Chapter 20

"Getting the Hell Out of Dodge"

I'M ALONE AGAIN.

ALONE: A STATE IN WHICH I EXISTED FOR FIFTEEN YEARS AND CALLED IT NORMAL. WHEN I WAS AT WORK, PRACTING MY PROFESSION, I WAS STILL ALONE WITHIN MY OWN MIND. THE PEOPLE AROUND ME WERE MERE DISTRACTIONS, LIKE BACKGROUND MUSIC THAT KEPT MY MENTAL ACUITY ON KEY AND IN TIME.

LISA CUDDY HAD DISTRACTED ME WITH HER SEXUALITY AND FEMININE ALLURE, AND FOR AWHILE I WAS DRAWN IN, THINKING SHE FOUND THIS OLD CRIPPLE SOMEHOW ATTRACTIVE. WHAT SHE REALLY WANTED WAS TO OBSERVE ME, REGULATE MY DRUG CONSUMPTION AND TAKE ON A POSITION OF CONTROL. HER REASONING WAS PURELY ECONOMIC, AND LOVE COULD NOT EXIST UNDER THOSE CONDITIONS.

I REGRET WALKING AWAY FROM WILSON. HE WAS A PAIN IN MY ASS, BUT HE MEANT WELL. I HOPE THAT SOMEDAY WE CAN BE FRIENDS AGAIN. I MISS HIM EVERY DAY …

I'm in the bed under the mosquito netting, but on top of the covers. I'm also fully dressed except for my shoe, which Packy must have removed before he left. He is long gone. There are clean plates and glasses over on the drain board and a couple of empty booze and soda bottles sitting in the middle of the table. He obviously did some big cleanup work. The cardboard box and packing are gone and the maintenance tool and instruction sheet are on the table also, held down by the gin bottle. The old recliner is squatting inside the door. It's almost like a dream that Packy was ever here at all.

I awoke to the sound of rain on the roof and a sensation of dampness around me that permeates the entire cabin. I'm on my back, both legs stretched out, and I'm wondering where the pain is. I'm so seldom without it. Rainy days usually play hell with my thigh, but I am spineless and comfortable. I'm afraid to move for fear of turning the wrong way and starting it up.

I must visit the head soon, for I've had enough alcohol in the past twenty four hours to extinguish the fire at the center of the Earth. Across the room the old Zenith is playing easy listening stuff that my mom and dad would relish, although it doesn't do much for me.

My bladder punches me low in the gut and says: "Beep, beep!" I know I'd better listen, because it's ready to turn on the water works, and this bed wouldn't like that much. I shift my legs minimally and slide them to the edge of the mattress. Still I am pain free. I maneuver both feet off the edge and let them slip to the floor. I shift the netting aside and sit up. My thigh awakens, but there's still no actual pain. I prop my hands on the edge of the bed and wait. There's a slow cadence in the fucked-up foot, followed by an echo in my knee. Then my thigh comes to full attention. The grace period is over and the familiar awareness of pain resumes; not strident yet, but there.

At the foot of the bed within easy reach are the red crutches and my left shoe.

*Bless you, Packy!*

I push the shoe onto the floor and slide my healthy foot into it. I grasp the crutches and heft myself into them. My shoulder says: "Ouch, dammit", and my bladder says: "Move your ass or you're gonna get sprayed!" So I moved.

I undressed and stood under the beat of the shower as hot as I could stand it. When I finally shut it down and stumbled from under the needle-like spray, I felt almost as limp as I'd felt when I woke up a while ago. I smelled like Irish Spring, which is a pretty decent smell, since everybody in this neck of the woods seems to use it. I dried off and propped my right hip against the edge of the sink to mow down the newest crop of underbrush that lurked in the mirror.

As I stared at my reflection, I noticed that a gallon or so of booze sure was good fertilizer for whiskers. Further examination of my narrow face told me that my weathered "lived-in" look, not surprisingly, was beginning to resemble a bush that had been hacked at by an old broad with a chain saw.

I did have those eyes though … the bright blue ones that had been passed down for generations and finally made their way to me. They had not dimmed. They were luminous as ever; the one feature I could still cultivate and command, even if the rest of my treacherous body could not respond in kind.

*Stop it, House! Self-pity stinks!*

I attacked the beard with scissors and straight razor and soon sculpted a shorter version of Packy's look: short beard, shorter mustache and smooth face. I let my hair alone, except for a straight trim across the back. It was getting grayer and grayer and thinner and thinner … and I needed to keep as much of it as I possibly could.

Later, I sat on the toilet to take a good long look at my leg. The most recent wound was still healing slowly, but it wasn't really getting any better. The new growth of scar tissue covered the truth the way a wig covered a bald head; you knew the bald head was still under there. The size of the scar had nearly doubled since the meatball surgery in my bathtub. It was longer, wider, deeper. It was too soon to have turned into the fibrous mass like the one before it. I knew that even a simple shock to the area would leave it reopened and probably bloody. I worried my fingers around the edge where scar met healthy skin. It was tender. Small patches of hair were appearing again, and I was repelled by the ugliness. It was offputting … and it was my own fault. I hurried and got dressed the rest of the way. Cutoffs and tee shirt. The usual. My stomach was rumbling, but it wasn't because I was hungry. Quickly I brushed my teeth and limped back into the main room.

My foot wasn't responding well anymore to efforts at reversing the inversion. The truth was sinking in further, leaving me saddened. The truth had sunk in before, actually, but I'd been denying it too long. Packy and Hooley and Fonzie Rodriguez had seen the writing on the wall, and that's why they agreed that Packy should fetch me the fancy red crutches. They appeased me with baubles instead of thrusting the truth in my face.

That was the day that I knew that I could stay on this island forever and try to convince myself that it was therapeutic; my leg would heal faster and I would be on my feet again. That was also the day I knew it was bullshit. The leg was not going to get better. Only worse. How many times did reality have to hit me over the head?

I needed to go home … wherever I could find one …

Hooley got there in early afternoon. I was on the front porch in the rattan chair, getting soaked by wind gusts full of raindrops. I was leaning forward with both hands wrapped around my angry thigh. The rain hid the tears I could no longer hold back, and he had to pry my hands away roughly to get me to focus. I was going into another bout of breakthrough pain, and he could see the desperation in my face.

He knelt at my side with my wrists locked into his hands. "Hey, Mon … the pain again?"

I nodded. All I was capable of …

He released me and jumped off the porch toward the dune buggy. He snapped up his big leather medicine bag from the front seat and ran back with it. He forced me to my feet and guided me inside to the bed. Both of us soaking wet, he helped me lie down. "Nice crutches, Mon," he grumbled, rummaging in his bag for the morphine syringe.

The look I gave him must have been homicidal. He didn't make any more jokes.

How I wanted to yell at him not to use the drug! If this kept up I would soon be hopelessly addicted. But when there is an anchor chain the size of the one on Titanic wrapped around your leg and about to dismember you at the hip, medical protocol is the last thing you give a shit about.

The next thing I was aware of was the radio at full volume. "Stars and Stripes Forever". Hooley stood beside it beating a cadence on the top with both palms. "Armed Forces Radio", he announced above the blare of the music. "Cities Service Band of America."

"Shut that damned thing off!" I yelled.

The latest ordeal was ended and I felt like I'd been run down by a Sherman tank. My muscles were like latex rubber and my eyeballs were burning with salty tears. My clothing was soaked to the skin; part rain and part left-over hysterics. I glared at him across the space between us.

For some fool reason I lifted my arm and reached for his hand. I had never done this with Hooley before, but wasn't surprised when he stepped forward and enclosed my fingers in his own. He held fast, waiting, because he knew I wanted to say something and I was gathering the strength … and the words.

"I don't know how you always find me when I'm in trouble, my friend. But you do. You and Packy and Amos and the others … always do. There's a dam inside me that holds back words sometimes. But thank you. I thought I was going to die today."

I felt him squeeze my hand tightly between both of his, and I didn't know how to feel about that. I just smiled crookedly and lay back on the pillow.

When I awoke next it was dark. The Zenith was playing cowboy music. Softly. Red Foley, Patsy Cline, Marty Robbins, Lo-Retty. I swam with it, letting the twangy voices and slide guitars soothe my soul and bring my muddled senses slowly back to normal. The rain had stopped and there was a full moon over the ocean. A few scattered clouds scudded by. The night was very quiet. No voices floating in the breeze from down the beach; no singing … and no juke box. I should do something about that …

I looked down at myself. I was dry. Scrubs and an old tee shirt. Both shoes and socks were off. My leg was cushioned on a pillow with heating a pad set on 'low' placed across the bitchy thigh. I raised my head and looked around.

Hooley was in the kitchen area, bent over the stove. It looked like he was heating water, because there were no flavorful smells emanating. Had he given me another sponge bath? I had lectured him about that once before. The thought of another man running hands over my nude body gave me the damn gollywobbles and beetles in the belly. All that paranoid stuff that makes straight guys want to barf.

He turned around with a large wooden spoon in his hand that I'd never seen before. There was a wooden bowl on the table that he'd been stirring. He stopped when he saw I was awake, nearly spilling sudsy water all over his shirt. I grunted out a laugh just to break up the moment, and glowered at him. "Manhandling me again, weren't ya?"

He set the bowl on the edge of the table nearest my bed. "I have indeed, Mon. You were so sticky … and stinky … with pain-sweat that I could not let it go. If you can roll slightly onto your left side, I can sponge your back and remove the towel you are lying on. You will feel much better."

I sighed with resignation and did as he asked. I knew him well enough by this time that I also knew he was merely doing his job. "Go ahead," I grumbled. "Have your way with me."

He was chuckling; a rumble from deep in his throat. He wrung out the cloth and cleansed my back with it. I had to admit that it felt good, and I could smell the tang of Irish Spring. He pulled away the towel beneath me and adjusted the heating pad on my thigh. "Would you like me to reposition the pillow beneath your leg?"

"I'm fine," I said. Hooley just rolled his eyes and got up to return the bowl and spoon to the sink.

It was right after that that I told him … it was time for me to go.

Before I wore out my welcome. Before I became a burden. I should go back and do some research for the right surgeon to evaluate my physical condition and run tests and recommend the correct course of action.

Was I going to lose it? (Almost a certainty.) Or could it be saved? (And I remain a crutch-wielding cripple.) Hell … I already knew the answer …

There were no blubbery emotional scenes between us. Our friendship had deepened without that. He just nodded acceptance as though he'd known it was coming. He probably had. "I shall miss you, Kyle Calloway. We have learned much from each other … all of it most valuable to both."

"Back at'cha, Mister. You and Packy are the first real friends I've had in a lot of years. I'll see you tomorrow … and then I have to make plans."

"Understood."

Shortly after that he left. I heard the dune buggy's engine fade away down the beach.

I got out of the bed and shoved the crutches under my arms. I began to circle the room, testing the utility of my leg.

The radio was playing Roy and Dale's "Happy Trails".

Like even the damn Zenith knew what the score was …

I spent the following day just resting. I ate an onion sandwich because it was easy and no cleanup. I finished the last of Moscha's mint tea.

Throughout the day I kept getting visitors. People checking up on me. Bringing me goodies. Leon and Louie brought me Lasagna, from which I ate one slice. The onion sandwich didn't like the company and assured me the lasagna would get kicked out later. I didn't doubt it.

Mister and Missus Amos … his wife's name was Mary Ann … which I learned for the first time; stopped by with fried chicken for everyone. I made excuses and didn't eat any. But others did. Mary Ann is gorgeous, and I, unashamedly, sat and ogled her like the old letch that I am. Amos didn't seem to mind. I guessed he was used to it. Or else he just ignored me because, what harm could I do? So I sat and shot the shit and stared down the front of Mary Ann's blouse for most of the afternoon.

Hooley came by later to check my leg, and I gave him hell for shooting off his big mouth about my leaving. Whereupon he reminded me that I was still considered a hero for putting the drug dealers in jail.

*Oh, for crying out loud!*

Then Packy showed up. We heard a different plane land on the beach, but nobody paid it any attention. We heard the engines wind down. When he appeared at the door, he looked like 'Packy' again. Cutoffs, dirty shirt, hair-in-a-hurricane.

*Wow!*

We made eye contact, but I said nothing. Him either.

We were there until dark. The booze came out and we partook. My onion sandwich learned to get along with the lasagna. Later on I introduced them both to a chicken drumstick.

I knew everyone had showed up to say goodbye and wish me fair winds and clear skies. But no one actually said any of that, and I didn't say it either. We wanted to keep the party clean.

I had come in the night and I would leave in the night. And that was that.

Again … I would miss them for a time, but after that the waters of the Red Sea would come back together again. Everyone would move on and the hole created by my presence would fill in again.

Thursday evening Packy flew me over to San Juan in the ageless DC-3. I couldn't stop grinning. He let me sit in the co-pilot's seat, and he pointed out all the bells and whistles that kept her slicing through the air. What a difference from the old Piper. I had plenty of room to stretch out my legs with the fancy red crutches leaning against my shoulders like skinny, brightly clad twins. The old blue backpak, (with the cane still sticking out the top,) slouched by my side.

Studying his weathered ageless face, I could see why he lived this life; why he ferried tourists from place to place and loved his carefree vagabond existence. Compared with having to sit on a million bucks, juggling numbers and dealing with a 'cast of hundreds' in his empire, he was free to do as he pleased, leave the details to well-paid employees, and get to know people from all walks of life. Damn if I didn't envy him a little …

I regretted leaving the Zenith behind, but even from the git-go, I'd known it was only on loan. I would miss its clear, mellow tones and the music that filled so many of the hollow spots inside my empty soul.

I left the two suitcases of old clothing there in the closet, and wore the same thing outgoing as I had worn incoming. In the humidor in the supply closet, a final one-grand bill, along with a short message for you-know-who:

"Hooley:

"You taught me to say 'thank you'.

Thank you!

GH-KC"

That damn cabin I would not miss.

The place had been strange and cavernous for me after a while, and it made me a lonelier and more self-loathing man than I had ever been before in my life. But it also taught me a few valuable lessons. It taught me that I did not want to be alone forever, as I had once thought I deserved to be. There was something still waiting up ahead that I couldn't afford to miss.

It made no difference whether I had a right leg or if I did not. One missing limb could not diminish me as a man if I didn't let it. ("It's just a damn leg!") I would live my life and keep my eyes open for the thing that would fulfill me. And then I would reach out for it.

Packy and I shook hands firmly when he helped me disembark at the airport in San Juan.

We did not let things get maudlin, and our eyes did not mist up. I would let my 'girly' side come out only after the 737 took off for Newark.

I leaned heavily on the bright red crutches they had given me, and I watched him walk away, back to his handsome silver Douglass aircraft.

He did not look back.

I, however, stood like a tree rooted deep to the ground and watched him out of sight.

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