Martin Part III

(delayed posting today due to the fact that Blogger.com is a slow-moving bitch-ass slag.)

Sisters of Mercy Hospital still operated on Main Street in Buffalo. Its low sprawl loomed gray across from the huge cemetary as Martin sped his way closer to the ER entrance. His brakelights had been flashing since Niagara Square, and a half mile later, a screeching cartoon-like voice kicked in. “Alcohol Abuser! Alcohol Abuser!” Kenny only stirred slightly at this point, but he didn’t need to ask his father what was going on. Jon’s breathing had grown shallow and dry. He was barely conscious. Martin only pressed faster.

By the time they pulled up, the lights of the car were in a circus rage, the screaming voice had increased in volume by ten times, and each bit of increased pressure on the accelerator and the brake resulted in a piercing squeal. Nurses and attendents had come out to the ambulance bay to find out what was happening, but all they noticed was this rusty green hatchback swerving around the corner towards them.

Martin hit the brakes at the last moment, letting out an excruciating howl. Not a single cop had followed him or even seemed to notice him. The whole thing was a smoke screen. He should have realized that the half-dozen or so officers actually on a normal shift these days actually did have better things to do. He wasn’t as smart as he had hoped, just lucky. That was all he needed, after all.

He pulled Jon out of his seat. If anything, his fever had risen. But he was mostly still now, just panting lightly. The nurses were eager saints and swarmed to him. Martin watched them take him away, paused to breathe, and turned his attention to his oldest son, crying in the other side of the car.

“Hey, come on, son,” said Martin. “He’s going to be okay.” He walked quickly around the back of the car and opened the door to let Kenny out.

“He’s going to be fine, we made it here quick, all right? He’s going to be fine. Come on, guy.” Kenny held his dad’s waist, didn’t stop crying. Martin became truly afraid for the first time in a long while, since his first months in prison. He bent over and picked up his boy. He held him close and tight, and started crying with him.

That’s not to say that since his first months in prison Martin had never been afraid. Days in prison, even after the harsh adjustment period, were never easy. There were moments when he feared everything he knew would change and he’d somehow end up forever in custody. When he was finally released, his thoughts turned to his children. He felt panic as he was looking through the airnet trying to find his children. His train ride to Buffalo was a frightful event. He didn’t know what he would find when he got to the house where his children now lived, under another man’s name. He didn’t know what would be involved in trying to see them, as most newly single fathers since the beginning of the twentieth century didn’t. Uncertain, insecure fear is a pinching thing.

There were also times when he was engaged in the legal procedures to gain partial custody of his boys when he was afraid. Each of these times were not easy to handle, they had tested Martin dearly, and he paid for them in his heart and in his mind, ramifications that would take years to show themselves, but would show themselves clearly when they came. All for now was the graying hair around his temples and in his beard.

Each of these periods of great fear came at a price, and were not at all mild events. But they were nothing like the fear that Martin felt when he realized that the son whose diapers he had changed was so dreadfully familiar with loss.

Martin killed the engine. The lights kept blinking, the thing kept yelling. He had had enough of that car. He left it where it was and brought his son slowly into the building.

The police were waiting for him inside. They didn’t approach him but he saw the two state troopers standing at the still swinging doors to the behind the scenes emergency action. Of course – they were following him at a distance, probably waiting for a crash. Kenny didn’t look up, still clinging to his father’s waist. Martin pulled him towards two near waiting room chairs and they sat down.

“Kenny, Kenny boy, listen, it’s going to be okay, all right?”

“They’re going to take you away again, Daddy. And Jonny’s gonna die.”

“Jonny’s not going to die.”

Kenny rested his head on his father’s knee, sobbing.

“Wait here, okay?”

Martin stood up and fished in his pockets, found a fifty, and walked quick and smooth to the officers. As he approached, they gathered themselves together, standing straight, tapping around their belts, making sure they had whatever they might need. They glared at him from under their cocked-forward hats.

Martin handed the bill directly to one of the officers. “Listen, that’s all I have. By the time I get back in that car, I’ll have been here for hours, the one shot I drank in front of the football game will have completely dissolved, and I may or may not be leaving here with both the children I came with, one of whom is sitting over there crying his eyes out over all this. If either of you are fathers, you understand. And, please, understand.”

The cop took the bill and put it into his pocket. “Call their mother,” he said. “As soon as your son is stable, you’re coming with us.”

- posted by seanmh @ 3:22 PM