About The Lonely

Post 231:

Together the Lonely

A Novel

Chapter One:

1: Jim

            It was Jim’s second time in Lenox Hill Hospital. The first was his birth. An oval-faced nurse looked up from scanning scant medical records and said, “You were born just three floors down. That’s quite a coincidence.” Jim nodded politely and winced at his left shoulder. It wasn’t that big of a coincidence. Life hadn’t taken him anywhere. In any real sense. If it was a coincidence, it was a sad one. The oval-faced nurse smiled and wrapped a meaty hand around his forearm. It was warm and friendly, or maybe the room was so cold and impersonal. His memory couldn’t track the last time he was touched. Things were different. Upended. “They’re going to want to ask you a few questions if you’re okay with it,” she said, finally removing her hand. Jim didn’t want to answer questions. He looked at his arm and wondered when he might be touched again. For a moment, it was that certain, specific, hospital quiet; just the faint sound of people milling about and asking for assistance out in the hall, the unrelenting low buzz of cheap fluorescent lights.

            Three quick knocks and the room was suddenly busy. NYPD Detectives Eric Gregg and George Lorenz. They gathered over his bed; the nurse slipped away like she’d already been told to. “James K. Camp,” Gregg started. He seemed like the deciding vote in the partnership, gruff and strong in delivery and appearance. Both investigators pretended not to notice the envelope in the corner next to Jim’s bloody clothes. Jim pretended not to notice them pretending.

            “Why knock?” Jim asked.

            “What’s that?” Gregg said, shoving his hands into his trench coat pockets.

            “If you’re just going to come in before I can say anything—why knock?”

            The detective smiled awkwardly at his younger partner. “Just being polite.”

            “I’m not sure you know what polite means.” It wasn’t like Jim, the rudeness. His senses were down, along with his inhibitions.

            Gregg seemed to choke on what he was about to say. Lorenz moved to the side of the bed farthest from the door. Jim noticed the rain slashing against the window before turning his gaze to Lorenz. He didn’t seem like a cop. No trench coat. Young and shiny, like a Wall Street minnow on the cusp of a billion. “We don’t want to bother you, Mr. Camp,” he said. You were very brave today.”

            “Was I?” Jim asked. His question seemed to initiate some mutual exchange of ponderous overthink between the detectives. He could feel something like telepathy hovering over his body like a specter. “I don’t feel particularly brave.”

            “You stepped in front of a bullet for a stranger,” Lorenz said, grabbing a handful of Jim’s good shoulder. It felt like a cadaverous claw compared to the oval-faced nurse’s salubrious touch.

            “Thousands of people on that street,” Gregg grumbled, taking a pad and pen from his overstuffed pocket. “Hundreds around the target. You were the only one that acted. Anything come to mind?”

            Plenty was rolling around in Jim’s mind, but he didn’t know what to let out. He’d never spoken to the police. Eric Gregg. George Lorenz. Eric Blair was George Orwell. And now here you are, having a lunch date with Big Brother. Jim tried transcending into one of his favorite mystery novels. Say something normal, damn you. “Did you find the man who—shot me?”
            Jim noticed as the detectives did their old hat exchange of looks. “Not yet,” Lorenz said.

            Gregg followed. “Thousands of people on that street. Hundreds around the target.”

            That word again. “You keep saying target,” Jim said. “Is that what you call most people?”

            Before the detectives could answer, a colt in the standard deep blue NYPD uniform charged heedlessly through the door.

            “You got any manners, O’Leary?” Gregg groused.

            Jim forgot about the irony of the intrusion and looked at the newcomer. He was soaking wet from rain and a fresh layer of sweat. “Lieutenant, you need to get some more men down here. Me and the boys can’t hold them back. They’re like animals.” Gregg grabbed the young cop by the arm and commenced a protracted muttering spell in the far corner. Lorenz kept his awkward position, standing uncomfortably over Jim.

            “Any leads?” Jim asked the slicker junior detective. He was feeling boxed in by the visitation medley and the endless rain and the oppressively low ceiling. “Just tell me—is the woman is okay?”

            “She is,” Lorenz said, moving his hand back to Jim’s good shoulder. Jim caught it and shook it by the fingers.

            “That’s good to know,” Jim said. He released his grip and grabbed the remote on the little table next to the bed. He wasn’t used to having a television. He despised them, but he despised attention more. “Were the Suttons informed? They’ll be worried sick about all this.”

            “They’re right outside,” Lorenz said, looking again at his partner.

            “Who are they to you, again?” Gregg asked.

            “The Suttons are my family. Like my mother and father. But it’s a bit more complicated than that.”

            “They look more like your servants,” the older detective snapped back. “And they’re not all that great at answering questions.”

            The wounded man ignored the comment and the attitude, looking over at the corner where his personal effects were strewn about. He tried to move, but he felt the narcotics tethering him to the hospital bed. I need to go. There’s something I have to do. It’s important.

            “These drugs are rather heavy, officers. I’d like some privacy, all things considered.” He pointed the remote at the TV and noticed wide eyes and a tightening expression from Lorenz. “Wait a minute,” Jim said, setting the remote back down to his side. “The officer said animals? Who are you trying to hold back?”

            The seconds rolled by went by as Jim looked around the room for answers. He watched Gregg rubbing his sandpaper stubble, noticed young O’Leary staring at the dropped ceiling, saw Lorenz turn away toward the gray rain outside the window. He heard nothing. Nothing except steady inscrutable beeps from the monitors to his left. It didn’t bother him; on the contrary, the timeout from oversaturating eyes made life feel more like itself.

            Finally, Gregg stepped toward Jim and told him to go ahead—turn on the TV. Jim asked for the channel. Gregg said the channel wouldn’t matter.