"Why do you keep saying `ten-forty'? Say `ten-four'. `Ten-four', not `ten-forty.' Means - `I read you. I understand you.' Now, a code phrase for `where are you or what's your location?' You say: `what's your twenty'. Got it?"
I've got it... I've got it all, except I had a hard time saying `twenty' the way my peeved instructor was saying it. He pronounced it "t'wonny", and at first I could not make a connection between what he was saying and the number twenty. The instructor insisted that I address him "Sergeant" but I knew he was not a real sergeant, and his private security guard attire only resembled a real police uniform, and a cumbersome revolver holster that occupied a half of his sizeable belly had no weapon inside. Instead my instructor kept in there a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, and a plastic bag with a half-eaten donut. Once in a while Sergeant fished this culinary wonder out of the holster and took a bite. The donut was immutably stale, and the crumbs were sticking to his lips and even his thin yellow moustache so when I looked at him during the briefings I had to suppress an impulse to grab a paper napkin and brush off the donut crumbs from his face.
Sometimes Sergeant would load his holster up with tiny bottles of liquor, the kind you find on airplanes. It seemed he had an endless supply of these, and I even asked one of the guards, Duane, in what grocery store I can buy these little bottles. Duane explained they were not sold in stores, and that Sergeant's boyfriend, an airline employee, supplied Sergeant with these bottles. Duane, while saying "boyfriend", winked a few times, and then, obviously realizing that his gestures were totally lost on me, added:
"You see, it has something to do with thegay community..."
"Gay community?" I asked him, still not grasping the meaning of what he said. - "There is a special community of people who are gay? Happy? Joyful?"
Duane was looking at me as if I just fell from a tree:
"Don't you, Russkies, have gay people in your country? I mean homosexuals?"
"Oh, that what it means - gay!" It looked like I learned something new that day. "So you think Sergeant is a homosexual?"
"Oh sure. I think he is gay all right." Duane assured me.
Frankly, I did not know what to do with this newly acquired knowledge and, upon thinking a little about it, decided it was none of my business.
Whatever I thought of Sergeant, I wisely kept it to myself. No matter how comical he might have looked, he was my supervisor, and my nights belonged to him. Well, not all the nights, just the Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays.
Tuesdays and Thursdays were not too good, because the next morning I had to go to my daytime job. Usually, I did not have enough time to stop by my apartment and went straight to the office. I changed from the guard's uniform into a suit and tie in my car. My advice - avoid changing in a car; it's a hell of a task, especially when it comes to trousers...
The Saturday shifts were the longest, from 10 a.m. Saturday until 10 p.m. Sunday. But I liked them. And the pay was doubled...
On Saturdays the Mall was full of people and filled with persistent noise, which was the lowest in mornings. Then the noise progressively escalated. By 5 o'clock the noise was getting so much of me that I imagined myself confined in an enormous glass box surrounded by a small army of robots who were chaotically moving around and angrily buzzing in their robotic language, which no one else was supposed to comprehend.
But then, at 5 o'clock, it was time to take my hour-and-a-half-long dinner break, and I could retreat into the guards' room, safely hidden in a more or less obscure wing of the Mall.
The shops there were small, with simple storefronts. They were sort of outcasts compared with the big name department stores and snobby boutiques.
There was a shoe repair store where a scholarly-looking man with neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard presided over a mound of shoes of imposing magnitude. His customers were few and far-between, so the man spent his time sitting on the tall bar stool and reading books.
His books were not the kind you find in chain bookstores. His books looked sophisticated and noble. They were of unusually large format; their pages were not easy to turn because they were very thick. The books looked like they could be written by some old philosophers like Tomaso Campanella, Sir Francis Bacon or even the great Galileo himself.
While being turned, the pages let out a distinctive sound as if they were sighing regretfully because the reader was done with them and moved on to the next page. No chain bookstore book could possibly make similar sounds because they were printed en masse while these folios were obviously produced in very limited quantities, one by one, by skillful ancient bookmakers.
The books even smelled differently. I thought their embossed rich covers were made of leather, but maybe it was not leather. I could not say for sure because I knew very little about leather. Perhaps, it simply was the smell of shoes, which Professor unwillingly fixed when he was taking a break from reading.
At first I wanted to get acquainted with Professor and find out who he was and why he was reading such unusual books and what these books were about. Then I decided against it. I was sure I would be disappointed with the truth. Professor might turn out to be a former schoolteacher who decided to try his financial luck as a shoe repair franchisee. Maybe his family looked down to him for being a loser, a sorry aging cobbler, and he wanted to stay away from them... Or, maybe, the money was of no importance to him, and he bought this shop so he could have his own place to come every morning, immerse in his precious books and enjoy his solitude
Once or twice I overheard Professor talking to his customers. His linguistic eloquence was another reason why I did not want to engage in a conversation with Professor. My English was still rudimentary and I did not want to appear tongue-tied while conversing with him.
So the enigma remained - why on Earth such a smart man chooses to be a shoe fixer? I do not wish to be condescending toward all the shoe fixers of the world; I am sure there are great many smart shoe fixers, but my Professor was surely the exceptional one. I began referring to him as Professor while giving my route report to Sergeant and the name took off.
There also was a public opinion survey place with a pretentious name - West River Research. The name was obviously in reference to a muddy creek that was unhurriedly flowing near the Mall. The research boiled down to a simple action: 3-4 part-time interviewers, mostly middle-aged housewives, armed with clipboards and a dozen of pencils, grabbed unsuspecting shoppers and offering them awkwardly construed questions about some laundry detergent brands or other household cleaning products.
The desks inside the Research shop were dusty. The windows were not washed for ages, and once I saw the Mall's manager lecturing the shop owner, a tired women of indefinite age, on the need of taking better care of the rented space.
The owner was listening, hat in hand, and when the Mall manager finally left her alone, she reluctantly brought from the depth of her store a roll of paper towel and a bottle of Windex and began lubberly washing the windows. She was a clumsy window washer; her long fingers were better suited to play a musical instrument, like a piano.
I congratulated myself for being so astute when Duane confirmed to me that she was, indeed, a very well known piano instructor, but when her husband passed away two years ago she needed to supplement her teaching income and started this research place.
In about a week the Research store closed. It was dark inside, and nobody could see anymore how dreary it was in there, just the freshly washed windows impudently glistening under bluish fluorescent light.
Two more weeks passed, and the Mall's resident painter named Rusty showed up. His overalls had many dry spots of different paints, which made it appear tailored from an exotic fabric. Rusty brought a large bucket of shoddy white paint, and jauntily smeared the windows from inside, and they quit being shiny.
Another small store was occupied by a nail salon aptly named "Beautiful Nails." All the manicurists were slim and graceful Asian girls. I never saw their faces because they always wore blue facemasks to protect themselves from the mind-clouding acetone fumes. I liked to imagine that the masks hid delicate porcelain faces with winsome smiles. Perhaps, it was a stereotypical imagery, but I could not help myself.
The girls worked fast and moved around with ease like they knew how to fly but were not taking off only because they needed to attend to their never-ending clients.
Once I met the salon's owner, an energetic and a no-nonsense woman. She saw me making my rounds by the salon, and stopped me to complain about a group of teenage boys who constantly congregated outside the salon's windows and gaped at women who were relaxing in pedicure chairs. Mrs. Lin was straightforward:
"Guard," she said. "Guard, don't just walk by. Do something about these horrible, horrible boys. My clientele is very upset. The ladies feel uncomfortable being stared at. I risk losing some business if you will not do something."
I promised to talk to the Mall management.
"You do so, Guard," said Mrs. Lin. "Otherwise I will hold you personally responsible."
I did not wish to be held personally responsible for anything, much less for Mrs. Lin's possible business decline. I reassured her that I'd definitely bring this up to the Mall management attention, which I did next morning. I don't know what the management did, but suddenly the teenagers stopped hanging around the nail salon. Mrs. Lin was happy. She extended her gratitude as far as offering me or my wife or my girlfriend or both a free manicure and pedicure. When I informed her that I had neither a wife nor a girlfriend, Mrs. Lin sighed with relief.
Next to the nail salon was the walk-in clinic of the Sisters of Hope Hospital.
The front of the clinic was the most impressive in this wing of the Mall. The doors and windows were made of frosty etched glass, which depicted cheerful scenes of unbelievably pretty nurses administering all kind of help to unbelievably happy but presumably infirmed people.
My personal favorite was a scene, on which a girl of about three was smiling, from ear to ear, at a nurse while receiving a shot. I never saw a little girl in real life being so cheerful while getting a shot. But I liked the scene anyway because it was pacifying and because it was always lit, during days and especially nights, when the rest of the mall was submerged in mysterious darkness, and I, frankly, felt uneasy about this darkness.
Not that I expected any danger around every corner. I was simply uncomfortable being alone, night after night after night, walking through deserted and resonant corridors.
And I missed The Woman I Loved. I missed my town with charming buildings built of dark weathered bricks and where I left the Woman I Loved.
I was lonely at the Crystal Tower Mall in - what I believed then - a bland Midwestern town, which at that time has not yet accepted me. I guessed it was because I, too, have not yet fully accepted the town.
A make-belief nurse etched on the glass door was my only comforting friend during the long night shifts. When nobody could see me, I talked to this nurse. She never stopped smiling; she listened to me reciting poems I memorized in my youth. The poems sounded strange here, in the emptiness of a quintessential American mall.
But soon a spine-tingling miracle happened.
It was perfect Saturday in July. The Mall just closed, and the cleaning crew was polishing the floor, emptying fancy glass trash cans, which, in compliance with the Crystal Tower Mall's image and reputation, were supposed to be spotless at all times.
I was plodding by the Sisters of Hope Clinic when its door suddenly opened, and I stiffened with astonishment: right toward me graciously walked a nurse. Her face was beautiful, her chestnut hair was splendid, her white lab coat was impeccable, her high heels were elegant, and a smile on her explicitly contoured lips was delightful.
It looked as if the nurse from the etched glass door (or, perhaps, from my vague dreams?) suddenly came alive, as if my prayers were answered, and I would be no longer lonely in this town.
While I was standing silent and motionless, the nurse approached me and said:
"Hey, I know you. Every night you recite poems in a foreign language in front of my clinic. I envy you - you speak that foreign language, whatever it is, so-o-o well..."
It took me a while to squeeze out an answer:
"I envy you more - you speak English so-o-o well..."
The nurse giggled, and I found her giggle to be very cute, and then she said:
"That's an unusual pick up line, never heard this one before."
I had no idea what she meant by a "pick up line" and prudently decided not open my mouth anymore, just look at the girl and admire her beauty. And then - another miracle happened: I am not sure how, but the nurse sensed that I did not know what the "pick up line" meant and explained softly:
"A pick up line is a phrase that a man would use to get acquainted with a woman... To get acquainted... to pick her up, you know?"
"But I am not trying to pick you up!" I protested, because I honestly did not want this girl to think that I was trying to "pick her up." I took the expression literally, and did not like it. It sounded too vulgar for my taste.
Again, the nurse sensed that I was perplexed, and nodded:
"I know you are not trying to pick me up... Please forgive me for these silly words... By the way, I am Annette. And you are...?" With this Annette extendedher hand toward me and let me touch her fingers. They were warm and delicate, and this brief, in passing, contact suddenly made me want to "pick her up." Even though I still did not like the expression.
"I am Alex. Alex Turovsky. My friends call me Tur."
"Than I am going to call you Tur," Annette said quite resolutely, and I, with a sinking heart, unhesitatingly, in the fifth minute of our first encounter, let her become my friend.
From that moment on we spent together as much time as we could, every evening when our shifts coincided, and every evening when we both were free. Annette was a pediatric nurse studying to get her Masters, while moonlighting at the Mall's walk-in clinic to pay the tuition.
We talked a lot, laughed a lot, and were happy. I was happy so much that in my thoughts I began referring to the Woman I Loved as the Woman I Left, and my memories of the past did not hurt me as much anymore. I came to believe that my job as a guard at this mall was not a mere a chance but my good omen, and, perhaps, it was my reward for making the right decision to leave the old country.
When Annette and I were working the same shifts, we always had dinners together at one of the Mall's restaurants, and I always paid for both of us, which pretty much exhausted my modest budget. But I did not care because I wanted to be a gentleman; I wanted to impress Annette with what I thought was my European gallantry.
Often I bought dinner only for Annette saying I already ate at my day work because it was somebody's birthday party. I lied so earnestly that Annette believed me. It was the only lie I ever told her, because I simply could not lie to Annette and, mainly, there were no reasons to lie to her.
After dinner we set in Annette's office at the clinic. Annette was crazy about apples, and I peeled a good-sized Granny Smith for her, and then cut it into exactly 16 pieces.
I don't know why she always wanted 16 pieces, and I never asked, because it was not important. It was only important to know that my Annette wanted 16 pieces, and I gladly cut 16 pieces for her. She was eating them slowly, piece by piece, and when she was done, her lips tasted sweet and a little bit bitter, like the crisp autumn apples, which I, too, liked a lot and used to buy them on farmers markets in my hometown, thousands miles away from this Mall.
When Annette was not in the clinic, I spent my dinner breaks in the guards' quiet refuge. That's how I called it. As for the other guards, I doubt they saw this windowless room the same way I did.
Once I shared my perception of the room with Duane. He shook his head:
"You are crazy, Tur. It's a dump. Look around you. Too bad these jerks in the main office never show their fat ass here; otherwise I'd tell them off... You are definitely crazy, Tur."
Duane was right. The room was a dump. There were 3 blue chairs, 3 green chairs, 5 black chairs and 2 orange chairs. The total of 13... I don't know why I memorized the colors and the number of chairs, but I often caught myself mumbling a little chant I composed, in Dr. Seuss style, whose books I considered excellent for studying English:
"Blue chair,
Black chair,
Third chair,
Fifth chair,
All are here,
All of thirteen..."
There was also a large folding card table in the room, a butcher block with a microwave oven on it, a hot plate, a coffeemaker, a dozen mismatched coffee mugs, and an assortment of utensils. A little refrigerator stood beside the butcher block, and nothing else. Not even a TV.
Nobody wanted to be in this room a minute longer than necessary. But I wanted to. I liked its indifferent mess. Its dimmed light. And the piles of tattered magazines with no covers, so one could not even guess what a magazine's title was. But the titles did not matter because most of the magazines were outdated. Even this felt sort of tranquil - what could be more relaxing after hours of walking your route in the enormous mall than stretching your legs to another chair, and enjoy your sacred break while reading old news and forgotten gossip about glamorous lives of movie stars, and enjoying peanut butter jelly sandwiches you made for yourself before the night shift?
And when the phone rings you don't have to answer it. And when your walkie-talkie suddenly comes alive, and the squeaky Sergeant's voice asks "What's your t'wonnie?" you can say "I am on my break," and that would be it, end of story. Even Sergeant could not bother you during the break, because Sergeant was not really a sergeant, and it was not an army. I was a civilian, despite my uniform that consisted of a white shirt with narrow shoulder straps, black tweed pants and patent-leather shoes. I could quit this job anytime I wanted to. I planned on doing it if Sergeant's demands really got to me.
I was especially close to quitting the morning after the news about a Soviet military jet shooting down an Asian civilian airplane that somehow wandered into a disputed air space over the North Pacific.
I was saddened by this news. But perhaps not in the same way as my American acquaintances were saddened. Sure, the loss of almost two hundred civilian lives was exceedingly tragic. But I, better than anyone around me, could imagine another tragedy - the tragedy of Russian airmen, all barely in their twenties, who, in horror and disbelief, but skillfully and precisely trained the plane's rockets right onto the vulnerable belly of the civilian liner. It all took just a few seconds, but I am sure these few seconds have defined the rest of the boys' lives forever.
I was sure the shooting happened by mistake, a tragic result of a human error, a miscalculation, which was never disclosed to the world... Or maybe an officer who gave the order was either drunk or simply muzzy from his hopeless life in the back of beyond...
No matter what I thought and no matter what was the real reason behind the tragedy, the facts remained, and I was ashamed of being from there.
That day Sergeant came to the guards' room with his wife. Yes, with his wife. A woman. Puzzled, I looked at Duane - he was the one who suggested that Sergeant was gay. Duane only shrugged his shoulders.
It was the time for the night shift to begin so the room was busy - all 15 guards were in waiting for the detailing. Sergeant and his wife were glancing at me quite angrily. And before he started the detailing, he poised a question, and his voice was even screechier then ever:
"What are you, Russky, doing out there shooting down civilian planes?"
I was stunned by the question, so absurd it was. I did not know what to say, and I was hurting as if I really did what Sergeant accused me of doing, and as if I needed to explain something very important, at all costs, once and for all. Instead, totally dispirited, I mumbled:
"But I am from Latvia..."
"Wha-a-a-a-t tha-a-a-a-at?" Sergeant drawled. "Lafayette? You are from Lafayette, Louisiana, huh?"
I felt helpless in the face of Sergeant's idiocy. What Lafayette? Had it really sounded like "Latvia?" What do I personally have to do with the airplane tragedy?
I looked around trying to find an answer in the room, but I realized that all other guards would be on the Sergeant side and I would have none of their sympathy, much less their support. Only Duane came to my rescue. He approached Sergeant and said quietly:
"Enough! Leave Tur alone."
The guards, who evidently anticipated a fight, disappointedly dispersed.
...He was a good guy, this Duane. It is not to say all other guards were bad guys. I just could not establish any contacts with them. They did not want to. Like me, they all worked days elsewhere - coming and going, accidental co-workers. Plus they were tired all the time. None of them ever attempted to talk to me, or offered help to a rookie. It was OK by me, because one of the first things I learned was that the world did not revolve around me.
Only Duane, the youngest of them, appeared to be friendly, and his curiosity was inexhaustible. Duane was tall and skinny and it always seemed to me that while he was asking a question, his whole body assumed a shape of one huge 6'2" question mark. Every chance he had he grilled me about my old country, sometimes reducing me to a nonplus.
He always started his questions with "Hey, Tur":
"Hey, Tur, are there many red haired guys in your country?"
"I don't know the statistics, but I guess there are a fair number of red haired people. A woman I used to be with had red hair. Why do you ask?"
"Because... I have this red haired friend of mine, a boy, the son of that woman who sits in the information booth. I kinda mentor him. His name is Erick; he's a smart boy, but other kids always tease him. You know - `I'd rather be dead, than red in the head...' and the like."
"In my country red haired were, too, picked at." I said.
"How?"
"Well... Let me try to translate one chant I remember - `Red hair, red hair, freckled nose, killed his grandpa with a hose..."
"This does not make any sense! Has anyone with red hair really ever killed his grandfather?" Duane kept asking.
"Of course not. It's just a stupid banter. People say lots of stupid things; you know that, don't you? " After agreeing with my comment, Duane left me alone and went on his route.
I went on mine.
I caught up with Duane on the second floor of the Rotunda Tower. He was sitting on the bench and talking to a boy, about 7 or 8. The boy had astonishingly red hair.
The Rotunda Tower was four-stories high. It was constructed of glass supported by steel tubes. Some people viewed this architectural whim as beautiful. Not me. I was never in favor of too much glass and metal. The Tower seemed very fragile to me, especially during ruthless summer rains.
The Tower looked it best in winter when the warmth and merriment of the Mall appeared to be right in the middle of a snowfall, and you could clearly see every single snowflake slowly melting on the thick glass of Rotunda.
The Tower was the obvious choice for the Christmas tree. It was fun to watch how a crew of three men led by Rusty the Painter assembled the tree. It took them almost a week, every evening after the Mall was closed.
It was a magnificent tree. It had all the attributes of a real thing - it was thick-branched with wonderfully green needles... But it still was not the real thing. It was missing a distinct, giddy smell of coniferous forest, the elusive scent of snow resting on the branches before the tree was taken from the forest.
Underneath the tree, Rusty and his crew arranged a railroad. A bright miniature locomotive ran endless circles around the tree, dragging behind five or six red cars. The train ran by the chocolate forest inhabited by fairy tale animals, and by the library where a beautifully dressed maiden read children books in front of a microphone.
Santa Clause was sitting comfortably in the sleigh near the plywood library. The jolly Old Nick was wrapped in the frayed robe, which looked rather fulvous than red. I met Nick a few times at the coffee shop in the food court and we exchanged a few words. Once I stopped by his table with Annette, and being in a joyful mood I asked Nick to make Annette love me. Nick, though, was not responsive to my playful tone. He looked me in the eyes and said despondently and plainly:
"I cannot do that, man. I can't."
It made me upset. Frankly, I was expecting Annette to say something like "we don't need Santa Claus for this, I love you anyway", but she did not say it, and it made me wonder if she'd ever say it.
...Soon my route brought me back to the top floor of Rotunda. The red haired Erick was surrounded by a group of older boys. I recognized them - the same boys congregated by the nail salon. The boys were teasing Erick, and he was desperately trying to cover his red head with a knitted grey hat. But the recalcitrant hat did not want to position itself on Erick's head. While struggling with it, Erick was backing off from the boys who were relentlessly driving him to the glass barrier topped with a flat stainless steel handrail.
The distance between Erick and the boys was growing shorter and shorter, and the tallest of the boys was already trying to grab Erick's hair. Suddenly, Erick jumped onto the handrail, and for a few seconds was swaying back and forth on it trying to regain his balance.
The boys froze.
And so did I.
And the mall customers, who bothered to notice the situation, froze, too.
Erick lost his balance and glided off the handrail, screaming, and fell head first on the Christmas tree. I saw, despairingly, how his body landed, flatways, right in front of the locomotive, which only stumbled for a moment and continued its way around the tree, pushing Erick's body. The kids in the cars did not even notice Erick's fall. Only their parents stood there motionless, and their faces spelled horror.
Then I jumped after Erick.
I had to. It was the fastest way to help him.
Only I did not go face first. I went with my feet first. I felt that this way I could be in better control of my flight and, perhaps, might even land on my feet if I'd manage to grab the tree branches to slow down my fall.
It all went as I hoped it would except I badly wanted to sneeze. Perhaps, the dust accumulated in the inner layers of the tree over the years, and - mainly - the tiny particles of artificial snow that Rusty the Painter abundantly sprinkled on the tree, provoked my allergies.
With a colossal sneeze, accompanied by the tinkling of falling off the tree glass balls, I landed on my feet. Well, almost on my feet. I landed on my knees right by the plywood library and right at the time when the locomotive came to a stop.
I picked up Erick from the track. I guess I caused him pain while lifting him up, because he opened his eyes. I called his name several times, and he nodded as if he was letting me know he heard me, but before he said anything he closed the eyes again.
I held Erick in my arms, his red head on my left shoulder and saw my white uniform shirt was covered in blood. I doubted it was mine, because I felt no pain at all. It certainly was Erick's.
I decided to run to the Clinic. Of course, "to run" was an overstatement:
I was afraid to hurt the boy if I moved too fast. Besides, Erick went flabby on me and felt much heavier than he really was, so it was hard to run. But I tried.
Suddenly, I felt it easier to hold Erick. It was Duane helping me. Tears were running down his face, but he could not wipe them off because his hands were supporting Erick back.
Then another person appeared in my vision field; I recognized Sergeant. He was frowning but very composed. I was afraid he'd start reprimanding me as he always does (and I guessed this time he would have a good reason to tear me to pieces because I probably did something against either Mall regulations or our security agency's field manual.) I did not care for the harshest rebuke, as long as it wouldn't hold me up from helping Erick. Instead, Sergeant looked into my eyes and I did not see in them even a shadow of anger. He put his hand on my shoulder, lightly squeezing it. He said nothing, but I almost heard what he could have said:
"Hey, Russky, you are an OK guy."
I was right because that was exactly what he said to me later...
The three of us were moving toward the clinic as fast as we possibly could.
Sergeant told me:
"Let Duane and me take over. You run ahead of us alone, Tur. Tell them nurses to get prepared for the emergency." It was the first time he called me Tur.
Sergeant and Duane were now carrying Erick, and I started to run. Sergeant called after me:
"Listen, have yourself checked while you are there! You got blood all over you!"
When I reached the Sisters of Hope Clinic, the nurses were already out. Annette was there, too, fresh and elegant as always. She and Professor were working on opening both etched-glass doors to make the entrance wider. Annette noticed me and her adorable face turned pale.
"My darling, my Tur, I love you so much, are you hurt?" She kept saying while kissing and hugging me.
I was touched by her display of affection, and I thought about the vicissitudes of fate: if it wasn't for that horrible accident, who knows how much longer it would take Annette to tell me what I wanted to hear from the moment I saw her for the first time?
Professor just managed to open the clinic's doors when Duane and Sergeant showed up with Erick.
Annette immediately took charge:
"Just bring him in. Watch for his arms not to get caught by the doors. Take him to the second exam room on your left, it's the largest. OK, good. Professor, please close the door. You" she pointed at me: "Stay where you are. Don't come in, please. I will let you know about Erick. Sergeant, you may want to bring the boy's mother here. "
With the implicit obedience we all did what Annette said. Professor (I wondered, how did he know that Annette addressed him by this moniker?) shut the clinic's doors and stood sentry by them; Sergeant pulled his walkie-talkie and called the Mall office to report the accident and then ran to get Erick's mom.
In about forty-five minutes a Sisters of Hope Hospital's helicopter flew from downtown and landed on the Mall's North parking lot, which was by that time skillfully cleared of cars by Sergeant and Duane. I wanted to go with them to the lot, but Sergeant said warmly "You've done enough for one shift already," and ordered me to stay with the boy, his mother and Annette at the clinic. Annette did not let me in and I was stuck outside doing nothing. Mall customers were looking at my bloody shirt suspiciously, but I did not care. I was so tired I could hardly stand up, but was determined to wait right there until Annette showed up and told me Erick was okay.
She didn't show up.
Instead several emergency technicians from the helicopter brought a stretcher and wheeled Erick out. Annette walked by his side and held an IV bottle.
Erick's eyes were open. He saw me and said "Thanks." I wanted to say something to him, too, but nothing was coming to my mind except a silly banter "Red hair, red hair, freckled nose..." I think I even sounded it out in my language because Erick smiled as if he understood what I was saying. But it did not matter because it suddenly became clear to me he'd be okay. It might take time for him to get well but he definitely would be okay. Annette looked at me and reassured quietly:
"He'll be fine, Tur. It appears his spine is not broken. Just his arms and the left hip. Serious? Yes, but he'll recover. He's a good kid, very strong."
Erick was taken away on the helicopter; Annette and his mother went, too. We gathered in the guards' room. Professor brought a few pizzas from the food court. When we wanted to pitch in with money, Professor said:
"The guys at Pizza Galore gave it for free. They asked me to tell you that the pizzas are in your honor, Tur. "
Mrs. Lin from the nail salon brought some sweet treats. She proudly explained that the sweets were homemade:
"I bake them in evenings and bring them fresh every morning for my girls and clients to enjoy, but today I decided to close early so you can enjoy them, too."
The manicurist girls came without their facemasks. Just as I thought, they had delicate porcelain faces with winsome smiles...
In silence, we munched on pizza, but no one really had an appetite. Even Duane, who under different circumstances would have no problem finishing 3 whole pies by himself, started a slice and at once put it back on the plate. I saved a few slices for Annette - she was going to come back after all, right?
I took a seat by Professor, because I wanted to ask him about his books. I hesitated for a moment and then decided not to ask anything. What difference did it make what kind of books Professor was reading before this red haired boy unexpectedly entered into the lives of several grown men and women, and touched these lives in a way that brought so much sadness and worries into our hearts?
Everything that was relevant just a few short hours ago became petty and secondary. I still did not bother to clean Erick's blood from my shirt. I felt that if I'd do this I might break a delicate connection that formed between that boy and me. And I did not want to break this tie until I knew that Erick is OK.
Annette returned after midnight. She brought the news that made us all sigh with relief: Erick was fine and resting after several arm and hip surgeries. Most importantly, his spine was not injured, just bruised.
"And," Annette finished with a smile, "He'll be walking in no time."
Sergeant screamed "halleluiah," reached inside his enormous pistol holster and pulled out a few of his miniature liquor bottles, and proudly allotted them to each of us.
"Let's drink to Erick," Sergeant said. He wanted to add something else, but couldn't say much because he was overwhelmed with emotions, which was so un-Sergeant-like and, in full view of others, he wiped with his left thumb a solitary runaway tear off his mustache.
Annette, who emptied her bottle into a glass that was gallantly handed to her by Professor, finished Sergeant's restrained toast:
"To Erick's getting well soon!"
And we all drank to that.
Duane, more then ever resembling a giant question mark, his eyes soft and happy, gave me a hug, and Mrs. Lin gave me a hug, and each of her girls gave me a hug. I was not quite sure why all these people were hugging and thanking me as if I was somehow responsible for Erick's being okay.
The only person who has not hugged me was Annette. She did not approach me since she returned to the Mall. This bothered me a little. Well, actually, it bothered me a lot, and I nervously watched her talking to Professor. Perhaps, she was displaying a bit too much ardor while talking to him.
And then another surprise happened, and once again I thought about the vicissitudes of fate...
Sergeant, not without regret, put an end to our impromptu celebration. He opened the guard's room door and we watched the beginning of a new day. The early morning Sun was throwing all its might onto the glass cupolas of the Mall, and the marble floors were unusually slick at this early hour, and the fluorescent lights were totally suppressed by the brightness of a young new day.
Professor, still keeping up with his courtliness, offered to take Annette home. Duane and Sergeant looked at me in wide-eyed astonishment. I never talked with them about my... well, about my friendship with Annette, but somehow they knew, and now they did not want Professor to do anything against me.
Annette resolved the tension. She said advisedly loud and flatly:
"Thank you, Professor, but I am with Tur. He'll take me home."
And Professor, not a bit offended, graciously bowed to me then kissed Annette's hand. I promised myself to find the time to talk to this enigmatic cobbler so much I was impressed with his elegant manners and his ability to remain so remarkably civil.
I kept this promise, and later we became good friends, even though I was disappointed with the truth, but it's a whole different story.
All the way to my car with Annette, I was guessing what she meant by `He'll take me home?'... Whose home? Hers? Mine? My sixth sense told me I should not ask. I had to make this decision myself and pray it would be the right one. I took her to my home.
She walked with me to the third floor of my apartment building and asked no questions. She was quiet and little bit sad, and I think I knew why she was sad and I respected that.
Annette's emerald eyes radiated warmth, which, I was sure, was intended for me. When we reached my apartment, I asked Annette to give me a minute. She smiled and said:
"You don't have to straighten out the place on my account. But OK, I'll wait here if you wish."
It was not my intention to straighten out. There was something else I had to do, although I jumped at her idea of excuse and mumbled something about being back very, very soon.
It was the second occasion when I consciously deceived Annette. I still feel sorry for that, but this time I had no choice because I had to be alone just for enough time needed to say `farewell' to The Woman I Loved.
I could not tell Annette the truth because I thought it might hurt her.
I found Annette in the hall in same position I left her.
"May I come in now?" - She asked and, not even waiting for my answer, confidently entered myapartment for the very first time.
And she stayed with me for the next 25 years.
...One more thing: Erick was the ring boy at our wedding.
Disclaimer: This short story is a work of fiction. All similarities to events, situations and characters depicted in this work are PURELY coincidental. 22