Motherless Brooklyn

“Now, that’s a good, sensible rule,” said Coney. “ ’Cause you got all these people in here that’s concerned about their health.”

Coney was occasionally a master of the intimidating non sequitur. He certainly had Albert stymied now.

“I’m a frayed knot,” I whispered. I began to want to grab at the nightstick in Albert’s holster-an old, familiar impulse to reach for things dangling from belts, like the bunches of keys worn by the teachers at St. Vincent’s Home for Boys. It seemed like a particularly rotten idea right now.

“Afraid of what?” said Albert, confused, though understanding the joke’s pun, in a faint way.

“Afrayedknot!” I repeated obligingly, then added, “Eatmestringjoke!” Albert glared, unsure what he’d been called, or how badly to be insulted.

“Mr. Coney,” called the triage nurse, breaking the stalemate. Coney and I both stood at once, still pathetically overcompensating for losing Minna in the chase. The short doctor had come out of the private room. He stood behind the triage nurse and nodded us over. As we brushed past Albert I indulged in a brief surreptitious fondling of his nightstick.

Half a fag, that’s what Minna used to call me.

“Ah, are either of you a relative of Mr. Minna’s?” The doctor’s accent rendered this as misdemeanors.

“Yes and no,” said Coney before I could answer. “We’re his immediates, so to speak.”

“Ah, I see,” said the doctor, though of course he didn’t. “Will you step this way with me-” He led us out of the waiting area, to another of the half-secluded rooms like the one where they’d wheeled Minna.

“I’mafrayed,” I said under my breath.

“I’m sorry,” said the doctor, standing oddly close to us, examining our eyes. “There was little we could do.”

“That’s okay, then,” said Coney, not hearing it right. “I’m sure whatever you can do is fine, since Frank didn’t need so much in the first place-”

“I’mafrayedknot.” I felt myself nearly choke, not on unspoken words for once but on rising gorge, White Castle-flavored bile. I swallowed it back so hard my ears popped. My whole face felt flushed with a mist of acids.

“Ahem. We were unable to revive misdemeanor.”

“Wait a minute,” said Coney. “You’re saying unable to revive?”

“Yes, that’s right. Loss of blood was the cause. I am sorry.”

“Unable to revive!” shouted Coney. “He was revived when we brought him in here! What kind of a place is this? He didn’t need to be revived, just patched up a little-”

I began to need to touch the doctor, to deliver small taps on either shoulder, in a pattern that was absolutely symmetrical. He stood for it, not pushing me away. I tugged his collar straight, matching the line to his salmon-colored T-shirt underneath, so that the same margin showed at either side of his neck.

Coney stood in deflated silence now, absorbing pain. We all stood waiting until I finally finished tucking and pinching the doctor’s collar into place.

“Sometimes there is nothing we can do,” said the doctor, eyes flicking to the floor now.

“Let me see him,” said Coney.

“That isn’t possible-”

“This place is full of crap,” said Coney. “Let me see him.”

“There is a question of evidence,” said the doctor wearily. “I’m sure you understand. The examiners will also wish to speak with you.”

I’d already seen police passing through from the hospital coffee shop, into some part of the emergency room. Whether those particular police were there to detain us or not, it was clear the law wouldn’t be long in arriving.

“We ought to go, Gilbert,” I told Coney. “Probably we ought to go right now.”

Coney was inert.

“Problyreallyoughttogo,” I said semicompulsively, panic rising through my sorrow.

“You misunderstand,” said the doctor. “We’ll ask you to wait, please. This man will show you where to go-” He nodded at something behind us. I whipped around, my lizard instincts shocked at having allowed someone to sneak up on me.

It was Albert. The Thin Rastafarian Line between us and departure. His appearance seemed to trigger comprehension in Coney: The security guard was a cartoon reminder of the real existence of police.

“Outta the way,” said Coney.

“We don’t serve string!” I explained.

Albert didn’t look any more convinced of his official status than we were. At moments like this I was reminded of the figure we Minna Men cut, oversize, undereducated, vibrant wostility even with tear streaks all over our beefy faces. And me with my utterances, lunges, and taps, my symptoms, those extra factors Minna adored throwing into the mix.

Frank Minna, unrevived, empty of blood in the next room.

Albert held his palms open, his body more or less pleading as he said, “You better wait, mon.”

“Nah,” said Coney. “Maybe another time.” Coney and I both leaned in Albert’s direction, really only shifting our weight, and he jumped backward, spreading his hands over the spot he’d vacated as if to say It was someone else standing there just now, not I.