but state her business.
How can I say I'm a cop? This is the last thing they
need now. When she spoke, she heard the stress in her voice, the
slight loss of focus, the disorientation anxiety bred. "I wonder
if I can speak to Justin," she heard herself saying, and was
ashamed at the arrogance of it. Why should she, a stranger, claim
some of his last minutes?
"He's very, very ill," said his mother. "In
fact, he isn't expected—" The sentence stopped and a sob came
out.
" I wouldn't ask if it weren't extremely
important. It's about Dennis Foucher."
"Dennis?" She looked puzzled. She glanced
around the room. "Dennis isn't here."
She probably hadn't read a paper that day, or even
turned on the television.
"He's disappeared. Along with his wife and
daughter."
"Dennis? But Justin hasn't seen him in years."
She looked as confused and forlorn as if Skip had accused her son of
a crime on his deathbed. Treason, perhaps, or multiple murder.
" I'm very sorry to disturb you like this."
She had already said this, but she figured Mrs. Arceneaux was hearing
selectively. "I wonder if you could just ask Justin if he'll see
me."
Skip hoped he wasn't asleep. She didn't want his
mother waking him.
Mrs. Arceneaux came back looking as if the folds of
her face were being dragged down by invisible weights. "He says
he'd like to see you. But he's very, very ill—in fact, it's the
second time we've thought he'd be dead before morning. They go real,
real slow with AIDS—you just can't tell—but he's still got his
mind." She nodded. "He's got his mind. He can talk if he
can just—you know, he's hardly got any energy at all."
Skip rose and let herself be led to the bedroom,
feeling as if she were marching to her own death. As they walked down
the hall, Mrs. Arceneaux said, "Now, don't be shocked. He weighs
about eighty-four pounds."
The curtain of bereavement, the fog, had settled on
Skip like a thick mesh she could not squirm out of.
The first thing she saw was the metal tree for
Justin's IV, and then she saw the people in the room. First a young
woman sitting by the bed, ramrod straight, alert as a sentry. Her
hair was white-blond, short and wavy, her face thin and gaunt, but
Skip could tell that was from strain. She was extraordinary-looking,
this young woman, someone who'd turn heads in this city of beautiful
women. But she was stiff and tired, nearly frantic under her calm,
with the effort of holding herself together.
Next a little girl, also blond, lying on the floor,
her dress flipped up so that her panties showed, feet in the air, one
hand out to her side, touching a toy dinosaur, stroking it but not
looking at it. Instead looking at Skip without interest. Obviously
beside herself with boredom, having been here for hours, or days
perhaps.
And then there was Justin himself. Later Skip could
remember almost no details except that his hair was a sandy color,
that he had freckles and that his eyes were like holes in a sunken
face. Despite his mother's warning, the shock of seeing someone so
wasted nearly rendered her speechless. He had on no pajama top, so
that she could see paper-thin skin, skin like plastic wrap, stretched
over a frame that looked too small to belong to a man.
" Hello," he whispered. "This is my
wife, Janine. And my daughter."
Skip thought he had meant to say his daughters name,
but decided to save his breath. He grimaced as if it hurt to talk,
but Janine said, "It's the sheet. It hurts his feet, and his
shoulders sometimes. It's caused by a deadening of the nerves that
makes him supersensitive. "
" I know what that is," said the little
girl. "It's called neuropathy." Skip thought that was a
fact the child was much too young to know.
Janine stood up and swabbed Justin's mouth with what
looked like a giant Q-tip. She slipped something between his lips
that must have been an ice chip.
Skip walked a step closer, not wanting to invade his
space, but not sure she could hear from a distance. She said again
that she
How can I say I'm a cop? This is the last thing they
need now. When she spoke, she heard the stress in her voice, the
slight loss of focus, the disorientation anxiety bred. "I wonder
if I can speak to Justin," she heard herself saying, and was
ashamed at the arrogance of it. Why should she, a stranger, claim
some of his last minutes?
"He's very, very ill," said his mother. "In
fact, he isn't expected—" The sentence stopped and a sob came
out.
" I wouldn't ask if it weren't extremely
important. It's about Dennis Foucher."
"Dennis?" She looked puzzled. She glanced
around the room. "Dennis isn't here."
She probably hadn't read a paper that day, or even
turned on the television.
"He's disappeared. Along with his wife and
daughter."
"Dennis? But Justin hasn't seen him in years."
She looked as confused and forlorn as if Skip had accused her son of
a crime on his deathbed. Treason, perhaps, or multiple murder.
" I'm very sorry to disturb you like this."
She had already said this, but she figured Mrs. Arceneaux was hearing
selectively. "I wonder if you could just ask Justin if he'll see
me."
Skip hoped he wasn't asleep. She didn't want his
mother waking him.
Mrs. Arceneaux came back looking as if the folds of
her face were being dragged down by invisible weights. "He says
he'd like to see you. But he's very, very ill—in fact, it's the
second time we've thought he'd be dead before morning. They go real,
real slow with AIDS—you just can't tell—but he's still got his
mind." She nodded. "He's got his mind. He can talk if he
can just—you know, he's hardly got any energy at all."
Skip rose and let herself be led to the bedroom,
feeling as if she were marching to her own death. As they walked down
the hall, Mrs. Arceneaux said, "Now, don't be shocked. He weighs
about eighty-four pounds."
The curtain of bereavement, the fog, had settled on
Skip like a thick mesh she could not squirm out of.
The first thing she saw was the metal tree for
Justin's IV, and then she saw the people in the room. First a young
woman sitting by the bed, ramrod straight, alert as a sentry. Her
hair was white-blond, short and wavy, her face thin and gaunt, but
Skip could tell that was from strain. She was extraordinary-looking,
this young woman, someone who'd turn heads in this city of beautiful
women. But she was stiff and tired, nearly frantic under her calm,
with the effort of holding herself together.
Next a little girl, also blond, lying on the floor,
her dress flipped up so that her panties showed, feet in the air, one
hand out to her side, touching a toy dinosaur, stroking it but not
looking at it. Instead looking at Skip without interest. Obviously
beside herself with boredom, having been here for hours, or days
perhaps.
And then there was Justin himself. Later Skip could
remember almost no details except that his hair was a sandy color,
that he had freckles and that his eyes were like holes in a sunken
face. Despite his mother's warning, the shock of seeing someone so
wasted nearly rendered her speechless. He had on no pajama top, so
that she could see paper-thin skin, skin like plastic wrap, stretched
over a frame that looked too small to belong to a man.
" Hello," he whispered. "This is my
wife, Janine. And my daughter."
Skip thought he had meant to say his daughters name,
but decided to save his breath. He grimaced as if it hurt to talk,
but Janine said, "It's the sheet. It hurts his feet, and his
shoulders sometimes. It's caused by a deadening of the nerves that
makes him supersensitive. "
" I know what that is," said the little
girl. "It's called neuropathy." Skip thought that was a
fact the child was much too young to know.
Janine stood up and swabbed Justin's mouth with what
looked like a giant Q-tip. She slipped something between his lips
that must have been an ice chip.
Skip walked a step closer, not wanting to invade his
space, but not sure she could hear from a distance. She said again
that she
Similar Books
