I tell you these things not because they are particularly interesting but because they established a routine, one that continued through the rest of that spring and most of the summer. In some ways those were good months. I felt useful, needed. I liked myself better than I had in a long time. Only the end was terrible.
6
On the Wednesday afternoon of my spring vacation week, Melissa arrived for Mr. Bowditch’s first PT session. She called it physical therapy; he called it pain and torture. He got an extra Oxy, which he liked, and a lot of stretching and lifting of the bad leg, which he didn’t. I was in the kitchen during most of it. Among other bon mots, I heard cocksucker, fuckstick, motherfucker, and stop. He said stop a lot, sometimes adding goddam you. Melissa wasn’t fazed.
When it was over—twenty minutes that probably seemed a lot longer to him—she called me in. I’d brought down a couple of extra chairs from the third floor （not the straight-backed ones that went with the dining room table, which looked to me like implements of torture）。 Mr. Bowditch was sitting in one of them. Melissa had brought along a big foam cushion, and the ankle of his bad leg was resting on it. Because the cushion was lower than the hassock, his knee—still bandaged—was slightly bent.
“Look at that!” Melissa cried. “Five degrees of bend already! I’m not just pleased, I’m amazed!”
“Hurts like fucking hell,” Mr. Bowditch grumbled. “I want to go back to bed.”
She laughed merrily, as if that was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. “Five more minutes, then up on your crutches. Charlie will help.”
He made the five minutes, then struggled up and got his crutches braced. He turned toward the bed, but lost one of them. It clattered to the floor and Radar barked. I caught him in time and helped him finish the turn. For the few moments we were locked together, me with my arm around him and his around me, I could feel his heart beating hard and fast. Fierce was the word that came into my mind.
I got him onto the bed, but in the process his bad leg bent a lot more than five degrees, and he screamed with pain. Radar was up at once, barking with her ears laid back.
“I’m okay, girl,” Mr. Bowditch said. He was out of breath. “Get down.”
She went to her belly, her eyes never leaving him. Melissa gave him a glass of water. “As a special treat for good work, you can have your evening pain pills at five tonight. I’ll be back on Friday. I know this hurts, Howard; those ligaments don’t want to stretch. But they will. If you stick with it.”
“Christ,” he said. Then, grudgingly: “Okay.”
“Charlie, walk me out.”
I did, carrying her bulky duffel bag of equipment. Her little Honda Civic was parked outside the gate. As I raised the hatchback and put the duffel in, I saw Mrs. Richland across the street, once again shading her eyes to get a better view of the festivities. She saw me looking and twiddled her fingers.
“Will he really get better?” I asked.
“Yes. Did you see the bend in his knee? That’s extraordinary. I’ve seen it before, but usually in younger patients.” She considered, then nodded. “He’ll get better. At least for awhile.”
“What does that mean?”
She opened the driver’s door. “Grumpy old cuss, isn’t he?”
“He doesn’t exactly have people skills,” I said, perfectly aware she hadn’t answered my question.
She gave that cheery laugh again. I loved how pretty she was in the spring sunshine. “You can say that again, hoss. Put it in lights. I’ll be back Friday. Different day, same routine.”
“What’s Lynparza? I know the other ones he takes, but not that one. What’s it do?”
Her smile faded. “I can’t tell you that, Charlie. Patient confidentiality.” She slid behind the wheel. “But you could look it up on the Internet. Everything’s on the Net.”
She drove away.
7
At seven o’clock that night, my father opened the front gate—which I hadn’t bothered to bolt—and came up the walk to where I was sitting on the porch steps. After Mr. Bowditch’s round of PT, I’d asked him if he’d like to put off his visit with my dad. I almost wished he’d say yes, but after a moment’s consideration, he’d shaken his head. “Let’s do this. Set his mind at rest. He probably wants to make sure that I’m not a child molester.”
I said nothing to that, although in his current condition Mr. Bowditch wouldn’t be able to molest a Cub Scout, let alone a six-four galoot who had lettered in two sports.