Todd Strasser: No Place

My thanks to Coach Michael Chiapparelli and pitcher Michael Williams for their gracious assistance. And to David Gale, Navah Wolfe, and Dr. Petra Deistler-Kaufmann, for their many insightful and helpful suggestions.

In the dark I’m jogging quickly across the hospital parking lot toward the emergency room. My cell phone vibrates. Even before I dig it out of my pocket, I know it’s Talia and she’s going to ask why I’m not at the party.

I answer with a lie: “Hey, sorry, the stupid bus hasn’t come yet.”

Silence on the other end. Talia’s pondering this.

“I’ll be there ASAP,” I add as I weave through parked cars.

“You sound like you’re running,” she says.

“Yeah, I’m, uh, running over to the Gerson Street stop so I can get the 104 or the 107. See you soon, okay?” I hate lying, especially to people I care about, but when everything’s going wrong, it’s sometimes hard to do what’s right.

As a damp gust of wind carries the promise of rain, leaves swirl in the heavy moist air. From the distance comes the rumble of thunder. I push through the ER doors and into the stark bright fluorescent world of the hospital.

“May I help you?” asks the nurse behind the desk.

“I’m looking for Aubrey Fine.”

“Family?”

“Yes.” Another lie.

She points toward a pair of double doors. “Through there. Number three.”

A sign on the wall says:

Mine’s vibrating again. It’s Talia, and I don’t answer. I feel like a juggler with one too many balls in the air. Inside the ER the beds are hidden by blue privacy curtains and the air smells antiseptic. Through a part in some curtains I glimpse a wrinkled white-haired old lady with her eyes closed and a greenish clear mask on her face. Then I’m outside the curtain of number three. From within comes a hushed female voice: “It’s too soon to tell. We have to get him stabilized first.”

I part the curtains just enough to see the doctor in a white medical jacket. She has straight blond hair, wears dark-rimmed glasses, and holds a clipboard. Meg is leaning over the hospital bed, her face partly obscured by her thick, curly, reddish brown hair, the sleeves of her too-long plaid shirt hanging over the bars.

There’s someone in the bed and my stomach knots when I realize it’s Aubrey. Nearly unrecognizable, his head is bandaged, chin scraped and scabbed, nose bent, bloody, and twice its normal size, one eye dark and swollen shut. Clear plastic tubes snake into his nose and have been forced between his split and swollen lips. His left arm is bandaged in a way that makes me think it’s broken.

What did they do to him?

The doctor sees me. “Can I help you?”

Meg looks up, eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot, cheeks streaked with tears, surprised. “Dan!”

“Yeah, I—”

“You know him?” the doctor asks. She’s clearly a by-the-rulebook type.

“Yes.” Meg’s still staring at me. “How did you…?”

“It was on the news.” It’s strange to hear myself say that. A few months ago I barely knew the news existed. Well, I knew, but I hardly cared. Now, not only do I care, but it feels like half the time I’m part of it.

Meg looks pale and scared. I’m glad I came; she shouldn’t have to go through this alone. Her mom must be back at Dignityville looking after her father. The curtain slides open and two guys in blue scrubs come in and start to fiddle with the machines and tubes.

“We’re taking him to the ICU now,” the doctor says, gently, to Meg.

My guts twist when the guys in the scrubs arrange Aubrey’s limp right arm and bandaged left. You can tell he’s out cold. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen a beating victim—the swollen dark bruises and patches of dried blood…

“Can I come?” Meg asks.

“Not yet,” the doctor answers. Then to me: “Why don’t you take her to the waiting room?” It may be posed as a question, but the firm look in her eyes implies that this is an order.

I take Meg’s hand and lead her through the double doors. In the waiting room my phone vibrates again, and again I ignore it. In a red plastic chair, Meg falls apart, burying her face in my shoulder and shaking with sobs. Some people around the room stare, then turn away as if embarrassed for her.

“Coffee?” I ask a little later. Meg nods, and I head down a polished corridor looking for the hospital cafeteria. When I come back there’s a woman with Meg. She has an iPad on her lap, is wearing a dark blue pants suit, and has kinky hair that starts out black on top and then changes to orange-red as if she dyed it months ago and is now letting it grow out. I hand Meg a coffee, some sugar packets, and a couple of little half-and-halfs.

“Friend?” the woman asks Meg.

Meg nods, sniffs, wipes fresh tears out of her eyes. “Dan, this is Detective… uh…”

“French.” The woman offers her hand.

“Dan Halprin.” We shake.

“I’m asking Meg some questions,” Detective French says.

Sounds like she doesn’t want me there. “Sure, no prob.” I start to back away.

“Can’t he stay?” Meg blurts anxiously.

Detective French gives me a hard look, as if to let me know this is serious business and she’s only allowing me there for Meg’s sake. I sit, sip some coffee, look around. The waiting room is about a quarter full. A sad-looking little girl with pigtails leans into her mother, who’s busy texting on her phone. A greasy-haired guy with a crutch and a foot wrapped in a dirty bandage stares into space. You get the feeling they’re not emergencies—just people who can’t afford a doctor or have no place else to go.

“Why was Aubrey in the parking lot behind Ruby’s?” Detective French asks Meg.

“He’s a bartender there.”

“Did he have enemies at work? Did he ever mention anyone?”

Meg shakes her head. “No, never.”

“What about robbery?” I ask.

Detective French looks at me with an expression that says I should stay out of this, but answers just the same. “He still had his wallet when the officers arrived. There was money in it.” She swipes the screen of the iPad with her finger. “There was a witness…. The person who called 911… she said she heard one of them say something about Dignityville?”

Meg looks down at her mud-colored coffee. “That’s… where we live.”

“But Ruby’s is all the way on the other side of town.” I can’t help butting in again. “How would anyone there know he had anything to do with Dignityville?”

Detective French tilts her head as if to say, Think about it.

They had to know who Aubrey was ahead of time.

Which means the attack wasn’t random.

“Was he in a gang?” Detective French asks Meg.

Meg raises her head, frowns. “What kind of gang?”

“Street gang?”

“No! Never.”

“You’re sure?” Detective French doesn’t sound convinced.

“Yes!” Meg’s eyes start to fill with tears of frustrated indignation. “Why would you…?”

“They used the preferred gangbanger weapon, a baseball bat. And there were green and gold gang beads in the parking lot. The police think they broke during the fight.”

Meg scowls. “Street gangs around here?”

“From Burlington,” Detective French says.

Burlington’s ten miles away.