Chapter 28

"Home is Where the Heart Isn't"

"MMPHH … H'LLO?"

"GREGORY? GOOD MORNING, MY BOY. THIS IS LUTHER."

*WELL NO SHIT! I WOULD NEVER HAVE KNOWN … AND I WISH YOU WOULDN'T CALL ME THAT, YOU OLD FART!*

BUT I DIDN'T SAY IT. INSTEAD, I CLAMPED MY JAW DOWN TIGHT AGAINST ANY INDESCRETIONS, AND SAID INSTEAD …

"MORNIN' LUTHER. HOW ARE YOU?"

… NOT THAT I REALLY WANTED TO KNOW, BUT IT WAS THE POLITE THING TO SAY, AND I WAS STILL PRACTICING MY SOCIAL GRACES.

"I'M FINE, GREG. LISTEN … THE REASON I CALLED IS TO ASK IF YOU'RE BUSY THIS MORNING."

*HUH? BUSY? I'M ABOUT AS BUSY AS A TURTLE AT A SNAIL RACE. I CLEARED MY THROAT NOISILY SO I WOULDN'T LAUGH.*

"I'M NOT BUSY, LUTHER. WHAT'S UP?"

"WELL," HE SAID, "TWO THINGS: FIRST, I'VE ARRANGED FOR WELLS FARGO TO COME OVER FOR YOUR MOTHER'S PIANO AND HAVE IT DELIVERED TO YOUR STORAGE UNIT IN PRINCETON. THIS IS A MAN- AND-WIFE TEAM, GREG. THEY'LL LOAD IT INTO A PADDED VAN AND DRIVE IT THERE, IF THIS MEETS WITH YOUR APPROVAL?"

I DIDN'T QUESTION HIM. I'D LEARNED FROM EXPERIENCE THAT THIS OLD BIRD HAD "CONNECTIONS" I COULD NOT EVEN FATHOM, AND HE KNEW WHAT HE WAS DOING. I SAT UP IN BED, FULLY AWAKE, AND CONSIDERED WHAT HE'D JUST SAID TO ME. "SOMEONE IS COMING HERE TODAY? TO TAKE THE PIANO TO NEW JERSEY? WHEN?"

"AROUND NOON. THEY'LL DELIVER IT PERSONALLY AND FLY BACK. THE VAN IS A COMPANY VEHICLE AND THEY CAN LEAVE IT WITH THE W.F. FACILITY THERE. WILL YOU BE ABLE TO LET THEM IN TO PUT THE PIANO ON A DOLLY AND GET IT OUT OF THERE? I'VE ALREADY CALLED WILLY, AND HE'LL BE OVER SOON TO HELP GET THE THING IN THE VAN."

I stretched my arms over my head and yawned; slid my legs off the edge of the bed. I needed to take my meds soon. My leg was buzzing. "Okay ... no problem-o … I'll meet them. You said there were two things. What's the other one?"

"The second thing concerns information I need to get from you so I can make arrangements to ship the pickup truck to Barbados … but I should let you go now. I'll talk to you about it when I see you this evening. Are you all right? Do you need anything?"

I shook my head at his obvious "Mother-Henning." I think Luther Finn was beginning to believe he was my grandmother … or my guardian.

(Shades of Jimmy Wilson!)

I paused, waiting for him to continue, but he didn't. "Okay with me, Luther. Whatever you think is best. I'm heading for the shower now. And I'm good, by the way. I don't need anything. Willy can let himself in … and we'll both see you tonight."

"That's fine, my boy. Take care, and I'll see you later. 'Bye."

"Bye, Luther."

I guessed I'd better get my ass on the stick … or "the sticks" … something …

Willy Ortiz pulled up in front of the house about the same time as the small van from Wells Fargo. He was out of his car quickly and guiding the driver as he backed carefully into the driveway until the back wheels were at the bottom of the ramp. I could see the WF logo printed neatly on the top front corner of the cargo compartment.

Two young people unfolded themselves from the cab and walked with Willy onto the back porch and into the kitchen. I had been watching from the kitchen island and saw them approach. The van driver didn't look like he could have been more than about twenty years old, and the young woman with him, even younger. Willy introduced them to me as Johnny and Becky Williams.

I stood up to greet them, adjusting the crutches beneath me.

"Nice to meet you," I said; fully aware that both their gazes settled, as was usually the case, on my bum leg and sock foot. At least I had worn jeans this morning instead of cutoffs, so they didn't get to see over the rim of the "Grand Canyon".

"You're hurt!" The girl exclaimed. She backed away from me, laying a hand on her husband's arm, preventing him from reaching out to shake hands.

I threw back my head and laughed out loud. Startled hell out of them.

"I'm not hurt … exactly," I grunted.

Then I added … in a gentler voice … as though they were the most clueless of clinic patients: "I'm Greg, and I'm crippled. There's a difference. Hurt gets better, usually. Crippled doesn't. It's your best friend for life. I won't break though … but I will be pissed off if you get all sloppy on me. Okay?"

The young man pulled away from his wife's restraining touch and walked across to shake hands. "I sure wouldn't want to make you mad, Dude. I like your attitude. Wish I could talk to people straight forward the way you do."

I reached for his hand and shook it firmly, as he did in return. "It doesn't cost anything, and it stops people in their tracks. Sometimes just saying what you think simplifies life dramatically. Nobody gets the wrong impression. I soft-pedal myself once in awhile, but it's the exception rather than the rule."

"Thanks, Greg. It's nice to meet you."

"Me too," Becky added, and we nodded mutual respect.

"The piano you're looking for, by the way, is right around the corner in the living room. It needs to make a pilgrimage to New Jersey. Willy said he'd help you load it. I … unfortunately … can't …"

I wasn't being a smartass.

Every once in awhile it makes me feel like crap when I can't do something that able-bodied guys with my build and strength could handle with one hand tied behind their backs.

The three of them moved that compact little piano quickly and carefully through the kitchen, out the back door and down the ramp. I stood in the doorway watching, my body twitching impotently with every move they made.

The ramp into the truck was made of aluminum, and my Mom's Baldwin walked up it and into the body of the van like a pony into the barn. I watched the two young ones cover the gleaming walnut finish with padded furniture blankets and block it firmly against the wall behind the cab. They held it in place with heavy rope that was sectioned for stability, and pulled it tight with a turnbuckle. I decided that even if that van got hit by a Mack truck and turned three somersaults in the air, that piano would still be standing there intact wherever the van landed …

When they were finished, Willy closed the back door and padlocked it.

The truck pulled out and made a left turn, headed for the interstate. Johnny blew the horn and waved. Willy and I waved back.

Luther pulled into the driveway at 5:30 p.m.

The Greek Bearing Gifts!

That night we dined on Lobster Newburg. Cholesterol feast. Infused with booze! Hooray! Oh. My! Grilled asparagus and a baked potato. Chardonnay in tall glasses. Coconut custard pie for dessert.

The food was sent in a rented, heated canvas cube from the kitchens at Country Cupboard. The wine and the pie rode in a chilled canvas tote. Willy had to accompany Luther to his car to bring everything inside.

By seven o'clock we were on our third glass of Chardonnay and belching happily. The conversation turned a little raunchy; centered on sexy women we had known or seen on-screen, and fast cars and bloody surgeries I had been a party to. Willy commented with a few of his experiences in Iraq and Afghanistan, but was reluctant to go into detail. Luther and I didn't press him.

No mention was made about shipping a monster pickup truck to an island a couple thousand miles away. I figured out that we just forgot about that second thing Luther was going to talk to me about …

The evening finally folded at midnight. Luther and Willy left together after cleaning up the kitchen and gathering the food containers to return to the restaurant tomorrow.

I went to bed at 1:30 a.m., but the leg pain didn't go to sleep at all. By 3:30 I was up and on my knees, bent over the commode. My leg was furious and burning … and I was sick as a dog. Bye bye Lobster Newburg, asparagus, baked potato, custard pie, Chardonnay.

I spent the rest of the night on the carpet beside the bed with a blanket pulled down from on top. I did not have the strength to pull myself up there … just didn't.

Tomorrow was going to be a crappy freakin' day ...

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