“You sound hoarse. Hope you’re not coming down with something.”
“I’m not. Just been talking most of the goddam day.”
“To who?”
“Whom. To myself. Go on, Charlie.”
“Okay, but call if you need me.”
“Yes, yes.”
“Promise. I gave you mine yesterday, now you give me yours.”
“I promise, for Chrissake. Now put an egg in your shoe and beat it.”
3
On Sunday Radar was no longer able to climb the back porch steps after doing her morning business, and she only ate half of her food. That night she ate none of it.
“Probably she just needs to rest,” Mr. Bowditch said, but he sounded doubtful. “Double up on those new pills.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
He gave me a bleak smile. “What can it hurt at this point?”
I did sleep in my own bed that night, and on Monday, Radar seemed a little better. But Mr. Bowditch had also paid a price for Saturday. He was using his crutches again to get back and forth from the bathroom. I wanted to ditch school and stay with him, but he forbade it. That night he seemed better, too. Said he was bouncing back. I believed him.
More fool me.
4
On Tuesday morning at ten o’clock I was in Advanced Chem. We were split into groups of four, dressed in rubber aprons and gloves, determining the boiling point of acetone. The room was quiet except for murmuring voices, so the sound of my cell phone when it rang in my back pocket was very loud. Mr. Ackerley looked at me with disapproval. “How many times have I told you kids to silence—”
I took it from my pocket and saw BOWDITCH. I dropped my gloves and took the call going out of the room, ignoring whatever Ackerley was saying. Mr. Bowditch sounded strained but calm. “I believe I’m having a heart attack, Charlie. Actually I have no doubt.”
“Did you call—”
“I called you, so be quiet and listen. There’s a lawyer. Leon Braddock, in Elgin. There’s a wallet. Under the bed. Everything else you need is also under the bed. Do you understand that? Under the bed. Take care of Radar, and when you know everything, decide…” He gasped. “Fuck, how that hurts! Like pig iron in the forge! When you know everything, decide what you want to do about her.”
That was it. He clicked off.
The chem room door opened as I was calling 911. Mr. Ackerley came out and asked me what the hell I thought I was doing. I waved him off. The 911 operator asked me what my emergency was. With Mr. Ackerley standing there with his mouth ajar, I told her and gave her the address. I untied my apron and let it fall to the floor. Then I ran for the door.
5
That was probably the fastest bike ride of my life, standing on the pedals and slicing across streets without looking. A horn blared, tires screeched, and someone hollered, “Watch where you’re going, you dumb shit!”
Fast as I was, the ER guys beat me. When I swerved around the corner of Pine and Sycamore, putting one foot down and dragging it on the pavement to keep from wiping out, the ambulance was just pulling away with its lights flashing and its siren whooping. I went around back. Before I could open the kitchen door, Radar bulleted through the dog door and was all over me. I went to my knees to keep her from leaping up and stressing those fragile back hips. She whined and yipped and licked my face. Don’t even try to tell me she didn’t know something bad had happened.
We went inside. A cup of coffee was spilled on the kitchen table and the chair he always sat in （it’s funny how we pick our spots and keep to them） was overturned. The stove was still on, the old-fashioned percolator too hot to touch and smelling charred. Smelling like a chemistry experiment, you could say. I turned off the burner and used an oven mitt to move the percolator to a cold burner. During all this Radar never left my side, leaning her shoulder against my leg and rubbing her head on my knee.
A calendar was lying on the floor beside the entry to the living room. It was easy to imagine what had happened. Mr. Bowditch drinking coffee at the kitchen table, the percolator staying hot on the stove for a second cup. A hammer hits his chest. He spills his coffee. His landline is in the living room. He gets up and goes in there, knocking over his chair, staggering once and pulling the calendar off the wall as he braces himself.
The retro phone was on the bed. There was also a wrapper that said Papaverine, something they had injected before transporting him, I supposed. I sat on the rumpled rollaway, stroking Radar and scratching behind her ears, which always seemed to calm her.