Night Navigation Page 12

  "So anyway. About this Lazarus House. One of the aides here went through the program. He says it's definitely confrontational. They give you something they call Haircuts."

  She unlocks the door. Surely that was the last fax trip to Sidney. Five blinks on the phone. All of them Mark, sighs and incomplete sentences of defeat. She finds the lists of pay-phone numbers and works on calming in time to the rings. The voice that answers is Mark's. She sits down and settles all the way in. "You sound discouraged."

  "I haven't been sleeping." His voice is flat. "I'm feeling irritable."

  "What's going on with your medication?"

  "They lowered the Zyprexa back to what it was before. I was getting a reaction. I'm on a new antidepressant."

  "How long have you had trouble sleeping?"

  There's a pause. She can hear him breathing.

  "Since Tuesday. Today's Friday. Three nights."

  "That's a good sign."

  "What?"

  "That you know that."

  A weary laugh. "Fucking hopeless that being able to count to three is a good sign."

  "You know that's not true. Sounds like you're heading into a manic episode. Maybe it's the antidepressant."

  He sighs. "My psychiatrist won't be back until Monday. Weekend. Everything goes minimal around here."

  "There's a psychiatrist on call. Get the nurses to have him reduce the antidepressant."

  "I'll talk to them."

  "Something's going to work out."

  "Something better."

  The horseshoe in morning light is someone else. She starts over. Maybe a cream-colored paper with more tooth. A softer pencil. Turned so the spiked tail is the nearest point. This fierce-looking tail not a weapon at all. What the horseshoe uses to balance, to flip herself upright. Her soft underbody armored again. She closes one eye, flattens the mass. The absence of any light where this connects to that. An edge rounding, into shadow … Ringing jolts her.

  "It's me. The rep-payee release got here. They put it in Lindsey's box. I'll let you know if I'm able to connect with Lazarus House Monday. Any news on the bass?"

  Patience. "Remember they said it won't be available for delivery until next week."

  "Rozmer says, 'Don't think so much.' Maybe I can just whistle," he says and does a few notes.

  "Right."

  "Well, one thing I've been doing is making lots of contact calls. Charlie, when I want to talk to someone who understands being nuts or when I want to talk about music. Rozmer, every morning at six thirty."

  "Six thirty?"

  "Yep. Breakfast at seven. Nobody eats till everybody's lined up on the ramp. Let me speak to Luke."

  "I've got Luke barricaded out of where I'm drawing. Otherwise he pushes my subject around. Just a minute." She extends the phone over the gate and Luke rises. She positions the receiver so he can both listen and speak. His head cocks to the side. She hears Mark doing "Just whistle a happy tune." "He knows it's you."

  "Later," Mark says. He's wound; she's wound. When he's conversational, sounds normal, there's always that edge: Is it the up of mania only a few days around the bend?

  There's a skin of ice on the puddles and the air smells like snow coming. After the first toss, the ball is smeared with a glaze of mud. It's too slippery to take Luke to the falls and if he doesn't get a wear-him-out run, he's too bouncy to live with. Chasing this ball: he can stay with it for longer than she's ever been willing to reciprocate. No question, the trees up the hill are brighter than they were even a week ago. No white gleams of shadbush blossoms yet, but they're only a few weeks away if the sun would bless them with a run of warmth.

  "Want to go to the mailbox, Luke?" He leaps into the air. Yes, yes he does.

  They come to the gravel-bank business: B & R Roto-Rooter, the big flat they must cross to get to the main highway. Several huge piles of various grades of stone rise up on both sides, sometimes cascading onto her right-of-way, so that you have to jog around, driving in and out. Richard keeps telling her she should speak to the owner about his infringement. You let him do that for a few years without registering any notice and that land becomes his. Richard.

  It's good to see they've cleaned up the business some. The rusty van, stuffed full of pipe and wire, the piles of tires, no longer sprawl along the edge of the turn into the gravel bank, leaving open the rise where on bright-moon nights, hundreds of Queen Anne's lace used to shimmer. As they approach the highway, she shortens Luke's leash to heel length. His instinct to leap for cars as though they are birds makes this last stage of picking up her mail always a bit tense. She waits until she sees no cars coming in either direction and then makes a run up the last rise to her box, grabs what's inside—a package, junk mail. She heads away from the highway and back toward her house, the leash unlocked once more. The package is addressed in Richard's bold hand, with M. Lanza for the return. Chocolates, she already knows. Each mound flavored with a touch of liqueur: Irish cream, Amaretto, Kahlúa … Richard is sorry.

  The horseshoe caught on an angle as though banked against a rush of sea oats with a wide view of the armored plate. She tucks a square of paper under the heel of her hand to keep the smearing down. This armored body, the horseshoe's final home. The crab molts four times each year, growing new armor beneath until it splits its too-small shell. She'd like to do a series of that metamorphosis. Even the screeching descent of the gulls on the eggs before the tides cover them. Good studies for the larger work at the Owl Lake Center in October—if she gets in.

  Mark's papers have all gone to Lazarus House. Surely he'll hear something definite from Lazarus in the next few days. She blows a line of carbon into the trash.

  Finally he calls. "It's me. Nothing from Lazarus House. Lindsey contacted the business office. They said the people at Lazarus House in Hansen will contact me here."

  "I've been looking at the map. Hansen isn't on the rail line. New Paltz is the closest bus town. Maybe I should do some checking."

  "I haven't even gotten into the place."

  "I know, but I've started to worry about your transportation if you do."

  Far down the road just before the corner, something strange is crossing. What in god's name can it be? A long dark creature, humping across, more and more of it emerging from the bushes —like nothing she's ever seen. She accelerates and then she sees it is not one creature, but many, all flocked together, undulating. Wild turkeys. Twenty or more. As the car approaches, several waddle into the field, the rest manage to lift their bottom-heavy bodies to land in the low branches of a sycamore.

  Just as she goes to open the door, the phone begins to ring. It's Mark and probably he's going to tell her something she doesn't want to know.

  "It's me. I've screwed things up for getting into Lazarus House."

  She leans back and closes her eyes. "What do you mean?"

  "I wasn't going to tell you, but…" Feel free not to. "…I think maybe the reason I haven't heard from Lazarus is because of some trouble I've had here. Black mark on my record." She lifts her hand to ward off what's coming. "There's this woman. She's followed me around ever since I got here. They've got these no-contact rules at New Vistas." He's spelling it out. "I've got no problem with that. Really nothing much happened. Just occasional hugs. Support. Sort of. But it's like everywhere I go, there she is." She breathes. This doesn't sound as if it's headed toward crisis. "I don't know. Things felt so fucked up with Sammi, I just kind of let down my guard. Anyway. What happened is we got written up. Counselors said I should have come to them, laid out the situation. This was on my record that went over to Lazarus."

  Her chest opens, eases. "Oh, Mark, I can't think that's going to count heavily. How's it going now?"

  "She's gone. Went for some special program for anorexia. But she keeps calling me. I don't want to hurt her feelings."

  "Sounds like a tough one."

  "Yeah. You know I'm starting to feel like none of this is going to come together. Like maybe it'd be better if I just went
down to the city. Tried for a bike-messenger job."

  Do not rush over that drop-off. "Might be a good time to run it all by the therapist, by John. I think you know what's the best thing for you to do."

  "It's Friday. John's gone. Everybody's gone."

  "How about Rozmer?"

  "He's at some workshop this weekend. I've got to go."

  "All right, but if you feel like talking, I'm going to be around the next couple of days." Me and the horseshoe crab.

  She sits and listens to the dial tone. She pulls the Lazarus House folder out of the drawer. How far out of line would she be? She rehearses what to say. She dials the number. On an encouraged voluntary basis she's integrating early.

  "Lazarus House."

  She's startled. "Oh." Her prepared speech vanishes. "Would it be possible for me to speak to … the director?"

  "The director?"

  "The person in charge of admissions?"

  "Hold on." She hears a muffled exchange. "Who's calling?"

  "Del Merrick. It's regarding the pending admission of my son, Mark Merrick."

  "Pending admission? Just a minute." Again there's an exchange—maybe with a hand over the receiver.

  "This is the director." A voice of dignity and authority. "How may I help you?"

  "My son, Mark Merrick, was told by your business office that his admission was in process. His records have been forwarded to Lazarus House. He's been trying to get you himself, but…"

  "Where is he now?"

  "He's at New Vistas in Ridgeway."

  "Mark Merrick?"

  "Yes. I can give you his social worker's name and number." For a second she blanks on where she's got that written down. As she pulls her address book from her purse, the whole thing upends and dumps at Luke's feet. He picks up her plastic baggie of ibuprofen and Kleenex and goes to the far side of the living room. She gives the director Lindsey's name and number.

  "I'll look into this, Ms. Merrick. I'm not sure why your son hasn't been contacted. He should have been. Since it's almost five on Friday, I'll have to wait until Monday to check. I'll get in touch with Ms. Clarke as soon as I talk to my staff Monday morning."

  Joy, and it lifts her voice almost to song. "Oh, thank you. I know if Mark could have reached you, he would have taken care of this himself."

  "Monday morning," he says again.

  She dials the same pay phone that Mark answered before. A woman answers. She'll see if she can find Mark. In a few minutes she hears him moving toward the phone, talking to someone. She works on calming. How's Mark going to feel about her intervention?

  "Yo," he says.

  "Mark, I was able to reach Lazarus House. I got the director and it sounded to me like your admission is going to work out. He said you should have been contacted by now and he's going to deal with it first thing Monday morning, then call your social worker."

  His voice is joyful, too. "You are the man," he says.

  Two days of sun and temperatures in the fifties and almost all the snow's gone. Water pours from the gutters, makes pools at the end of the house. She finds the pickax in the corner of the barn and digs two trenches long enough to reach where the ground slopes away to let the water run off. Richard has put extra vents in the floor to deal with the dampness in the crawl space, but it's important not to let water stand close to the walls. One more day and things should be settled for Mark. Now only the problem of how to get him there.

  As soon as Mark calls tomorrow to say his admission is settled, she'll fax him the info. Deposit $120.00 for him to withdraw from the ATM in Ridgeway. Enough for cigarettes as well.

  Ridgeway Taxi (715) 456-8888.

  Call for pickup at New Vistas 9:30 A.M. ($12.)

  Train:

  Leave Ridgeway 10:15 A.M.

  Arrive White Plains 11:00 A.M. ($9.)

  Trailways:

  Leave White Plains 11:30 A.M.

  Arrive New Paltz 1:30 P.M. ($34.)

  A&S Taxi (415) 433-0000.

  Call for pickup at bus station around 1:50 P.M. ($25.)

  Arrive Lazarus House in Hansen approx. 2:45 P.M.

  Monday. Maybe only a few more hours of this limbo. The first geese have passed through and even without Richard, she's made the big switch. She pours raisin bran into her favorite bowl and sprinkles on some sugar. She turns her chair toward the big window to see the maple limb that drops low, with the loop of thick rope, all that's left of the old swing. The glow of spring coming on: sun and a morning frost on grass that's going green. Between getting up for her tea and returning, it happens. The backyard's full of robins. A dozen or so, little tipped wheelbarrows, pecking the mole-tunneled ground.

  The phone. Too early for Mark to have heard from Lazarus. "Rise and shine."

  It's Richard and she is happy to hear his voice. "I got the candy. I've been thinking about us dancing at the Plymouth Mill House. How are you?"

  10:00. Mark could call any time now. As soon as Lazarus House connects with Lindsey. She places the travel information on the counter by the door, along with her purse.

  She takes a few sheets from the pile of used paper and sharpens a number 2 pencil. Positions the horseshoe so it's flat, its inside fully exposed to the morning light. Contours only. Empty the mind of waiting. Get to know the underside of the armor. She moves her chair to catch another angle.

  1:00. Surely Mark has heard something by now. She can't focus. Better to start taking the plastic off the windows even though it's a little early. Maybe begin washing them inside. Move about. If she's got Windex, paper towels. A good indoor job that doesn't make any noise.

  She places the horseshoe crab back on the window ledge, tidies her drawing table. Once Mark is really settled, she'll set aside time each morning so she and Luke can get out to collect signs of spring coming. Maybe something from each month, each object carefully rendered. Magnified. By early April she should hear if she's been granted a residency at Owl Lake for the fall. If she has, that will give her new energy to really get going on a project. She could call him. No, she couldn't.

  The phone. Marna. "Marna, I'm ready to jump out of my skin waiting to hear if Mark got into this friggin' Lazarus House."

  "Just checking in to see if you'd heard anything."

  "I'll call you tonight. Meanwhile I'm going to start on the windows."

  "The windows?" Marna laughs. "Oh, yeah, the windows, right."

  Mark still hasn't called. Something has definitely gone wrong. She presses the announcement button: "I have an errand I have to take care of. I should be back by noon at the latest." She doesn't want to mention Mark's name in case somebody like Rudy or Carla calls. Of course she could just call him and find out what's wrong. But she isn't going to. "Luke, you have to stay." She's too skittery to listen to him barking at every vehicle. She puts Simple Things in the car's tape deck and turns it up.

  Three red flashes. "It's me. Okay, I'll call back." … "It's me. I guess you aren't back yet." … "It's me again. There's been some trouble here. I shoved a guy during the AA meeting yesterday and ended up being put in isolation. I gave my seventy-two hours' notice to leave, but I withdrew that this morning after a session with John and Lindsey. Sounds like the Lazarus House thing is fucked anyway. Call me here around one. Don't worry."

  If Lazarus House isn't going to work out, maybe she should have some alternatives ready when she calls Mark at one. Google. She types in "therapeutic communities." Over the top of the LAZARUS HOUSE label, she folds down a new one: THERAPEUTIC COMMUNITIES. She places the folder by the phone.

  "MICA Unit." A woman's voice. Older.

  "Yes, this is Del Merrick calling, Mark Merrick's mother. He asked me to call him at one, but two of the pay-phone numbers have been busy for the last hour and no one's answering the other one. I wondered if you might be able to arrange for me to speak to him briefly on this phone or you could let him know I'm trying to get him and he can call me as soon as a pay phone's free."

  "Just a moment, Ms. Merrick," the woman
says.

  She sits down, scratches hard beneath Luke's collar. Another long speech, rehearsed and delivered up in a rush.

  "Hello. Ms. Merrick? This is John Burns, one of Mark's counselors. It's break time. I'll track him down and one way or another he'll give you a call." John Burns knows all about her super-mom exploits.

  She is not going to do anything. Just sit here by this phone and scratch Luke's backside and breathe until the goddamned thing rings and tells her the story. She sees she's pulled the cushion over to rest on her knees. The pillow to shield against a head-on.

  "It's me. First of all—things have settled down here. Maybe even a good thing I blew up. This guy just kept bearing down on a new kid, all sorts of cross-talk shit and I don't know what happened, but at the end of the meeting, I just lost it. Gave him a shove when he got in my face."

  "And they put you in isolation?"

  "Yeah, and that was a good thing, too. Both John and Lindsey spent a lot of time with me. Just dealing with my anger. Though it is another black mark."

  "How are you doing now?"

  "I'm okay. All right, now, the other thing is that the man from Lazarus didn't call Lindsey. I tried many times to get the place, but again I just kept getting their machine."

  "Oh me. The director was so definite."

  "Did you get this guy's name?"

  She thinks back through the conversation. "I don't know if he even gave it to me. I was so tensed up; if he did, I didn't register it."

  Mark laughs. "Well, get this. Lindsey finally calls the business office again. She tells them about your conversation with this director. The woman she talks to says, Director, what director? She says she can't imagine who that would be. That the place is basically run by the clients themselves, that the main supervisor is a woman. Mom, you were talking to one of the addicts." He laughs again.