The Forgotten Man

"You gotta plug him. We gotta-"

Starkey, crying and shaking, pulled off her shirt and bundled it and pressed it into Cole's wound. She pressed and held hard.

Pike was shaking. She would never mention it to him, but she felt him shaking. Pike tipped back Cole's head, then blew hard and deep into Cole's mouth, once, twice, again.

Starkey said, "Hang on. Hang on."

She pressed harder on his wound, trying to hold the blood inside.

"Don't you die."

Pike blew. He blew deep and hard into Cole's mouth, and kept blowing, and did not look up even as the sirens arrived.

60

Elvis Cole's Dream

Death brought me home. Cool air came through the windows, carrying faraway calliope music and the scent of grilled hot dogs. The hour could not have been more pleasant in that perfect little house.

My mother called from downstairs.

"Wake up, you! Don't stay up there all day!"

My father's mellow voice followed.

"C'mon, son. We're waiting."

Our house was small and white, with a tiny front porch and velvety lawns. Lavender hedges snuggled beneath our windows, and a wall of towering cypress, each identical in height and width, trimmed the drive. The cypress stood like immaculate soldiers; protecting us from a light that was bright, but never harsh.

I rolled out of bed and pulled on some clothes. My room was upstairs, with windows looking out to the street. It was a terrific room, really just the best, but it was a mess-Spider-Man comics, toys, and clothes were scattered all over the floor, my shoulder holster hung from the bedpost, and my pistol was on the dresser. The bullets had fallen out, but I didn't take time to find them. I wouldn't need the gun for breakfast.

The shirt I wore yesterday was patchy with blood. I didn't want my mother to find it, so I balled it up, shoved it under the bed, and hit the stairs at a sprint. Man, I don't know how my folks stood it; I sounded like a herd of stampeding buffalo-BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! They were saints, those two; really just the best.

"Elvis!"

"COMING!"

We had this family tradition. Every Saturday, my Mom, my Dad, and I had a late breakfast together before starting our day. It was the best. We would share the good things that happened the past week and pick a movie we could see together on Sunday. After that, we would sit around, just being a family and enjoying each other.

Now, you have to understand, we had never done this before, but that day was the day. Before I died, my room was in a cheap apartment or a mobile home or at my grandpa's, conversations with my mother were always disturbing, and I had never met my father.

But that day was the day. I was finally going to meet the man, my mother would come to her senses, and we were going to be a real live All-American nuclear family, normal in every way. So, me, all anxious as hell, Mr. Anticipation, I crashed down the stairs, through the house, and skidded into the kitchen.

Mom was at the sink and Dad had his head in the refrigerator.

Dad, not looking up, said, "Milk or Schlitz, partner?"

"Milk."

"Good choice."

Mom, her back to me, said, "Did you wash off the blood?"

"Clean as a whistle."

"It looks so bad at the table."

"I know."

Me, rolling my eyes because that's what normal mid-American kids in normal mid-American towns always do; television said so, and television doesn't lie.

Neither of them turned.

My mother stayed at the sink, and my father stayed in the fridge. The kitchen drapes swayed, but their slight movement made the house feel still.

"Hey, I'm hungry. I thought we were going to eat."

Water burbled in the sink. Eggs fried in bacon grease on the stove. Outside, boys and girls chased the ice-cream man, and fathers and mothers laughed. Outside, the day was so beautiful you could hear sunlight and taste its joy.

My perfect house felt hollow.

"Dad? Daddy, look at me. You have to look at me. I'm supposed to know you! Hey, that's why we're here. That's why I made this place. I took it in the chest to know you1."

The man in the fridge grew milky and pale, and faded as he stood.

"Daddy!"

He stood, but it was too late. I told myself he tried. I told myself he wanted to know me, and would have if he could.

"Mama, don't let him go!"

He thi

It isn't so bad, not knowing who you are. You get to make up whatever you want.

I walked back through the house. The hall was long. My footsteps echoed. The living room was smaller than you might think, but comfortable with Early American furniture, framed pictures on the mantel, and a grandfather clock. It ticked like a dying heart.

The voices I heard earlier grew louder, riding in on the breeze. They sounded familiar. I ran back to the kitchen.

"Mom?"

The voices came even louder, a man and a woman, all jumbled and mixed, and I got the crazy notion she was bringing him back. I didn't see anyone out the kitchen window, so I ran back to the living room.

"Is that you? Where are you?"

Footsteps came from the ceiling; someone was moving. I ran to the stairs, and took the steps three at a time. We could still do it. I could still find them.

"Where are you?"

I ran upstairs, following the voices.

61

The Intensive Care people weren't big on chairs, though they said visitors were good so long as they didn't stay too long. Because lengthy visits were discouraged, they provided only the one chair. Pike had been at Cole's side since the begi

Visitors came and went throughout the days and evenings, and Pike felt them move around him with barely a word or nod exchanged. Lou Poitras and his family came by almost every evening. Starkey visited twice a day, usually once for a few minutes during the day shift, then again in the evening. The first time, she stood quietly in the corner, arms tightly crossed, bunched together, eyes red, mumbling, I knew this was going to happen, goddamnit, I knew it. The second time, she came in blowing gin, and sat in the chair with her face in her hands.

Pike gently pulled her to her feet. He removed his dark glasses, then held her. He smoothed her hair, and made his voice soft.

"Don't do this. Be stronger than this."

Starkey told him to fuck himself, but the next time she came she didn't smell of gin. She left every five minutes to cheat a cigarette in the bathroom, and often smelled of Binaca.

Detective Jeff Pardy showed up on the third night. He eyed Pike like he was embarrassed by the scene he had made in Cole's home, and then he apologized. Pike respected him for the apology, and told him so.

Pardy said, "Well, listen, I'm going to go. We're having a service for Diaz."

Pike nodded.

"If Cole wakes up, tell him we found Rei

"I'll tell him."

"We wouldn't have found it if you guys hadn't gotten the tag. That was good work."

"I'll let him know."

One of their former clients, a film director named Peter Alan Nelsen, came by late one evening. He came alone, wearing a fishing cap and a high-collared shirt, hoping he wouldn't be recognized. Pike and Nelsen stood in the hall outside Cole's ICU bed for a long time, talking about what happened. Nelsen sat by Cole's side for a while, praying, and didn't leave until much later. The next day, one thousand roses were delivered, so many roses that the floor staff put roses in every room on the floor, and spread them throughout the hospital.