For two blocks Peter kept abreast of Cross, waiting for the singer to acknowledge the question. Finally he stuffed his hands in his pockets and froze.
Jimmy took two steps, stopped, went back, and, grabbing Peter by the elbow, towed the doctor across the street. Even after they’d reached the other sidewalk, Cross didn’t release his grasp on Peter’s arm.
“I used to have a talent for pissing people off, but these days I’m better at generating worry.”
They were on the shaded side of the street — Peter felt the cold cut through his shirt, except where Cross’s hand hung on him.
Cross stopped in front of a damp-looking wood door that was held together with wrought-iron strapping.
“You okay with a German place?”
Peter wasn’t certain he understood the question. Was he being asked about Germans or German cuisine? “I’ll give it a shot,” he said.
Inside, a heavyset woman in a dirndl led them to a table with a little placard that read Reserved.
“So,” Cross said, sitting down, “I was behind Allie getting off the plane. He’s got this patch on top of his head — I guess I’d never noticed it before — where his hair is starting to thin. It looks sort of like Antarctica. I leaned forward to tease him about it when I missed a step.”
“Did you fall?”
Before Cross answered, their waitress arrived to take their orders.
“He and I tumbled down together,” Cross continued. “Allie got the worst of it. Trouble always lands on top of him.”
Peter reached across the table and grabbed Cross’s wrists. He turned the singer’s hands.
“How far did you fall?”
The waitress delivered mugs of coffee and a little painted pitcher of cream.
Cross reached a finger up and tested a spot above his ear. “I’ve got a bit of a bump.”
“You hit your head?” Peter reached out his hand. “Show me.”
Cross guided Peter’s finger to the spot.
“That’s a real goose egg.”
Pushing back from the table, Cross escaped the doctor’s touch.
Questions lined up in Peter’s mind. “Are you having headaches? Blurry vision?”
“I’m just a bit sore.”
Peter filed the answers, moved on. “Any dizziness?”
“No.”
“How far did you fall?”
“Does it matter?”
Peter looked around the restaurant, as if searching for questions he’d misplaced. Across the room, a busboy paused while wiping down and stared at Cross. After a moment, he returned to his task.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me about this?”
“Remember, you weren’t there.”
“Did Alistair tell you how I ended up on the bus in the first place?”
Cross waved his hand. He was having none of it.
“Have there been any other issues?”
“Cyril stopped by my room this morning to check up on me.” Cross leaned forward, his voice a mere whisper. “He asked what I was up to and I said I was watching the spoon.”
“What’s the spoon?”
“I don’t know. It just came out of my mouth. I had the television on.”
Peter checked the time on his phone. It had been about seven hours since Cross fell. There were tasks he needed to complete, an optimal order in which to proceed. He felt calm. He hardly had to think. Ohio State’s hospital was nearby. They could walk, but a cab ride would be better. Peter needed to speak with Martin; someone from neurology should meet them at the hospital, the best guy in Ohio.
“We have to get you checked out,” said Peter, “but you know that. That’s why you were in my room.”
Cross shook his head.
The waitress delivered their plates, deli meats rolled into scrolls, a fanned-out stack of tomato slices, a jumble of charred sausage links, triangles of hard cheese, and, at the center of the plate, on a bed of romaine, a deviled egg.
“You can’t eat any of this,” Peter said.
The waitress seemed to consider whether it was worth her time to drag him out of the restaurant.
“Excuse us for a moment,” Cross said, his voice as cold and rigid as a tire iron.
The waitress left the food and walked away.
Peter shook his head. “You might need surgery.”
Cross picked up his fork, rolled it between his fingers so the tines flashed. The fork did a slow swan dive, burying itself in a sausage. Cross lifted the food to his mouth and delicately bit off the end.
“Maybe you think I’m being too cautions, but these sorts of things can deteriorate quickly.”
Cross finished chewing. Swallowed. “Believe it or not, I went to your room to get away from the people who want to help me.”
“If I don’t get you in a tube, I’m staring at a slam-dunk malpractice case.”
“I’m not going to sue you.”
Peter set his hands on the table. “In the scenario I’m worried about, you won’t be around to call the shots.”
Patients knew all sorts of things, but they didn’t know what they didn’t know.
“What sorts of ghouls would you be looking for?”
“Sometimes ‘senior moments’ prefigure something much more destructive. It can be like the difference between a tremor and an earthquake.”
Cross stood up. “Don’t smile when you tell a person about earthquakes in his head. You think I want my memories trapped beneath mud walls? Tony isn’t perfect, but he never gives me a shot without telling me it’s going to sting.”
Peter raised his palms as high as his shoulders, patted the air.
“I’m just trying to help you,” Peter said.
“Then get Cyril off my back. He and Bluto look at me like I’m about to whisper ‘Rosebud.’”
“I can’t do that until we know everything is okay. It’ll only take an hour. You can spare an hour.”
“Listen. Right now I’m going back to my room to work on a libretto. After that, I’m taking Allie out for an early dinner and try my best to make him happy. Finally, tonight, I’m playing a show for a bunch of hardworking people who’ve scrimped and saved, swapped shifts, arranged babysitters, all so I can have the privilege of performing songs written by a young man I barely remember. So, what makes you think you know what I can and can’t spare?”
Would Peter ever utter a sentence with that much conviction?
“I thought I was your doctor.”
“Sure you are, but I never asked you to save my life.” Cross stuffed his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt. “You’ll have to get the bill. I don’t have any money on me, or cards.”
Before Peter could find the words to respond, the singer walked out.
THE WAITRESS SET the bill facedown on the table. “He’s famous, yes, your friend?”
Peter said he was.
A man wearing a white paper hat and a damp, short-sleeved shirt joined them. “I told her. That was Robert Reich, Clinton’s labor secretary.”
Peter corrected them.
The couple exchanged a look.
“‘Long Gone,’” Peter said. “‘Absolutely Nowhere.’”
“What’s he doing in Columbus?” the waitress asked.
“He’s playing here tonight.”
“He still plays?” the man asked.
49
Even though we are divorced and not on the best of terms, Patricia and I have continued to sleep together from time to time. This is not something that happens monthly, or even yearly, but every so often we’ll find ourselves together and sometimes when we’re together we have sex — it’s nothing I’m proud of. When we have sex, part of me is with the young woman she was when we met. And I feel like she is with the young man I was. It’s not that I want to be that person again, but I also don’t want to turn my back on that person, who, after all, was me.