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Chapter 20

20

Finally alone, I became aware of a gnawing feeling in my gut and in my brain. I didn’t know what to tell Noel, and I didn’t know how she’d take it. I also needed to give Ben a call. The fish wouldn’t starve tonight, but Ben would give me grief if I didn’t call. There was nothing I could do until Mike and Richard returned with my stuff. At the moment I wasn’t sure I could remember my own phone number, much less anyone else’s.

By the time Mike and Richard showed up, I’d feasted on jello and broth and had another nap. They’d brought my belongings from my rental car and my motel room. The motel owner, Mrs. Waters, had packed up my things when she’d heard (as I’m sure everyone in the town had) of my near demise. My bag was waiting at the front desk, along with a plate of homemade brownies and a get-well card. She hadn’t charged me for the nights I didn’t make it back to my room, and she hoped I wouldn’t let a few hooligans keep me from coming back to stay with her again. Hooligans, huh? At the moment I didn’t feel like arguing with her assessment.

Once Mike and Richard left, with Mike taking the brownies with him “for safekeeping,” I made my phone calls. All I told Ben was that I’d gotten held up for an extra day and I’d explain when I saw him. I could hear the TV in the background, apparently something interesting enough that he didn’t take the time to ask me any questions. I didn’t tell Noel much more, just said that I’d been involved in an altercation that required police involvement. They wanted to know what I was investigating in case there was some connection. She readily agreed to me telling them anything they wanted to know, and, unlike Ben, when I told her I’d fill her in later she made it clear she’d hold me to my promise.

Mrs. Waters’s hooligans were a subaudible hum, a recurrent mantra that evening during my waking moments, tickling at my brain. Fortunately I was getting pretty good at ignoring extra noises in my head, and if they disturbed my sleep, I didn’t remember it next morning. I woke feeling rested and hungry for something more substantive and more flavorful than hospital oatmeal. When I tired of morning talk shows and tormenting Marie about how much she would miss me, I asked her to bring me my motel bag.

My case of toiletries sat on top. Opening it was like finding a long lost box of treasures under the bed. The fresh scents were reassuring. Chief among the treasures was my toothbrush and little bottle of mouthwash, sitting on top. Below this were matching little bottles of make-up and skin care products. I wear very little make-up as a rule, and nothing I’d brought with me would alleviate my current colorful condition. I doubted anything outside of a movie set special effects department could help. Deodorant, some tinted lip balm for my chapped lips, and a tube of rich almond lotion would do for now. I couldn’t apply the lotion with one hand, but at least I could flip off the cap and smell it.

The clothes below my toiletries case were neatly folded, much more so than if I had done the job. Even more surprising, they’d also been freshly laundered. Bless Mrs. Waters. I didn’t know what had happened to the clothes I’d been wearing that night. They were no longer fit to wear anyway, but it was an odd feeling, knowing that my clothes could be sitting somewhere in a police locker. Torn, with traces of my blood, evidence of my terror. I metaphorically shook off the macabre sense of melodrama. (No more actual shaking for my poor tender head.)

The sight of clean underwear lifted my spirits. A button down shirt was next. I didn’t want to try to pull anything over my head, and the shirt was loose enough not to draw attention going bra-less. Who was I kidding? I’m not flat-chested, but I’d have to be a topless Pamela Anderson for anyone to notice my breasts before my face in my current state. The bottoms department wasn’t as easy. My khakis were now gone, with my only remaining pair of pants being jeans. Reasonably respectable jeans too, not coming apart, falling off your ass comfortable jeans. The thought of someone (I couldn’t do it) pulling jeans over my ripped feet, buttoning them up to constrict my bruised, aching limbs was too much.

Once again, my guys came to the rescue. Richard’s wife sent some sort of microwave-friendly quiche or casserole and a pair of comfy gray drawstring sweats. Mike brought most of the brownies and a pair of garbage-green Oscar the Grouch slippers for my feet. They had Velcro so I could fit them over my bandages. I couldn’t imagine where he’d gotten them, and I chose not to take the choice as an insult. The guys left to track down the piles of paperwork required to secure my release while Marie helped me dress.

It seemed I’d never get out of that damn hospital room. The doc came by for a last visit. He said a lot more stuff that I ignored, gave me some tubes and prescriptions, and changed my bulky bandages for smaller versions. Then Drake and Sutton dropped in to pay their respects. Sutton did all the talking this time, so it was relatively quick and painless. I told them why I was in their lovely county and whom I had spoken with, but no specifics on what I had learned. As far as I was concerned, they didn’t need to know. Apparently they agreed, because they didn’t ask any follow-up questions about my case. Or perhaps they had another theory.

“Can you tell me if this is familiar to you?” Sutton asked.

I heard the rustling of plastic as he pulled something from an inside pocket. Rather than handing it to me, he set it on the bed next to my hip. It was a newspaper article in a clear evidence bag. The headline read, “Racial Discrimination Still a Reality.” I didn’t bother to pick it up. “Not this particular one, but I was quoted in a lot of newspapers about this. I’m sure you remember all the media attention.”

Sutton’s smile was strained. “Oh, yes. But take a look at this one. Please.”

The IV was gone from my left arm, but I still picked up the article gingerly. My name was circled in red pen, and someone had scrawled in the margin, “Go home, b***h! Next time there won’t be enough left of you to bury.” If I’d had more in my stomach, I would have thrown up. Sutton must have seen my queasiness.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought you should see this. The KKK thing might not be that far off base. I don’t think you’ll be in any danger when you return to Tallahassee, but if you’d like we can call Leon County and have a car—”

“No, thanks. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

He nodded, as if he’d expected my response. Sutton rose from his chair, retrieved the article from the bed and replaced it with one of his business cards. “I’ll keep you informed of any progress. And please, feel free to call me if you need anything.”

Sutton gave me another strained smile, but I thought it was a genuine one. Drake left on his heel, without ever saying a word. The two cops had to squeeze past Richard and Mike at the door. I hadn’t noticed them before, but their grim expressions assured me that they’d been standing there all along and heard everything. If they didn’t resist the temptation to vocalize their concerns, it was going to be a long drive back to Tallahassee.

I begged one last bathroom break before we left. This time I leaned on Marie in transit, but once I made it to the bathroom it was all me. My right hand was still useless. It and my forearm were encased in a kind of strap-on splint to ensure immobility and give everything a chance to heal. My left arm would also need to be babied for a while, but with my necessary reliance on it, I hoped to be well on the road to ambidexterity soon. I’d always wanted to be ambidextrous, so the optimist in me (probably still under the influence of drugs) noted that getting my ass kicked hadn’t been a total loss.

I continued my streak (no pun intended) by not peeing on anything that couldn’t be easily wiped off. Unable to tie my pants, I was still bursting with optimism and self-esteem as I held them up left-handed. That is, until I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Luckily I was standing at the door leaning on the straight metal handle at the time, far enough from the mirror to be spared the details of my face and wise enough not to move closer for a better look. What stopped me in my tracks was the dirty red halo of nastiness I called hair. Maybe they could shave my head before I left.

Marie came to help tie my pants when I emerged from the bathroom. I looked past her at the guys, about to speak, but the sight of them stopped me. Mike and Richard stood side by side, doing some kind of white man jive, singing without making a sound. “Let me guess—Milli Vanilli, ‘Blame it on the Rain.’”

They grinned like a couple of fourth graders with a new poop joke.

“Well, aren’t you just too cute and clever. I’ve got a serious question for you jokers.”

Their grins faded as they looked at each other, wondering if they’d somehow crossed a line. I sat on the edge of the hospital bed while Marie slid my Oscar slippers over my bandages. “Have you ever in your life seen anything like my hair?”

Mike took a bag from a nearby table and approached me. “There is no safe answer to that question, except maybe this. I got you a little something else.” He reached into the bag and handed me a Red Sox hat.

It hurt my face to smile, but I couldn’t help it. “How did you know?”

“You must have mentioned it.”

I expanded the size a few notches and pulled the hat gingerly down over my hair. The brim just touched the edge of my forehead bandage. Marie pulled a wheelchair over from the corner, and I settled in and looked at Mike. “All right. Marie, thanks for everything. It’s been real, but we’re outta here. Like a Roger Clemens fastball.”

“You do know he hasn’t played for the Red Sox for years?” Mike said.

I shushed him so loudly, I saw lightning flashes across my open eyes. “Don’t speak such blasphemy around a person who’s unwell. You could have a detrimental effect on my recovery.”