Dr. Clark smiles, but it’s not sweet. “Your friend here didn’t get food poisoning. He had an adverse reaction to MSG. My sister got the same thing at Ming’s. You get a hankering for Chinese, you’re better off driving into the city.”
“We ate the same things,” says Beck, eyeing the bill.
“MSG affects different people differently.” Dr. Clark pats Walt on the back. “The good news is, he really just needs sleep and hydration, and he’ll be good as new. In the meantime, the pills will help with the headache.”
Frowning, Beck passes the bill to me. “I’m sorry,” I say, reading it over. “You’re charging us two hundred dollars? For aspirin?”
Dr. Clark bats her eyelashes. “A diagnosis isn’t cheap.”
Diagnosis. Right.
Beck and I look at each other. “I don’t have it,” he says.
“Me neither.”
“I have a pouch,” says Walt. “My father-money.”
I’d completely forgotten. We’ve been lugging his suitcase around, and not once did I consider what was inside. He’d yet to change clothes. In fact, the only time I’d seen him open the thing was last night in the back of Uncle Phil.
“Walt,” I say, glancing at Beck for some reassurance. “Are you sure?”
Walt nods, looking at Dr. Clark like he’d agree to jump off a cliff should she give the word. I hate taking his money, although . . . it is for his illness.
I stand, make my way for the exit. “I’ll be right back.”
Outside, the sun is at its highest, radiating against the asphalt of the parking lot. I unzip my hoodie, hop in the bed of the truck, and kneel in front of Walt’s suitcase. The silver hinges on either side are hot to the touch; working quickly, I snap them sideways and open the top. There’s not much inside. A few ratty shirts, a couple of blankets, a Ziploc full of tinfoil, paper clips, and other shiny junk, two canned hams, the Reds program, his Rubik’s Cube, of course—I smile when I see the cutoffs. Underneath the torn denim, I find a bulky leather pouch. Sticking the pouch in the pocket of my hoodie, I’m about to shut the suitcase when something under the blankets catches my good eye. It’s shiny, of course. Probably a hubcap, I think. Pulling back the layers of fabric, I find a frame, brass and wood.
Inside the frame is a photograph. Walt is smiling his signature smile, wearing his signature Cubs cap, tilted back, like someone just flicked the bill. Behind him, a woman, probably mid-thirties, has both arms wrapped around his shoulders. She’s planting a kiss right on his cheek. The two of them are standing in front of Wrigley Field, on what appears to be a glorious sunny day. This is, without a doubt, the happiest-looking photograph I’ve ever seen. As the knot rises in my throat, I carefully replace the photo beneath the blankets, click the suitcase shut, and walk back to the office.
Beck is right.
32
The Homestretch
“YOU’RE LYING,” SAYS Beck.
I shake my head and smile, though it’s the first time I’ve ever found it funny. “Before they got married, her name was Kathy Sherone. I still have her old name tag from Denny’s, if you don’t believe me.”
The rain is back, though not quite as brutal as it was in Cincinnati. Through the barrage, I make out a sign along the side of 71 north:
ASHLAND/WOOSTER—58 MILES
CLEVELAND—118 MILES
“But why hyphenate?” asks Beck.
“The woman is beyond logical comprehension.”
Beck keeps his eyes on the road, shakes his head. “Kathy Sherone-Malone.”
“Sherone fucking Malone,” I whisper.
Between us, Walt has his suitcase in his lap, his head on his suitcase, his hat on his head. After leaving Sunbury Veterinary, he fell asleep almost instantaneously, though whether from the problem (five heaping plates of MSG), or the solution (four extra-strength aspirin), I’m not sure. Probably some combination of both.
I haven’t told Beck about the photograph of Walt and his mother. I can barely think of it myself.
I stare at my shoes.
A far cry from Tory Burch.
“So,” I say. “You get her digits?”
“Did I get whose whats?”
“Michelle. You get her digits?”
Beck sort of smiles, but not really. “No, Mim. I did not . . . get her digits.”
I slip on Albert’s aviators. It may be overcast, but sometimes it’s nice, feeling like someone else. “Bush-league, Van Buren. Just think of the missed opportunities.”
“Such as?”
“Well, for starters, unlimited dog spleens. Relationship pays for itself right there. Sexy bloodbaths, diagnostic dirty talk . . . She probably needs help tying those giant bows on her shirts.”
“I am a dynamite bow-tier.”
“Right? Plus, she’s a walking malpractice suit.”
“And that’s a good thing?”
“For you, it could be. By her side at trial, the good husband—”
“Husband?”
“Boyfriend, whatever. Play your cards right, you might even get your own reality show.”
“Damn,” says Beck. “You’re right. Should’ve gotten those digits.”
“Well, it’s not too late, man. Unless . . . you didn’t give her a solid good-bye, did you? If ever there was a time for a liquid good-bye, it was with Doctor”—I toss my hair aside, as if it were three times as long—“Michelle. Clark.”