Chapter 11
When Andy arrived at San Francisco General Hospital, it was clear from the parking lot that his was not the only problem of the evening. That truth was confirmed upon entering the emergency room that was lined wall to wall with people in various stages of agony. His stomach ached as he walked through, scanning the room and adjoining hallways for Mr. Martin. He determined, from an overworked black woman at the Information Desk who, curiously, was able to see him, that Mrs. Martin had been admitted and that he might find the family on the third floor.
Mr. Martin was in a waiting room talking to a policeman when Andy stepped off the elevators. Andy waved through the closed door to the old man who acknowledged him with a nod and slight raise of an index finger. The policeman glanced back at the window to see Andy and then turned his attention back to Mr. Martin. Andy stepped to the nurse’s station to ask about Mrs. Martin.
“Mrs. Martin is in ICU. Are you immediate family?”
“Uh, no.”
“Are you her minister? Clergy?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but...” Andy didn’t really hear the rest, he realized the nurses couldn’t see him, he’d find out nothing from them. He walked back by the closed door of the waiting room and stood outside, in the hallway near the elevators. He would wait for Mr. Martin and find out how Maria was doing.
“Andy, my God,” Mr. Martin said as he came out of the waiting room after the officer had finished the interview. “Thanks for coming. Maria, my Maria.” Mr. Martin held Andy’s hand, tears welling up in bloodshot eyes.
“Mrs. Martin? Is she okay?” Andy said.
“She is bad, Andy. She is really bad. She fell down the stairs, the stairs to our house... My God,” he said, reliving the scene. “It was like slow-motion. I arrive at the steps and I see her tumbling down, her poor arms and legs hitting the wall and the stairs, her head, bouncing... I thought she was dead.”
“What do the doctors say?” Andy asked.
“The fall, it knocked her out, you know. She got a concussion, very bad. They keep her head very still, in case, I don’t know what. Maybe a blood clot or something?”
“Yeah, I don’t know.”
“And the doctor said she has a fractured hip, but not badly, I don’t know,” the old man was shaking his head. He would do anything to trade places with his wife.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” Andy said with his hand on his neighbor’s shoulder. Mr. Martin nodded.
“I must go to Maria. Thank you, Andy. Thank you.”
“Is there anything I can do? Make any calls, anything?”
“I don’t know. Right now I don’t know.”
Andy took a seat in the waiting room while his friend went to be with his wife. At 1:15 am his cell phone rang. He was dozing and it took a while for him to realize it was his phone. It was a familiar number.
“Mom?”
“Andy, I tried to call the house, are you okay?”
Andy pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at the time on the digital screen. “It’s 1:15 am.”
“I just got home from the crusade and I wanted to call you.”
“You never call after 10:00 pm. The whole, you know, ‘the writer needs his rest,’ thing.”
“Tonight was different. Where are you? Are you at home?”
“I’m at the hospital. A friend of mine fell down some stairs, she’s in ICU at General.”
“Oh, Andy!”
“You know the Martin’s? The little deli across from my place?”
“Sure, of course.”
“Yeah, Mrs. Martin. I don’t know what happened, I was just sitting at my desk writing and all the sudden I hear sirens and see the lights and all. It’s been surreal.”
“Is she okay?”
“I don’t know. Mr. Martin said she has a concussion, and maybe a broken hip, at least. But they don’t keep you in ICU for that, do they?”
“A lot of older people die from falling down stairs,” Mrs. Boyd said.
“Jesus, mom. She looked horrible when they wheeled her out of the Deli. I mean she looked bad.”
“Well, I’ll let you go, then. You be careful out there. Okay? I’ll be praying for them.”
“Okay. Talk to you in the morning.”
“All right. Good night.”
Andy hung up the phone, still groggy from before the call. The smells and sounds of the hospital were uncomfortable enough, waking up to them in an empty waiting room while Larry King re-runs played on the overhead television in the middle of the night was worse. “Maybe this is what purgatory is like,” Andy thought, having heard some Catholics talk about a place you go after you die to pay for your sins. “I’ll be praying for them?” he whispered, his mother’s words finally registering in his sleepy mind. “Is that what she said?” He couldn’t remember his mother ever mentioning prayer, other than maybe in 1989 when she said the A’s didn’t have a prayer in the World Series, and then proceeded to sweep their beloved Giants in four games. But he gathered that was a different usage of the phrase than this one.
He drove silently home and spent the rest of the night in his own bed.
The morning light shining brightly into the bedroom window told Andy that it was both late in the morning and sunny outside. Sunday was generally a day of sleeping in and spending the afternoon thumbing through the Chronicle that was generally as thick as a ream of copy paper. He could never believe that they could afford to sell them for a buck seventy-five and still make a profit. Andy always thought it was a convenient double standard for liberal publishers to push their editorial agenda so far to the environmental left, and yet devour enough trees every week to re-forest a medium sized country. But he wasn’t willing to pay the extra charge to have his own books published on recycled paper, so he wasn’t one to talk. So he bought the paper out of a sense of brotherhood with other tree killers. The Martin’s hadn’t made the local news or, thank God, the three pages of obituaries, so Andy thought he might not have missed anything by sleeping till eleven o’clock. He brought two packs of Ho-Ho’s and a cup of fresh coffee back to his desk after looking through the paper and opened a new blog entry.
Andy’s Weblog - November 4th
Upsetting the Apple Cart
It’s weird how you can be cruising through the day, working your brains out without a care in the world and all of the sudden the rug is just pulled out from under you by some event you didn’t see coming. That happened to me last night as one of my neighbors was rushed to the hospital after falling down a flight of stairs. Everything can change in an instant, can’t it? What was, in one moment, a pretty enjoyable day, according to my admittedly low standards, was transformed into a nightmare in a matter of moments. Of course, my reaction to the whole event was typical for a self-absorbed paranoid like myself; it was all about me and how it ruined my day and about the loss I felt and how things wouldn’t be the same now - me, me, me.
A good choice, if I can go back to that commitment I made to myself and whoever reads this, would have been to look past how the situation effected me and consider the feelings of others. And as hard as I tried to do that, I was completely unable to pry my pig-headed mind away from dwelling on myself. Like I wrote sometime recently, I can’t do this. Good choices extend further than just what I choose to put in my mouth (I write as I gobble my last Ho-Ho in one bite,) good choices extend to the way I allow myself to be ruled by the circumstances of my life. It seems like everything that happens that is the least bit out of the ordinary causes me to lapse in to a self-absorbed depression that is only comforted by food. And even that comfort is misleading, because I’m left feeling worse than before. I guess that’s how things get labeled as addictions.
I know I have at least average intelligence and am relatively rational and open minded; yet I cannot, consistently, make the choices I know are right, given the circumstance. I find myself going down the same path each time, sometimes against my will and sometimes with my will l
eading the charge like William Wallace leading the Scot’s.
And it can all be triggered by some event that upsets my apple cart. I’m as fragile as a wagon full of stacked fruit. Now that makes me feel strong and capable—not! So, what is the answer? I have no idea, I really don’t. I take one step forward and three steps back. The grand total of my progress since making my blog commitment is that I put a can of Pringles down after only eating half of them - and actually, that was only because I was scolded by Big Bird. But that’s another story...
I’ll keep trying - Andy
Andy opened the Rance Broadback file on his computer and looked at the last few pages of the story with a part of his mind, while another part thought about the Martin’s. He called the hospital and tried to find out how Mrs. Martin was doing. All they would tell him was that she was out of ICU. He tried calling back and asking for Mrs. Martin’s room but was rebuffed. He decided that he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on the novel until he talked to Mr. Martin, so he got dressed and walked down to the Deli. It was closed on Sundays, but he noticed that the lights were on inside. The place was a wreck, maybe from the paramedics the night before. He figured that Mr. Martin was still at the hospital because, surely, he would have turned off the lights upon returning home. Andy got in his car and headed back to the hospital via McDonalds where he told himself he would get a cold drink. He did, only it was connected to a Double-Quarter Pounder meal, which he ate quickly as if to hide from his own conscience. Depression fought with him all the way to the General Information Desk.
He found room 623 and through the small, vertical window of the closed door, Andy saw Mr. Martin sitting in a chair facing into a closed curtain area. His head was on his chest cushioned by his double chin, asleep. Andy didn’t want to wake him, the old man must have had quite a night, but he decided to tap lightly on the door anyway. Mr. Martin’s head jerked up and he looked at his wife, then, over at the door. He face lightened a little and he stood and went to the door. He stepped outside quietly.
“Andy, Andy,” he said, shaking Andy’s hand. “Thanks for coming. It’s been a long night.”
“How is she?”
“Better. She’s sleeping now. But she’s better. She has quite a bump on her head. A little crack, the doctor said, bad concussion. She must lie very still. They have her head surrounded with sand bags, if you can believe it.”
“But she is going to be okay?”
“Yes. I think so. I think so, yes.”
“And her hip?”
“Oh my God,” Mr. Martin said, shaking his head. “It’s not good. I don’t know how she will get up stairs anymore, you know? I don’t know.”
Andy thought about how quickly their life had changed. Everything was different now. What would they have to do, sell the business, move, leave the area? He couldn’t bear the thoughts as they came scrambling into his mind.
“But she will walk, right? They have surgery, prosthetics.”
“I don’t know, Andy. Right now I just want her to be okay. I want her head to be okay, you know?”
“Sure,” Andy said as the men started to enter the empty waiting room where Andy had spent part of the night. It was full of people, resting, waiting on news of their own.
“Let’s go for some coffee, huh?” Mr. Martin said, wanting to avoid the crowd.
“Sounds good,” Andy said, his stomach still bloated from the drive-through binge. The men found the cafeteria and Andy bought two cups of black coffee. They sat near a window where Mr. Martin stirred a pack of sugar in to his cup and stared out the window. He was mentally replaying the last evening’s events, still unsure what exactly had happened. They sat quietly for several minutes.
“Andy,” Mr. Martin finally said in a serious tone. “It was the boy.” Albert was hardly a boy, he was well past twenty-one years of age and fully capable of functioning as a rational human being. But his uncle had a hard time believing that a man could do something as hurtful and selfish as this, especially to his own family.
“Albert?”
“Ja. He came last night, as I was closing the store. He demanded the box. We fight.” Mr. Martin was replaying the scene in his mind, tears swelled fresh in his puffy eyes. “He ran upstairs and began to tear my house, looking, yelling at me and my wife. He is geisteskrank, ja?”
“Did he find it? Didn’t you give it to the police?” The questions began to swirl around in Andy’s mind, far too many to ask.
“No,” Mr. Martin replied, answering one of the questions, Andy wasn’t sure which. “He finally runs to the door, he is going to look in the store room... He pushes past Maria, my Maria, and runs. She falls after him and I see her falling, tumbling down the stairs...”
“He pushed her? Did he realize... where did he go?”
“The boy runs out of the store. I don’t know. I sit with Maria, but she doesn’t move, you know? She is breathing, barely, but she is knocked out. I run to the front and call 911.” Mr. Martin shook his head, still stirring and studying his coffee. Finally, he brought the cup to his lips.
“Did you tell the police about the boy? About Albert?”
“Nein,” Mr. Martin said, knowing it had been a mistake. “I should tell them, but... He is mi familia, ja?
Andy leaned forward, “Mr. Martin, Albert is in trouble. He brought it on himself, and now he is bringing it into your house. He is making bad choices... And you can either enable the bad choices, or you can draw a line at your door, the door of your home.” Andy could feel two fingers pointing back at him when he said the part about bad choices. “At least it’s something I know about,” he thought.
The hospital intercom, which constantly switched from soothing elevator music and paging Doctor Smith and Doctor Vargas, broke up the monotony with a page to Albert Martin. “Albert Martin, Albert Martin, please go to the nearest white courtesy phone.” Andy and Mr. Martin looked at each other nearly jumped out of their seats; Andy asked the cashier where the courtesy phones were while Mr. Martin headed to the elevators. “Maria,” he whispered.
Andy caught him at the elevators and pointed to the bank of courtesy phones. Mr. Martin shook his head, no time. He knew it was his Maria; he had to get to her. The elevator finally opened and the men hurried down the hall toward 623. On their way past the Nurses Station the duty nurse called for Mr. Martin.
“There you are...”
“Maria?” he said, slowing to a stop.
“No. Maria’s fine. I’m sorry, we didn’t mean to startle you. There’s a call for you, here, you can take it right here. It’s the police.”
Mr. Martin looked at Andy with concern. He was relieved, yet troubled.
“Ja. This is Albert Martin.”
“Mr. Martin, Officer Mahone, I was at your place last night, remember, I took your statement at the hospital?”
“Oh, yes, ja.”
“Mr. Martin, have you been back to your place?”
“No, I stay the night with my wife. I stay here.”
“Well, sir, I believe there has been a break-in at your building. I drove past there this morning and it looks like someone entered from the back alley. Would you be able to come back to your residence, sir?”
“Uh, I...”
“At the very least we need to secure the area from further damage, it would be good if you could come. We can have someone take you right back to the hospital.”
“Uh,” Mr. Martin closed his eyes tightly as if trying to make the entire weekend go away. “Yes, ja. I will be there soon. Please wait for me.”
“Yes sir, I’ll be right here,” Officer Mahone said.
Mr. Martin handed the phone back to the nurse and looked at Andy with another disappointed frown. He said to the nurse, “I need to go home for a few minutes.”
“That’s all right, Mr. Martin, we’ll take good care of Maria,” the duty nurse assured.
Andy offered his cell phone number to the nurse, “Can you call us if there is a change? If something happens?” Andy dictated t
he number while Mr. Martin checked on his wife. He came out a few moments later and met Andy at the elevators.
“You can take me home, Andy?”
“Absolutely... I knew a car would come in handy some day,” he smiled.
The nearly non-existent Sunday traffic allowed the two men to reach Chestnut in fifteen minutes. Andy turned on 3rd Avenue and parked near the corner. A police cruiser was parked across the street. Officer Mahone spoke into his radio and exited his car as Andy and Mr. Martin hurried across the street.
“Mr. Martin? Officer Mahone,” the policeman said. “Take a look back here, sir.” The officer led the men in to the alley behind the Deli where they saw the dumpster and makeshift ladder leading to the broken window. “The back door was open as well, Sir, I went inside, but whoever did this is long gone.”
Mr. Martin was so angry he couldn’t speak. His eyes were wet with emotion, his teeth clenched. He knew exactly who had done this. The three men walked into the back room and glanced around the storeroom before moving upstairs to the apartment. It had been ransacked. They walked through silently with Mr. Martin in the lead. When he got to the bedroom and saw that the closet had been torn apart, the purse-box opened and the large black purse empty and lying, discarded on the floor, he whispered, “Oh my God.”
“Mr. Martin,” the officer said, “Do you have any idea what a thief may have been looking for?”
Mr. Martin looked at Andy and back at Officer Mahone. He rubbed at his tired eyes and said quietly, “Ja. I know... Come, we go downstairs and I fix us a drink.” Without waiting for a response, Mr. Martin walked back through the apartment and headed down the steps. From behind the deli counter he filled three cups with ice and brought them back on a tray with three bottles of Coke. He unconsciously started opening the bottles and preparing the beverages for his guests who were still standing out by the tables. Andy felt like picking up the fallen chairs and straightening the tables, something to help his friend. “Sit, sit, have a drink. I need it, if nothing else,” Mr. Martin said.
Mr. Martin told Officer Mahone the whole story beginning with the Thursday delivery the strange phone calls from his nephew, how the boy showed up demanding the box, and the events of the previous night.
“My Maria, she is in the doorway and the boy just rushes past her, you see, he knocks her out of the way and she falls back. I don’t think it was on purpose, you know, it is just, he is not right, he is on drugs, I think. This is not my brothers son...”
“And you think he came back after you were gone and broke in to the place to find the dope...”
“Ja.”
“Mr. Martin,” the officer said in a serious tone, “you should have called us the minute you opened that box.”
“I know, my God, I know. My Maria...”
“And you are certain that the package is gone?”
“Ja. It is not here.”
“Do you know where we can find the young man?”
“He lives over by Cal State, I think I have the address.” Mr. Martin left the table and entered the saloon doors and turned in to the little office.
“And what is your business in all this, Sir, if I might ask,” Officer Mahone asked Andy.
“Me, I’m just a neighbor. Mr. Martin confided in me, you know?”
“Yeah, I know. I’m going to need your name, for the record.”
“Andy Boyd, uh, Andrew. I live right up the street.”
“Like the writer Andrew Boyd?”
“Yeah, like that, only fatter.”
“How about that. Hey, I love your books. I got A Ring and a Prayer as a gift. Loved it.”
“Thanks,” Andy said, somewhat embarrassed under the circumstances. Mr. Martin returned with his nephews address.
“Sir, if he was in such a big rush to get this pot that he would go to these extremes, he must be under a lot of pressure from somewhere. We’ll see if we can find him and get all this straightened out.” Officer Mahone stood and shook both men’s hands. “I’ll be in touch,” he said, and left through the stock room.
“You okay?” Andy said.
“I don’t know, my friend…” Mr. Martin shook his head and stared outside. “I don’t know how I feel. I am tired… Do you want a sandwich?”
“No, I’m fine. Shall we get you back to Maria, or do you want to take a nap, maybe shower and get cleaned up and I’ll take you back in a few hours?”
“I will go now, if it is all right with you.”
“Sure, whatever you need,” Andy said.
“I’ll lock the back door and we’ll go out this way,” Mr. Martin said, and went to secure the big metal door to the alley.”
Officer Mahone took some digital pictures of the dumpster and ladder-stack and then dismantled it and pushed the dumpster back to it’s regular spot in order to discourage anyone else from trying the same stunt before speeding off in his patrol car, radioing local units in the University district with an address and a description of Albert Martin.