“Like boobs.”
“Like Judith’s boobs.”
“I take it Judith wasn’t a fan of bras.”
Peter glanced at the back of the room. Nobody paid any attention to them. “His whole impression hinged on that fact.”
“You remember the kid’s name?”
Peter could picture him, his face as round as a pie. “Danny Macanudo.”
“And you defended Judith’s honor.”
“Something like that. Then he clobbered me with a rubber horseshoe.”
“Where’d he get a rubber horseshoe?”
“They were just there. Someone in the superintendent’s office probably bought a crate of them, figuring they’d be safe.”
On the TV, the batter sent a pitch bouncing to the second baseman, who relayed the ball to first in time. A base runner scampered to second.
The horseshoe had caught Peter in the side of the neck and dropped him as clean as a gunshot. The gym teacher, who’d been supervising the kids from his glass-walled office on the other side of the gym, had come loping over, pulled Peter to his feet, and told him to “walk it off.”
“You want to get in a fight now?” Martin asked.
“Why would I want that?”
“It’s hard to be depressed while someone’s kicking your ass.”
“You think I’m depressed?”
“How are you feeling about Lucy moving to Albany?”
“When did I tell you that?”
Martin pinned three twenties beneath his empty glass, pocketed the rest of the bills, and stood up. “You didn’t. She stopped by the house last weekend to say good-bye to Sheila and the kids.”
After watching two cutters almost bounce off the plate, the next batter camped out on a fastball and launched it out, out, into the October night, where it died, just short of the warning track, in the left fielder’s glove.
At the back of the room, the beer drinkers cheered.
“That’s the game,” Martin said. “Let’s get out of here before we get Macanudo’ed.”
21
When I open my eyes I see a lightbulb burning in a tulip-shaped glass fixture beneath the ceiling fan. A white dwarf of a headache throbs at the base of my skull. The bed is beside me. At some point in the night, after dreaming I was suffocating, I relocated to the braided rug.
My tongue is a fossil. I pull myself to the sink, where nausea shakes me. I shuck my clothes and climb into the shower, but though I turn the handles like an Etch A Sketch, the water doesn’t come. I make a rude orchestration on the toilet.
EMERGING FROM THE bathroom, I gather up my few things, my camera, a duffle of clothes I had hoped to launder, and my Dopp kit. I leave the spare key on the counter where Gene can’t miss it.
I slink down the stairs.
Gene’s car isn’t in the driveway, which is a relief.
Then I notice something strange about the Corolla. Gene let the air out of all four tires; it’s down on its rims. I’ve got a portable compressor that runs off the cigarette light, but it takes me almost an hour to get the tires filled. In that time three different women, all out walking dogs, make a point of crossing to the other side of the street, as though I’m some sort of criminal.
After I put the compressor away, I drive back to McDonald’s. There I order an Egg McMuffin and an orange juice. When I unwrap the sandwich, the smell is so strong I have to roll the windows down and hold the steaming parcel outside the car. The orange juice does its job — the citric acid cauterizes my mouth.
After the sandwich has cooled, threads of waxy cheese hang down, like barbels on a catfish. I take one bite, feel the bile rise in my throat, and spit it out. A seagull swoops over and chokes the piece down.
I tell myself that last night is behind me. The secret to staying on the tour (the secret to anything) is to keep moving forward.
My phone vibrates. It’s Gabby! I’m not in the mood to talk, but she doesn’t call often and almost never in the morning. Like her mother, she’s terrible at getting up. At thirty, she needs two alarm clocks and a programmable coffeemaker to spur her along.
Before I even say “hello” or “good morning,” my daughter says, “Daddy, I’m so mad at you.”
“If you need to yell at me, could you please use a soft and soothing voice, because I got poisoned last night.”
What does she do? She screams. “Listen to me, Daddy. You lied to me. You lied to your own daughter.”
That’s inconceivable. Gabby and I talk about twice a month, and always about her. Could I lie to her about her?
“Sweetie,” I say, “I want to meet your special friend, but you know there are places I have to be.” She knows that the tour goes on hiatus in early November.
Gabby says, “Even when I told you how disappointed I was, you repeated yourself: ‘There’s no way, sweetie.’ You made a big point about the tour skipping Tennessee because of all the bitter songwriters in Nashville. Well, I just learned he’s playing in Bowling Green, Daddy! Bowling Green!” Her voice drills into my tender head.
“It’s a fund-raiser for Mammoth Cave National Park. You don’t need to tell me his itinerary—”
“Bowling Green is ninety minutes from my house, Daddy!”
“It’s not in Tennessee, Gabby.”
“It’s an hour and a half from my house! Did you forget where I live?”
In some ways her anger, like the unforgiving braided rug I slept on last night, gives me comfort. Her anger reminds me where we stand in relationship to each other.
“Sweetie,” I say, “I didn’t realize you’re that close to Bowling Green.”
With her silence, Gabby makes it clear that she is calling to deliver a lecture, not to initiate a conversation.
I say, “After Lexington, maybe I can drive down to your place and meet this special person — we could have breakfast together. That would make me happy, Gabby.”
She says, “Mother calls you a sick old bat, and that’s exactly what you are.”
I wait for her to say more, but she knows she’s said enough.
“Are you still listening, sweetie?”
I hear her glowering.
I ask again if she is still on the line.
“What do you have to say for yourself, Daddy?”
I think about her question for a long time. I think and think some more. “What is it you want me to say?” But Gabby doesn’t hear my question. She’s hung up.
22
Kopp called in the morning and confirmed what Martin had said: the hospital’s administration planned to grant Peter a leave of absence to travel as Cross’s physician.
“You’re going to be the first physician to embed with a touring rock band.”
Peter stood in his kitchen, watching his coffeemaker create concentric ripples in the glass carafe. Tour, Peter thought — not like a scenic tour, but like a tour of duty.
“Everyone is very excited.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“They want to call you the Rochester Memorial/Tony Ogata Ambassador for Wellness.”
“But what would I do?”
“You’ll be available.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Peter noticed a dark form move in the window of his microwave; it was his own reflection. “Is this considered a promotion?”
“I believe it’s an appointment.”
An appointment, as far as Peter could tell, was an arrangement where a person received nonnegotiable currency — typically, prestige — in exchange for assuming additional responsibilities. “And this is official? Everyone assumed I’d do this?”
Peter thought he heard Kopp sigh.
“Remember how I said we had to find a way for people to save face? I think this plan represents a fairly elegant solution. Your director gets to tell her board that they’re partnering with Tony Ogata. Your hospital gets to look. . well, not innovative, but contemporary. And Mr. Cross gets someone to look after him.”