Cages and Those Who Hold the Keys

6

“I warned you to watch out for those steps,” said Ethel, daubing peroxide onto the bloody knot rising on Martin’s forehead.

“I know, I’m—ouch!—I’m sorry.” He was lying on the sofa in the main area, where Bernard had dumped him after bringing him up.

“You ought to be making with the ‘ouch’ and the apology,” said Ethel. “What were you doing up at this hour, anyway?” “I couldn’t sleep; I figured a few laps around the court would wear me out.” “You didn’t swallow your medicine this last time, did you?” “No.”

“I knew I should’ve checked; you’ve been so good about it up until now, I just assumed . . . oh, well, live and learn. Do it again, and I’ll personally make sure you get two more days in here.”

“I stand—well, lay—warned.” She shook her head. “I still can’t figure out how you got by with no one seeing you.” “I wasn’t trying to be sneaky.” “Well . . . it’s a good thing Bernie checked your room, or you might’ve laid in there all night.” “What time is it, anyway?”

Ethel looked at her watch. “Almost midnight. Amber’s gone, and I was supposed to go home half an hour ago but Betty—she’s the head nurse on night shift, you haven’t met her yet—she’s running a little late, and so is Amber’s relief, seeing as she rides in with Betty.” Ethel sat back and looked at her handiwork. “That doesn’t look any better to me. How much does it hurt?”

“Kind of a lot.”

She seemed to consider something, dismiss it, then reconsider. “I can’t give you anything stronger than regular Tylenol here, and something tells me that ain’t gonna cut it. Besides, your eyes looked a little glassier than they should, even with the medication. That you didn’t take. I’m gonna send you over to the ER and have them check you for a possible concussion.” She handed him an ice-pack and told him to hold it in place while she made a call.

Martin watched her through the glass, using his free hand to slip down into his right pocket, then realized he didn’t have his car keys.

His room. All of his personal items had been put in his room after he’d been processed. The keys—along with his money, his smokes, his lighter, his wallet—must be in the desk drawer.

He rose unsteadily to his feet and started back toward his room.

He was almost there when Ethel opened the nurses’ station door and said, “Now, I know you’re not gonna try to lay down, not with a possible concussion.”

“I just wanted to get a . . . a book I’ve got in here. Something to read while I’m waiting.”

“Hurry it up.”

Martin went inside, heading straight for the desk, opening the drawer, and removing everything—car keys first. He started reaching for the watercolor of DeVito’s Books when it hit him: he’d have no way of explaining why he wanted to take this to the ER with him, and the last thing he needed to do was give anyone a reason to be suspicious.

The realization that he was going to have to leave it here—and probably never get it back—brought a hard and unexpected rush of tears to his eyes.

Goddammit—he loved this picture.

Right—but this isn’t about you.

Then: Well, maybe a little bit . . .

He turned the picture sideways and slipped it under his shirt (he’d once stolen a record album—on a dare—from a department store the same way when he’d been in grade school), then put his coat on over it.

Back out in the main area, Ethel saw him and said: “Where’s your book?”

“I thought I’d left it back there, but I guess I didn’t.”

“No matter—you’re not gonna have time for reading, anyway.” She put her hand on his shoulder and looked him right in the eye. “Martin, I need you to promise me something.”

“If I can.”

“I’m the only staffer here right now—Bernie left right after he brought you up, he’s a real pain in the ass about going home exactly at quitting time—anyway, I can’t leave the premises until Betty and Marie get here. The entrance to the ER is just across the parking lot. They’re expecting you right away. They’re real busy tonight and can’t spare anyone to come over here and get you. I trust you, Martin—we had a nice talk today and I think you’re a man of your word. I want you to promise me that if I let you walk out of here by yourself, you’ll go straight over there. Any other time, me or Bernie would take you, but this isn’t any other time.

“I’m not trying to be mean, telling you this next part, but you might want to remember a couple of things: you haven’t been officially released by Dr. Hayes, you’re still considered a danger to yourself and maybe others, and as far as the law is concerned, that makes you no different than someone who escapes from jail. You take off on me, I’ll have the police after you in a heartbeat. We’ve got your address, the license number of your car, we know where you work . . . you take off, the police will find you, and when they do, they’ll bring you back here in handcuffs, and you’ll be staying the whole ten days. But that’s not the worst of it.”

“No?”

“No. The worst of it is, you’ll have abused my trust, and hurt my feelings, and probably gotten me chewed out by a couple of different people. In short: I will be irked at you, Martin. And I’m kinda like The Incredible Hulk that way; don’t irk me; you wouldn’t like me when I’m irked.”

Martin smiled. “Damn, Ethel, I like you.”

“Then prove it by keeping your word.” She started back to the nurses’ station. “Okay, I’m gonna buzz you out.”

“Thanks.”

He was out the door and into the night before it occurred to him (and probably Ethel, as well) that he hadn’t promised her anything one way or the other.

Okay, as moral loopholes went, it was fairly underhanded, but he took it.

Now, the question of the moment was: where did Dr. Hayes park his car? He had maybe five minutes before Ethel called the ER to check on him, tack on another three if she called the police right away, which, being irked, she would undoubtedly do, so . . .

It was not in the first place he checked: The Center’s parking lot.

It was, however, in the second place he looked: across the street from The Center and down a little ways.

Looking over his shoulder, he froze when he saw Ethel’s face peering from the small square window of The Center’s door.

Shit, shit, shit!

He took off running, looking back in time to see Ethel’s face move away from the window. The throbbing ache in his head wasn’t helped any by his running—every time his foot hit the ground, it sent shockwaves of near-blinding pain into the center of his skull—but he managed to make it to his car, unlock the door, and start the engine before he caught a peripheral glimpse of someone very large and very male and very strong in a very white uniform running out of the ER and directly toward him.

“I’m sorry, Ethel,” he said.

Then floored the gas pedal and tore away in a smoking squeal.