THE PRIVATE PARTY

19

            Later, after you have had your discussions with the nursing desk and then with the head of hospital security, after you have shouted and threatened and demanded to see the director of the hospital himself, while your sister sat quietly, you remember some more details about the man: a shaved head, a five o’clock shadow, a swollen left eyebrow, some kind of tattoo n the side of his neck, mostly hidden by a black shirt. Cheap running shoes. A silver chain on his meaty wrist. The smell of booze. The energy: contained violence.

            And only then do you sit with your sister, take her hand and tell her that there is nothing to worry about, nothing going on that she doesn’t know about. She doesn’t believe you.

            You ask her again and again if the man looked familiar, if he recognized his face from the night of her shooting. She just cries, tells you that she’s already told everybody, so many times, that she didn’t see their faces.

            You feel as if you are performing another surgery on her, opening her up with scalpels one more time.

            You are glad you did not allow the Owner to come with you on this visit. For some reason you knew he would not have been useful. His presence would have alerted your sister to something. Although you did want to show him off a bit. That too would not have been a good idea.

            Your sister starts coughing, with that unstoppable wet cough that only comes when she is stressed. Her face is blotchy. A part of you wants to forget your plan, forget the Owner’s investigation, just spare her any more involvement with men like the one with the swollen eyebrow. But you remember his confidence, his certainty that he would frighten you, and it fills you with purpose. You will not let him frighten you or your sister.

            To calm her, you wheel her back into the tv lounge with its soap operas and its shopping channels. You stand on a chair to reach the tv that hangs from the ceiling and you press buttons until you find a channel with news; at least it’s for adults.

            You both sit and sip ice water in the cold afternoon light and listen dully to the news. There is the mayor again: denying, denying. There is a reporter now talking about titanium. You want to turn it up, but you don’t want to alarm your sister. You glance at her. She is asleep, a ribbon of drool on her lower lip.

            You wipe her mouth and put a blanket over her lap. You sneak to the tv and turn it up.

            The reporter is standing in front of City Hall and reading names and numbers from a tablet. They are company names, all companies that the mayor has shares in. In some of them he is a majority shareholder. You don’t understand why this is at all interesting or important. Everyone knew that the mayor was some kind of maverick investor businessman; that’s why he became mayor.

            “These are all legitimate companies,” the reporter is saying. “No one is suggesting that any of these companies is involved in any illegal activities. What we do know is that all  have some involvement with the buying and selling of one important commodity, and that commodity, as you know, Peter, is –“

            “Hello hello!” says a nurse, entering like whirlwind. “You seem to have tired her out. We don’t need that, don’t need that at all,since she’s scheduled for more physio this afternoon. I don’t think she’ll be ready for it, ready for it at all.”

            “Sorry,” you say to the nurse, and you have missed the rest of the report. You both stare at to your sister, who at least when she sleeps is not in pain.

            When you turn back to the tv, the reporter is still answering some questions. He is a young guy, this reporter, with a plaid shirt and a tie that doesn’t really match, a fresh-faced guy who did really well in journalism school. This is the kind of earnest guy, you think, who goes into journalism school. In comic books he would secretly be a superhero.

            He promises that he will continue to follow this story. You wish you knew what this story was, any of it.

            You know now that you are going to have to ask the Owner for security for your sister.