Fiction

August

Rude Awakenings

Terry Sanville

An uncouth force prowls the pre-dawn hours, destroys our sleep and leaves us trembling in bed, the covers pulled up. These awakenings can be the start of something tragic, or something joyful, occasionally both. It wasn’t until last November that I paid much attention to them. Before that, they were just stories my older sister and I would swap on holidays. Like when I was four years old...

It’s dark. An orange light seeps under the door. I hear voices. Mama is sobbing. There’s someone else, a man, his voice familiar.

I rip back the covers and bounce out of bed. The feet of my Hopalong Cassidy PJs are twisted and I try to straighten them. Becky flies past me, pushes open the door and tears across the living room. A man dressed like a soldier holds Mama in his arms. Becky hugs their legs and cries, “Papa, Papa.”

It’s him...it’s really him! I run toward them, giggles bubbling up in my throat. As I shoot through the opening, I trip and crash headfirst into the jamb. An explosion of light, then blackness...

I open my eyes to Papa’s smiling face. Mama kneels beside him. Her face is wet.

“Some homecoming, kid,” he says. “I’m barely off the boat and already a casualty.” He presses something cold to my forehead.

“Papa...you home now?”

“You betcha, Johnny. I’m not goin’ away again.”

“Was Korea a bad place?”

“Hush now,” Mama interrupts. “You cut your head and we need to get you patched up.”

“Will it hurt?” Tears well up. I blink hard, not wanting to act like a baby in front of Papa.

“It might hurt a little,” he says, “maybe even leave a scar...to remind you of the day your Papa came home.”

Every time I stare into the mirror, the white crease just below my hairline reminds me of that moment, reminds me that unseen forces can take a loved one away, and on good days, bring them back.

Somebody kicks my bed, hard. I open my eyes onto blackness. The bed bucks and twists. I reach for the lamp on the nightstand but it crashes to the floor. My models of battleships and cruisers slide off shelves and destroy themselves in the fall.

“Johnny, Becky,” Mom yells, “stay in bed and cover your heads.”

In the living room, her collection of China cups and saucers shatters. My sister screams. The house creaks and groans. Then the shaking stops.

“Kids, don’t get out of bed unless you put shoes on,” Pop calls.

“Can I come in with you?” Becky pleads.

“NO! Stay there,” Mom orders.

I slip on my Keds and try the wall switch; it doesn’t work. Mom staggers along the hallway in her nightgown. From the far end of my room comes a mighty crash.

“MOMMY!” I shout. My heart thumps so hard it hurts.

Pop joins me. “Sounds like it came from in there,” he says and points the beam of a flashlight.

“Yeah...but what...”

He opens the closet. The shelves up near the ceiling have collapsed, dumping old suitcases and boxes full of clothes onto the floor. Pop shuts the door and grins. “That can wait.”

I slip into the living room and stare out a window. The street is black. Flashlights flicker inside neighboring houses. A crowd slowly gathers on the Cochrans’ front lawn. Our family joins them.

“I smelled gas so Ken turned it off at the meter.”

“It’s gonna take a week to clean my kitchen...be eating off paper plates...”

“Lord, my glass China cabinet...it...it.”

The February wind is bitter but nobody seems eager to go inside. By dawn the power is back on and cleanup begins.

My first earthquake...eight years old and I’d already experienced the treachery of nature. Strangely, I would never build models of war machines again...even they seemed fragile. I guess I was more shaken up than I thought.

I wake to the sound of Pop vomiting into the toilet.

“Do you want me to call Dr. Campbell?” Mom asks in a shaky voice.

“Nah...take me to Cottage Hospital. Feel like the devil...”

I check my Timex; it’s five in the morning. Mom appears in my doorway.

“Get up and wake your sister.”

“What’s wrong with Pop?”

“Just do as you’re told.”

I slip into my sister’s room. “Come on, get up!”

I shake Becky and snap on the lights before leaving. Getting dressed, I stumble to the icebox and drink milk from a near-empty carton.

Mom’s on the phone: “No, we don’t need that. The taxi will be here any time now...I really appreciate your help. You’re an angel, Virginia...they’ll be over in a minute.”

My sister shoulders me aside to forage in the refrigerator.

Mom’s lips tremble. “Okay you two, pay attention. Your father is sick. I’m taking him to the hospital. You’re staying with the Lockharts. I don’t want either of you making trouble. You understand?”

“Yes Mother,” I answer.

“What’s wrong with Father?” Becky asks.

“I don’t know. You need to go now...and be quiet. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

In a pre-dawn mist we slip next door. Jack and Virginia greet us wearing bathrobes. My friend Arty is still sleeping. Mrs. Lockhart brings pillows and blankets. I stretch out on the wall-to-wall and Becky on the couch. Neither of us can sleep.

Later, we eat Kellogg’s Corn Pops and watch the Flintstones on a new color Motorola. But even gobbling down familiar breakfast cereal seems odd – pouring a different brand of milk, eating from somebody else’s bowls with heavy silverware, in a strange living room, off rickety TV trays.

Mom doesn’t return until lunchtime. A long day passes before a yellow cab pulls up our driveway. We run to welcome Pop home. He kisses Mom, digs me in the ribs and strokes Becky’s hair, his laughter filling the hot afternoon. But he carries a black plastic “kit” that includes glass syringes, needles, vials of insulin, and orders from Doctor Campbell to stay away from ALL sugared food.

I didn’t know anything about his disease, but that day all of our family became honorary diabetics. It was also the first time I realized my father was mortal.

I’m having a hot sex dream about Gloria Mendoza when Mom shakes me awake.

“Come on, it’s time.”

“Ah, Jeez, can’t I at least eat breakfast?”

“No. Dr. Stemson wants the lab to run the tests first thing.”

I pull on my sweat suit and sneakers and join Pop in the Pontiac. He lets me drive while he fusses with the radio, searching for Bob Crane on KNX. At the clinic, we wind our way down silent corridors to the laboratory. I ring the bell on the counter and a groggy technician appears.

“Yes, Dr. Stemson has left orders,” he tells my father.

“So how much blood ya gonna take?” I ask.

“You’re in luck. All ya need to do is pee in a cup.”

“When will the results be available?” Pop asks.

“Your doctor should have them late this afternoon.”

I groan. The thought of sitting through six periods of class, waiting for news, is excruciating.

In third period PE, Coach Morelli pulls me aside. “Did you get clearance from your doctor?”

“Nah, not yet. I get the lab results this afternoon.”

“Look, John. You’re my best senior distance runner...but...but it’s not worth ruining your health.”

“Yeah, yeah. My mom’s been sayin’ the same thing all week.”

“She’s right. There are plenty of other things...”

After school, I hustle home on my ten-speed, all the while thinking about years spent running through the foothills above Santa Barbara, pushing my lean body to go faster, farther, harder. All that could be over.

At 4:30, Mom and I huddle over the telephone. She dials the number.

“Yes, this is Mrs. Sanders. I want to talk with Dr. Stemson about my son’s – Yes, I’ll hold.”

She taps long polished fingernails on the countertop and rolls her eyes. “Yes, this is Mrs. Sanders. I wonder if you have reviewed John’s lab results yet. Uh huh, uh huh. Do you see that often? Uh huh. So, it’ll be all right if...Yes, I understand. Thank you so much for all your help.”

Mom quietly sets the phone in its cradle. Her grin tells the story. “The test showed you had no albumin in your urine. The doctor said your kidneys are working just fine.”

“YEAH, BABY!” I holler and pick her up and twirl around the dining room until she protests.

“Calm down, calm down. Lord, it’s not VJ Day, ya know.”

“So, what else did Dr. Stemson say?”

“He said many athletes spill albumin after hard workouts. But it’s only a temporary thing. Doesn’t cause damage.”

That night after supper I run along East Beach, sucking in lungfuls of wet Pacific air, relieved that my one painful pleasure would last a while longer.

The rocket’s flash wakes me. Shrapnel rains down on our hooch, tears through its corrugated metal roof and walls. Some grunt from the Ship Platoon screams. I grab the edge of my mattress, roll to the left and fall four feet onto the concrete floor, landing on my back. I shriek as a bolt of white-hot electricity shoots down my spine. Then everything goes numb.

Private O’Day crouches under his lower bunk. “Tet’s startin’ early,” he mutters.

“Shit. God damn Charlie...can’t feel my fuckin’ legs.” I lie helpless as GIs fumble in their wall lockers for weapons. Out on the perimeter, the rattle of M-60s and AKs tell me the VC are close in, attacking. Small arms fire sizzles through the hot night air.

“I wet my pants,” Private O’Day complains.

“I can’t feel my pants,” I say.

“You okay, man?”

“FUCK NO!”

“What’s wrong?”

“I fell, you idiot. Come here and roll me over.”

O’Day pulls me onto my right side. The feeling floods back into my legs. The pain is incredible. I grit my teeth.

“You okay, man?”

“I...will...be,” I manage to sputter.

A dark gnomish shape is silhouetted in the hooch’s open door.

“Sanders, you in there?” the First Sergeant calls.

“Ye...yeah.”

“Get your ass to the phones.”

“I can’t move, Top.”

“You hit?”

“Nah. Took a fall.”

“Shake it off. The CO wants you to stay close. Headquarters might order us to the perimeter.”

I heave myself up. “Ja...ja...just a minute...got this knife...in my back...”

“Move your hippie ass,” he says and disappears.

I pull on jungle fatigues, grab my M-16 and stumble outside. The night is ablaze with flares. Cobra gunships strafe the highway next to Long Binh. Their red tracer rounds almost look pretty.

“Sanders, get in here,” Top calls from the company office.

In the darkness I flip him off and vow never to be ordered around by morons again.

That night I downed a handful of Darvon to keep things numb. In the years that follow, the nerve pain and arthritis become my constant companions, never leave me, never let me fully enjoy the simple pleasure of wide-awake peace.

The telephone’s ring fills my fifth-floor walkup. I ignore it and silence returns. Afternoon sunlight pours through a bare double-hung window. Groaning, I struggle up from bed and stare out at shipping docks, a glassy bay, and Alcatraz Island. The phone rings again.

“Yeah, what the hell you want?”

“Y’all don’ get many calls, do yew, John?”

“Who is this?”

“Larry Sever.”

“Who?”

“The guy yew came back from Nam with.”

“Oh, yeah. We were tight in Nam, right?”

“No, can’t say we were. Do yew rememba the last time we talked?”

“Ah, yeah, sure, last week at the Boom Boom Room over on Fillmore.”

“That’s right. And yew were tellin’ me how yew liked ta assemble models as a little kid.”

“Yeah, so? I probably said a lot of things.”

“Well, I heard about this job –”

“Larry, I already have –”

“I thought yew got canned from that warehouse gig?”

“Ah, right, right. So what’s the job about anyway?”

“There’s a new company down the Peninsula, Intel I think it’s called. They’re hirin’ assembly workers.”

“How much are they paying?”

“Six bucks an hour.”

“Christ, that’s three times the minimum.”

“Yeah, I know, I know. Yew interested?”

“What kind of stuff do they assemble?”

“Electrical shit. Yer engineering degree should help yew get in...if ya can stay off the sauce.”

“Yeah, maybe. But why are you telling me this? We’re not exactly buddies.”

“I don’ have wheels and yew do. I figured yew could drive us down this afternoon and see whaas happin'.”

I stare around my single-room apartment at cardboard boxes stuffed with clothes, a nightstand littered with bottles, full ashtrays, an empty wallet lying on the dresser.

“Look Larry, they only hire clean-cut types for those jobs.”

“Yer right about that. Don’t yew own a shirt and tie?”

“Yeah, somewhere around here.”

“Don’ worry about it. My missus can fix yew up. Come on over and we’ll drive down. Yew remember where I live?”

“Yeah, yeah. Give me an hour...and...and thanks, man.”

I stand under the shower and let tepid water pour over my soft body. All my once-distinct runner’s muscles are now sheathed in fat. I need to get back in shape, get some help before becoming just another whacked-out Nam vet. For the first time in two years I shave. My new face doesn’t look half bad.

Sometimes redemption can be simple...a string of events that begins with an annoying phone call. Larry was my savior that day. I’ve lost track of him since. The Boom Boom Room will never be the same without us.

My Rolex’s alarm goes off at 7 AM. I’ve been dreaming about my first years with the company, the stress of learning the ropes, internal politics, office romances, marital disasters. These days, my mind is filled with the idea of quitting...but to do what? And where?

With only an hour before my first presentation, I dress and quietly hustle down a beige corridor to the Ramada Inn’s restaurant. Outside, Pittsburgh snuffles in its gray slumber. I order oatmeal and coffee. A pretty woman in the next booth wears a company name tag. A maroon briefcase lies open on her table.

“So, are you going to the presentation this morning?” I ask.

She looks up and smiles. “Afraid so. Management always sends me to these boring team-building sessions...as if they do any good.”

“Yikes! I hope my presentation isn’t that bad.”

Her green eyes widen. “I’m...I’m sorry...I didn’t know you...”

“Hey, I’d probably put myself to sleep if I had to sit there and listen.”

“No, really, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anybody. Sounds like you need a caffeine kick as bad as me. Mind if I join you?”

“Please do. But I can’t drink coffee.”

I slide into her booth and try not to stare. She looks to be in her early 30s with long dark hair, so thick that it soaks up light. Her body is voluptuous with expressive hands and no rings.

“I’m afraid if I don’t have two or three cups,” I say. “I’ll sleep till noon.”

“Coffee makes my hands shake. For an artist, that’s bad.”

“So Bonnie, what kind of art do you do for the company?”

She laughs, fingering her nametag. “I designed this, penned the drawings myself.”

She hands me the folder for today’s seminar. I hold it up, admire ink sketches of people huddled around a computer terminal. One of the guys looks like me.

“What’s that smell?” she croaks. Oh....oh no!”

Silverware clatters to the floor. Across the table, Bonnie sits ramrod straight, her face blank, arms and legs jerking. Her head drops onto her chest and she falls sideways. I catch her before she hits the floor and lay her out flat. It’s like watching someone go through their own personal earthquake.

“CALL 911,” I yell to the waitress.

I slip my sports coat under Bonnie’s head. She stares blankly at me while her body bucks and twists. In a few moments she quiets. I retrieve a napkin from the table and wipe her mouth. Her eyes come back into focus and she tries to get up.

“It’s all right, Bonnie. Just lie still. Help’s on the way.”

“I’m sorry...and...and so embarrassed.”

“I wish I could have done more, but you’re the first...”

“Epilepsy isn’t exactly a conversation starter and...oooooh, my head.”

“Just rest easy. You’ve bought yourself a good excuse for missing my seminar.”

She smiles. “Sorry.”

“That’s all right. There’s always the afternoon session.”

The paramedics arrive, check her vitals, and load her into the ambulance. I wave goodbye, realizing too late that she’s left her briefcase behind. I’ll just have to track her down…find out more about her...and how to maybe fit her into my life.

Bonnie laughs when I tell this story. “Yeah, I took one look at John and the next thing I knew I was flopping around on the floor like a fish.” I joke that it must have been my boyish good looks...a face my mother always claimed could “put the ladies in a trance.”

On Sundays we normally sleep in. But today the sun has burned off the fog. Bonnie makes cinnamon-apple crepes. I doze on the back deck that overlooks Elliott Bay and the Seattle skyline. This house was her parents’, became ours when her Mom died a couple years ago.

My wife shakes me awake. “Phone.”

“Christ, it’s Sunday. Can’t you take a message?”

“It’s not the office. It’s…it’s your mother.”

“Now what? Probably wants to argue about why they can’t move here.”

“No, it’s not that. She wouldn’t tell me, but it doesn’t sound...good.”

Something in her voice snaps me awake. Grunting, I climb out of the chair and go inside. Bonnie follows. I sit at the kitchen counter and pick up the receiver. There’s quiet sobbing coming over the line.

“Mom, this is Johnny. Are you okay? What happened?”

“It’s your father.”

“What? What is it?”

“He’s gone, Johnny.”

I try speaking but nothing comes out. I’m filled with an image of my father staring down on me, smiling, pressing a cold cloth to my four-year-old forehead. I won’t act like a baby, Papa, promise. I’ll be strong...no tears from this Marine’s son.

“Wh…when? How did it happen?”

“About an hour ago. He woke up feeling fine...excited about going fishing at Stern’s Wharf. Ken was going to drive him. But he just...just...”

The phone line crackles, as if a row of blackbirds is sitting on it, chirping for all they are worth. I take a shuddering breath. Bonnie wipes my wet cheeks with a Kleenex.

“Is someone there with you?”

“I called the Cochrans. Louise is here...and Becky will be up from LA in a couple hours.”

“Good, good.”

“He went so quietly...sitting in his junker car, fiddling with that damn radio. I keep telling him Bob Crane is long gone.”

“Yes, he used to like that world’s worst song contest.”

“Oh Lord, do I remember...couldn’t get him to stop humming that horrible tune: ‘I got a rose between my toes from running barefoot through the hothouse to you, pretty baby,'”

Mom’s chuckles turn to sobs.

“Mom, have the...the authorities been contacted?”

“Yes, Louise took care of that. She’s an angel.”

“Okay, when Becky gets there have her call me. We’ll be on a plane tomorrow. Should get into Santa Barbara around supper time.”

“Okay, son. Becky will pick you up.”

“Mom, I love you. I’m so sorry.”

I set the phone in its cradle. Bonnie claps a hand over her quivering mouth. Without speaking she goes to the hall closet and pulls down a suitcase from an upper shelf and begins packing.

It struck me that all over the world, people receive calls from mothers and fathers, announcing the deaths of spouses, aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters, cousins. It is one of the loneliest conversations a child can have. We all know they are coming...but knowing doesn’t seem to help. And we’re never prepared for it when it’s our turn to get the call.

The day after Thanksgiving I wake at 6 AM, feeling strangely dizzy. It’s probably from overeating and too much red wine.

“Are you okay?” Bonnie asks as I slide out of bed.

“Yeah, my stomach’s a bit rocky but I’m all right.”

I sit on the toilet and try not to think about work. My head clears and I stumble into the kitchen and click on Mr. Coffee. In the living room, I pull back the drapes of our 10th-floor apartment and stare at gray Lake Michigan. A red necklace of taillights extends down Lake Shore Drive. Chicago is slowly coming awake.

My stomach turns over. A chill shakes my body. I try to move. My legs won’t obey. A surge of vomit blasts from my mouth, splattering the window. I stare in disbelief. It’s red. Another surge, this time more viscous, like thick lava pouring from volcanoes in Hawaii. I hear a muffled cry. Bonnie comes toward me. My knees buckle and everything goes black.

“His hematocrit is down to six. Hang two units,” somebody orders, “and get Dr. Steele to prep for surgery.”

“Poor guy’s got an ulcer the size of a walnut. This is gonna be close.”

I’m on a gurney being wheeled down a long hallway. My front is covered in blood. I’m cold and getting colder.

“Bonnie,” I call out.

“Must be his wife,” the masked physician mutters. “She’ll be here when you come out of surgery,” he says cheerily.

“Don’t you mean, if?” “It’ll be a few minutes until we start. I’ll go get her.”

I lay in the prep room while a nurse cleans my stomach and paints it with a yellowish liquid. Another stands next to me with a funnel-mouthed plastic bag, ready to catch any more lava from Mt. Sanders. I can’t feel much of anything...only that I’m cold. Bonnie squeezes my arm.

“You scared the hell out of me,” she says, smiling too brightly.

“Sorry about the mess...we can have Lucy clean –”

“Forget about that. Just relax.”

“What have they told you?”

“Not much. You have a hole in your stomach. They’re going to sew it up.”

“I’m sorry...we were going to take a few days vacation and...”

“Just relax. We’ll talk about it after surgery. I love you.” She kisses my cheek. “It’s time,” a nurse announces. They roll me into the operating room and affix a mask. In a few moments everything goes away.

It took me three months to recover from surgery. Bonnie and I moved back to our Seattle house and I retired from Intel. These days I spend quietly, at the computer, or reading while my wife paints. It’s a good life. We savor each and every awakening, rude or otherwise.