lived in Des Moines, and with the economy in turmoil, his parents were worried about his employment. They wanted him to have health insurance. Times were good for farmers like Dale with corn and beans to sell, but money was getting tight, the economy swirling its way right down the toilet, and it was giving Dale and Barbara the parental jitters.
“Davy’s working two half-time jobs as a sales clerk,” Barbara said. “We wish he could find an opening in agribusiness.”
“That’s for sure,” Dale affirmed.
“I know it’s been years since you’ve worn a suit, Arnie, but Dale and I thought maybe you knew someone you could call, to put some feelers out to see if there’s a spot where Davy could get a start. He knows how to work, and he’s got the right education. With the economy the way it’s been for the last year it just seems that everyone he talks to is firing instead of hiring.”
Mikesh wasn’t happy about this request to help someone get a start in a line of work he had been so anxious to leave. It cost Mikesh some effort to put his life in futures trading behind him. He’d let those old business friendships grow cold. But Barbara and Dale Murphy were his closest friends.
“I’ll have to give that some thought,” he told them.
After chores that evening, Barbara called Mikesh with the telephone number of the therapist and a name. “I think you should do this, Arnie. You rattle around over there on your own, with no one to take care of you and no one to talk to. You’ve been through something traumatic. I don’t like the way you look, and it’s got me worried. If you won’t call for yourself, then do it for me. Okay?”
Mikesh said he would make the call, and let Barbara know when he thought of something for Davy.
That night, Mikesh’s pain was like a bass drum, hammered by a hundred frenetic monkeys. Once asleep, in his dreams he went flying; when he landed he was underground, up against a face that was going soft but talking, and then bursting into flames. Mikesh sat upright. The clock read four. He didn’t have the stomach for staying in bed any further.
He had the day free. At eight thirty he called the number Barbara left. An answering machine said the woman was away on personal business, but Mikesh left his name and number. He went out to tinker with a tractor in the shed and when he came back in at noon the old black rotary phone, still on the wall from his uncle’s time, was ringing. The woman, her business completed, could see him at three.
chapter 6
“Silent waters wash out banks.”
Czech proverb
The therapist opened the door at the top of the shadowy, closed-up-smelling stair to find a large, solid man with dark, tousled hair, twisting a stocking cap uncomfortably in his hands.
“Arnie?” She held out her hand. “I’m Mary Towers.”
“Hi,” the man faltered. “Arnie Mikesh. Thanks for finding time to work me into your schedule. That was short notice.”
She gestured him into the bright foyer and noticed that he nervously eyed the abstract red painting on the wall as he stood, parked tentatively in his jeans and his tan canvas coat, like an untamed animal sniffing the air for a reason to bolt.
The truth was she had spent most of Saturday and Sunday in bed, cancelling her appointments to stay there again today. The news of Josh’s death had hit her system like a narcotic, slowing her reactions, dulling her senses, draining the energy from her so that her feet and hands, even her head, felt heavy. She slept through much of the past two days, and stood at the windows of her apartment, staring mutely at sky and streetlights for half the night. Then came the voice on her answering machine. It worked a kind of enchantment, piquing her interest, quickening her pulse. With men, her policy was to carefully screen them in conversation before she took them on as a client. But given the circumstances, this was a man she didn’t want to scare away.
“I cleared out my schedule for the day, because something came up. It didn’t take as long as I thought, so there we are. Have you had a massage before, Arnie?”
“Backrubs from friends. Nothing more than that. Come to think of it, that was in my university days.”
“University days,” she figured, were probably twenty years ago. He was in his early forties, with no gray in his rough black hair or thick eyebrows. His square face had seen plenty of weather and was showing lines. One of his cowboy boots had an elevated sole and heel. The imbalance in his legs showed in the constricted swing of his body when he walked. Mikesh’s worn cowboy boots called up a memory of her father’s hard hands and strong grip, the chin bristles that abraded skin, the smell of alcohol strong on his meaty breath. Her dad’s battered boots by the couch in the television room or the foot of the bed smelled of him, of mold, and of whatever animals he had most recently herded in or out of the trucks he drove. She cleared her head of the thought, and focused on the added lift on Mikesh’s left boot. There was nothing hard or abrasive about the man who stood before her. She could tell by the hunched twist of his shoulders that he was carrying a load of pain that went beyond walking through life on a mismatched pair of legs.
She asked the question she’d had on her mind since she received his phone message, “What made you call?” Mary Towers was one of my brother’s oldest friends. Mom talked with her and spent time crying with her on the day after the accident. From Mom, Mary heard the name, Arnold Mikesh, the person who found Josh, and my mother asked if she knew him. Nothing else about him. Now two days later the man himself had left a message on her answering machine.
“I’ve been having some bad headaches, neck pain, trouble sleeping, some difficulty breathing.”
Blinking in the stronger illumination of the reception foyer, Arnie was looking into her face with a lost expression. It wasn’t coincidence. His experience at the accident scene had left him knotted up, and he was reaching out for help. She again felt the surprising but welcome surge of energy for work she wanted to do.
“Sounds like you made a good call then. I’d recommend ninety minutes of therapy.”
For his part, Mikesh was having a hard time taking it all in. This woman with the red painting that made no sense was a study in extremes. Her skin was pale and freckled, but her eyes had the muddy blue cast of a newborn baby’s, and her hair, pushed loosely to the top of her head, was black enough to suck the light from the air around her. She was directing him through an entry, talking about “Swedish technique,” using phrases he didn’t understand, asking him to strip to his underwear. He hoped the name his neighbor Barbara gave him was not somebody’s idea of a prank.
A few minutes later Mikesh was sitting with a sheet wrapped around his waist on a low, padded table, feeling even more vulnerable. Taking off his boots and jeans meant the avenue of a hasty escape was gone. Though alone in the room, humiliation settled over him like an iron hat as he stumped unevenly from the chair where he left his clothes and boots to the table at the center of the room. He was relieved that the woman didn’t witness that sorry spectacle. He stared at the black hairs on his bright white legs, conscious of them in a way he had not felt since high school, and hoped the long shower he took before leaving home had cleaned away the worst patches of dead winter skin and whatever other visible horrors might be clinging to him. A kettle steamed quietly on a warming plate. He had a quick image of the woman with the mud-colored eyes splashing drips of scalding water on his exposed back. She entered in a technician’s coat, pushing up her sleeves. He noticed a trace of citrus in the air, and the sound of a radiator, hammering as it warmed; he hoped the radiator noise would cover the clanking
