Sympathy Between Humans Part 9

"No," I said. "Can I come in?"

The same drill: Cisco shut the door, undid the chain, and rolled back in his wheelchair to let me in. Then he said, "What's wrong?"

"My ear is killing me," I told him. "It started hurting a few days ago, like you said, and hasn't stopped. The thing is, I'm not sure it was just the cold that did it. I was in a drainage ca.n.a.l last week, I mean over my head. The water was runoff water. It was probably dirty."

I was rambling, so afraid he'd send me away without treating me that I was throwing every extraneous bit of information I could at him. "Can you look at it?" I finished.

"Go ahead and get on the examining table," he said.

I did as he said, while he retrieved my notes from his filing cabinet, washed his hands, and took out his equipment. I don't know why Cisco's place didn't scare me the way the clinic had, but here I felt, if not relaxed, at least in control of my fear.

Like before, Cisco took my blood pressure. "You're a little elevated," he said. He put a finger on my wrist, finding the radial pulse, and made a note on his yellow pad, then took an otoscope from his footlocker. "Which ear?" he asked.

"The left," I said.

When he put the small, square end of the instrument into my ear, I jumped a little and flinched. "Easy," he said.

I closed my eyes and tried to relax. His breathing fluttered the loose hairs on my shoulder.

Cisco withdrew the tube and rolled back a little way, and I could see the change that had come over his face. "I seem to remember telling you to go to a clinic if your ear started bothering you," he said.

"I know."

"Please tell me why you didn't do that."

"I hoped it would just go away on its own," I said lamely.

"Well, it hasn't," Cisco said. "At this stage, your eardrum needs to be lanced."

"You can do that here, right?" I was so far gone with the pain of the infection itself that the prospect of having my eardrum stabbed with a needle didn't really sink in.

"I'm trained for it," he said slowly, "but I'm not ideally equipped here."

I leaned down and dug in my shoulder bag. "This is three hundred dollars," I said. I'd stopped by the ATM on my way over. I laid the money on the shelf where I'd put the forty dollars the other night.

"Money's not the issue," Cisco said. "You need to go to an office for this."

"I can't," I said.

Cisco tapped a fingertip impatiently on the handrim of his wheelchair. "Why on earth not?"

"I don't like those kinds of places," I said. "I get... I get scared."

"Why?"

"I don't know," I said. Fear was making me inarticulate. "Please help me with this," I finished. "I can't go anywhere else."

He would say no; he had his principles, just as he'd told me the other night. But there was something new in his eyes. Maybe compa.s.sion.

"This is going to hurt," Cisco said. It was a concession.

"I've got that covered," I said. Reaching back into the bag, I pulled out the bottle of whiskey I'd bought on the way over.

Cisco lowered his head slightly to rub the bridge of his nose with two fingers. "Jesus," he said. Then he sighed. "Do you want a gla.s.s?"

"No," I said.

"Then get some of that in you," Cisco said. "Plenty of it. I'll get ready."

He rolled away from me; I drank. I closed my eyes and heard his movements as he readied for the procedure. From somewhere beyond the walls I thought I heard a dog bark. A big dog, from the timbre of the sound. That wasn't right, was it? A dog, here? I drank again, deeply.

"So," Cisco said, his back turned to me, "while we wait, why don't you tell me how you decided to jump into a drainage ca.n.a.l."

"I went in after a couple of kids who fell into the water."

"I thought the hooker with the heart of gold was only in the movies."

"I'm not a hooker," I told him.

It was important for me to make that distinction, I guess, because I'd already shown him my real self. I didn't like the idea of being caught between ident.i.ties, half-and-half. "I'm not," I said again, when he didn't answer.

"Duly noted," he said lightly. I didn't know whether he believed me.

When I felt I'd drank enough, I lay down carefully on the ma.s.sage table. I closed my eyes and the room spun a little. I opened them again. Again I found myself looking at his med-school diploma. C. Agustin Ruiz. C. Agustin Ruiz. Not Not F, F, for for Francisco, Francisco, as I would have expected. That was odd. as I would have expected. That was odd.

Cisco rolled close to me. He'd tied a dark-blue bandanna around most of his hair, and gathered the rest up in a small ponytail on his neck, like a surgeon might put his hair under a cap. He held a towel in his hands. "How are you feeling?" he asked me.

"Preoperative," I said.

Cisco laughed, a low, pleasant sound. "You don't sound as slurry as I'd like. Have a little more."

Obedient as a child, I drank, both hands on the bottle.

"What happened to the kids you pulled out of the drainage ca.n.a.l?" Cisco asked.

"You don't really believe I did that," I said. It was getting easier to say what was on my mind; there was no two-second delay between thought and words. "It's okay, I don't care that you're humoring me. The answer is, the older brother lived. The younger one didn't."

Cisco turned sober. "I heard something about that on the radio," he said. He believed me.

"Is your full name Cisco?" I asked, speaking on the random thought.

"No."

"What is it, then?"

"Cicero," he said. "A simple-enough name, but some people find the extra syllable unmanageable."

"I like it," I said.

"My father loved the cla.s.sics. My brother's name is Ulises." He paused. "I think you might be ready to do this. No, relax. I need to clean your ear first."

The cleaning wasn't painful, but I flinched at the wet pressure in an unaccustomed place. To distract me, Cicero made one-sided conversation, the way doctors do.

"You're lucky, in a way," he said. "Ten years ago, only an otolaryngologist would know how to do this. They started teaching it again when viruses and bacteria became so antibiotic-resistant, in the nineties. We started seeing more and more kids with infections that wouldn't respond to antimicrobial treatment."

There was something in his voice that I hadn't heard in a while, a quiet deliberateness that reminded me of the grandparents of the Indian kids I'd known in New Mexico.

He withdrew. My ear felt damp and cool.

"Go ahead and lie down," he instructed. I did, exposing the left ear to him.

"Close your eyes. I'm going to turn on another light." He pulled the angled neck of a lamp down close to my head. It must have had a high-wattage bulb, maybe halogen, because I could feel the heat on the side of my cheek and neck. He took my face in his long fingers.

"Lift your head up," Cicero told me. I obeyed, and he spread the towel underneath my head. I lay back down. In the corner of my eye I saw him pick something up. A needle. It seemed quite long, sinister in the lamplight.

"Two things," Cicero said. "I don't have an aspirator, so after I do this, turn your head to the side so it can drain onto the towel. Second: this is going to hurt."

"You said that already," I said, sounding drunk to myself at last. "You don't have to dwell on it."

"But I need you to keep quiet when I do this," he explained. "I don't want any cops coming here."

Too late, I thought, and the laughter I tried to suppress made a high, giddy sound. Cicero looked at me quizzically, and I tried to get myself under control and failed. "No," I said, still laughing. "I don't think I can promise that I thought, and the laughter I tried to suppress made a high, giddy sound. Cicero looked at me quizzically, and I tried to get myself under control and failed. "No," I said, still laughing. "I don't think I can promise that at all. at all."

"If you're having second thoughts, we can still get you to an ER."

My laughter dried up at the prospect.

"All right, then," Cicero said. "Turn your head a little."

I did what he said, closed my eyes.

He laid his free hand over my mouth. "Be very still," he said.

When the needle struck I was glad I hadn't promised not to scream. The pain sliced right through the alcohol haze. I felt Cicero's hands turning my head, because I'd forgotten his instructions to do so, and then hot liquid splashed down my ear, onto the towel.

"Oh, G.o.d," I whispered. My eyes were still closed. "Oh, G.o.d. G.o.d." Now that I was on my side, my knees were trying to inch toward my chest, toward the fetal position.

"Keep your head down, that's it." Cicero whispered encouragement to me, taking my hand.

"I'm going to be sick," I told him.

"Breathe," he instructed.

I tried to obey. One deep breath, and then another. "I want to sit up," I said, thinking it would alleviate the nausea.

He let me, and as soon as I was upright, the nausea did begin to subside. A few more deep breaths dispelled it to the point that I knew I could keep it under control.

"Better?" Cicero asked.

"Yeah," I said.

"You want the bathroom?"

I was expecting a small, closetlike s.p.a.ce, and so was surprised by the dimensions of the bathroom. Of course: it had to accommodate Cicero's wheelchair. There was a tubular railing along the wall and inside the shower, where a benchlike seat extended out from the tiled wall. I didn't turn on the bathroom light, imagining it would seem blinding. Instead I washed up by the minimal light that came in from the hallway.

A single towel hung by the sink, no washcloth. I opened the tap and ran a thin stream of water into the basin. I dampened the side of my face with water from my fingers, rubbed them against the bar of soap and then against my neck, raising a thin foam on the wet skin. I put my fingers under the stream of water again and rinsed as well as I could, but couldn't keep a trickle of water from escaping down the neckline of my sweater. I pressed the thick material of my s.h.i.+rt against my skin, blotting away the water.

When I came out, Cicero was cleaning up his exam table. I watched him, not sure what to say.

"I feel pretty good," I lied.

But he was looking at me speculatively, in a way that sharpened my attention.

"What?" I said.

"You're in no shape to be driving anywhere," he said.

"I know," I said quickly. The pain had felt sobering, but that was a misperception; I was drunk.

"You need to sleep awhile," Cicero said.

"What, on your exam table?" I said.

Cicero sighed, reaching up to pull off the bandanna and release the little ponytail. "No," he said slowly.

"What, then?"

"Look," he said, "this is not an offer I'd usually make, but I think I'm going to have you sleep in my bedroom."

"Really?" I sensed he wasn't terribly comfortable with the idea; I wasn't, either. But I knew he was right. I couldn't drive until I'd fully sobered.

He was already rolling toward the bedroom, and I turned to follow. He opened the bedroom door and flicked on the light.

A narrow single bed was covered with a cinnamon-brown counterpane, a black-and-white Ansel Adams print of Yosemite on the wall. A set of hand weights, probably twenty pounds each, were half hidden under the bed. Along the wall ran a low and narrow table, almost a shelf, covered with family photos. Some of the pictures were quite old, in black-and-white.

"This is nice," I said.

"Out there is my office," Cicero said. "In here is my home."

I walked in behind him. To our immediate right was a sliding closet door. It was mirrored, showing us the reflections of a drunk, lost cop and an altruistic criminal. Quickly I looked away.

"Why don't you turn on the desk lamp," Cicero suggested. "It doesn't throw a lot of light, so you can sleep with it on if you like. And if you want to shut it off later, you can reach it from the bed, unlike the wall switch."

I walked over to the desk and did as he'd recommended. Cicero turned off the brighter overhead fixture, and we were immersed in a low, golden light.

"You can close the blinds on the window, too, if you like. But we're twenty-six stories up. No one's going to peek in. I sleep with them open," he said.

When he began to back out of the room, I turned and said, "What about you?"