Stephen White - Blinded

“Why do you care about this case so much?”

I realized that my left hand was in my parka pocket, and I was twirling something round between my fingers.

The little brown bottle of nitroglycerin.

“Why do you care about this case so much?”

In my life I’ve known maybe five people who could make me think. Alan Gregory is one of them. I’ve grown to appreciate it-his ability to get me going-but I’ve also grown to recognize that it isn’t an altogether comfortable state of affairs for me. Introspection, I mean. I don’t much like Indy racing, but I love NASCAR. Why? Traffic is traffic, but most of the time NASCAR is all left turns. You just drive fast, control your speed, hit the pit, react to the other guys. You don’t always have to prepare for a hairpin, you’re not always slamming on the brakes.

Having Alan as a friend is like driving the damn Grand Prix. Left turn, right turn. Brake, downshift, gas, brake hard . It isn’t always fun. Sometimes I just want to drive I-80 through Nebraska. The road goes straight, the car goes straight. And me?

I go straight. No doubt about it, life is best for me when I go straight.

Why do I care about the case so much?

Because she loved the asshole so much, that’s why. Because this Gibbs Storey lady lived all these years with a guy she knew had murdered her friend, and she stayed living with him even after she knew the police were coming after him to throw him in jail.

I wanted to know about love like that. I wanted to know about a marriage like that. I wanted to know about a woman like that. Was it him, or was it her? What made her tick? Was it strength or weakness? Was it confidence or desperation? I had a guess, sure, but I wanted to know.

My Sherry? After my heart attack she couldn’t wait to get the hell out of our house. Out of town. Screw Thanksgiving, screw my rehab, screw whatever this whole thing was doing to Simon. Screw our marriage.

Screw me.

I didn’t understand any of it. I was thinking that Gibbs and Sterling Storey could teach me something.

My turn finally came at the counter at Moe’s. The girl with the piercing raised her eyebrow. The metal ring levitated ominously. It was her way of telling me I was next. Speaking was an inconvenience for her.

“Whole wheat toasted, please. Low-fat cream cheese, lox, and whatever vegetables you got. Lots of them.”

Her eyes didn’t frown. Her lips didn’t smile. She made me my breakfast, wrapped it in white paper, and dropped it in a brown-paper bag as though she’d done it a few thousand times before, thrust it over the counter at me, and looked for the next person in line.

Poppyseed toasted with butter. Smelt on spelt with a schmear. It didn’t make any difference to her.

With one last glance at the girl with the heavy metal in her brow, I paid for my bagel and crammed a buck into the tip jar.

The girl didn’t know it, I thought, but she was auditioning to play the role of somebody’s wife after sixteen years of marriage.

Later, after I picked up a couple of things at Ideal and stopped back for a cup of decaf at Vic’s, I started walking home. I wasn’t ready to go home, really, but I couldn’t think of anything else I could do to avoid it. It was Sunday morning, and I’d gone every place but 7-Eleven that I could think of that was open. Except for church. But I couldn’t do that. Not that the spiritual solace of an hour at church wouldn’t have been welcome. I didn’t go because I didn’t want to see all the familiar faces and hear the litanies of “How’re you feeling?” and “Hey, where’s the family?” And I really, really didn’t want to hear another story about somebody’s relative’s heart attack and how they were dead in a week.

I didn’t want to hear how, oh, lucky I am.

I wasn’t feeling too damn lucky.

The walk wouldn’t take long-it was only a few blocks from North Broadway to the thousand square feet of siding-covered box that we called home-and I could feel the heave-and-ho of my chest as I made the gentle climb. Not chest pain; no pain exploding below my sternum. Not even a little twinge. The heave-ho was just the rise and fall of excess skin and the sway of my fat.

My man-boobs.

In sight of my house I stopped and watched a teenage girl shovel her sidewalk. Her outfit was more appropriate for an early summer day at Boulder Reservoir than the first real day of winter. Shorts. Sweatshirt that said-what? I couldn’t read her sweatshirt from thirty yards.

What was it with kids and clothes? I had to figure that out, had to. Simon was on his way. I had to get there first.

I made the decision to spend my forced medical leave of absence doing two things. I was going to begin to get rid of my man-boobs, and I was going to go looking for Sterling Storey.

I stopped and checked my pulse.

Eighty-four. That was good. Walking up the hill, holding an eighty-four? That was good. My cardiologist would be pleased. Those perfectly svelte physical medicine specialists who ran the rehab program would be pleased.

Or maybe they wouldn’t be pleased. Their mantra seemed to be “I think you can do better, Sam.” I had the sense that if you told them they’d won Powerball, they’d complain that the jackpot was only thirty million.

Sherry would like them. She thought I could do better, too.

What had Alan said to me? “You have plenty of more important things to worry about.”

He was right. And finding Sterling Storey was going to be my way of worrying about them.

My man-boobs? I’d never laid eyes on the guy, but I was betting that Sterling Storey didn’t have any.

“I’m having some trouble with my leg,” Lauren said.

I’d deduced that already. The walking stick in her right hand was a dead giveaway. I tried to remember the last time I’d seen the thing emerge from the closet, but I couldn’t. I guessed that it had been years. I purchased it for her at a mountain equipment store in Ouray, on the Western Slope, during another health crisis. Or was it Telluride? I couldn’t remember.

I did remember that the circumstances were similar to these and that I’d seen the decline coming. It seemed disease exacerbations always arrived after a drumbeat of warning.

“Come, sit,” I said. I took her by the elbow and led her to a kitchen chair next to Grace’s high chair.

“It feels like it weighs a ton. I’m just dragging it around.” She was talking about her leg.

“Yeah.”

She bowed her head toward Grace and was immediately lost in the vernacular of baby talk that allowed her to reconnect with her daughter and forget about whatever was going on with her myelin sheath. Grace was oblivious to her mother’s malaise, but she was pretty interested in the walking stick. Were she developmentally able to stagger a few steps and simultaneously hold on to an object, I assumed I would see our daughter playing with a toddler-size version of the walking stick before the day was out.

I was examining Lauren for indications of other peripheral neuropathy. Her facial muscles were still unable to coordinate her blinks. Beyond that, my unskilled eyes found nothing anomalous.

“Any other weakness?” I asked. I wanted to hear her talk again, to taste the cadence for evidence of impairment in her speech.

She shook her head.

“Is that the same leg as before? You remember, that trip to help Teresa in Utah?”

“That was the other leg,” she said.

She sounded okay. “Should I call the neurologist?” Lauren’s neurologist, Larry Arbuthnot, liked to be aggressive with steroid treatment in the face of a fresh exacerbation that threatened serious consequences.