David Gates - The Wonders of the Invisible World

I sat with the motor running for a minute, just looking, then used the driveway to turn around. I don’t think anybody was home; the windows were all dark, and they’d left the outside light on over the kitchen door the way we used to do.

Sylvia showed up the next afternoon, looking like a million dollars for a gal her age. Last time I saw her was when Dave Junior was born — this same hospital, as a matter of fact. She gave us each a two-hand squeeze and a peck on the cheek, asked if anything had changed since she’d phoned from LaGuardia, told us about her trip. But when they called Dave Senior into the ICU, she started up. Did these doctors know what they were doing? Shouldn’t we get Bonnie to someplace in New York? I finally told her, “Look. You and I don’t have a thing to say about it. This is all up to Dave now.”

“They could put her on a helicopter and have her down there inside of an hour.” A fellow in a green hospital outfit was walking right past when she said it.

“You want to keep your voice down,” I said. “Listen, I forgot to ask: how’s Harold getting along?”

“Harold,” she said, “is won-derful. By the way, he said he’d be glad to help out any way he can.”

“Tell him that’s much appreciated, will you?” But I thought, To the tune of a couple hundred thousand dollars? Because where Bonnie worked they had no health plan at all, and when I’d asked Dave, he’d said his plan only covered her up to a certain amount. “Cocksuckers inch that deductible up every year and bring the cap down,” he’d said. “Sons of bitches.” I told him not to worry over the out-of-pocket because I had more in my checking than I knew what to do with. True, up to a point.

“Had the boy been drinking?” Sylvia said.

“What boy’s that?”

“The boy that hit her.”

“It wasn’t any boy,” I said. “This was a man thirty years old. Sure, of course he was drunk.” He’d been killed instantly, and there’d been some talk of charging the bartender who’d served him. Typical.

“And what about Bonnie?” Sylvia said.

“How do you mean?”

“Hel- lo ?” she said, in that new way that means you’re thickheaded. I’d thought it was a thing only young people said. “Bonnie? Your daughter? Was she drinking?”

“Of course not,” I said. “She was on her way home from work, for Pete’s sake.”

“But she pulled right out in—”

“Here’s Dave,” I said. “Maybe he’s got some news.”

He came over and sat down in the chair next to mine. “They got the nurse in with her now. Be about fifteen minutes, they said.”

Sylvia leaned across me. “Is she awake?”

“Not yet.”

“Shouldn’t she be awake by this time? What are they doing in there?”

“Probably just, you know — I don’t really know, to tell you the truth.” He ran his hands through his hair, scratched the back of his head.

“Well, what did they say when they called you in?”

“Not a hell of a lot,” he said.

“Tell you what,” I said. “Why don’t we all go down and get some coffee? Wouldn’t kill us to stretch our legs.”

“I think I’ll just sit,” Dave said. “Why don’t you two go ahead. Bring me one back?”

“Cream and sugar, right?” said Sylvia.

“Good memory,” he said. “I better have it black, though. I need to cut down. Couple Sweet-and-Lows?”

“Well, they must have skim milk here, for pity’s sake,” Sylvia said. “It can’t be that primitive.”

shaking her finger, and I’d told Sylvia how I used to hate it. “What am I going to do with you?”

We finally got Sylvia settled in, though we had a little go-round about who slept where. I was bound and determined that she should have the hide-a-bed. I’d slept on it the night before and my back was fine; I hated the thought of her trying to get comfortable on that sofa in the den. I was just going to put a couple quilts down on the floor in there. But she said she’d rather have her privacy.

After supper Dave Senior went back to the hospital, leaving me and Sylvia with the baby. She had a cocktail before supper, but just the one. Afterward, she gave Dave Junior his bath while I cleaned up, then asked me to watch him while she went into the den to finish unpacking. Now she had him on the couch — the hide-a-bed, folded up — trying to zip him into his sleep suit while he wiggled and giggled.

“What would you like Nonny to read, punkin?” she said, once she finally got him squared away. “Your daddy said you could have one story and then off to bed.”

He went and got the mouse book from the coffee table and put it right in her hands. “ That. ”

“He loves that one,” I told Sylvia. “Just so you know, they don’t have any words in it, so you have to sort of make it up as you go. It’s kind of along the lines of the—”

“Oh, I think Nonny can manage.” She had him up on her lap, playing with his hair. “What do you think, punkin? Does Nonny have it under control?”

“Just telling you,” I said.

Sylvia opened the book, flipped through the first few pages, then nodded. “Now, once upon a time,” she said, “there was a little mouse. And one fine day, this mouse happened to meet up with a kitty cat who was as big as a monster. ”

“You don’t need to hold back,” I said. “It’s the most natural thing in the world.”

“I’ll be all right in a sec,” she said. I looked at this lady, fairly well along in years — like I am, sure — pressing a wadded napkin against her eyes, and I thought, I was married to her. I sometimes get the idea that old Harold didn’t turn out to have as much money as he let on. Though of course she’d never say so. Sylvia turned out to be loyal as the day is long — though a little late in the game, from my point of view. She looked at the black stuff on the napkin. “I better go fix my face again. I wanted to look nice for her.”

“You look fine.” In my pocket, I ran my thumbnail over the ridges of a quarter to make sure it wasn’t a nickel. “I wouldn’t expect her to take too much note anyhow. You know, the first few days.”

She unwadded the napkin and tried to smooth it out flat with her fingertips. “Have they said anything at all about the long term?”

I shook my head. “I don’t believe so.”

She worked some more at smoothing out the napkin, then said, “I wonder if I hadn’t better start looking for a reasonable place to stay.”

“But aren’t you — I just assumed you were staying at Dave and Bonnie’s.”

“Aren’t you staying there?”

“So?”

“Well? Don’t you think that would be …”

“What?” I said. “Christ, they got a big enough house. I can take the den and you can have the hide-a-bed. Or vice versa. I think Dave was sort of counting on you helping out with the baby.” I stood up. “You want anything from the machine? I’m going to get some Raisinets.”

“Is that what you’ve been eating?” She shook her finger, which was an old joke between us: my mother had a habit of shaking her finger, and I’d told Sylvia how I used to hate it. “What am I going to do with you?”

We finally got Sylvia settled in, though we had a little go-round about who slept where. I was bound and determined that she should have the hide-a-bed. I’d slept on it the night before and my back was fine; I hated the thought of her trying to get comfortable on that sofa in the den. I was just going to put a couple quilts down on the floor in there. But she said she’d rather have her privacy.

After supper Dave Senior went back to the hospital, leaving me and Sylvia with the baby. She had a cocktail before supper, but just the one. Afterward, she gave Dave Junior his bath while I cleaned up, then asked me to watch him while she went into the den to finish unpacking. Now she had him on the couch — the hide-a-bed, folded up — trying to zip him into his sleep suit while he wiggled and giggled.