Winter Moon

smelled of a lemony shampoo.

"Heather," he said softly, putting one hand against her cheek,

"Heather, Heather," repeating the name as if it was sacred, which it

was, not only a name but a prayer that sustained him, the name and face

that made his nights less dark, that made his pain-filled days pass

more quickly.

"I'm so lucky," she repeated.

"Me too. Finding you."

"You'll be home with me again."

"Soon," he said, though he knew he would be weeks in that bed and weeks

more in a rehabilitation hospital.

"No more lonely nights," she said.

"No more."

"Always together."

"Always." His throat was tight, and he was afraid he was going to

cry.

He was not ashamed to cry, but he didn't think either of them dared

indulge in tears yet. They needed all their strength and resolve for

the struggles that still lay ahead. He swallowed hard and whispered,

"When I get home. . . ?"

"Yes?"

"And we can go to bed together again?"

Face-to-face with him, she whispered too: "Yes?"

"Will you do something special for me?"

"Of course, silly."

"Would you dress up like a nurse? That really turns me on."

She blinked in surprise for a moment, burst out laughing, and shoved a

cold sponge in his face. "Beast."

"Well, then, how about a nun?"

"Pervert."

"A girl scout?"

"But a sweet, brave, and funny pervert."

If he hadn't possessed a good sense of humor, he wouldn't have been

able to be a cop. Laughter, sometimes dark laughter, was the shield

that made it possible to wade, without being stained, through the filth

and madness in which most cops had to function these days.

A sense of humor aided his recovery, too, and made it possible not to

be consumed by pain and worry, although there was one thing about which

he had difficulty laughing--his helplessness. He was embarrassed about

being assisted with his basic bodily functions and subjected to regular

enemas to counteract the effects of extreme inactivity. Week after

week, the lack of privacy in those matters became more rather than less

humiliating.

It was even worse to be trapped in bed, in the rigid grip of the cast,

unable to run or walk or even crawl if a sudden catastrophe struck.

Periodically he became convinced that the hospital was going to be

swept by fire or damaged in an earthquake. Although he knew the staff

was well trained in emergency procedures and that he would not be

abandoned to the ravages of flames or the mortal weight of collapsing

walls, he was occasionally seized by an irrational panic, often in the

dead of night, a blind terror that squeezed him tighter and tighter,

hour after hour, and that succumbed only gradually to reason or

exhaustion.

By the middle of May, he had acquired a deep appreciation and limitless

admiration for quadriplegics who did not let life get the best of

them.

At least he had the use of his hands and arms, and he could exercise by

rhythmically squeezing rubber balls and doing curls with light hand

weights.

He could scratch his nose if it itched, feed himself to some extent,

blow his nose. He was in awe of people who suffered permanent

below-the-neck paralysis but held fast to their joy in life and faced

the future with hope, because he knew he didn't possess their courage

or character, no matter whether he was voted favorite patient of the

week, month, or century.

If he'd been deprived of his legs and hands for three months, he would

have been weighed down by despair. And if he hadn't known that he

would get out of the bed and be learning to walk again by the time

spring became summer, the prospect of long-term helplessness would have

broken his sanity.

Beyond the window of his third-floor room, he could see little more

than the crown of a tall palm tree. Over the weeks, he spent countless

hours watching its fronds shiver in mild breezes, toss violently in

storm winds, bright green against sunny skies, dull green against

somber clouds. Sometimes birds wheeled across that framed section of

the heavens, and Jack thrilled to each brief glimpse of their flight.

He swore that, once back on his feet, he would never be helpless

again.

He was aware of the hubris of such an oath, his ability to fulfill it

depended on the whims of fate. Man proposes, God disposes. But on

this subject he could not laugh at himself. He would never be helpless

again. Never. It was a challenge to God: Leave me alone or kill me,

but don't put me in this vise again.

Jack's division captain, Lyle Crawford, visited him for the third time

in the hospital on the evening of June third.

Crawford was a nondescript man, of average height and average weight,

with close-cropped brown hair, brown eyes, and brown skin, all of

virtually the same shade. He was wearing Hush Puppies, chocolate-brown

slacks, tan shirt, and a chocolate-brown jacket, as if his fondest

desire was to be so nondescript that he would blend into any background

and perhaps even attain invisibility. He also wore a brown cap, which

he took off and held in both hands as he stood by the bed. He was

soft-spoken and quick to smile, but he also had more commendations for