Dying for Chocolate

There was the usual flurry at the hospital. Despite the dry clothes, Arch kept shivering, so I asked for heated blankets from the warming cabinet and got them. The EMS guys had started him on an IV, in case the hospital needed to give him antibiotics, antiwheezing meds, or vasoconstrictors if he dropped into shock. I knew I had to call John Richard, but I couldn’t leave Arch’s side just yet. After chest X-rays and blood-gas tests, they finally settled him into a private room in the Pediatric Observation area. I would let John Richard pick up the tab.

Despite much protestation from Arch, Julian and I tucked a cocoon of blankets around him. Tom Schulz moved chairs in for us all and then went in search of a vending machine. Within ten minutes he was back with a cardboard tray with four cups: one filled with water and three with steaming hot chocolate. Schulz mumbled an apology to Arch that the nurse had said clear liquids only. Arch smiled and said Schulz could buy him a milkshake when he got out of this place. Then he tossed off the pile of blankets and sat up to receive the water from Schulz’s big hands.

“You should be down in the ER being treated with activated charcoal to get out the rest of that cantharidin,” I chided Schulz.

He raised those wonderful tentlike bushy eyebrows at me, reached into his pocket, and pulled out some aspirin-shaped tablets. “Speaking of which,” he said, “a nurse in the ER gave me some when I identified myself and told her what happened. We can take it together.”

I groaned, but took my medicine. Anything tastes good when you wash it down with chocolate.

Then Schulz handed Julian a cup and demanded, “What happened to you?”

Julian sipped. He said, “When I was doing some filing for the general, I found that letter from the Utah Bureau of Vital Records. It was a shock. I ran away. . . to think.” He told us briefly that he had seen the magazine erupt on his way back from Flicker Ridge, where he was going to practice camping skills the general had taught him the night he was supposed to have a date with Sissy. “I didn’t want anybody to know I might take off,” he said. “But I decided to come back. When I saw the explosions I knew there was only one place . . .”

I told him Adele was gone. I said, “I’m sorry about Adele and Brian. Your . . . parents—”

He said, “My parents are in Utah.” He paused. Dirt crusted along his hairline; he looked haggard. Arch gave Julian his adoring attention. Julian said, “Where’s Bo?”

I told him. He sighed wearily. He said, “I really liked the general. I’d like to help him. You know, like be his support person when he’s going through his trial. That’s what Dr. Miller was always telling me. Everybody needs support.”

I said nothing. I had tried to be supportive of Julian, but it had never worked out. And maybe Philip Miller had tried to be supportive of me. That had not worked out either, despite what may have been his intent. I conjured up Philip’s face. With some effort, I willed forgiveness.

After a moment Julian turned to me. He said, “My scholarship at Elk Park runs through next year. I’d like to finish there. But I need a place to live and a part-time job.” He eyed me. His scalp under the bleached, clipped hair was covered with dried mud, like soil between parched rows of corn. There were dark smudges under his eyes. He put his cup down. I looked at Schulz, who raised his eyebrows.

Julian went on, “You had a boarder once, Sissy told me. I know I’m not real. . . sophisticated.”

“Julian—”

“Let me finish. I’m asking if you would hire me to help cater. Teach me, like. Let me rent a room in your house. Please?” Before I could answer, he looked up at Arch and grinned. “I could help you with Arch, too. He likes me.”

We were all silent.

After a while Schulz said, “If she says no, you can come live with me.”

I said, “She’s not going to say no.”

Arch indicated he needed help getting into the bathroom, and Julian jumped to his aid. I looked at my watch. Time to phone John Richard.

I was almost as surprised to reach John Richard at his house as he was to hear I was at the hospital. I told him Arch was fine, but that the Farquhars’ house had exploded. He demanded to know what the hell was going on, why the hysterical phone calls saying Arch was missing, unconscious, why the devil couldn’t I—

I said, “You owe me.”

He was stunned into silence. “Owe you what?”

“Listen. Why did I have to go to the Farquhars in the first place? Because of you. You were jealous of Philip Miller. You tried to intimidate me.”

The Jerk began to say, “Excuse me—”

“You owe me,” I pressed on, “and you can either make it up to me now in terms of dollars and cents or you can wait for me to haul your stupid ass into court for breaking a bunch of flowerpots. That ought to be great publicity for your precious medical practice.”

The Jerk hesitated. I could feel his rage through the telephone wire. He said, “What do you want?”