Outside Lincoln Hospital he had to wait for Judy Wiener again. They'd
traveled in separate cars, it seemed the best arrangement, and he'd
got there first. It occurred to him she might get lost once she came off
the expressway. There would be a parking problem in the narrow local
streets; she was probably driving around looking for a spot. He'd been
standing outside the entrance a full twenty minutes and still no sign of
her.
The temperature had fallen. A cold afternoon wind had sneaked up.
What had started as a balmy night and then a warmer morning was
taking a chilly turn that would surprise everyone coming out of offices
at five o'clock. Weather aside, the traffic flowed, the stores and
sidewalks seemed active; people in the Bronx had their reasons to be
out and about.
We wake to situations altered while we sleep, he started thinking: a
bullet-pierced body, a door lock broken, drug capsules like scattered
seeds on the stoop. Something keeps creeping closer as through a
mist, always hard to detect.
He looked up at the hospital and imagined Xavier waking up, waiting in
bed for the doctors to decide what to do so he could be out again in
the streets. The longer he stood waiting for Judy Wiener the stronger
his irritation grew.
People all about, most of them jobless at this time of day, he had to
assume. Vanishing specks. He was a speck waiting to vanish, too,
amidst the movement and noise and odors swirling around on this
Bronx street. Xavier, too, was a speck. How many people were even
aware of his condition up there in a hospital bed? The hospital was a
speck. But for its name on the outer wall it was fairly indistinguishable
from most buildings around.
And who was this guy standing across the road, a strapping young man,
dark glasses, gold chain gleaming on his chest, his chin jutting out as if
to discourage scrutiny? And beside him a heavy panting fleshy dog?
It was exactly as he'd imagined ̶ Judy Wiener had gotten lost. She'd
stopped to ask directions twice, and she was parked on a side street
two blocks away. She explained all this on the sidewalk, going through
her bag again like a squirrel. She looked up at the hospital as if
surprised to find it actually standing there.
Inside the doors they hesitated. Xavier's mother had said she'd be
waiting to meet them in the lobby. There were rows of chairs in a
waxed waiting area, but she wasn't there.
A security officer, a youngish, balding man standing in a corner
chewing gum, studied them. Two stern-faced receptionists at the
reception desk listened as a doctor in white coat handed over a folder,
whispered instructions, clicked shut his ballpoint and headed for the
elevators.
They approached the reception desk; but then someone called her
name and rushed toward Judy Wiener and it seemed Xavier's mother
had found them.
She'd just come off the elevator; she'd been upstairs to see Xavier;
they weren't allowing him visitors at this hour. And he lay there
handcuffed to his bed. Handcuffed to his bed.
Radix stood aside watching the two women embrace after a flurry of
smiles and exclamations. He was introduced as a teacher who knew
Xavier very well. "He's from the West Indies, too." Judy Wiener
added. Xavier's mother extended a limp hand and smiled a wary island
smile. Then she turned back to Judy Wiener.
Radix had expected a mild-mannered, good-hearted lady gripping a
handbag, her face a mask of distress. Xavier's mother ̶ Mrs.
Haltaufauderhude! ̶ was a short woman, in her thirties, he guessed.
She wore a blue beret, and a London Fog raincoat unbuttoned to
reveal her shimmering corduroy pants outfit and Nike footwear. She
carried a Channel 13 TV tote bag with a magazine sticking out, and
her perfume hung like a protective mist around her.
With animated gestures, her bracelets jangling, she explained her
intention to protest to "the proper authorities" about Xavier being in
handcuffs. "I mean, come on…" , she kept saying, in a tone of ladylike
outrage. Judy Wiener, arms folded, nodded and shared her outrage.
For awhile Radix could think of nothing to say. He sort of hovered over
the two women. At times he looked from one concerned face to the
other, and he tried to wedge his own concern somewhere in the heart
of the conversation.
At some point he sensed silence around them, a lull in the conver-
sation. Perhaps feeling they ought now to include him in their
exchanges, the women turned their attention to him.
(from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D. Williams, 2001)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 