Winter Moon

Department had opened a trust account for his family at a branch of

Wells Fargo Bank, and contributions from policemen and the public at

large now totaled more than twenty-five thousand dollars. But medical

and rehabilitation expenses were never entirely covered by insurance,

and he suspected that even the trust fund would not return them to the

modest level of financial security they had enjoyed before the shootout

at Arkadian's service station. By September or October, making the

mortgage payment might be impossible.

However, he was able to keep all those worries to himself, partly

because he knew that other people had worries of their own and that

some of them might be more serious than his, but also because he was an

optimist, a believer in the healing power of laughter and positive

thinking. Though some of his friends thought his response to adversity

was cockeyed, he couldn't help it. As far as he could recall, he had

been born that way. Where a pessimist looked at a glass of wine and

saw it as half empty, Jack not only saw it as half full but also

figured there was the better part of a bottle still to be drunk. He

was in a body cast and temporarily disabled, but he felt he was blessed

to have escaped permanent disability and death. He was in pain, sure,

but there were people in the same hospital in more pain than he was.

Until the glass was empty and the bottle as well, he would always

anticipate the next sip of wine rather than regret that so little was

left.

On his first visit to the hospital back in March, Toby had been

frightened to see his father so immobilized, and his eyes had filled

with tears even as he bit his lip and kept his chin up and struggled to

be brave. Jack had done his best to minimize the seriousness of his

condition, insisted he looked in worse shape than he was, and strove

with growing desperation to lift his son's spirits. Finally he got the

boy to laugh by claiming he wasn't really hurt at all, was in the

hospital as a participant in a secret new police program, and would

emerge in a few months as a member of their new Teenage Mutant Ninja

Turtle Task Force.

"Yeah," he said, "it's true. See, that's what all this plaster is, a

shell, a turtle shell that's being applied to my back. When it's dry

and coated with Kevlar, bullets will just bounce off."

Smiling in spite of himself, wiping at his eyes with one hand, Toby

said, "Get real, Dad."

"It's true."

"You don't know taste kwon do."

"I'll be taking lessons, soon as the shell's dry."

"A Ninja has to know how to use swords too, swords and all kinda

stuff."

"More lessons, that's all."

"Big problem."

"What's that?"

"You're not a real turtle."

"Well, of course I'm not a real turtle. Don't be silly. The

department isn't allowed to hire anything but human beings. People

don't much like it when they're given traffic tickets by members of

another species. So we have to make do with an imitation Teenage

Mutant Ninja Turtle Task Force. So what? Is Spider-Man really a

spider? Is Batman really a bat?"

"You got a point there."

"You're damned right I do."

"But."

"But what?"

Grinning, the boy said, "You're no teenager."

"I can pass for one."

"No way. You're an old guy."

"Is that so?"

"A real old guy."

"You're in big trouble when I get out of this bed, mister."

"Yeah, but until your shell's dry, I'm safe."

The next time Toby came to the hospital--Heather visited every day, but

Toby was limited to once or twice a week--Jack was wearing a colorful

headband.

Heather had gotten him a red-and-yellow scarf, which he'd folded and

tied around his head. The ends of the knot hung rakishly over his

right ear.

"Rest of the uniform is still being designed." he told Toby.

A few weeks later, one day in mid-April, Heather pulled the privacy

curtain around Jack's bed and gave him a sponge bath and damp-sponge

shampoo to save the nurses a little work. She said, "I'm not sure I

like other women bathing you. I'm getting jealous."

He said, "I swear I can explain where I was last night."

"There's not a nurse in the hospital hasn't gone out of her way to tell

me that you're their favorite patient."

"Well, honey, that's meaningless. Anybody can be their favorite

patient. It's easy. All you've got to do is avoid puking on them and

don't make fun of their little hats."

"That easy, huh?" she said, sponging his left arm.

"Well, you also have to eat everything on your dinner tray, never

hassle them to give you massive injections of heroin without a doctor's

prescription, and never ever fake cardiac arrest just to get

attention."

"They say you're so sweet, brave, and funny."

"Aw, shucks," he said with exaggerated shyness, but he was genuinely

embarrassed.

"A couple of them told me how lucky I am, married to you."

"You punch them?"

"Managed to control myself."

"Good. They'd only take it out on me."

"I am lucky," she said.

"And some of these nurses are strong, they probably pack a pretty hard

punch."

"I love you, Jack," she said, leaning over the bed and kissing him full

on the mouth.

The kiss took his breath away. Her hair fell across his face, it