ARE YOU LONESOME TONIGHT? (Running Wild) (8 page)

"India, it’s Harold,” he began, as if she didn’t already know. "Listen, please don’t hang up on me. I’m sorry for what happened tonight. You got the wrong impression of me, and—”

“I got the wrong impression? I don’t think so.”  Maxine was very aware of her friends, one on either side of her, both listening avidly. Her heart was hammering, but her pride wouldn’t allow her to reveal in any way the confusing muddle of emotions she felt just hearing his voice. “What I got tonight was a hard dose of reality, Harold."

He tried to interrupt, but she raised her voice and talked right over him. “You lied to me, and I hate being lied to. You and I have nothing in common, absolutely nothing.”

Polly gave a thumbs-up sign.

“I don’t want you to call me ever again. If you do, I’ll simply hang up the moment I recognize your voice. If you persist, I’ll make a complaint to the police, that you’re . . . that you're—”

"Harassing,” Polly hissed.

“That you’re harassing me.” Maxine felt as if she were choking. Before he could say another word, she slammed the phone down and tried to get her breath.

“Yes!” Polly exclaimed, smacking one fist into the other palm. “Way to go, Maxine.”

“Good for you,” Edna echoed. “I wish I'd said something like that to John. All I ever did was start to cry.” Edna shook her head. “I was so pitiful.”

The phone rang again, and they all looked at one another.

“If that’s Harold, hang up,” Maxine instructed, but when Edna answered, it was one of her regulars.

Maxine and Polly left her to it. They went back to the kitchen and their coffee.

“Graham went to sleep like the little angel he is," Polly reported. “I rocked him and sang to him, and then when I put him down I rubbed his back.”

“Don’t you ever think about having a baby of your own?” Maxine said. “You’re so good with Graham.” Talking about babies took her mind off Harold, which Polly probably realized.

"I’d love to have a baby," Polly said wistfully. "But I’ve never met anybody I’d even consider as a genetic donor.”

"Don’t you believe in love at all, Polly?” In spite of Ricky, in spite of everything, Maxine always had. But tonight she wasn’t sure.

"I’d like to,” Polly said slowly. “I just don’t see much of it around, particularly in my work.” “Did you always want to be a lawyer?" Maxine needed to talk, to keep her mind off the evening’s events.

“I actually took a teaching degree first,” Polly said. “I wanted to be a primary school teacher, but when I graduated there weren’t any jobs, so I went back to college and got my law degree. I figured there’s always a need for lawyers.”

"And you enjoy it?" Maxine thought of Harold, asking her whether she enjoyed what she did. 

Polly shrugged. “Sometimes. When I can make a difference, when I see that some woman’s life is improved because I’ve managed to get decent maintenance. But you don’t hear a lot of happy stories in this job.”

“So what would you do if you weren’t a lawyer?" She was borrowing all her lines from Harold, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.

Polly frowned. “Y’know, I’ve thought about that sometimes. Something to do with babies. Maybe a midwife?”

“A midwife?” That was surprising enough to make Maxine forget all about Harold—for a moment or two. "That’s pretty messy, Polly.” Maxine could not imagine the stylish Polly dealing with amniotic fluid. "And you don’t make much money at it. Plus you don’t get to meet any single guys, either.”

"So? We’re only playing make believe here. It’s not as if I’m gonna give up a job that’s finally paying me some real money for one where all the perks are in the product.” Polly studied a perfectly manicured nail and tried to look nonchalant. “How about you, Maxine? What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Harold had asked her that same question. He’d asked a great many questions. He’d seemed sincerely interested in the answers, too. It went to show how wrong a girl could be.

“A radio announcer.” She’d thought a lot more about it, and she’d even ordered a book from the library that would tell her what the requirements were to attend broadcasting school.

“No kidding?" Polly thought it over and nodded her head. “You’d be really good at it. You’ve got that fantastic voice, and you’re quick with answers. Yup, Maxine, you’ve gotta do it."

“There’s this little problem called money. It would mean no income for quite a while, and there’s Graham to think about.”

Polly was a realist, and she nodded again. "Yeah, but don’t give up on the idea. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

Maxine had to smile. “My father used to say that. He knew every old saw in the book.”

"My grandpa did too, that’s where I heard the phrase." Polly studied Maxine intently for several moments. “You ever think of calling your father? Telling him he’s got a beautiful grandson?"

“Nope.” Maxine shook her head. “In his opinion, I’d be a fallen woman, having a baby without the benefit of marriage. To say nothing of what I do for a living. Lordie, he’d have a stroke if he knew.”

“You never know. People change as they get older.”

“Yeah,” Maxine said in a sarcastic tone. “They get more like themselves, and when it comes to my father, that’s not an improvement.”

“Well, you’d know." Polly yawned and stretched her arms over her head. “I’d better get going. Tomorrow’s my big chance to sleep late, and I don’t want to waste it.”

"I’ve still got your clothes on.” Maxine started to get up, but Polly restrained her.

"Relax. I'll get them some other time. I’ve got plenty to wear without those.”

Maxine had thanked her for caring for Graham, and after saying good night to Edna, who was still on the phone, Polly made her way out to her little red sports car, the first thing she’d bought herself after getting the job at the clinic.

As she drove through the quiet suburban streets and then maneuvered impatiently through heavy downtown traffic, the conversation she’d had with Maxine kept replaying inside her head.

For the past year Polly had been aware of a deep dissatisfaction with her job. She tried to smother the feeling by taking on more cases, fighting more strenuously for her clients, being more aggressive and outrageous, dating more guys, but underneath the brassy surface she presented to the world was an emptiness, an ever increasing sense of
Is this all there is?

The men she’d dated added to her discontent. They were lawyers, stockbrokers, businessmen, a few athletes. She tried to get below the surface with each of them, find the man who lived and breathed beneath the GQ clothing and the manicured fingernails and the platinum MasterCard.

Almost invariably she found a belief that the one who died with the most toys won the game. They wanted huge stock portfolios, yachts, expensive cars, big contracts. They wanted a happening woman on their arm, wearing something silk and very short, to reaffirm their value to themselves and their colleagues, and when she asked about their sense of themselves in relation to the world, they answered in terms of power.

It sickened her. These were the same men, she suspected, who phoned Maxine and Edna for a “quickie,” and probably snickered about it in the locker room.

That thought made Polly almost homicidal, and she swore and stepped hard on the gas, changing lanes to avoid a long string of cars making left turns at a light.

Lately, the only time she relaxed and felt totally at peace was when she was visiting Maxine and holding Graham.

She'd watched Maxine, with sheer guts and tenacity, keep herself off the welfare rolls and even hire Edna. Polly had the most profound respect and admiration for the two women, and as a lawyer, she vowed she’d get justice for them or die trying.

Now the driver ahead was inching along as if there were all the time in the world to get through the next intersection. Some people shouldn't have driver's licenses. 

Polly swung the wheel an instant before she glanced in the rearview, and something hit the passenger side of her car with a force that stunned her.

A pain larger than anything she'd ever dreamed possible began in her leg and traveled up her thigh. The last sound she heard as her head smashed down on the steering wheel was that of a car horn blaring.

“Ms. Kelville, can you hear me?” The voice was female and insistent. “Can you open your eyes? I’m Dr. Duncan; I’m the ER physician.”

It was freezing cold. Some idiotic lamebrain was shining a flashlight right into Polly's face. It was giving her the worst headache. She had to wake up in order to stop it. And she needed blankets, lots of them. She was shivering, icy cold.

“Ms. Kelville, Polly Kelville, can you hear me? You're in St. Joseph's Hospital, in Emergency." That same damn woman, nagging at her again. Couldn't she give it a rest?

“Can you open your eyes, Polly? That’s it, that’s good. Try to stay with me now.  You’ve had an accident.”

Accident? That couldn’t be right. She’d remember something like that.

"You’ve fractured your left leg. Just stay calm, stay still, help us out here. We’re going to do some X rays to determine the extent of the damage.”

The doctor’s voice became authoritative, talking to someone else. "Lorna, we need a CAT scan here. And where’s X ray?" The voice became reassuring again as she spoke to Polly. “You bonked your head pretty hard. The scan will tell us if there’s anything to be concerned about.”

Long moments with activity all around her, and then the doctor's voice again: “Okay, let’s get her transferred, on three, here we go . . .”

“My leg, oh, Jesus, oh, fuck, my leg, do something, do something, please. . . .” Was that her hollering like that?

"Sorry, sorry, Ms. Kelville." Dr. Duncan again. "I know it hurts. We’re going to give you something for the pain in just a little bit, but first we have to make certain you have no other injuries.” Then, obviously speaking to someone else, “How’s Bruce doing?”

A new male voice. "He’s fine. All he got was a cut on the forehead. Greg dug out a chunk of glass and stitched him up. No concussion.” 

“That’s good news. Was he on his way over here?”

"Nope, going home after a delivery.”

Was Bruce a pizza driver? Polly must have moved a little, because a pain to end all pains went through her body like an electric shock. It was going to make her sick; it was the kind of pain that made her want to vomit. She screamed instead, and tried to pass out.

It didn’t work.

“Ms. Kelville.” Duncan’s voice. “Can you hear me? We’re going to be taking you up to Surgery in a few minutes. Is there someone we can call for you, family, friends?”

There were tubes in her arms, and the pain had receded enough to be bearable. This time she remembered the crash, awful, agonizing flashes of ambulance attendants lifting her out of her car, of agony, of feeling certain she was dying.

"How . . . Where ... Who . ..’’ She couldn’t seem to put things into a sentence. There were medical staff all around her. She was lying flat on a hard gurney, she seemed to have a sheet over her and not a scrap of clothing on under it, and she didn’t care.

She was scared. She hated being scared. She hated hospitals and doctors and anesthetic. They were about to operate on her, the doctor had said, and her entire family was back in Winnipeg, which wasn’t a damned bit of use to her right now.

Not that they’d be much use if they were here either. Her brothers weren’t that good in any emergency, unless it involved rugby or football. Anything else, they’d argue among themselves, cause a whole lot of commotion, do just what the doctor said, and then haul her kicking and screaming back to Winnipeg with them.

She hated Winnipeg almost as much as she hated hospitals. But at the moment she hated operations most of all.

“Maxine Bleckner,” she croaked. “I want someone to call Maxine for me." She tried to remember Maxine’s phone number, and after a moment came up with what she hoped was right. Polly repeated it. “Call her right now,’’ she ordered in her best lawyer voice.

All of a sudden it was imperative that Maxine know what had happened. Polly wanted someone she trusted to know that she was heading into surgery.

"The nurse’ll make the call in a moment," Duncan promised.

Polly wondered if she could trust the nurse to do it. Agony consumed her, and after an interval that seemed to last forever, in which she was subjected to jolting and prodding and tubes and needles, Polly slid gratefully down into a dazed half doze.

The next time she awakened, there was motion. Something green overhead was rushing by at a rapid pace. It took a moment for her to realize it was ceiling tiles. Although there was still pain, it had lessened. The gurney stopped at a nursing station, and a man's voice, obscenely cheerful, came from somewhere behind her. “Hey, Ms. Kelville. How’s it going?”

He came alongside the gurney and looked down at her, a blond man with a wide white bandage stuck to his forehead. He had a bony face, dark eyes, and a wide white grin. Looking up at him from this angle was weird.

What big teeth you have, Mr. Wolf. . .
.

“I’m Bruce Turner, the guy you hit? You’ll be glad to know that apart from a little bump on the head, I wasn’t injured at all. I wanted to reassure you about that, I figured you’d be worried.”

She wasn’t. She hadn’t given him a single thought. Why would she, when she was probably dying?

“Our cars, now,” he went on, still smiling as if it were the biggest joke in the world, “well, they looked pretty messed up when I last saw them, but what the heck, cars are replaceable, right?”

What is this joker doing here, anyway?

As if he'd read her mind, he went on in that irritatingly cheerful tone: “They just finished treating me in the ER. I wanted to say, ‘hi there,’ but they were already taking you to surgery. I work here, upstairs on Maternity. I’m OB-GYN. So I was able to track you down pretty easily."

His eyes were dark brown, nearly black, with laugh lines around them. His lashes were blond and long. She could see the light through them.

"Anyhow,” he went on, "I’m pleased to meet you, Ms. Kelville. You didn’t have to ram into me to get my attention, though. Pretty lady like you, a simple hello would have done the trick.”

He thought she’d done it on purpose? Was this guy a stand-up comedian or a doctor?

Polly opened her mouth to ask him that, and a bolt of pain made her cry out.

“Sorry, sorry, don’t try to talk. I’ll be around. We can get to know each other after they patch you up.” At least he sounded compassionate this time. “Hey, Linda, who’s doing her?”
Doing her?

A female voice came from behind the desk. “Dr. Bellamy’s on call. That’s quite a Band-Aid you’ve got there, Bruce. What happened?”

“Little MVA a while ago. Ms. Kelville here smacked into me down on Broadway. There you go, Ms. Kelville, Bellamy’s the best. Just relax and enjoy. You’ll be in and out in no time and as good as new.”

He had a beard, Polly noted. She hated beards. It was a blond beard. She didn’t like blond men, because she was blond herself. Blondes showed up better against dark men. “Be careful what you say about the accident," she warned him. “I’m a lawyer. Don’t think you’ll get away with telling everyone it was my fault.”

He laughed. “I’m a doctor, so just make sure you think good thoughts as you go into surgery. Studies have proven attitude is important.” He laughed again. He had a big, hearty laugh, and she hated it.

She hated him. He was obviously a buffoon. Polly wanted to smack him. She opened her mouth to tell him so and some slight movement made her gasp.

“Don’t try to talk. I’ll pop by and see you after surgery. Oh, and you might as well call me Bruce. I can tell we’re gonna be great friends. Your name’s Polly, right? I heard them read it off your ID. Here’s your team now. Everything’s going to be fine, Polly; don't worry about a thing. You’re in good hands with Dr. Bellamy.”

Polly felt utter terror consume her, and suddenly she didn’t want him to leave. Better the devil you know . . .

“Could you phone my friend for me? They said they would, but I don’t know if they did it." She feared she’d given them the wrong number, and Maxine’s private number was unlisted.

“By all means. What’s the number? Linda will call right away for you, won’t you, Linda?"

“Sure, Dr. Turner, I’d be happy to.”

Polly was sick of people here passing the buck. “I don’t see any piano tied to your ass, Turner,’’ she snapped.

His eyebrows shot up and then he laughed that big, hearty guffaw again. He snapped off a salute, making certain not to bump his bandage or her gurney. “Okay, Sergeant. Just give me the number. I’ll make the call myself right now.”

“I don’t know the number offhand; look in the phone book under Yakkety Yak.”

“Your friend’s name is Yakkety Yak?" He wasn't laughing now. He obviously thought she was hallucinating from the head injury.

“Her business is called Yakkety Yak. Just call the damned number and ask for Maxine.”

Polly heard him riffling the pages just as a new group of green-gowned people briskly wheeled her through a doorway and then began doing things to her body that were uncomfortable and frightening.

Really scared now, Polly thought of Graham, of how soft and sweet he felt in her arms. She imagined rocking him, burying her nose in his sweet baby hair. . . .

“Can you count backward for me from a hundred?"

"... ninety four, ninety three . . .”

Maxine, please be here when I wake up, please .
. .

And . . . nothing.