really looks like trash,” said Dr. Duarte, taking a Styrofoam container from a paper bag. The smell of onion rings filled the room. “They were out of clams, so I got you a scrod sandwich.”
“Fried seafood. What kind of a doctor are you?”
“Believe me,” said Dr. Duarte. “Fried seafood is nothing compared with an amputated arm.”
“Come on,” said Nadine. “It doesn’t even hurt that much.”
“You’re on Demerol.”
“Right.”
“Eat your sandwich,” said Dr. Duarte.
“Speaking of Demerol,” said Nadine, biting into the soft Portuguese roll, savoring the hot fish, the melted cheddar cheese.
“No,” said Dr. Duarte. He sat on a chair in the corner of the room and turned on the television with the remote control.
“You don’t even–” said Nadine, wiping her lips with a napkin.
“Yes I do,” said Dr. Duarte. “You want some extra Demerol to add to your–” He gestured to the backpack. “–your worldly possessions.”
“But what if my wrist starts to hurt in the middle of the Sierra Madres?”
“Stop showing off,” said Dr. Duarte. “We’ll talk about it when you’ve sat in that bed for a while longer.”
“Right,” said Nadine. “By the way, this is fantastic.”
Dr. Duarte cracked open a bottle of beer. “You think I’m kidding,” he said. “Next time I come, Nadine, I’m bringing an X-ray of your arm. Haven’t you ever read A Separate Peace?”
“The boarding school book?”
“Phinneas dies,” said Dr. Duarte, pouring into a glass. “He dies of a broken bone.”
Nadine dipped an onion ring in ketchup. “Dr. Duarte, how about a beer?”
“You can call me Hank. And no, no beer for you. I got you an iced tea.” Hank handed Nadine the bottle, then settled back into his chair.
“What kind of beer is that, anyway?” said Nadine. “Looks delicious.”
“It’s my favorite, Whale’s Tail. They make it on Nantucket. Ever been to Nantucket?”
“No,” said Nadine. She thought for a moment of Jason Irving, who had grown up on the island. Then she forced Jason–and his sad story–from her mind.
“Too bad,” said Dr. Duarte. “The fast ferry only takes an hour. It always surprises me how many Cape Codders have never been. Ah, fourth quarter,” he said, finding a Patriots game on television.
“I hate football,” said Nadine.
“Well,” said Hank, stepping from his boots and propping his stocking feet on the ottoman, “it seems I have the remote.”
“To tell you the truth,” said Nadine, “I don’t get football.”
“You want me to teach you?”
“No,” said Nadine, “I have some research to do anyway.”
“Suit yourself,” said Hank.
Nadine opened the newspaper and scanned the headlines. “Damn!” she exclaimed.
“Beg pardon?”
“Damn Kit Henderson! He got my story.” Hank hit MUTE, came over to the bed, and leaned in. Nadine pointed to a picture of three men in handcuffs. “These guys, they shot twelve little boys. That’s why I was in Mexico, looking for them. They were drug traffickers, like I thought. Cleaning up their boy smugglers.” She scanned the story. “Kits a stringer. He must have followed up with my contacts. Goddamn it.”
“Nadine,” said Hank, “you’re lucky you made it home.”
“Home,” said Nadine, bitterly. “Kit Henderson got the front page.”
“The front page,” said Hank. “That’s what it’s all about?”
“Now you’re a therapist?”
“No,” said Hank. “I’m a generalist.”
“Teach me about football,” said Nadine. She folded the paper and put it in the trash.
“Well, to begin with, that’s the tight end,” said Hank.
“You’re telling me,” said Nadine.
Five
“Please,” said Nadine. “I’m going. Send me to Lima. I can get in with the Shining Path.” Nadine’s hand rested on the newspaper spread across her lap. Her room was filled with papers, and news blared on the television. She had pulled the gingham curtains closed, and she fought to ignore the searing pain between her temples.
“It’s a standoff, Nadine,” said Ian. “Nobody’s coming in or out. And I’m not sending you anywhere until you get your doctor to give the good word. Nadine, honestly. Are you listening?”
“Ian…,” said Nadine. She drained her soda and stacked it on top of the other Diet Coke cans on her bedside table.
“We’ve already sent Clay anyway. By the time it’s in the paper, we have someone there. You know that.”
“Well where, then? Where do you need someone?” Nadine opened another soda.
“Where do we need a nutcase with a broken wrist?” said Ian. “We’ll talk next year, okay? I’ve got to run.”
“Next year?”
“It’s Christmas,” said Ian. “It’s Kwanzaa. Hanukkah. The holiday season. Kiss someone under the mistletoe. Recover, Nadine. I’ll be in touch.”
“You can’t–” said Nadine.
“Happy holidays,” said Ian.
Tucking the phone under her chin, Nadine clamped a cigarette between her lips and lit it with her right hand. She swallowed, and decided to play her final card. “How about sending me back to South Africa? When I took the Mexico City job, you made me a promise.” She tapped her cigarette on the scallop shell she was using as an ashtray.
“And I intend to keep it. I know your heart’s in Cape Town, Nadine, but you’re not strong enough to go anywhere yet.”
“My heart? Ian, please.”
“Do you have any idea how much you talk about it?” said Ian.
Nadine laughed, blowing smoke. “What?”
“Will Mandela bring peace to South Africa, what about the townships, the Truth and Reconciliation Commission… and on and on.”
“Really?”
“Everyone has a story that sticks in their craw,” said Ian.
There was silence, and then Nadine said, “But seriously, Ian? I need to get back to work.”
“Dear?” Gwen’s voice was tentative from the hallway.
“One second!” said Nadine.
Ian’s tone was kind. “Talk soon, Nadine.”
“But–”
“Good-bye,” said Ian.
“Wait,” said Nadine, but Ian had hung up.
“Nadine?” said Gwen.
“Come in.”
“Are you still on the phone?” said Gwen,