and the photographer. I can’t help but wonder: Are they taking close-ups, are they pulling back the blankets? Are they photographing her nude? The flashes of light attract attention; the other families look at us strangely but silently. Stroke, heart attack, burn—MURDER—we are known to each other by ailment and not by name.
When the cops finish, we go back in. I look at the blanket. If they pulled it back, what did they see? What does a brain-dead woman look like? I fear I know the answer: like a dead woman.
R utkowsky the lawyer and I meet in the hospital parking lot and go in together to talk to George. “He’s never asked how she is,” I tell the lawyer.
“Let’s assume he’s out of his mind,” the lawyer says.
“George,” Rutkowsky and I say simultaneously, as the nurse pulls the curtain back. George is in a bed, curled into a ball.
“Your wife, Jane, has been declared brain-dead; she’ll be taken off life support, and the charges against you will be raised to murder, or manslaughter, or whatever we can get them to agree to,” the lawyer says. “The point being, once this happens, wheels will be put into motion and your options become more limited. I am negotiating to have you sent someplace, to a facility I have worked with in the past. When you arrive, there will be a period of detoxification and then, hopefully, they’ll be able to address your underlying psychosis. Do you see what I’m saying, do you hear the direction I’m going in?” The lawyer pauses.
“She was sucking my brother’s cock,” George says.
And nothing more is said for a few minutes.
“What will she look like?” George asks, and I’m not sure exactly what the question means. “Well, no matter, I’m sure they can make a nice hat for her.”
The nurse tells us she needs a moment alone with George. We take the cue and leave.
“ H ave you got a minute?” the lawyer asks me.
In the lobby of the hospital, the lawyer asks me to take a seat. He places his enormous bag on the small table next to me and proceeds to unpack a series of documents. “Due to the physical and mental conditions of both Jane and George, you are now the legal guardian of the two minor children, Ashley and Nathaniel. Further, you are temporary guardian and the medical proxy for George. With these roles comes a responsibility that is both fiduciary and moral. Do you feel able to accept that responsibility?” He looks at me—waiting.
“I do.”
“You are conservator of assets, real-estate holdings, and other items that transfer to the children upon their majority. You have power of attorney over all transactions, assets, and holdings.” He hands me a small skeleton key; it’s like being indoctrinated into a secret society. “It’s the key to their safe-deposit box—I have no idea what’s in the box, but I suggest you familiarize yourself with the contents.” And then he hands me a new bank card. “Activate this from the home phone at George and Jane’s house. The accountant Mr. Moody also has access to the accounts and will monitor your usage. It’s a system of checks and balances: Moody checks on you, you check on Moody, and I check on the two of you. Got it?”
“I do,” I repeat.
He hands me a manila envelope. “Copies of all the related paperwork, in case anyone should ask.” And then, weirdly, the lawyer takes out a little bag of gold chocolate coins and dangles them in front of my eyes.
“Gelt?” I ask.
“You look pale,” he says. “My wife bought a hundred of these, and somehow it’s fallen to me to get rid of them.”
I take the small bag of chocolate coins. “Thank you,” I say. “For everything.”
“It’s my job,” he says, as he’s leaving. “My occupation.”
W here is Claire?
She has been lost in transit, was heading home and then rerouted. Along the way, she started hearing from her friends. I get a hostile call from Hawaii, where the aircraft has mechanical trouble. Accusatory.
“What
When the cops finish, we go back in. I look at the blanket. If they pulled it back, what did they see? What does a brain-dead woman look like? I fear I know the answer: like a dead woman.
R utkowsky the lawyer and I meet in the hospital parking lot and go in together to talk to George. “He’s never asked how she is,” I tell the lawyer.
“Let’s assume he’s out of his mind,” the lawyer says.
“George,” Rutkowsky and I say simultaneously, as the nurse pulls the curtain back. George is in a bed, curled into a ball.
“Your wife, Jane, has been declared brain-dead; she’ll be taken off life support, and the charges against you will be raised to murder, or manslaughter, or whatever we can get them to agree to,” the lawyer says. “The point being, once this happens, wheels will be put into motion and your options become more limited. I am negotiating to have you sent someplace, to a facility I have worked with in the past. When you arrive, there will be a period of detoxification and then, hopefully, they’ll be able to address your underlying psychosis. Do you see what I’m saying, do you hear the direction I’m going in?” The lawyer pauses.
“She was sucking my brother’s cock,” George says.
And nothing more is said for a few minutes.
“What will she look like?” George asks, and I’m not sure exactly what the question means. “Well, no matter, I’m sure they can make a nice hat for her.”
The nurse tells us she needs a moment alone with George. We take the cue and leave.
“ H ave you got a minute?” the lawyer asks me.
In the lobby of the hospital, the lawyer asks me to take a seat. He places his enormous bag on the small table next to me and proceeds to unpack a series of documents. “Due to the physical and mental conditions of both Jane and George, you are now the legal guardian of the two minor children, Ashley and Nathaniel. Further, you are temporary guardian and the medical proxy for George. With these roles comes a responsibility that is both fiduciary and moral. Do you feel able to accept that responsibility?” He looks at me—waiting.
“I do.”
“You are conservator of assets, real-estate holdings, and other items that transfer to the children upon their majority. You have power of attorney over all transactions, assets, and holdings.” He hands me a small skeleton key; it’s like being indoctrinated into a secret society. “It’s the key to their safe-deposit box—I have no idea what’s in the box, but I suggest you familiarize yourself with the contents.” And then he hands me a new bank card. “Activate this from the home phone at George and Jane’s house. The accountant Mr. Moody also has access to the accounts and will monitor your usage. It’s a system of checks and balances: Moody checks on you, you check on Moody, and I check on the two of you. Got it?”
“I do,” I repeat.
He hands me a manila envelope. “Copies of all the related paperwork, in case anyone should ask.” And then, weirdly, the lawyer takes out a little bag of gold chocolate coins and dangles them in front of my eyes.
“Gelt?” I ask.
“You look pale,” he says. “My wife bought a hundred of these, and somehow it’s fallen to me to get rid of them.”
I take the small bag of chocolate coins. “Thank you,” I say. “For everything.”
“It’s my job,” he says, as he’s leaving. “My occupation.”
W here is Claire?
She has been lost in transit, was heading home and then rerouted. Along the way, she started hearing from her friends. I get a hostile call from Hawaii, where the aircraft has mechanical trouble. Accusatory.
“What
Similar Books
