Kem Nunn - Tapping the Source

The nurse at the counter was a fat woman with brittle red hair sticking out from beneath her cap, and Ike found himself thinking about Michelle’s mother as the nurse ran a finger down a list of names, looking for Preston’s. He wondered if this one got her kicks out of boozing and putting the moves on sixteen-year-old dudes. “Two fourteen,” she said without looking at him, and then led him to the end of the hallway, to a cart covered with dressing gowns and surgical masks. There was a heavy gray door there and a small red light on the wall. “You’ll have to put these on before you go in,” she told him. “He has an infection in one of his hands. And you’ll only be able to stay a short time. He’s had surgery, you know. Just the day before yesterday. They had to put a plate in his head.”

Ike put the gown on over his T-shirt and jeans, then the mask and gloves. He felt awkward wearing them. It was hot beneath the mask. The nurse opened the door and he walked into the room. It seemed cooler inside and there was much less light. There were three beds in the room, but two of them were empty. Preston was in the bed farthest from the door. He looked asleep. Ike walked quietly across the room. Preston’s hands were outside the blankets, palms down alongside his body. One hand was lightly bandaged, the other was wrapped in some kind of plastic and there was a plastic tube running out of the bandages toward the floor on the opposite side of the bed.

There was a pale green cap on Preston’s head and there were the white edges of bandages showing beneath the cap. The face was nearly unrecognizable. The skin around both eyes was black and puffy and there were stitch marks across the bridge of his nose. Ike sat down heavily in the stiff green chair nearest the bed. He looked across the body of his friend toward the venetian blinds that covered the window, the faint patterns of light which spread from their edges. The room smelled of medicine, and Ike adjusted the mask. He could feel himself sweating beneath it. When he looked again toward Preston’s face, he saw that Preston’s head was turned some on the pillow now and he seemed to be watching Ike with one eye. The white of the eye was a dark red, so it was hard to see where the white ended and the pupil began. Ike was suddenly afraid that he was going to burst into tears, or be sick on the floor. His throat felt hot and tight. Before he could say anything, though, Preston had turned his face back toward the ceiling.

Ike stood up. He felt the room spinning slowly around him. He took a step forward and put a hand on Preston’s arm. The arm felt thick and hard beneath his palm. The sleeves of Preston’s gown had been rolled up just above the elbows and Ike could see the tattoos going down into the bandages. Preston didn’t say anything and he didn’t turn his head. It was hard to tell if Preston was looking at him or not. Ike squeezed Preston’s arm. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Preston swallowed. He did it like it was something that took a lot of effort. He blinked and Ike could see there was water at the corners of his eyes. He felt his own eyes getting hot and gritty. There was a lump in his throat and he knew that he was not going to say anything more. “I’ll see you,” he mumbled. “I’ll be around.” When he had left the room, he tore off the gloves and mask, wadded them with the gown, and threw the whole mess against a wall. An orderly watched him with a disapproving eye but said nothing. Ike stared back, then stomped off down the hallway, through the heavy doors and into the blinding sun.

“You were right about Marsha,” Michelle told him. It was still midday. He had been home from the hospital for about an hour. “She says you look like this girl she worked with at a dress shop. She says the girl’s name was Ellen. I asked her if she knew anything about where Ellen might be. She said no. She said she’d heard Ellen left town. But I was thinking, maybe we could go by the dress shop, talk to the…”

“Forget the dress shop.”

She stopped and looked at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean fuck it. So we go to the dress shop and the owner says, ‘Oh, yeah, Ellen Tucker. She doesn’t work here anymore. I think she left town.’ So big fucking deal. Nobody knows anything, Michelle. Nobody knows any more than I do. That’s why that kid drove all the way to the desert looking for Ellen’s family, because he couldn’t find anything out either, and he lived here. You see what I mean? It’s Hound Adams. Hound Adams and Frank Baker. The only way I’m ever going to find out anything is to get close enough to hear it from them. Everything else is a waste of time.”

Michelle had sat down on the edge of the bed. She’d crossed her legs and was jiggling one foot, staring at the end of her shoe. “And so how are you going to do it?”

“I’m going to start by taking Hound up on his offer. I’m going down there and see about a board.” He paused. “I don’t know after that.” He stopped and popped one fist against an open palm. “Fucking Hound Adams, man. Why does he want to give me a board?”

“I told you, maybe he likes you.”

“Or maybe he likes you. Or maybe it’s something else. I have this idea that Hound knows damn well I was at the ranch with Preston. It’s like he’s playing some fucking game.”

He watched her for a moment, but she didn’t say anything and he turned and walked to the window. “Maybe Preston was right,” he heard her say. “Maybe you should just leave.” She paused. “I could go with you.”

He shook his head. The trouble was that now, for the first time since he’d climbed onto that damn bus with the old woman yelling at him from the darkness, he was something besides scared. First they’d taken his sister. Now they had fucked up his friend. It was not right that he should be so fucking helpless. And he was not going to leave it at that. He said as much to Michelle. She continued to study her shoe, her face smooth and pale in the sunlight. Finally she looked up at him. “Hard guy,” she said. “Just be careful.”

He went that afternoon. And he found Hound Adams seated on a bench out in front of the shop, talking to a couple of young girls. They were dressed in these one-piece suits with holes and crazy angles in them so you could see a lot of skin. The girls seemed to be doing most of the talking. Ike could see their mouths moving, expressions changing. As he got closer he could hear their laughter. Hound Adams seemed to be finding some amusement in their company. He was smiling and when Ike got close enough, Hound turned the smile on him. He gestured toward the end of the bench, inviting Ike to sit down. Ike sat. “Got a little business to take care of now with my man,” Hound told the girls after introducing them to Ike. The girls scampered away. Ike joined Hound in watching their skinny asses disappear in the heat. When they were gone, Hound looked back at Ike. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

Ike met Hound’s eyes with his own. Hound’s eyes were a deep shade of brown, almost a black. They reminded Ike of those dark polished stones people sold for souvenirs in the desert—agates, they were called. “You said something about a board.”

Hound nodded. The slightly bemused smile seemed to widen almost imperceptibly. He turned a palm toward the open door of the shop, then he rose and went inside. Ike stood and followed.

It was cool in the shop. Frank Baker stood behind the glass counter. He watched them come in without changing expression, then bent to sort through some boxes at his feet. Ike made eye contact but had read nothing there, not even recognition. Now he stood just in back of Hound Adams and slightly to his side as Hound waved toward the rack of new boards. “Take your pick,” Hound told him.