George Chesbro: The Fear In Yesterday's rings

"How do you know he wasn't in a shelter?"

Jacques looked at me, sadness swimming in his ebon eyes. "He's missing a few fingers and toes: gangrene brought on by frostbite. It's what happens when they won't go inside when it drops below freezing. The amputation scars aren't that fresh. He didn't lose the digits this last winter, so it means he's been living on the streets through at least one winter before the last. Right now he's suffering from heat exhaustion, pneumonia from the sound of him, and a host of parasitic infections. That's just for openers; he hasn't had a complete examination yet. He could have tuberculosis; a lot of them do."

"Where was he found?" I asked in a voice that had suddenly grown hoarse.

Again, Jacques shrugged. "I don't know; just on some street, or in some alley, or maybe Central Park. A couple of young cops brought him in."

"I don't understand how he could have …" I paused when my voice broke, swallowed hard, continued, "God, we haven't been in touch for years, but he knows I live in New York. He could have looked up my number in the phone directory. I don't understand why he didn't call me if he needed help."

"It's a waste of time blaming yourself in any way for what's happened to this man, Mongo," Jacques said evenly, watching my face. "A lot of the hard-core homeless refuse any land of help, and I'd put your friend in that category from the looks of him. They get crazy on the streets, or maybe they ended up on the streets because they were crazy in the first place. Maybe he didn't call you because of pride, or maybe he didn't-doesn't-even remember who you are."

I wondered. Phil Statler might not remember me in his present condition, but he certainly had at some point during the hellish roller-coaster ride that had left him living on the streets of New York City, a simple phone call away from food, a bed, shelter, medical attention. Love. The fact that he hadn't called on me for help somehow made me feel ashamed, as if-despite Jacques's assurance-this lack of action was somehow my fault. And maybe it was, at least in some small way. Phil Statler had always been an intensely proud man, fiercely independent. And beneath his gruff exterior had been a man of unparalleled generosity and compassion. It had been his pleasure to help other people, particularly "freaks"-yes, like me-for whom the Statler Brothers Circus was a home where we could earn a living and live and love with dignity. But something had happened to Phil Statler or his circus, really the same thing. He'd lost his circus, and with it his livelihood, his dignity, and finally his health. This man who had helped so many others had been unable, unwilling, to ask for help himself. He had been like a father to me, and I knew I had been wrong to lose touch with him.

"Jacques," I said, drawing myself up and taking a deep breath, "I want this man transferred to the first private or semiprivate room that becomes available; I want him out of this corridor, off this ward. I also want the best specialists available to take care of him. I'll cover all the expenses. Who do I see to make the arrangements?"

Jacques grunted. "The cashier downstairs, man. What you want is going to cost you some shekels."

"It doesn't matter. When he's well enough to leave here, I want him moved to my place. With Garth married and living up in Cairn, his apartment in the brownstone is empty. When it's time to move him, I'd appreciate a recommendation from you for a private nursing service."

"You got it, Mongo," the Haitian said quietly. "You really love this man, don't you?"

I nodded. "I guess I never realized just how much until I saw him lying here."

"You make the financial arrangements downstairs, and as soon as I get the okay I'll take care of things up here. I'll keep an eye on your friend, man. Leave it to me. Don't worry. And I'll get word to you as soon as he comes around."

"Thanks, Jacques," I mumbled, then turned and headed back down the corridor as tears once again began streaming from my eyes.

Phil regained consciousness a day later, but he wasn't talking-not to his doctors, not to Jacques, and not to me. The first time I walked into his room his recognition of me was clearly reflected in his pale blue, watery eyes, but then he quickly averted his gaze and wouldn't look at me again. It was the same the next day, and the day after that.

They released him from the hospital on the sixth day, into my care. The doctors had cleared up his pneumonia and a half dozen other infections on and inside his body with antibiotics, but he was still very weak. They estimated he would need a minimum of two or three weeks of rest before he would be strong enough to be on his own-presumably to return to his life on the streets. I was strongly advised to keep him away from booze. I'd contracted with a private nursing service for Phil's at-home care, and I had him transported by private ambulance from the hospital to my brownstone on West Fifty-sixth Street, where I put him to bed in Garth's apartment on the third floor.

He still hadn't spoken, and he still wouldn't meet my gaze.

Fearing that brain damage, Alzheimer's, or some other condition had robbed him of reason or speech, I checked once again with the doctors and was told once again what I had been told before-brain scans had indicated no organic damage, and there was nothing to indicate his mental faculties and vocal cords were not intact. Their suspicion was that Phil's muteness was caused by the same bone-deep depression that might have prompted him to take to the streets in the first place. Antidepressant drugs were contraindicated for the present time because of the other medications which had been administered to him.

And so I was just going to have to wait. Each day I popped up at frequent intervals from the offices downstairs to check with the nurse on duty to see how Phil was doing. I'd sit next to his bed and talk about anything that came to mind, but he would always turn his head away and remain silent. The plastic bag containing the circus posters I'd returned to him lay unopened on the night table next to his bed. I'd anticipated-dreaded-having him ask for a drink, but he didn't even do that.

On Thursday, four days after I'd brought my former boss home, I was in my office working on a report for a corporate client when the day nurse stuck his head in the door.

"Dr. Frederickson, I think you'd better go upstairs to see Mr. Statler. He just told me I was fired."

I paid the nurse for the rest of his shift, then bounded up the stairs to the third floor, fearing that the reason for Phil's sudden burst of animation was that he'd caught a glimpse of the well-stocked bar in the living room of the apartment. But Phil wasn't at the bar. I found him sitting up on the edge of the bed; he'd found the clothes I'd bought for him. He'd managed to pull on a pair of corduroy pants and was trying, with badly trembling fingers, to take the pins from a new shirt.

"I can't afford nurses," he said in a low, hoarse voice as I entered the room and approached the bed. He didn't look up but simply kept talking very rapidly, occasionally shaking his head from side to side for emphasis. "I can't afford that private room you put me in at the hospital, and I can't afford those fancy doctors you sent around. I wanted to walk out of there, but I was just too goddamned weak. If you think Phil Statler needs the goddamned dwarf he plucked off a farm in Nebraska to take care of him in his dotage, you've got another think coming. I don't know how right now, but I'm going to pay you back every goddamned cent you've spent on me."

It was the terribly injured pride of a terribly proud man speaking. I just let it go on. When he paused for breath, I stepped close to him, wrapped my arms around his neck, and hugged him to me.