Busted Flush

A pager starts to buzz. Breath-stopping panic constricts my chest and sets my gut to aching. I start pulling them out. I can’t remember where I put them. I assign pockets for each pager. Why can’t I remember? Which one is it? Oh, Christ, not that one, please. Not yet. Not yet.

It’s not the med-alert pager. It’s the Committee pager. I’m holding one in each hand. The urge to throw John Fortune against the wall is strong. Instead I mute the page and thrust it back into a pocket. I start to put away the med-alert when a small hand closes on my wrist.

“Who’s sick?” The tone is gentle.

I answer. “My dad.” Why did I answer?

“I’ve had one. Mom’s had one,” the little man adds quickly. It snaps into place. There are more than two people in this garage. She’s here, too. “So she would know when we were dying. ’Course she knew anyway. We’re part of her.”

“You always die?” A mute nod. “How many?”

“One hundred and seventy-nine. I remember all their names.”

“He has a name?”

“Of course I do. I’m her son, I’m Baxter. You don’t forget your children.” I’m suddenly back in my parents’ yard.

“And what did you get?”

“You.”

The sob erupts from my chest, tears across my throat, and echoes in the garage. The little man lays a hand on my arm. I wave him off with one hand, cover my eyes with the other. “I’m all right. Just tired.”

I pull away my hand and stare into his eyes. Can she see me? Or does she only know what he’s telling her? I try to look through him to the woman. “I’ll bring him to you.”

“What?”

“I can bring him to you. So you can see him before he dies. I just need to know where you are.”

“Don’t do it, Mom. It’s a trick. He’ll hurt Drake.”

“No!” Urgency makes my voice rough. “Don’t let him die without seeing you.” It hurts to swallow. I don’t know this man who’s suddenly living inside my skin. Bloody hell, I’m melting down. Dad, are you listening?

The homunculus grips my hand. “She says to bring me to her,” he whispers, and he tells me where they are.

It’s like carrying a corn husk or a nautilus shell when the inhabitant has vacated. I can’t pinpoint a hotel room so we arrive in the parking lot. The asphalt is cracking and there’s only one car. The Rube Goldberg contraption on the hood and the faint smell of rancid grease and french fries indicate that it’s been rejiggered to burn cooking oil. The motel is two stories with exterior entry. Just a concrete strip. The sign declares it to be the Sleep Inn. Underneath it used to read AMERICAN OWNED, but someone has tried to paint over it. As I hurry past the front office I smell the pungent aroma of vindaloo.

I’m taking the stairs two at a time. Is he still breathing? I can’t feel his heart over mine, which is wildly beating. They have the corner room at the far end from the office. A pudgy young teenager is holding open the door. I recognize him from the photo Ray displayed. I rush into the room. It’s dingy, the spreads are threadbare, but it’s meticulously clean.

She’s waiting. The photo from BICC doesn’t capture her. In the photo she’s ugly. In person, her life and soul are in her gray-green eyes. She spares me not a glance. She gathers Baxter into her arms, and settles onto the end of one bed holding him in her lap. It’s hard for her to arrange the fat, bristly tail, but I scarcely notice that. It’s a pietà.

“It’s okay, kiddo. Momma’s here.” She has a warm, low voice with a husky little catch in it, and that overlay of East Coast money. The little ace reaches up and tangles his hand in the chocolate-colored hair that falls over her shoulder. “Drake,” Niobe says. “Would you go get me a Coke? I think there’s still a few cans in that machine.”

The nuclear ace goes.

“Is that wise?” I ask.

She shrugs. “You either brought people or you didn’t. And I don’t want him to see this. He knows too much about death.” She leans forward and gently kisses Baxter on the forehead. The small chest is barely rising and falling.

She’s softly humming. I don’t recognize the tune. I stand there feeling gauche and decidedly de trop, but I can neither move nor look away. So, this is death when you care.

I try to remember all the deaths I’ve dealt. I can’t.

I try to remember if I cared. I didn’t.

I try to picture holding Dad when he passes. I can’t.

I’m afraid.

The death is so subtle that I miss it. Only Niobe’s soft sobs tell me it’s happened. She closes Baxter’s eyes, quickly kisses each cheek, and hurriedly lays him down on the bed. The small body melts, leaving only a smear on the worn bedspread. She looks up at me. Her eyes are filled with tears, but she seems at peace.

“Thank you.”

I squat down in front of her. “How do you bear it? I don’t think I can.”

She pushes her hair behind her ears. She is frowning, thoughtful. “You’ll do it for him. Because you love him, and he wouldn’t leave you alone if you were dying.”