“Oh God, how disgusting,” said Kimberly. “TMI.”

“Excuse me?”

“Really now, is this something the world needs to know? The sensation of it, the taste of it, the burning as it slid up her throat. Some things are best left unsaid, believe me. I mean, do we really need to know every last detail of this? Do we really care that she woke up that morning bowing and scraping to the porcelain god?”

Chapter 57

COMING HOME FROM Brockton, I shouldn’t have been surprised, what with the specter of Tommy Greeley’s resurrection still haunting me, to see my dying father come heartily back to life.

“Where you been?” he asked, sitting up in his bed, free of the respirator and mask, with only the small plastic canula feeding oxygen into his nose. “That doctor was looking for you.”

“I was away, on business. What happened?”

“I don’t know. It started working.”

“The drug?”

“Yeah, the drug. That Primaxin thing. It finally kicked in. Working like a charm.”

“Apparently so.” I checked the monitors. Oxygen rate a robust ninety-four percent, respiratory rate a leisurely sixteen, heart rate down to well under a hundred. I took another look at his face to make sure I wasn’t in the wrong room. No, it was him, my dad, who was stomping on death’s welcome mat just two nights before, now looking surprisingly vigorous. And what was that right there, on his face? Oh my God, was that a hint of a smile?

“They took me off the respirator last night. Now if they take this pipe out of my prick I could walk out of here.”

“What about the operation?”

“I thought you was here to cheer me up.”

“You don’t look like you need cheering up. Did they say anything about the operation?”

“Right after they’re done with the drug. Sit down.”

I pulled a chair over. He reached out, put a hand on my arm. I gave his paw a wary glance.

“How you doing?” he said.

“Fine,” I said.

“Really. How’s it going, son?”

“Fine.”

“We don’t talk enough.”

“Yes, we do.”

“No, we don’t. Tell me about your life. Tell me about your hopes, your dreams, your aspirations.”

I took his hand off my arm. “Hey, Dad, you’re creeping me out.”

“Am I?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Am I?”

“Tell me you’re kidding.”

Something in my face must have been quite hysterical because he broke out into a wet bout of laughter.

“Okay,” he said as his laughter dissolved into a fit of coughs. “Yeah, I’m kidding.”

“It was just a joke?”

“Got ya, you little bastard.”

I did a little shaky thing, like I was skived to the bone. “What the hell’s gotten into you?”

“You know, life would be an all right thing if they could pull a plastic snake out of your throat every night.”

“But just remember,” I said, “no matter how good you feel right now, things will eventually turn to shit.”

“I know it.”

“That’s just the way of it for us.”

“You’re preaching to the converted.”

“Good. Just so long as we’re clear.”

“We are. So” – he again put his hand on my arm, gave me a wink – “how’s the love life?”

“Stop it,” I said, even as his laughter began again.

It only took the dinner tray to sour his mood. Salisbury steak, overcooked peas, something blue. He dropped his fork with disgust.

“I can’t stand it in here no more,” he said. “They should just sharpen their damn knives and get it over with.”

“Don’t worry, they will.”

He let out a hearty curse. Now that was my dad.

“So what happened?” I said.

“I told you. The drug.”

“No, with the girl. In that room. With the old guy.”

“Curious, are you?”

“Yeah. You know. I’ve been thinking about it.”

“So have I. For a lot longer than you.”

“Okay. So what happened?”

“I told you,” he said. “She kissed me. She put her hand on the back of my neck, pressed me toward her, and she kissed me. And, son of a bitch, I kissed her back.”

He kisses her back. Her hand at the back of his neck, his eyes closed, the softness, the wetness, the warmth of her mouth. He lets the electricity slide through him, numb him, he loses himself in the moment and lets the moment expand until it stretches out in four dimensions and he is adrift in the sensation, no here nor there, no then, just now, just her, just the feel of her hand, the pressure of her lips, the silvery slickness of her tongue. Until she pulls away, and he opens his eyes, and he falls back into the bloody hell of that treasure room, with the old man dead at his feet.

He sees it all again, the confrontation, the box of coins slamming into the old man’s scalp, the old man dropping to the floor. My father is in a panic, his mind races out of control. What to do? Where to run? Who to tell?

What have you done? he says to her. What are we going to do?

But he slows down when he sees her pretty face, the sharp blue of her eyes, the calm of her features.

“It was like she was taking a walk in the park,” he said. “It was like nothing had happened.”

I know where the jewelry is, she says.

What are you talking about?

I know where everything is, she says.

Do you realize what you’ve done?

It was an accident, she says. You know that. Jesse, it was an accident.

They’re going to catch us and kill us, he says.

No they won’t.

They will.

They can’t. We were never here. We have alibis.

Who?

Each other. Jesse. You and me. You promised we’d be together forever and now we will. Now we have no choice. Darling.

She steps toward him and he steps away. He stares at her, this woman, his love, this stranger. He stares at her even as she reaches out to him.

“It was like I never seen her before. ‘Who are you?’ I said to her.”

Who are you? he says.

Jesse, she says, her eyes brightening. Listen to me. Pull yourself together. Jesse. Listen. I know where everything is.

I don’t want anything from here, he says.

But of course you do, she says, reaching down to take hold of the box of coins, which she clutches to her chest. We deserve this, she says. Still holding on to the box she reaches up and grabs a fistful of pearls. He owes us this. We can’t begin with nothing.

Stop, he says.

We need this to get started with our lives. We can’t begin with nothing.

No, he says.

I can’t begin with nothing.

Don’t, he says.

But she does. She pulls down more pearls, she grabs a handful of diamond-encrusted broaches, jade figurines, beautiful ivory carvings. Her arms are filled with the old man’s treasures, all of it smeared now with the old man’s blood.

Stop, he says. But she doesn’t stop, and with each piece of treasure she pulls from the shelves it is as if she is yanking the dreams straight from his chest, handful by handful.

He finally stops her physically, takes control of himself and then control of her, grabs her by the shoulders, spins her around so she is facing him.

Stop, he says again. We can’t take anything. We have to clean everything. Do you understand?

And maybe she does, or maybe she is just frightened by what she sees in my father’s eyes, for her face turns as pale as the old man’s and, still with all the treasures in her arms, she backs away.

He looks around, grabs a throw from off one of the chairs, begins wiping the room, cleaning what blood he can off the shelves, the chairs, the table. He takes the objects from her arms, one by one, wipes them, replaces them, one by one, while she looks on, quiet and pale, as if the shock of what she has done has finally hit her. He takes the objects from her one by one and she lets him.

But when he tries to take the box, she holds fast, clutches it to her chest and won’t let go.

We need to leave, he says.

Okay.