River Rules Page 17

  “Next,” Paco called to the customer behind the woman. She left the pennies and stalked off, clutching her eight dollar brie on gluten-free toasted focaccia.

  “Bitch much?” The young construction worker next in line addressed the woman’s back. Turning to Paco he said, “Hey dude, when you gonna have the gluten-free pupusas with sweet corn and black beans again?”

  “See,” Paco called over to Jeff. “They love pupusas, which you now know is what?”

  “Corn masa,” Jeff played along. “Griddle-cooked with love.” He winked at a pretty woman who had joined the line. “Hey, did you like the Latin cole slaw with it?”

  “Yeah,” the construction worker said. “What’s it called again?”

  “Curtido,” one of their lunchtime regulars chimed in. “Like fermented cabbage with jalapenos. To die for,” he added, patting his ample stomach.

  Ever since Paco and Marco adamantly insisted that Great Full Bread needed to add Latin-themed menu items, about a month into the venture, business basically doubled.

  “We gotta do this, Coach. It’s a no-brainer,” Marco said. “It’ll be a slam dunk.”

  “Absofuckinglutely,” Paco said. “Kaching, mo’ money.” He and Marco bumped fists and made exploding sounds.

  “It’s our rich heritage of maize,” Marco said in a newscaster voice, prompting Paco to dissolve into giggles.

  “Whoa,” Peter said. “So we add some papooses—”

  “Pupusas,” Paco and Marco corrected simultaneously.

  “We ain’t serving no dead Indian babies,” Paco said.

  “Native American,” Marco reminded him. “And arepas, too. Coach.”

  “A-what?”

  “You so white.” Paco went for simplicity as he explained. “Arepas are the same as pupusas and gorditas, but different.”

  “Yeah, that really explains everything.” Jeff said. “Hey, if they’re money-makers, we can do some breakfast and lunch versions if Rach agrees. How about a demo?”

  “You got it. Too bad we can’t do chicharron coz pork is the bomb. But we gotta keep kosher. Maybe cheese and pinto beans, cheese and spinach or what’s that other green all them hipsters like?” Paco snapped his fingers in the air to get some responses.

  “Kale?” Peter asked.

  “That stuff is for cows, man.” Marco shuddered dramatically. “What about double cheese?”

  “Yeah, but you gotta watch the expenses, bro. You wait, kale and pinto beans will sell through the roof.” Paco nodded sagely.

  And they were right. Marco’s mother taught Rachel how to bake all of it.

  “So pupusas are from El Salvador,” she said as Marco occasionally translated. “Arepas are from everywhere. Every country has something like this. I’m also gonna teach you how to make churros so you got something sweet to sell.”

  “Churros are like donuts, right?” Rachel had a smudge of flour on her nose that Marco’s mother gently wiped away.

  “Girl, you got a lot to learn,” Marco laughed. “Dunkin Donuts got good coffee, that’s a fact, but churros leave donuts in the dust. You don’t know what you don’t know. Mami will set you straight.”

  After two days of experimenting, Rachel had Mrs. Torres’s blessing for the long, ridged fried dough rolled three times in cinnamon sugar. She tried them out on Peter, Jeff and Tomassi.

  “I can die happy now.” Jeff licked his fingers happily. sucked the crumbs off his mustache.

  “Warm, sweet, soft on the inside and crunchy on the outside.” Tomassi helped himself to a second one and gave Rachel a thumbs-up.

  “My ideal woman,” Peter said to groans. Rachel bopped him on the head with a plate.

  “Inappropriate, Pete.”

  Jeff finally told Paco to work on his bedside manner. “Look, all I’m saying is don’t overreact to stupid stuff. Some people act like assholes when they’re hungry. Let it bounce off you. It’s not personal.”

  “I don’t take shit from no one. But trust me, this ain’t my first go-round with anger management.”

  “I get it. Just remember—you’re here for a reason. We need you, we depend on you.”

  “I know you wasn’t all ‘Yay Paco’ at the beginning. But, you took a chance. I don’t wanna fuck it up. Plus, me and my lady got a kid on the way. I gotta think smart.”

  “Hey, congratulations. And you’re right. Kids are expensive.”

  “Teach me how to deal with them crazies, and Ima do it. Being all turn-the-other-cheek don’t come natural to me, just so you know. Ima copy you. You my coach, aight?”

  Jeff patted him on the back and held out his hand. “I’m honored. Now let’s get to work, Papi.”

  Paco smiled big. “Nice Spanglish.”

  CHAPTER 45

  JUST DAYS BEFORE PETER AND BRUTUS FOUND THE documents at the dam, Josh finished the home stretch of a long run down by the river. He liked to run now; it cleared his head. Darkness had fallen, and he could barely see by the time he made it back to the parking lot down by the ferry. He knew he had to have at least one water bottle in the trunk. All Consortium employees received a case of Eautopia, and he had stuffed the refrigerator at home full of them. He leaned against the side of his old Subaru, spat and reached for his keys.

  Opening the trunk, he found a crumpled paper towel, his old leather jacket with the broken zipper that must have fallen out of a bag full of clothes he and Emmie donated to Goodwill and a half-filled water bottle. He gulped it down in three sips and mopped his sweaty head. When he checked his phone, he cursed with annoyance because the battery had almost zero charge.

  Driving home in the twilight, salt-encrusted, thirsty, and clammy, he glanced away from the road when a huge moth beat its wings across his face. Suddenly, he felt the impact of something thudding off the front end. Twisting the steering wheel, he narrowly avoided crashing into a tree.

  “Shit—what the fuck?’ The car shuddered to a halt, and Josh stepped out shakily. His headlights revealed a dying fawn lying half-stuck on his front bumper, bleeding heavily and moaning in pain.

  “Oh, God. Sorry little buddy, I’m so sorry.” Josh peered through the darkness to see if the doe or any other deer were near. The sounds the fawn made as it died pierced the night air and torched Josh’s soul. Helplessly, he brushed back sudden tears and made himself bear witness to the deer’s dying breaths.

  “Sorry,” he kept whispering.

  His phone and the fawn both dead, he went to the trunk and fished out his old leather jacket. The bloody corpse sagged in his arms as he wrapped the jacket around it. He tried to lug the body to the side of the road, but its shattered bones, crushed insides and syrupy fluids made it impossible.

  He swaddled the baby deer as tight as he could, the leather jacket slathered in gore. His feet slipping on the slick roadway, Josh struggled for traction as he dragged the deer to the side of the road and tried to rest the body gently against some rocks. Josh said a short prayer and then grabbed his jacket off the road. Shoving it in the trunk, he wiped his hands off on his trembling legs, on his shirt, anywhere he could, before nosing the damaged car back onto the dark road.

  The car made loud grinding noises and pulled to the right the entire trip home. He went straight to the garden hose out back in the shared yard. Stripping off his clothes off, he hosed down, the nozzle squeezed tight to full-on jet spray.

  “Josh?” Emmie held a flashlight and a 3-iron for self-defense as she came towards him. “Josh, is that you?”

  “Yeah, babe.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I hit a baby deer. It died right in front of me, and I’m all bloody.”

  “Oh, babe. So long as it’s not your blood. I’m going to get you a towel. Just wait there.”

  Despite the humid night air, Josh shivered as he stood rooted to the spot. Emmie hurried back, minus the 3-iron, and draped a big beach towel over his shoulders.

  “Let’s ditch your clothes in the trash. They’re all bloody and gross. You sure you’re OK?”r />
  Josh nodded and picked up the sodden pile.

  “Here.” Emmie gently wrapped a smaller towel around his waist. “Don’t want the neighbors reporting a flasher.” She put her arm around him and lead him inside. “Come on, lean on me.”

  CHAPTER 46

  NANCY CHOSE TO GO TO HER SURGERY ALONE, CLIMBING into her Uber at 4:45 A.M. Exiting the car, she aimed herself at the Pre-Op reception area, gave them her completed forms and filled out yet more paperwork.

  “You sure you don’t want a ride?” Peter asked repeatedly.

  “No, but you can pick me up. Bet you won’t recognize me.”

  A pretty but tired-looking nurse with a long blonde ponytail and butterfly-printed scrubs called Nancy’s name. She chatted with two techs in standard blue scrubs while waiting for Nancy to make her way over.

  “Hi, Nancy. I’m Lily, but you can call me Lilz. So, I’m not your procedure nurse; I’m just bringing you in so you can change into the beautiful ball gown we ask all patients to wear, especially the men. Then you can meet the mod squad.”

  “Oh, goody,” Nancy said. “I appreciate the comedy, I really do.”

  “Check out my YouTube channel. Just kidding. Hey, it sure beats whimpering in the corner, I can tell you that. Did you leave your tiara and jewelry at home?” Nancy nodded dutifully. “Great, so here we are. This part of the procedure is called hurry up and wait.” Lily offered up a high-five. “Go get ’em, girl.”

  In the airless tiny room where Nancy sat after she changed into her hospital finery, she played with her wrist band, courtesy of her most recent nurse, stared at the IV started by yet another nurse and endured an endless wait. There were no magazines more recent than 2015, and she dearly wished she still had her phone. Finally, an intern who looked all of twelve years old came in to go over her chart.

  “And to get the practice,” he grinned and showed her his shaking hands. “I’m a little nervous with actual patients. This is my first week, and the senior guys are beating me up.”

  “Well, practice makes perfect. Just don’t operate on me, OK?”

  “Deal.” He asked her questions she had already answered so many times that she wondered if the pointlessness was part of the process.

  Then she waited again, this time for the attending anesthesiologist. Her boredom combined with thirst, hunger, and stale hospital air to make her really sleepy. Nancy missed the little boy intern; he reminded her of Alex and Justin when they briefly forgot they hated her.

  She perked up when her surgeon strolled in to crack a few jokes right after the nerdy anesthesiologist exited the room. They went over everything about the surgery again. After he left, Nancy actually nodded off before being summoned by yet another nurse. Groggily, she followed her team into the next room where she climbed onto the moveable bed that would take her to the operating room.

  “Go to your happy place,” someone said. She visualized the cerulean waters and warm sun of a tropical paradise. The process took over, and she tried to rise above the beeping machines, gleaming instruments, bright lights, and loud conversations. The anesthesia resident had trouble converting her weight into kilograms. He seemed to lack a fundamental grasp of basic algebra, and the attending scolded him. The resident fumbled with the mask as he pressed it over her nose and mouth. She tried to alert him to her continuing consciousness. He ignored her and brusquely mashed the mask into her face.

  The surgery took 2 ½ hours once she was asleep. She slept for another 2 ½ hours in the recovery room, about which she recalled nothing. Waking up, her abdomen hurt like hell.

  “You are the master of your pain,” the recovery nurse told her. “Push this button and it will release a dose of your pain meds. But you can’t get more than the calibrated dose.”

  ‘Everything hurts,” Nancy moaned.

  “Of course it does, but you’re going to get up later after dinner to take a little walk.”

  “No way.”

  “Yes way.” The nurse gave her another dose of pain meds by pushing the button on the pump. “Just stay ahead of the pain.”

  Nancy hated her floor nurse and, worse yet, she had a roommate. The nurse made her get up and totter across the room, hooked up to pumps and IVs. Nancy tried not to scream.

  “Don’t be such a wimp.”

  “Don’t be such a witch,” Nancy hissed, doubled over in pain.

  Her roommate, a ninety-year-old woman whose IV beeped constantly except when it went into full-on alarm mode, about every twenty minutes, refused to lower the TV volume which stayed tuned to shouting matches on Fox News. Nancy pressed her pain pump constantly.

  The next day, Nancy had a CAT scan. “We’re going to perform a leak test. We just want to make sure everything’s OK,” her surgeon said. “You’ll be able to start clear liquids in the next few days.”

  When all the IV’s, catheters, plastic tubes, and compressive devices were unhooked on her discharge day, Nancy cinched her abdominal binder tighter and counted the minutes until she could leave. Peter came to pick her up as promised.

  “Hey, slim. Your chauffeur is here, and your chariot awaits.”

  “Ha, not rocking the bikini just yet.” Nancy moved very gingerly to the wheelchair the hospital insisted she sit in until the front door.

  “Your mom is at your house. God, she’s meaner than ever. No mellowing in her old age. Are you sure you can last a week with her?” Peter knew Nancy’s mother well enough. She exuded wavelengths of hatred no sentient creature could defend against.

  “Nope. The bitch is back. I figure two to three days max. I’ll be fine. Peapod delivers, I’ve got all my meds and I’m post-up, hallelujah.”

  Despite constant nagging and vitriolic criticism, Nancy’s mother achieved a minor miracle during her three-day visit when she brokered a temporary peace between Nancy and Alex. Justin had moved to St. Louis for work, so their detente ended up being negotiated in a tense phone conversation and evaporated after they both hung up.

  Neither Nancy nor her mother felt anything but relief when she left. Peter looked in every day, and she seemed to be making progress.

  “I’m fine already.”

  “If you say so.” Peter had his doubts. She seemed pale and very out of sorts.

  Ian and Andre came to visit after her mother left.

  Andre had met her mother before in his phlebotomy days. “Much as I feel for Nancy, if the witch is there, I’m not visiting. She’s a horror movie nightmare.”

  “Nancy’s not exactly a picnic.”

  “When I was doing blood at the hospital lab, mommy dearest needed a stick, a couple tubes. Kids try to be brave. But she carried on like I was torturing her, and she called me the-n-word one too many times.”

  “No. How many times?”

  “Once.” Andre spat on the ground.

  But after ten days, Nancy started to go downhill. She ran a fever and felt short of breath. The pain intensified and turned into left upper quadrant anguish. She finally agreed to call the doctor who told her to go to the emergency room right away. She asked Alex for a ride after Peter didn’t call her back, and he finally drove her to the hospital after whining for a full five minutes about the inconvenience and her shortcomings as a mother.

  “Nancy, I’m afraid you might have a leak in your staple line and an infection. We’re going to readmit you right away to repair the problem,” her surgeon said when he saw her in the ER.

  Nancy spent the next nine days in the hospital, including three days in the ICU after a second surgery that left her thinking she’d died.

  “I remember all the bright lights and strange people coming in and out. I lay there and couldn’t move. So much noise, too—like bad dream noise.” She tried to tell Peter, but he could barely make out the mumbled words. She cried constantly, unable to summon the energy to wipe her tears.

  “You could have died.” Peter couldn’t hide his horror at her condition when he finally saw her.

  “You wish,” Nancy whispered. She looked like
someone else, someone who had survived a close call with death. Misery and pain caused by the emergency surgery to clean out the infection and close the hole in her stomach left her shriveled and extremely weak. Her belly oozed fluids through a drain that the surgical team inserted. Powerful IV antibiotics and pain medications pumped through her system to combat the infection. The lethargy and dizziness made opening her eyes a huge effort.

  “Why did this happen? I didn’t cheat,” she cried. “I followed the protocol.”

  Her surgeon didn’t sugarcoat the situation. “This is uncommon but certainly not unknown. Maybe 2 percent of patients get this complication; surgery always has risks. When you’re well enough to go home, you’ll need visiting nurse care. The wound has to be kept clean as it drains. No eating until it heals. You’re on IV nutrition and IV antibiotics.”

  “But I have to get back to work. My short-term disability only pays 60 percent, and I used up all my sick and personal days already.”

  “No, not possible. Stress about work only hurts the healing process. I’ll write any letters or appeals you need. I’m not making predictions, but I’ve seen cases like this take eight weeks.”

  “I’ve got six weeks of coverage.”

  When Peter came to take her home, his stomach did a nosedive. “Jesus, Nancy. You’re a hurtin’ pup. Don’t even think about work.”

  He drove very slowly but, even so, she cried out in pain at each bump in the road.

  “Sorry, sorry.”

  Getting her into the house took over an hour. Each step looked like Kilimanjaro and demanded more strength than she could muster. Peter couldn’t figure out how to make it any easier.

  “I’m afraid to try to carry you. Maybe hold onto me like a piggyback.” Peter crouched and motioned for her to climb on his back.

  “I can’t do it.” She begged for pain medicine. “Just give me a shot.”

  “I don’t know how, Nance. Just hang on.”

  Peter waited until the first shift of visiting nurses came over and left once Nancy zoned out into la-la land. He needed two shots of bourbon to calm down.

  The visiting nurses came three times per day for the first two weeks until Nancy went off antibiotics. Then they came twice daily for the next two weeks. Her four-week visit to the surgeon felt as hard-fought and pivotal as Antietam in the Civil War.