Chapter 43

"Nesting Place"

AFTER BILL PERRY LEFT, I TOOK MYSELF TO MY ROOM AND SPRAWLED ON THE BED GASPING; ALL THOUGHTS OF ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES FORGOTTEN. THE PAIN WAS NEARLY INTOLERABLE. I SHED MYSELF OF MY JEANS AND LAY ON MY LEFT SIDE WITH BOTH HANDS TIGHTLY ENCIRCLING MY LEG. ALL THE MEDS WERE IN THE BACKPAK, WHICH STILL LAY PROPPED AGAINST THE DRESSER. I KNEW THERE WAS NO WAY I COULD MANEUVER ACROSS TO GET IT, RETURN TO THE BED AND DIG AROUND INSIDE FOR MY EMERGENCY MORPHINE KIT. I HAD TO HAVE HELP, AND THERE WAS JUST NO GETTING AROUND IT. I WOULD HAVE TO CALL THE DESK AND ASK SOMEONE TO COME BACK HERE … AND SEE ME IN THIS CONDITION … AND …

*FUCK!*

I REACHED TO THE NIGHT STAND AND PULLED THE HOUSE PHONE ONTO THE BED, PUNCHED THE ZERO AND WAITED. PRESENTLY A MALE VOICE SAID: "DESK. THIS IS VERN. MAY I HELP YOU, MISTER CALLOWAY?"

I BLINKED. OF COURSE HE KNEW WHO WAS CALLING … HE HAD ALL THE ROOM NUMBERS LAID OUT BEFORE HIM. "VERN! I'M IN TROUBLE. MY LEG IS IN SPASM … CAN'T GET TO … MEDS. SEND SOMEONE BACK HERE. HURRY!"

THERE WAS A SHORT PAUSE; GETTING IT THROUGH HIS HEAD THAT I WAS HAVING AN EMERGENCY. "YES. YES, OF COURSE. I'LL BE RIGHT THERE." THE LINE CLICKED OFF BEFORE I COULD ACKNOWLEDGE. FIVE SECONDS LATER A SHORT KNOCK AT MY DOOR, THEN A KEY IN THE LOCK.

I MUST HAVE LOOKED LIKE SOMETHING FROM A HORROR MOVIE, STRIPPED DOWN TO MY UNDER-WEAR, WRITHING ON A RUMPLED BED WITH BOTH HANDS GRASPING MY THIGH. I WAS WELL AWARE THAT MY FACE WAS RED AND TEAR-DRENCHED AND CRUMPLED AND DISTORTED WITH PAIN. I WAS BEYOND THE ABILITY TO FORM COHERENT WORDS.

"WHERE IS YOUR MEDICINE, MISTER CALLOWAY? CAN YOU HEAR ME?"

I MANAGED A NOD, KNOWING THAT IF I TRIED TO SPEAK, I WOULD SCREAM. THREE WORDS; SPIT FROM BETWEEN MY TEETH: "BACKPAK! BACK POCKET …"

HE PICKED THE BACKPAK OFF THE FLOOR AND RAN TO THE BED WITH IT: SCRABBLED INSIDE THE REAR ZIPPER COMPARTMENT. FOUND THE SYRINGE AND GRABBED IT.

VERN GOT A GOOD LOOK AT THE CRATERED AND GNARLED LANDSCAPE OF MY SCAR IN ITS FULL, UGLY GLORY.

"OH LORD HAVE MERCY!" HE EXCLAIMED BEFORE HE COULD STOP HIMSELF.

Quickly, he sat down on the edge of the bed beside me and stripped the sterile wrap from the vial. "Lie back," he said. "I know how to do this."

Biting back a curse, I was shaking so hard that the bed vibrated. I looked at him, red-eyed and needy and suspicious. He nodded in reassurance as he broke open the plastic bag and pulled the pair of cheap plastic gloves onto his hands. He tied off my upper arm, assembled the cartridge, sponged the area with alcohol, wiped it, and inserted the needle cleanly while I was fighting to stifle a howl that would have had the whole hotel up in arms.

It took a long time to recover after that one. My legs felt like I'd been beaten with a club. When I tried to bend my knees, the effort was overwhelming. I shook and vibrated like a gasoline engine with a spark plug missing. When the drug finally took effect, I wilted. Even my arms and shoulders ached with the strain. My jaws hurt from gritting my teeth. I looked at my rescuer and jittered my thanks.

Vern sat at the foot of the bed watching me closely and frowning at my efforts to control my erratic movements. "You've hurt yourself, haven't you?" He asked bluntly.

I raised myself onto an elbow and leaned against the headboard, being careful not to flex my legs. My knees both hurt like hell. I did not remember straining them to the point of injury. "Yeah," I admitted finally. "I think I pulled a muscle …" I tried to make a joke of it, but it wasn't funny. "Sorry … you had to … see that." My hand went to the scar, covering it in a moment of shame. The surrounding flesh was overly warm, and the truncated muscle was clammy and still twitched intermittently. It felt like bugs crawling beneath my skin. Diminished muscle spasms made my thumbs tremble.

My veins were running full of serious morphine, but it still made me twist and writhe with post-trauma willies. "What you were just privy to," I growled, "is called 'break-through pain'. It … turns me into something that no one should ever have to witness." I slid back down against the pillow and rolled onto my side to grasp my thigh again.

Vern regarded me with a look of concern, but there was no pity in his eyes. "I've heard of breakthrough pain," he said quietly. "But this is the first time I've ever actually seen it. Takes a lot out of you, doesn't it?"

"Yeah. Kind of makes me feel like a wet sponge. Thanks for responding so fast. Appreciate it."

"You're more than welcome," he said. "Happy to help. I hope you don't have to go through that again." He stood up and took hold of the spare blanket at the foot of the bed; unfolded it and settled it over my legs. "You should rest and recover from this. And you should see a real doctor as soon as you can manage it. Is there anything I can get for you?"

I shook my head and let the softness of the blanket warm me. The bugs-under-the-skin effect was beginning to diminish, and I felt myself relaxing. "No," I said. "I'll be okay now. And I do intend to see a 'real' doctor. I'm going over to Dartmouth-Hitchcock as soon as I can get an appointment. Which will probably be a couple of days from now. For now though … I'm just gonna sleep and let the drugs purge out of my system."

Then I remembered Bill Perry and his promise to bring me the papers for the big brown apartment. "A man named Perry from the bank in Lebanon is bringing me a lease to look over tomorrow sometime. I'm renting the place across the street. If he shows up in the morning while I'm still knocked out, could you or one of the staff show him back here?"

"Of course. I'll tell Jake and Jerry and Lily to be on the lookout. Do you have any idea what time?"

I shook my head. "No. He just said it would be sometime tomorrow."

"Okay then," Vern said. "We'll run the flags up … and if you come to an agreement … welcome to the neighborhood."

I smiled patiently, but wished he would just go-the-hell back to the desk and let me pass out. Every nerve in my body was telling me that I needed to sleep … and sleep …

"Later, Mister Calloway, rest well."

I lifted my head and yelled at him in an exasperated, teasing voice: "KYLE … okay?"

He grinned. "Kyle it is." He closed the door behind him.

I went to sleep quickly, sheltered beneath the warmth of the blanket …

When Bill Perry knocked on my door the next morning, it was nearly 10:00 a.m. I had just got out of a very hot shower, and I felt sort of spongy and weak. My legs buckled when I tried to stand, and both shoulders hurt like crazy. After the shower I pulled on a gray sweat suit, but it was too damn much trouble to try for the socks too. So I didn't bother. I draped that warm blanket over my legs and feet and called it good.

I was ravenous after having eaten little or nothing yesterday, but didn't want to appear in the dining room looking like something that belonged in a coffin. I called the kitchen to have a sandwich delivered to my room … and a couple gallons of their marvelous coffee … or whatever else they had laying around out there.

On the other end of the line, Lily giggled appreciatively, saying that she hoped I was feeling better. (I guessed Vern couldn't keep his mouth shut.) She would see to it that I would not starve to death if she could help it.

Bill Perry took one look at me, bundled in sweats and blanket, and hurried across to the table by my bed. He placed his briefcase there, pulled out one of the chairs and sat down beside it. I eyed him skeptically from the other side of the room. He studied me as though he was my nurse and I was a ten-year-old who had just fallen off the garage roof.

"My god, man, what happened to you? You look terrible."

I shrugged, and winced as the action sent ripples of pain across my back and down my arms. "You're certainly a ray of sunshine," I grumbled. "I've been better. Had a bout of breakthrough pain yesterday and I'm still trying to shake it. Are those the apartment papers?"

He nodded, still watching me. "Do you really want to do this today? It'll wait, you know."

"Nah … I need to get my brain engaged with something other than feeling like crap. I can be quite the prima-donna when I'm under the weather." I rolled closer and looked at the papers he'd brought me.

The tap on the door interrupted anything Perry might have said in return. "Come on in, Lily," I said, moving out of the way for her to enter with my food. She pushed the serving cart across to the table by the window, nodding to Bill Perry as she did so. "Good morning, Mr. Perry."

"Good morning Lily," he replied. They spoke a few more words, but I was too interested in the contents of the cart to pay attention. It was loaded with covered plates from which came wonderful aromas. I spied a tall carafe of coffee, and two mugs. (Vern must have told her Perry was here). I could smell ham, and I could see the edges of sunny side eggs peeking from under the lids of the platters. There was maple syrup and butter and half'n'half and jelly. I was hungry. Breakthrough pain will sometimes do that to you. Lily was serving up plates of hot food, pouring the coffee and setting the serving pieces on the bottom shelf of the cart. I hoped I could eat it without the aftereffects of the morphine making me sick to my stomach. So far I felt okay. So I made a silly face at her ...

… raised an eyebrow just to see her giggle. "Doesn't look much like a sandwich to me …"

"This is wonderful, Lily," Perry said. "I thank you from the bottom of my nasty black heart." He grinned like a schoolboy.

"You are very welcome … both of you. Eat your 'sandwiches' now, please. I'll be back for the cart later." She let me have a small giggle, and withdrew quietly.

We ate breakfast. Politely, but with intense interest. When we finished, our plates were clean and we had settled back, sipping at our coffee.

Perry looked at me sternly over the rims of his black-rimmed glasses. "Are you feeling well enough to get on with this, Kyle? I can always come back, you know."

I had to give him credit. He was a banker on a mission, and he had a chance to unload a pain-in-the-ass hunk of property. But he did not attempt to hustle me, and for that I gave him credit (so to speak,) in bankers' terms. He had even remembered to call me "Kyle".

I snorted under my breath. "I just had a good breakfast and good coffee, and I think most of the drugs have purged out of my system. My leg isn't killing me, and the spasms have quieted down. So if we're going to do business, we should do it now … before something else decides to kick me in the arse …"

He smiled, flashing dark eyes that reminded me of Wilson's for a moment. "All right then. Take a look at the agreement I've drawn up. It spells everything out: taxes, insurances, utilities, rents, leases, lot size … the property is exactly one acre … municipal upkeep … and this includes water and sewer. You're completely covered for weather damage, which comes under 'natural disasters' … burglary, theft, comprehensive and liability … that's in case a Mack truck runs into the side of the place and knocks a corner off."

I smirked and reached for the thick document in his hand. My own hand trembled, but I ignored it. I began to read, slowly flipping page after page.

Midway into the "therefores" and "heretos" and "whereupons" and "henceforths" I handed the thing back and looked up to face him.

"You know, Bill … my Dad made me read the Bible once. But I cheated. Two pages into Genesis I was fed up with it. I skimmed through and memorized some of the 'begats'. When Dad quizzed me later, I remembered just enough to get by. When my parents took me to church back then, I never listened to the preacher. I did equations in my head instead … so this stuff is Greek to me. Reads sort of like the Bible: most of it doesn't make one damn lick of sense. Just answer me one question …"

He frowned, but I could tell he was on the edge of laughter. "What's that?"

"You're an honest man, right? Not a shyster?"

His eyebrows went high on his forehead. "Honest as I know how. My job depends on building trust between me and the people I serve. Why?"

"Then we have a deal. Consider the place sold. The price will remain in flux until you get all the wrinkles ironed out, right? But it's not gonna be unreasonable, right? So … how about putting a 'sold' sign on the place, and I'll give you a check for ten grand to back it up …"

His face turned white, so happy was he to finally be out from under the lingering obligation. I saw him try to contain it until I thought he would blow a hole in the top of his head like a humpback whale. I signed all the "wherefores" and "heretos" with a flourish: "Gregory House". I wrote that 'ten-grand check' on the bank in Lexington. (A nice cozy number for a "lease-to-rent …")

When he hand me a receipt, I reminded him: "Don't forget, Bill … I aint him! Pretend you're C.I.A. You were never here and this meeting never took place. I'm just an ordinary renter. The tenants should continue to write their rent checks to 'Bank of America' … and the 'Gregory House' part will disappear into a sink hole of epic proportions. Right?"

He was laughing. "I understand completely … 'Kyle'. Someday I'd like to hear the whole story about how it got that way. I mean the whole story. What you've told me so far is very interesting, and for now, my lips are zipped and my eyes are glazed over ..."

He stood up then, and we shook hands. "I'll take this contract with me and have our lawyers go over it. I see no problem. You should have your final copy and the deed within about a month, and I have no reason to mention any of the changes to the tenants. If you should wish to do so at a later date, that's up to you. For now, I wish you would get some rest and take care of yourself. I mean it!"

He dug into his briefcase suddenly. "Good grief, I nearly forgot … here are the keys to your units … all of them. Two copies for each of the apartments, including yours. They're all stamped with the unit numbers: One West, One East, Two West and Two East. There are also two keys to the base- ment, one for each of the garages at the end of the lot, and two keys for the utility shed in the back yard. Maintenance men and electricians will pick up the keys they need from you and return them to you. You can begin moving into your place … 'One West' … anytime you want."

I counted off the stack of keys: a total of fifteen. As I took them into my hand I was surprised how heavy they were. Significant. I was taking on a load of responsibility. Putting roots down. I hoped I was up to it. I looked up and met his gaze. Appraising and committing at the same time. He got it. He understood my stunned look. I was the brand-new owner of the infamous "Sylvester House".

"If there is ever anything I can do to help you, let me know. We have two very good men who do the maintenance for properties the bank oversees. If you have any questions, I know they'd be more than willing to work with you. I can't picture you crawling around the basement of that place on crutches, if you know what I mean. I'm sure we'll see each other from time to time."

"Thank you," I said. And there was nothing else to say.

When he left, I sat and fingered the handful of keys, then rolled across the room and dropped them into the backpack's main compartment. No one had any need to see all those keys lying around in my room. I pulled off the ones to my own apartment and crammed them into the front zipper compartment.

*Holy shit! I'm a homeowner!*

Within the scope of an hour, I had become a land owner and a landlord. 'Gregory House' was quickly becoming absorbed by the persona of this anonymous man I barely knew, and who I could mold into whomever I chose. I couldn't help being intrigued by him.

My life was changing with every breath I took, and I realized I was slowly changing with it. I was not sure where "Kyle Calloway" would lead me, and I remembered telling Wilson once that I could certainly live without him. Now I found myself hoping I could be worthy of the promise his creation held for me, and I was beginning to realize more and more that people weren't so bad if I gave them half a chance. The ones I had met lately were willing to lend me a helping hand and offer tentative friendship. Could I earn their respect as well?

Lilly came by for the breakfast cart after the hotel's lunch hour was over. I watched her nimble fingers fly over the sticky plates and dishes and pile them in stacks. She covered everything with a kitchen towel and looked across to where I sat; questions in her dark eyes.

*Uh oh …*

"You look very pale, Mister Calloway," she said formally. "Are you still feeling ill?"

I gave her the standard answer. "I'm fine, and please call me 'KYLE'. From now on. I'm very uncomfortable with formality."

"I will be very happy to do that. May I ask a question?"

I shrugged. "Sure …"

"Are you … unable to walk now?"

"What? Oh … because I'm back in the wheelchair again. I had a bad day yesterday, but I'm better. By tomorrow I think I'll probably be bouncing around again …"

Her eyes widened. "Oh no … you can't … not really … you don't bounce!"

I caught the twinkle in her eyes; she was putting me on. Playing. "Lily, you're teasing me …"

"Yes, a little. I was very worried about you, and I had to ask."

"I'm okay, but thanks. It's nice that someone cares enough to ask. And by the way, you're the first person I'm telling this to … but I'm moving into the apartment across the street. So I guess we're going to be neighbors."

She beamed. "That is very good news. The place has been empty for a long time. I am glad it is you. The man before you wasn't very nice. We used to draw straws to see who had to wait on him …"

"Really?"

She giggled again. "Yeah. But if we draw straws now, it will be to see who gets to serve you …" She pursed her lips, showing deep dimples, a little leery she'd said too much.

After she left, I slid across onto the bed, swallowed an Immy and dropped off to sleep feeling rather smug.

286