The Fixer

53

By the time he was finished signing forms and doing paperwork for the death certificate and composing the death notice for the newspapers, it was five thirty in the morning. Lenny wasn’t an organ donor. He believed that if the doctors found an organ donor card in your wallet, they didn’t try as hard to save you. There was not much to sign.

Rick got a cab and went back to the DoubleTree. He was hobbling slowly. His pain had come roaring back. But he couldn’t take a pill, not until he was settled someplace else.

He had one suitcase and a few clothes to pack, some toiletries in the bathroom, not much else.

He thought about his father’s funeral. Who were Lenny’s friends anymore? For almost twenty years he’d lived in a nursing home, unable to communicate. Most of his friends stopped coming by after a few months. There was Mr. Clarke/Herbert Antholis, but he couldn’t appear in public. Lenny’s secretary, Joan, whom his father had reason to distrust. Who else was there?

At a few minutes after six in the morning, his phone rang.

It was Andrea. “Rick, are you all right? Where’d you go? Was it something I said?”

He’d rehearsed a few answers but nothing seemed right. I didn’t want to trouble you made him sound like a martyr. I’m all recovered sounded delusional.

“I’m okay,” he said. “I thought it was better for you and Evan if I wasn’t there.”

“That’s ridiculous. You’re going to stay at some hotel-?”

“My father died.”

“Ohh, Rick, I’m sorry. When did this-?”

“I got a call in the middle of the night. Heart failure.”

“So that’s why… What can I do?”

He didn’t correct her. No reason for her to know he’d left before getting the call from the nursing home. “Nothing. Apologize to Evan for me. He was going to show me how to play Minecraft. Tell him another time.”

Rick wanted to change hotels, because that had become his routine, but he couldn’t. Since his wallet had been taken, he had no credit cards, no driver’s license. The DoubleTree had his card on file, so he was okay until he checked out. By tomorrow he’d have replacement credit cards he could use.

He had around ten thousand dollars in cash left and was in no condition to go back to the storage unit for more, not until he felt stronger. Fortunately, he’d paid off all his credit cards, so after a few hours on the phone he had new credit card numbers he could use once they arrived.

He took a pain pill and slept for five hours.

By the time he’d awakened, the funeral home was open. He surveyed himself in the bathroom mirror as he washed up. The bruises on his face were starting to look less acute, less well defined, with green and yellow tints seeping around the edges. His left eye was still swollen, but much less than it had been. He no longer had a constant headache. He was starting to heal. But every time he moved, even to lift a cup of coffee, he felt the pain. It hurt when he coughed, grunted, or laughed. It was as if he were made of broken glass in a bag.

He took a cab to the funeral home and picked out a plain wooden casket, and still he didn’t cry. The funeral director offered to bring in a rabbi to conduct the service the following day. Neither Rick nor his father was observant, but in the end, Rick decided that was what his father would have wanted. Better safe than sorry.

He went back to the hotel and slept some more until his cell phone ringing woke him up. He looked at the time on the phone. He’d been asleep for seven hours.

It was Wendy. She’d just arrived in Boston. She’d caught an Alaska Airlines flight from Bellingham-her least favorite airline, she made a point of saying-with a brief layover in Seattle. Rick told her he’d had a car accident a few days ago, was fine now, but needed his rest. He’d see her at the funeral tomorrow.

“Is Sarah with you?”

“No. She can’t leave the restaurant.” Rick had met Sarah exactly once, a couple of years ago, at their wedding.

“Hey, Rick? How’d he die?”

“They’re saying cardiac failure.”

“Maybe it’s just as well. Ever since his stroke, his quality of life was pretty lousy.”

“I guess.”

He gave her the address of the funeral home and told her to be there at ten o’clock. The funeral started at eleven.

“Hey, Rick?”

“Yeah?”

“Know something weird?” Wendy said. “We’re orphans now.”