kid down the street from where I live. He’s, I don’t know, eighteen or so, but really retarded, you know? Cherie used to go see him a lot, tell him stories and all, try to teach him things. You think she might show up there sometime?”
“She might indeed. Thank you, Kirk. You know the address?”
“No, but it’s the only two-story wood house on the next block south. Can’t miss it. White with yellow trim.”
“There’ll be twenty more coming to match what you have. I’ll shove it under the door.”
“No, Mr. Griffin. This is more than enough.”
“I insist. You may have saved me a lot of time and work. And I never knew a student who couldn’t use an extra dollar or two.”
“Well,” he said.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“You have trouble concentrating with all those fine young ladies around all the time?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“God, I hope so. I hope it’s not just old men like me.”
“Not hardly.”
“Good. And thanks again.”
I finished the Irish coffee, and another couple of cups without the Irish, and headed back to Metairie. LuAnne was still alone and without parents, Frances Villon remained a thief, and at the two-story wood house I met only suspicion.
I finally convinced the father (Mom had split a long time ago) that I wasn’t a welfare officer or child molester (they probably came down to the same thing in his mind) and was introduced to Denny.
“She was real good with him, Cherie was. Only body ever spent any time with him save me.”
Denny was not only eighteen, he was a giant, almost as tall as myself and built like a linebacker. He had full, slack lips and brown eyes that never blinked. He didn’t talk, but made soft cooing sounds.
“When did you last see Cherie, Mr. Baker?”
“She came by, just for a few minutes, last week. Said she couldn’t stay ’cause of a job interview but she had missed Denny so much.”
“Say anything about when she might make it by again?”
“Said a couple of days. That was Tuesday. Guess she must of got tied up with the new job or something, huh?”
“If she does come back, Mr. Baker, could you give me a call?”
“You’re a friend of her brother, you say?”
“Yes, sir. I can give you his number, if you’d like.”
He looked at me for several moments. “I don’t need his number,” he said. “When you live with someone like Denny, who can’t ever tell you what’s inside him, you learn things most people don’t know. I see the pain and confusion in your face. It’s been there a long time. But I also see you’re a good man, and I know you’re telling me the truth.”
I nodded, and he told me he’d let me know when Cherie showed up again. “She will,” he said. “It’s just a matter of when.”
Isn’t everything, I thought, and headed back to town.
Vicky was home, sitting on the couch with a gin and tonic. She’d taken off her uniform pants but still wore the top, underpants, white stockings. Something about those white uniforms is sexy enough anyway, and it was accented by her pale skin and red hair.
“Posing for Penthouse? ”
“Fo r you,” she said, raising her glass. “Want a d r ink?”
“I’ll get it. You look tired.”
“I’ve had a te rr ible day. A man we we r e ambulating died, just d r opped dead r ight the r e in the hall with family and all the r est of the patients looking on. Then all afte r noon it’s the head nu r se I have to put up with, going on and on about quotas and p r io r ities as I’m t r ying to catch up on my wo r k.”
I got my drink, we both sipped, then she went on, her words as ever falling into natural cadences, so musical and lilting you could sink into the sensual pleasures of the language itself and lose meaning altogether.
“She r efe r s to patients as ‘units.’ An acutely ill patient is twenty-five units, a bed bath is two units, an IV is one unit, and on and on. And on.” She sipped again. “It’s r athe r like a facto r
“She might indeed. Thank you, Kirk. You know the address?”
“No, but it’s the only two-story wood house on the next block south. Can’t miss it. White with yellow trim.”
“There’ll be twenty more coming to match what you have. I’ll shove it under the door.”
“No, Mr. Griffin. This is more than enough.”
“I insist. You may have saved me a lot of time and work. And I never knew a student who couldn’t use an extra dollar or two.”
“Well,” he said.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“You have trouble concentrating with all those fine young ladies around all the time?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“God, I hope so. I hope it’s not just old men like me.”
“Not hardly.”
“Good. And thanks again.”
I finished the Irish coffee, and another couple of cups without the Irish, and headed back to Metairie. LuAnne was still alone and without parents, Frances Villon remained a thief, and at the two-story wood house I met only suspicion.
I finally convinced the father (Mom had split a long time ago) that I wasn’t a welfare officer or child molester (they probably came down to the same thing in his mind) and was introduced to Denny.
“She was real good with him, Cherie was. Only body ever spent any time with him save me.”
Denny was not only eighteen, he was a giant, almost as tall as myself and built like a linebacker. He had full, slack lips and brown eyes that never blinked. He didn’t talk, but made soft cooing sounds.
“When did you last see Cherie, Mr. Baker?”
“She came by, just for a few minutes, last week. Said she couldn’t stay ’cause of a job interview but she had missed Denny so much.”
“Say anything about when she might make it by again?”
“Said a couple of days. That was Tuesday. Guess she must of got tied up with the new job or something, huh?”
“If she does come back, Mr. Baker, could you give me a call?”
“You’re a friend of her brother, you say?”
“Yes, sir. I can give you his number, if you’d like.”
He looked at me for several moments. “I don’t need his number,” he said. “When you live with someone like Denny, who can’t ever tell you what’s inside him, you learn things most people don’t know. I see the pain and confusion in your face. It’s been there a long time. But I also see you’re a good man, and I know you’re telling me the truth.”
I nodded, and he told me he’d let me know when Cherie showed up again. “She will,” he said. “It’s just a matter of when.”
Isn’t everything, I thought, and headed back to town.
Vicky was home, sitting on the couch with a gin and tonic. She’d taken off her uniform pants but still wore the top, underpants, white stockings. Something about those white uniforms is sexy enough anyway, and it was accented by her pale skin and red hair.
“Posing for Penthouse? ”
“Fo r you,” she said, raising her glass. “Want a d r ink?”
“I’ll get it. You look tired.”
“I’ve had a te rr ible day. A man we we r e ambulating died, just d r opped dead r ight the r e in the hall with family and all the r est of the patients looking on. Then all afte r noon it’s the head nu r se I have to put up with, going on and on about quotas and p r io r ities as I’m t r ying to catch up on my wo r k.”
I got my drink, we both sipped, then she went on, her words as ever falling into natural cadences, so musical and lilting you could sink into the sensual pleasures of the language itself and lose meaning altogether.
“She r efe r s to patients as ‘units.’ An acutely ill patient is twenty-five units, a bed bath is two units, an IV is one unit, and on and on. And on.” She sipped again. “It’s r athe r like a facto r
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