keep me upright. I hugged the edge of the sink and leaned over it, gasping. The cane was not within easy reach, so I leaned there until I stopped seeing stars. I rested my sock foot atop the other one to let it ease off.
Outside in the spot where Hooley usually parked the dune buggy, I heard the sound of a much larger engine. I looked up, momentarily pulled away from my world of hurt by mortal curiosity. All I could see was the passenger side of a big SUV, silver grey. It lugged to a stop and the engine clicked through the gears and shut down. I saw the driver's door swing open on the other side as a silver-haired man in tailored jeans and white sport shirt got out. Shortly, the rear door swung open. The man reached in and gathered up a long, thin corrugated cardboard box. Both doors closed with a solid thump.
I hobbled crazily across to the bed and backed against it. My cane was hanging off the head end and I grabbed it before craning my neck to see who in hell would be coming here in the middle of the day. It certainly wasn't Hooley or any of the men from the Tiki Bar.
An errant, panicky thought ran through my mind that it was a local cop, come to drag my homesick ass away for past misdeeds. I snorted to myself at the irony of imagining a sniper's rifle emerging from the box. Footsteps mounting the porch steps had me frowning, straining to see who it was.
"Sit down, son," said a soft voice that I recognized immediately. "It's only me … the Greek bearing gifts," followed by a gravelly chuckle.
I pushed back onto the bed and stared. "Packy? Is that you? What the hell are you doing, and why are you dressed in that getup? I didn't know you. What's in the box?"
He smiled and walked over to place it on the table. "Well now I'll tell ya … whenever you decide to stop sputtering … I brought you something that Hooley and Fonze and I all think you need, but there ain't nowhere on Barbados where they sell them in this color. Not yet, anyway. So I brought these back with me from San Juan. There was one pair left." He sounded almost apologetic.
If it hadn't been for the unmistakable growl of his gruff voice, I would never have known him. Gone were the threadbare shorts, the sleeveless old rag of a tee shirt, and the ancient rope sandals. In their place he wore a pair of tight-fittin' jeans … like in the song … a tailored white shirt cut in cowboy style, and spiffy black western boots with bulldoggin' heels. His hair was combed and groomed, not sticking up like a cat had been licking at it. His facial hair was neatly trimmed and his cheeks looked titty pink from scrubbing. He even smelled good. Like Irish Spring. He looked like the 'Mike Franks' character from N.C.I.S.
I sat back on the bed like a kid who has just sighted Santa Claus in the men's toilet with his pants down. "You remind me of some eccentric millionaire," I said. "Checking on the peons who run his plantations. So, what's in the box?"
His sharp blue eyes cornered me with a look that made me wonder if I hadn't come dangerously close to some mysterious truth. "Not a bad guess," he said. "As a matter fact, I am your landlord, believe it or not, but that's got nothin' to do with why I'm here."
A cold wash of shock slithered down my spine in anticipation of something revolutionary in the offing. He owned this place? HE was the dude responsible for rigging up those two Feinbergers in my back yard? Had he also discovered fire and invented the wheel? "Wanna fill me in, Packy, if that's really your name? Or is it a pseudonym for Murdoch or Balenciaga or Iacocca? A little more information would be nice."
He smiled and removed the lid from the box, revealing nothing except a wad of packing paper. "My name," he finally admitted, "shouldn't even be spoken in the same breath as those three esteemed gentlemen. I'm well set financially, but my so-called 'wealth' is all inherited. Every penny. My grandpa worked for Henry Ford in Detroit, and they became friends. Gramps was a laborer, but he had a flair for design. Mr. Ford saw some of his drawings and liked them and used them. They turned out to be very popular, as in Model A and Zephyr. Gramps sold the patents to Ford and earned himself a nice bundle in commissions. He invested most of it. When Gramps died, my dad inherited everything. Pop worked at Ford Motor Works too, and made a good living. He played the stock market and parlayed the damn inheritance into a small fortune.
"When he died, I, being another only child, scooped up the whole she-bang at the ripe old age of twenty. My full name is Alan Rance Packard, Jr., but you'll never read it in any society pages or lists of 'who's who'. I don't run with them people.
"Don't you never tell nobody, Calloway! Or I'll start calling you 'Gregory House' out loud. 'What's in the box?' you ask." He stopped talking and reached for the packing paper in the long cardboard box.
I was still processing what he'd told me, but I heard a metallic rattle, and knew at once what the box contained. He threw the packing paper onto the floor and lifted two bright red lengths of folded-in-half, steel-rolled alloy onto the table with a clank, followed by a small pamphlet and instructions for assembly. I had heard about these things, but had never held them in my hands or used them.
Looked like that was about to change.
I watched as Packy unfolded the fancy crutches, checking to see that the under-arm pads, hand grips and swivel ferrules were there, plus all the hardware. He picked up a small tool (included) and tightened every nut, every screw; checked each bolt and lock washer to be sure they were all in place. He then walked over to where I was sitting and handed them to me. "The height should be just about right for you. Wanna try 'em out?" He might as well have been talking to some stranger about the weather.
When I took them from his hands, I found out that they were marvelously lightweight and easy to maneuver. And of course, incredibly strong.
They were called 'Millennials'. Ergonomic rolled-steel crutches like the ones used by athletes with leg injuries, and Sean Payton in particular, the coach of the New Orleans Saints, when he'd got rolled over beneath a rough sideline play.
"Wow! These are …"
Words of anything resembling gratitude remained locked tightly in my throat. My lack of social graces precluded any articulation of actual words that might express appreciation. Truthfully, I didn't want the damned things …
Nothing is more demoralizing than the discovery that even casual acquaintances have begun to notice that you need to use permanent walk-aids. I had no excuses left; no more denials. Using these indestructible crutches reminded me of some old race horse sentenced to pulling a meat wagon 'til the day he died. Bred to run, but reduced to the humiliation of infirmity. I had to use these in order to be able to walk without killing myself. I had finally turned the corner and become a 'forever-cripple'.
Packy stood looking at me in silence. He was probably thinking what I was thinking, and hating himself for being the messenger. He had changed out his whole persona and made this purchase in private. I would have bet any amount that he had even chosen the red ones on purpose. He delivered them in their shipping box so no other eyes would see … at least not right away.
So how do you say 'thank you' for such discretion? All I was capable of doing was sit there looking at him wordlessly and ghosting my fingers over the smooth, gleaming surfaces.
He smiled and shrugged. "You're welcome, son. I hope you heal real quick so you won't need 'em long." We both knew he was lying through his teeth. Packy had always known, from the day he flew me in, that that kind of healing wasn't going to happen for me.
"Thank you," I finally said out loud. But it was only one decibel above a whisper.
He didn't answer. Didn't want to perpetuate the lie.
He stood up and gathered the cardboard box and the packing paper, preparing to leave. "You should read the instructions for those things. They ought to be checked once in a while to make sure everything is tightened down."
I was still staring at him, questions piling up in my mind. Nothing to do with this impromptu kindness for me. Why was he working so hard at being an old-time island hopper when he could be living a life of leisure?
"Wait!" I said.
He turned and looked at me with knit brows.
"Are you in a hurry? I have a few questions …"
He threw back his head and laughed, and it broke the tension. He'd been uncertain how I would accept his gift, and I didn't want to insult him by acting like an ass.
"Well now … I aint in a hurry to be anyplace special, but if I stick around to shoot the shit, it'll cost ya. I'm taking a big chance that somebody down at Amos's will see me and want to know who the hell I stole the SUV from … and why I took a bath this early in the week …"
I rolled my eyes and pulled a face at him, grinning. "I have bottles of Vodka and Rum that haven't been opened yet, and a bottle of Gin that's about half full. Glasses are over the sink. Hooley brought me Ginger Ale and Dr. Pepper and 7Up. There's lemons and limes and ice in the fridge. You can help yourself. But while you're making whatever you're making … make two. Bring 'em out to the porch. 'Course you'll have to drag a chair along. There's only one out there, unless you want to use the wheelchair. Personally, I've had more than enough of that thing. In the meantime, I'm just gonna test these big boys out … make sure I don't go on my ass with 'em."
I pulled myself to my feet and settled the crutches beneath my arms. The height adjustment was exactly right. How the hell had he known? "I'll get us a couple of cigars out of the humidor in the closet. Those I can carry. You okay with all that?"
He nodded, watching me find my balance and make for the other end of the room. I knew able-bodied people seldom thought about the limitations that crutches can impose. No free hands to carry anything. No easy way to open a door. Going up and down steps is not only a hassle, but time-consuming.
I felt his eyes on my back as I placed full weight on the crutches and went into the closet. I didn't need to lean forward and place extra strain on my back. The underarm supports were curved and padded to fit the exact musculature of my physicality, and the hand grips didn't force my hands to maintain an awkward angle. I could stand at full height and still feel relaxed. When I took a step, I found that I was positioning the shafts ahead of me, not dragging them behind. I could also bring both legs forward at one time, lessening the strain of trying to keep the right foot off the floor. Wow!
I had taken long strides across the room. Long strides! My right leg did none of the work, but simply followed beside the left like it was glued fast. Anyone watching might believe that I suffered little more than a sprained ankle. It was that easy. I was smiling at the difference in comfort level and didn't even realize it. Nothing hurt other than the leg, and even that was lessened. Maybe I had grumbled too soon about having to use this type of walk-aid.
I lifted four cigars out of the humidor and put them into a small plastic bag from the shelf. I hung the bag from one of the hand grips and was good to go. I walked out to the porch and plunked down on the rattan chair. Hefted my leg onto the stool. Right behind me, Packy dragged one of the old recliners after him and set it down next to me. He turned and went back inside.
I heard the clink of ice cubes into glasses, and at that point I stopped listening. I reached down and removed a cigar; lit it up.
The glasses Packy brought with him were filled almost to the brim with a golden ice-cubie-lemon-limey- something-or-other that pretty much made my mouth water. "What's in those things?"
"Here," he said. "Check it out."
I did. The first sip was strong, like first sips always are, but I was sure I could figure it out. "Pretty damn good. What all's in 'em besides gin, ginger ale and lime?"
Packy threw back his head and laughed. "You got it right … gin, ginger ale, and a squirt of lime juice to cut the gin. Amos calls 'em 'Gin-Gins'. So tell me … what are those questions you wanted to ask?" He lit up a cigar and leaned back to puff on it. On his face was a smug look that told me he knew exactly what I'd say.
I glared at him; pointed to the fire-engine red crutches leaning across my lap. "Why did you do this?"
He shrugged. "Because you need 'em, son. You're hard as hell on the regular ones, and it's only a matter of time 'til you can't use that old wood cane anymore. It already looks like it came through the Civil War, and it's playin' hell with your spinal cord.
"The arm canes you dumped in the closet look like you were trying to knock Abe Lincoln off Mt. Rushmore with 'em. You lost the cane once. You'll probably lose it again. Fonz says your leg is in contracture, and he explained to me what that is. It didn't sound so good to me. I know somewhere down the line you'll have to let them amputate your leg. You know it too, so I got you something better before you kill yourself clanking around and falling over your own feet …"
I listened to what he was telling me, bristling a little at hearing the truth. He wasn't saying anything I didn't already know. It was the elephant in the room that Hooley had once mentioned … nowhere to hide from the reality. "I've known for years, Packy. It's just that you're the first person to level with me about it. You know that river in Egypt?"
"Yeah. De Nile. You're welcome. I cruised that river myself a few times …
"I need to change the subject."
His eyebrows came together. He knew that when I changed the subject, it would really be changed.
"To what?"
"Like … why do you fly people around in that rattletrap plane when you don't have to? That thing has seen better days. Lots of them. Also … where is it? You're cleaned up like a playboy, driving a fancy car I never saw before. You're living a lie just like me. How come?"
He rubbed his chin and studied my face like I was a fly in amber. He took a sip of his drink and a pull on the cigar. "First of all," he finally said," that old plane only looks like a rattletrap. It's that way on purpose. Customers pay good money to ride in it, and everything mechanical is on spec and it's maintained like a race car. I know, because I do most of the work myself. Don't let my clean hands fool you.
"The car is a 1999 Escalade. It's one of the originals and it has only 30,000 miles on it. I bought it because it was cool. It's carried a lot of heavy shit around the island for me."
"Like what? Like two old Cities Service storage tanks? Or a Pennsylvania Railroad heavy duty generator?"
Packy's eyes narrowed. "Nah … the SUV is too light for the Jennies and too narrow for the tanks. We use a K-Whopper cab and flatbed for that. Been known to tinker some things together from time to time. You strike me as pretty damn smart for bein' a doctor …"
I laughed. "I keep my eyes open. You plan on spiffing up any other 'Magic Cabins' besides this one?"
"Yeah, eventually. That kind of hardware is pretty hard to find anymore. We're talking to a couple of power companies that've gone solar, but the negotiations are still in limbo. We lined up some tanks from Exxon and one from Gulf. Haven't seen 'em yet, so not sure if they're any good. It's a lot of work rigging those things up so they're safe. Yours took us over a year."
"Well hell, Packy … it stood up under the Big Blow. Not bad for jury rigging. So what about the old plane? How'd you get here from San Juan today? How'd the caddy get here?"
"You thought I had just the one plane, didn't ya? The Piper is across the island at the airport. I flew in on one of the other ones."
"Other ones … ?"
"Yup. I have a DC-3 and a Cessna Citation. I'm using the Douglas today. The Citation uses too much fuel for short-range flying, so I only use it for longer trips. The Escalade is housed with the Douglas, and it fits into the cargo hold just fine with enough space left over for a Grayhound bus or two. I keep the Piper in San Juan mostly, and use it to ferry tourists back and forth. That's why I keep slips both here and on Puerto Rico. Saves time and hassle."
"Seriously?"
"Sure. When I'm on business or in a hurry, I use the Douglas or the Citation. When I wanna have fun, I bring the Piper and park 'er on the beach."
"What business are you really in?"
"Real Estate. Hooley and Amos and I own four cabins on this side of the island, and two on the east side. I also have a hotel over there that I call 'The Ponderoosta' because the restaurant's specialty is chicken cuisine. I have a house and a lady friend and a real estate office in San Juan. There are only two or three people over here who know about any of that. You're probably the fourth. Does that answer your questions?"
I swallowed, a little convulsively. "'Ponderoosta'? That's fuckin' funny. But why do you keep everything a secret?"
Packy laughed: a laugh that was laced with memories of lessons learned the hard way. "Y'know, the more people who find out a guy has money, the more 'friends' he accumulates. Then some of the 'new' friends find things for you to invest your money in. They take your check and disappear … laughing all the way to the bank … or Las Vegas or Monte Carlo … you know how it is. You never hear from 'em again.
"I'm not some hard-hearted bastard, Kyle, but I fell for a sob story once, then found out it was a scam. I called the bank and stopped payment. He had the nerve to turn around and sue me, and when that didn't work, he came to my place with a gun to try to kill me.
"We fought, fell on the floor. The gun went off and he's lying dead beneath me. That was in Michigan forty years ago. Now I keep everything on the down-low, and I decide how to use the money. It has to be somebody I like …"
"Like me, huh? That's why you bought me crutches?"
He snorted, looking at me in a manner that told me he knew I was putting him on. "Yeah. I like you. You got a dirty deal, but you don't whine … and you got balls the size of Rhode Island."
"That's because you never heard me when I whine …"
He ignored me. Instead: "You push and push and push until you almost fall over. Then you straighten up and push come more. There's a certain amount of chutzpah in that."
"You should have known me two years ago."
"Doesn't matter," he insisted. "I know you now."
"Having a guy 'off' himself right underneath you … that sucks. Sorry. Want another drink? Here's my glass."
"Thought you'd never ask …"
"Why the hell not … thanks for the crutches. They're … appropriate."
"Thanks. Hope they work for you. Be right back. You okay?"
"I'm fine."
It was going to be a long, loud night of bullshit in Paradise …
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