Bruce DeSilva - Cliff Walk

“Three weeks? Beginning reporters get one. Must be nice to be the publisher’s son.”

“There are advantages”

“Well, you did some good work on this, Thanks-Dad. Maybe you can overcome your upbringing after all.”

Thanksgiving sneaked up on me. It was Tuesday before I realized what week it was. By then my sister Meg, who lives in New Hampshire, had already flown out to spend the week with our brother in Los Angeles. Yolanda was on the way to Chicago to celebrate the holiday with her mom. And Rosie was still in her grave in Swan Point Cemetery. I didn’t know what Dorcas was doing and didn’t give a shit.

It was just as well. I wasn’t in a festive mood. Last night, the little girl with no arms told me her name was Allison, that she loved the Celtics, and that she missed her mom. She’d become a regular nighttime visitor.

“I don’t have any plans,” I told Lomax. “Why don’t I work the holiday so you can give somebody else the day off?”

“You sure?”

“I am. Otherwise I’ll just be sitting alone at home, guzzling beer and watching football on TV.”

“Okay,” he said. “Come in at seven A.M. and you can play city editor. All you’ll have to do is monitor the police radio, edit whatever breaking news the holiday skeleton crew scares up, and look over a couple of bullshit Thanksgiving Day features. Hardcastle will come in to relieve you at four.”

“Give him the day off, too,” I said. “I’ll pull a double shift.”

“You sure?”

“I am.”

“No way I can pay you overtime.”

“Didn’t figure you could.”

That evening I bumped into my neighbor Angela Anselmo in the hallway outside our apartment doors. She was on her way out, buttoning a cloth coat over a pale blue maternity dress. She looked to be about five months along now, but there didn’t seem to be a man in the picture.

“Big plans for Thanksgiving?” she asked.

“No. It’s just another workday for me.”

“Oh. Well, the kids and I are having our turkey dinner around seven,” she said. “Would you like to join us?”

“That’s sweet of you, but I’m afraid I can’t.”

“You sure? I cook a mean turkey, and I could use a man to carve the bird and help wash all the dishes.”

“I’m working a double shift, Angela. I won’t be home till eleven.”

And so two days later I was sitting in Lomax’s chair, editing a lame feature on cranberry bogs and watching the Cowboys bully the Raiders, when the desk phone rang.

“City desk, Mulligan.”

“I’ve got an Angela Anselmo and her two kids down here,” the guard in the lobby said. “They’re asking can they come up.”

“They look dangerous to you?” I asked.

“Not really.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

A minute later, Angela, Marta, and her fifteen-year-old brother, Nico, stepped off the elevator. Marta was carrying her violin case. Angela and Nico hefted plastic grocery bags.

“Happy Thanksgiving!” Angela and Marta cried in unison while Nico looked sullen and embarrassed to be in their company. Angela unpacked the bags, covering the city desk with Tupperware containers filled with what turned out to be roasted turkey, pomegranate-and-giblet gravy, sausage-and-mozzarella stuffing, sweet potatoes flavored with lime and ginger, and an assortment of Italian pastries. They’d also brought paper plates, plastic utensils, and a ten-cup Dunkin’ Donuts Box ’O Joe.

“You didn’t need to do this,” I said.

“We wanted to!” Marta said.

“It was Marta’s idea,” said her proud mama.

The little girl beamed, opened her violin case, tucked the instrument under her chin, and began to play “We Plow the Fields and Scatter.” The holiday skeleton crew, a half-dozen reporters and copy editors, stopped tapping their keyboards to listen. When she was done, everyone in the room except Nico, who looked even more uncomfortable than before, applauded the performance.

“Enjoy your meal,” Angela said as Marta packed up her violin. She and Marta both hugged me and then turned for the elevator, Nico slouching along behind them. I picked up a plastic fork and dug in. The food was as good as it looked, tasty but mild enough to soothe the gnawing pain in my stomach.

Late that night, I cracked open a fresh pint of Bushmills, collapsed on my mattress, and sipped from the bottle. The Irish whiskey did its job, keeping the little girl with no arms at bay. But in the morning, I woke up with a hot poker in my gut. I shuffled to the bathroom, felt the bile rise to my throat, and threw up in the sink. The vomit looked like bloody coffee grounds.

I drove myself to the hospital, where an emergency room doctor gave me a quick going-over and promptly admitted me. I spent the rest of the day getting studied, stabbed, and prodded.

Next morning, I awoke to find Brian Israel sitting by my hospital bed, a stethoscope draped over his Hugo Boss suit jacket so the hot young nurses would know he’s a doctor.

“How long have you had pain in your abdomen?” he asked.

“Couple of years.”

“And you didn’t think it was worth seeing me about it?”

“I’ve been a little busy.”

“So you’ve been self-medicating.”

“I have.”

“With what?”

“Rolaids and Maalox.”

“And about a month ago that stopped working, right?”

“Pretty much.”

“And still you didn’t come see me?”

“I was going to, soon as I could make the time.”

“When did your clothes stop fitting right?”

“How’d you know about that?”

“Just answer the question.”

“Couple of weeks ago, I guess. Figured I’d just gained a little weight.”

“More likely you were bloating.”

“Because of what I’ve got?”

“Yeah.”

“And what I’ve got is an ulcer,” I said.

“Looked up your symptoms on WebMD, did you?”

“Matter of fact, I did.”

“The EGD-the tube with the little camera on it that we stuck down your throat-told us you’ve got a one-centimeter gastric ulcer.”

“How big is that in English?”

“About the size of a dime.”

“Okay.”

“Because you didn’t get it treated, it perforated your stomach lining.”

“That explains the bloody vomit?”

“Exactly. When we did the EGD, we cauterized the wound. We also biopsied your stomach lining and found Helicobacter pylori .”

“I’d heard he was missing.”

The doc didn’t crack a smile. “It’s a bacteria,” he said. “It’s what caused your problem, but there were probably contributing factors.”

“Such as?”

“Still smoking cigars?”

“One or two a day, yeah.”

“Drink a lot of coffee?”

“Gallons.”

“Skip meals? Eat at odd times?”

“Goes with the job.”

“Well, there you go.”

“So now what?”

He pulled some drug samples from the side pocket of his jacket and dropped them on the bedside table. “Amoxicillin to kill the bacteria and omeprazole to suppress stomach acid. I’ll give you a prescription for the amoxicillin, which I want you to take twice a day for two weeks. You can buy omeprazole over the counter, and you’ll be on that for life. Rolaids or Tums several times a day are a good idea, too. They protect the stomach lining.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah. Stop smoking, eat regular meals, and stick to a bland diet. No fried food, spices, cheese, caffeine, carbonated beverages, or alcohol.”

“Aw, shit. You just described my entire diet,” I said, and he chuckled like he thought I was kidding.

“Look, you need to take this seriously, Mulligan. If you don’t, we might have to remove a piece of your stomach. Worst case, it could even be fatal.”