Eastern Standard Tribe, стр. 35
But they came to Boston and looked me up in the nuthatch.
They found me sitting on the sofa in the ward, post-Group, arms and ankles crossed, dozing in a shaft of sunlight. It was my habitual napping spot, and I found that a nap between Group and dinner was a good way to sharpen my appetite and anasthetize my taste buds, which made the mealtime slop bearable.
Audie shook my shoulder gently. I assumed at first that she was one of the inmates trying to get me involved in a game of Martian narco-checkers, so I brushed her hand away.
"They've probably got him all doped up," Audie said. The voice was familiar and unplaceable and so I cracked my eyelid, squinting up at her silhouette in the afternoon sun. "There he is," she said. "Come on, up and at 'em, tiger."
I sat up abruptly and scrubbed at my eyes. "Audie?" I asked.
"Yup. And Alphie." Alphie's pink face hove into view.
"Hi, Art," he mumbled.
"Jesus," I said, getting to my feet. Audie put out a superfluous steadying hand. "Wow."
"Surprised?" Audie said.
"Yeah!" I said. Audie thrust a bouquet of flowers into my arms. "What are you doing here?"
"Oh, your grandmother told me you were here. I was coming down to Boston for work anyway, so I flew in a day early so I could drop in. Alphie came down with me-he's my assistant now."
I almost said something about convicted felons working for government contractors, but I held onto my tongue. Consequently, an awkward silence blossomed.
"Well," Audie said, at last. "Well! Let's have a look at you, then." She actually took a lap around me, looking me up and down, making little noises. "You look all right, Art. Maybe a little skinny, even. Alphie's got a box of cookies for you." Alphie stepped forward and produced the box, a family pack of President's Choice Ridiculous Chocoholic Extra Chewies, a Canadian store brand I'd been raised on. Within seconds of seeing them, my mouth was sloshing with saliva.
"It's good to see you, Audie, Alphie." I managed to say it without spitting, an impressive feat, given the amount of saliva I was contending with. "Thanks for the care package."
We stared at each other blankly.
"So, Art," Alphie said, "So! How do you like it here?"
"Well, Alphie," I said. "I can't say as I do, really. As far as I can tell, I'm sane as I've ever been. It's just a bunch of unfortunate coincidences and bad judgment that got me here." I refrain from mentioning Alphie's propensity for lapses in judgment.
"Wow," Alphie said. "That's a bummer. We should do something, you know, Audie?"
"Not really my area of expertise," Audie said in clipped tones. "I would if I could, you know that, right Art? We're family, after all."
"Oh, sure," I say magnanimously. But now that I'm looking at them, my cousins who got into a thousand times more trouble than I ever did, driving drunk, pirating software, growing naughty smokables in the backyard, and got away from it unscathed, I feel a stirring of desperate hope. "Only..."
"Only what?" Alphie said.
"Only, maybe, Audie, do you think you could, that is, if you've got the time, do you think you could have a little look around and see if any of your contacts could maybe set me up with a decent lawyer who might be able to get my case reheard? Or a shrink, for that matter? Something? 'Cause frankly it doesn't really seem like they're going to let me go, ever. Ever."
Audie squirmed and glared at her brother. "I don't really know anyone that fits the bill," she said at last.
"Well, not firsthand, sure, why would you? You wouldn't." I thought that I was starting to babble, but I couldn't help myself. "You wouldn't. But maybe there's someone that someone you know knows who can do something about it? I mean, it can't hurt to ask around, can it?"
"I suppose it can't," she said.
"Wow," I said, "that would just be fantastic, you know. Thanks in advance, Audie, really, I mean it, just for trying, I can't thank you enough. This place, well, it really sucks."
There it was, hanging out, my desperate and pathetic plea for help. Really, there was nowhere to go but down from there. Still, the silence stretched and snapped and I said, "Hey, speaking of, can I offer you guys a tour of the ward? I mean, it's not much, but it's home."
So I showed them: the droolers and the fondlers and the pukers and my horrible little room and the scarred ping-pong table and the sticky decks of cards and the meshed-in TV. Alphie actually seemed to dig it, in a kind of horrified way. He started comparing it to the new Kingston Pen, where he'd done his six-month bit. After seeing the first puker, Audie went quiet and thin-lipped, leaving nothing but Alphie's enthusiastic gurgling as counterpoint to my tour.
"Art," Audie said finally, desperately, "do you think they'd let us take you out for a cup of coffee or a walk around the grounds?"
I asked. The nurse looked at a comm for a while, then shook her head.
"Nope," I reported. "They need a day's notice of off-ward supervised excursions."
"Well, too bad," Audie said. I understood her strategy immediately. "Too bad. Nothing for it, then. Guess we should get back to our hotel." I planted a dry kiss on her cheek, shook Alphie's sweaty hand, and they were gone. I skipped supper that night and ate cookies until I couldn't eat another bite of rich chocolate.
#
"Got a comm?" I ask Doc Szandor, casually.
"What for?"
"Wanna get some of this down. The ideas for the hospital. Before I go back out on the ward." And it is what I want to do, mostly. But the temptation to just log on and do my thing-oh!
"Sure," he says, checking his watch. "I can probably stall them for a couple hours more. Feel free to make a call or whatever, too."
Doc Szandor's a good egg.
24.
Father Ferlenghetti showed up at Art's Gran's at 7PM, just as the sun began to set over the lake, and Art and he shared lemonade on Gran's sunporch and watched as the waves on Lake Ontario turned harshly golden.
"So, Arthur, tell me, what are you doing with your life?" the Father said. He had grown exquisitely aged, almost translucent, since Art had seen him last. In his dog collar and old-fashioned aviator's shades, he looked like a waxworks figure.
Art had forgotten all about the Father's visit until Gran stepped out of her superheated kitchen to remind him. He'd hastily showered and changed into fresh slacks and a mostly clean tee shirt, and had agreed to entertain the priest while his Gran finished cooking supper. Now, he wished he'd signed up to do the cooking.
"I'm working in London," he said. "The same work as ever, but for an English firm."
"That's what your grandmother tells me. But is it making you happy? Is it what you plan to do with the rest of your life?"
"I guess so," Art said. "Sure."
"You don't sound so sure," Father Ferlenghetti said.
"Well, the work part's excellent. The politics are pretty ugly, though, to tell the truth."
"Ah. Well, we can't avoid politics, can we?"
"No, I guess we can't."
"Art, I've always known that you were a very smart young man, but being smart isn't the same as being happy. If you're very lucky, you'll get to be my age and you'll look back on your life and be glad you lived it."