Black Water (27 page)

Fifteen minutes later, Hub and five other shirtless inmates were lined up agin the wall in the doctor’s office. Dr. Wade, in his early fifties, and an orderly, like they were on an assembly line, checked the inmates’ eyes and listened to their hearts and lungs with a stethoscope, while Pickering and another fuckin’ rookie stood at the door.

Wade pressed the stethoscope to Hub’s back. “Big breath.” He moved on down the line repeating the order. When he got to the end, he took six little bottles off the counter and handed one to each man. “Fill ’em,” he said with less warmth than he’d give a ham sandwich. The inmates turned their backs to one another, holding their reluctant appendages over the bottles. Hub stepped to a corner and milked a few drops.

“I cain’t git it started,” one o’ the inmates griped.

“You’ll be there til ya do,” Wade threatened. Finally, all six turned in their yellowish/orangeish offerings. Wade placed ’em on the counter and nodded to his assistant. “This gentleman’ll be taking a blood sample, then you fellas can go back to your cells.”

The assistant picked up a syringe and a rubber tourniquet used to tie off their arms. The inmate who couldn’t get his thing workin’ got real nervous. “With a needle?”

Wade looked at him over his glasses. “You know another way?”

“I don’t like needles.”

“There’s nothin’ t’be afraid of. We ain’t puttin’ in, we’re takin’ out.”

“In ‘r out, yer still stickin’ somethin’ in me.”

“You took three slugs in a bank job and you’re afraid of a little needle?”

“I didn’t hafta watch th’slugs comin’.”

“Well then,” Wade replied, sarcastically, “don’t watch it come this time either.”

The assistant approached and Mr. Chicken started to back away. “I don’t wanna do it, I tell ya!”

Pickering handed his rifle to the fuckin’ rookie and motioned the rest o’ the inmates to a wall. He approached Mr. Chicken. “Don’t gimme any trouble.”

The inmate helt his hands out defensively. “Aw, Mr. Pick’ring, can’t I skip th’needle? I ain’t got TB.”

Pickering took him by the arms as the assistant approached with the needle. His arms pinned behind him, the inmate’s eyes got bigger and bigger as the needle got closer and closer. Just as the needle hit his skin, he whimpered, his bladder emptied of everthing he’d failed to put in the little bottle, his eyes rolled up, and he passed out. Pickering let him slide to the floor and patted the top of his head. “‘Atta boy.”

“Get it before he wakes up,” Wade said. The assistant slapped the tourniquet around his arm, jabbed him, and Wade looked over his half-glasses at the next man. “You gonna sissy-up, too?”

Hub was in the prison garage layin’ on a greasy creeper under an old jacked-up Dodge Brothers double-clutcher, pullin’ the transmission and listenin’ to Tennessee Ernie Ford on the radio singin’ about how he’d worked his ass off but still owed ‘is soul t’the comp’ny store. Hub understood his frustration. After thirty years, he’d become somethin’ of a trustee, and although didn’t hold the keys to the gate, he pretty much had his run o’ the place and his choice o’ work. His back on a creeper under a truck listenin’ to a radio was better than breakin’ his back, swingin’ a pick in the hot sun.

He jumped when somebody tapped the bottom of his shoe. He looked down past his feet and noticed a pair o’ highly shined shoes. He rolled out from under the truck and Pickering chinned in the direction of the main building. “Doc wants t’see ya again.”

“Again? What for now?”

“Same don’t know, same don’t care,” Pickering said and motioned him up. “Let’s go.” Hub got up, pulled a rag from his back pocket, and wiped his hands as they headed for the door.

Minutes later they entered the doctor’s office. Wade was seated behind his desk. “There you are,” he said, rising, “Sorry, Hub, but we need t’do your tests again.”

“How come?”

Wade motioned him to the counter, picked a tourniquet and syringe from a tray. “Roll ‘er up.”

Hub unbuttoned his shirtsleeve and rolled it up. Wade snapped the tourniquet tightly around his arm, tipped a bottle of alcohol on a cotton swab, rubbed it across the inside of Hub’s arm, and harpooned him with the subtlety of a bull dyke with a turkey baster. To Wade, it wasn’t an arm connected to another human but a job connected to a paycheck. Hub watched it fill up with what used to course through his veins. After a bit, Wade pulled the tourniquet loose and tossed it to the counter, letting the syringe fill. Topping it off, he pulled it out, set it on the tray, and stuck a cotton ball on Hub’s arm. “Hold that.” Hub pressed on the ball while Wade pulled a piece o’ tape off a roll.

“How come we had t’do it again? I got TB?”

Wade laid the tape across the ball and pressed the ends down. “Just a p’caution. I doubt it’s anything. Most times it’s just a tainted test.”

“If I had TB I’d be coughin’ ’r somethin’ wouldn’ I?” Hub asked while he rolled his sleeve down and buttoned it.

“You don’t have TB,” Wade said, as he filled out the form to go with the blood.

“How d’ya know?”

“’Cause I went t’doctor school half my God Damn life! That’s how I know.”

Hub wanted to say
and you ended up workin’ in a prison
, but instead o’ pissin’ him off, he nodded to the form and the syringe. “Then what’s ‘at for?”

“I said it was probly nothin’! You don’t have TB, so don’t worry ‘bout it. The first test come out a little funny’s all, and I’m just makin’ sure!”

“What was funny ‘bout it?”

“If I knew that I wouldn’t be doin’ it over, would I! God Dammit, Hub, I’m the doctor and you’re the prisoner. I’ll act like one ‘n tell you what t’do, ‘n you act like th’other and do it!” He handed Hub another little bottle. “Don’t ask so many God Damn questions, and fill ‘er up this time.”

Hub started to turn his back to Wade, but that put him facing Pickering so he turned back. He’d rather pee in front o’ the doctor than Pickering. Wade stepped up uncomfortably close and squinted in Hub’s eyes, first one, then the other. “Your eyes look a little yella. How ya been feelin’?”

Hub’d just got the waterworks started when the question pinched it off. “You ain’t makin’ this easy. Other’n havin t’do this shit, I feel awright.” Hub tried to get it goin’ again, but it was difficult with Wade starin’ him in the eyeball and breathin’ raw-onion breath all over him.

Wade pulled a flat stick from a little box settin’ on the counter. “Open your mouth.”

Hub opened his mouth. He couldn’t have felt any more conspicuous. One hand gripped the little bottle and the other stuffed his dick head in the bottle’s mouth so he wouldn’t pee all over hisself.

“Say
Ahhhh
.”

“Ahhhaaaaa...”

Wade looked all around, pulled the stick out, and stepped on a little foot-pedal doohickie stickin’ out the bottom of a can. The lid flipped up, and he tossed the stick in. He slid his foot off the foot-pedal and the lid slapped back down. Then he looked at the bottle. Hub hadn’t done much more than moisten the bottom.

“Hub? I don’t have all day, come on.” Hub closed his eyes, hopin’ that would help, but just as it started to dribble, Wade asked, “You havin’ reg’lar BM’s?”

Hub opened his eyes in time to detect Pickering tryin’ to squelch a smile. “How th’Hell would I know. What’s reg’lar?” He’d run out o’ pee and patience. “You know what? That’s it.” He shook the dew off the lily. “You shoulda told me you’s gonna need it”—set the bottle on the counter—“’fore I come in, ‘n I would’nta”—stuck his dick back in his pants—“drained it first”—and zipped up.

Wade picked up the bottle, helt it to the light, and examined it. “Hmmm…” he said, dubiously. “What little there is looks cloudy. You go ever day? You always have this much trouble gettin’ it goin’?”

“What if I’s watchin’ you?”

“Don’t get smart,” Pickering warned.

“Well, Hell,” he said, exasperated, “it ain’t somethin’ I keep records on. Why’re ya askin’ me this shit? You didn’t bring nobody else back? Mine the only one you fucked up on?”

Other than shooting Hub a nasty look, Wade ignored the question and set the bottle on the counter next to the blood sample. “Notice any blood in the stool?”

“Stool? What stool?’

Wade’s patience had run out, too. “God Dammit, Hub, when you push one out, do you notice any blood in it?”

“You mean when I take a shit? Why didn’t you just say that? Uppity son of a bitch.”

“Hub?” Mr. Pickering warned.

“No, I don’t…didn’t…I don’t know. It’s shit! Why th’Hell’d I look at it ‘cept t’check f’worms?”

The presence of worms was a distinct possibility. As were lice. And fleas. And ticks. But those were just the varmits you could see. A prison was a pharmacopoeial supermarket of parasitical probabilities.

“Your gut ever burn?” Wade pushed on.

Hub looked to see if he was kidding. “On prison food? Whada you think?”

“Don’t get smart-alecky, Hub,” Pickering warned again, “just answer th’man.”

“Yes,” Hub said, very pointed. “Like a fuckin’ clock, three times a day. After breakfast, after lunch, ‘n after dinner.” He thought he heard Pickering tryin’ not to giggle.

Wade opened a glass-fronted cabinet above the counter and removed a small pill bottle. “Now, listen t’me good,” he warned, holding the bottle so close in front o’ Hub’s face his eyes crossed. “I’m gonna give these to ya just t’be on the safe side. I want you to take one a day, but only if you really need it.”

Hub squinted at the bottle, mullin’ over ‘just t’be on the safe side.’ “What is it?”

“Dammit, Hub, you are one o’ the most argumentative sons o’ bitches I ever met!”

“I ain’t argeein’. I just asked a simple question!”

“Somethin’ to ease your stomach,” Wade chirped. He tapped his fingernail on the new test’s paperwork. “If these results come back same as the first, I think ya might have the beginnings of a stomach ulcer.” He said it with all the warmth of tomorrow’s weather report. He reached for a glass and started to fill it at the faucet. “I’m gonna have ya take one right now.”

“Ulcers? How th’Hell’d I catch ulcers?”

Wade shook out a pill, handed it and the glass to him. “I didn’t say you did, I said you might, and you don’t catch ulcers! They sprout from a guilty conscience.” Hub eyed the pill suspiciously. “They work better,” Wade said, “if ya swallow’em. Come on, Hub, I got better things t’do than stand around jawin’ with you all day.”

Hub popped it in his mouth and washed it down. Wade took the glass, set it on the counter, and helt the little bottle in front o’ Hub’s face again. “One a day! No more.” He stuck the bottle in Hub’s hand. “If it does start t’hurtin’ more, you still don’t take more than one. You understand?” Hub nodded, concerned. Wade looked to Pickering and jutted his chin to the door. “He can go.”

Pickering helt his hand to the door as if to say,
After you,
and Hub exited.

Mr. Pickering escorted Hub back to Wade’s office. Upon entering, they noticed the doctor seated behind his desk and another man in an official doctor’s white lab coat sittin’ ‘longside the desk. He had an open folder layin’ on his crossed legs, rubbin’ his chin, studiously perusing the contents. When Hub entered the room, he closed and tossed the folder on the desk, then he and Wade stood up. Wade made the introductions. “Hub, this is Dr. Ball. He’s a...specialist.”

“Mr. Lusaw,” Ball said, extending his hand, “I’m pleased to meet you. Have a seat, please.”

Hub looked at Pickering, not just a little suspicious—a specialist and all the pleasantries. Prisoners didn’t often hear words like
please
, less often
pleased to meet you
and never
have a seat
. Never introduced to, or shook hands with. Belief was if you shook hands with a prisoner, you just might find the next day you got worms in your stool and/or little tight-clawed bugs in your dickie hairs.

Wade, Ball, and Hub sat while Pickering remained standing beside the door, his arms crossed over his chest. Ball scrunched his eyes up, conveying doctorial concern. “Dr. Wade asked me to take a look at your tests. Unfortunately, the second set confirmed his suspicions.” He leaned toward Hub, his elbows on his knees. “Now, I want you to know that at this point, there’s nothing to get overly….”

“I got ulcers?”

Taken aback, Ball sat up and blinked. “Ulcers? What would make you think you have an ulcer?”

Hub fired a finger in Wade’s direction. “He said I did!”

Wade jerked back. “I did no such thing! I said there was the possibility and no more!”

Ball jumped in. “Mr. Lusaw, it’s all right, you don’t have an ulcer. The tests were concerning your blood. That’s why I was called in. I’m a hematologist.” Then, from the look on Hub’s face: “My specialty is blood. Your white cell count’s a little haywire, and I believe it would be a good idea, purely precautionary you understand, if we took some X-rays. Just to be on the safe side. To try to determine what might be causing it.”

Hub got his hair up. “Whoa whoa whoa, pull up a minute!”

“Take it easy, Hub,” Pickering threatened.

“No, that’s all right,” Ball jumped in, “he’s got a right to be concerned.”

“What’s this cell count stuff,” Hub wanted to know, while
he’s got a right t’be concerned
ran around in the back of his mind right beside the ever-lingerin’
just t’be on the safe side
.

“Everyone has red and white blood cells,” Ball explained. “The white cell’s main function is to counter infection. The first test’s low white-cell count being off could’ve been caused by any number of common things. Something you’d ingested, a drug, even a stressful day. But after a second test, with the same results…it warrants looking into.” He shrugged and followed with the second, “Just t’be on the safe side.”

Hub’s heart rate picked up dramatically thinkin’ about the one “he’s got a right t’be concerned,” and now
two
“just t’be on the safe sides”!

Ball picked up and leafed through the folder he and Wade had been looking over when Hub first entered. “Now, I see here that Dr. Wade’s already given you something.” He looked at Hub. “Did it help?”