Page 70 of A Fabulously Unfabulous Summer for Henry Milch

“And that would make you a really, really good pimp.”

“Oh shush,” she said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

That’s when the nurse came in. She was an attractive young woman of about twenty-five. Exactly the kind of girl my grandmother would enjoy pimping out—to me.

First, she gave Nana Cole a quick shot of something to help with the nausea. Then, she poked at my grandmother’s arm—the one that didn’t have an IV in it—until she found a vein and took a few vials of blood. Then she scurried out of the room.

“She was pretty,” Nana Cole said.

“Maybe she’d like to go out with Ed—Dr. Stewart.”

She squinted her eyes at me, and then asked, “Did you have fun?”

“Watching the nurse draw your blood?”

“No. I sent you out to have some fun. Did you have any?”

“I guess.”

“What did you do?”

“I went to Drip. It’s a coffee—”

“I know what it is. Did you see anyone?”

“I ran into that girl Opal. And Carl, Ivy’s son.”

“They’re a sweet couple.”

“They’re not—” I started and then decided it might be better to let her think whatever she wanted to think. “Yes, they’re a sweet couple.”

I waited for her to ask if Opal had any friends for me or if there were any pretty girls at the coffee shop. Remarkably, she did not. She grew quiet and there was a heavy frown on her face. I imagined she was contemplating her mortality. Given the situation it seemed likely. But then she asked, “Do you think Carl killed Reverend Hessel?”

That sort of put a damper on Opal and Carl being a sweet couple thing.

“He has an alibi. He was with Opal. His mother was in a bar. It’s possible she slipped—”

“But Ivy had no reason to kill her husband, did she?”

“None that I know of,” I bald-faced lied. If she’d learned about his drug-addiction and his possible, probable addiction to PNP—well, if she’d found out, that would be a motive, a big one.

“Just because we don’t know doesn’t mean she didn’t have a motive.”

“I’m sure the police will figure it out,” I said.

We waited quietly for a bit. A long bit. Eventually, I asked, “Should I call my mother?”

“I’m not dying.”

“So that’s the bar? I should only call her if you’re dying?”

“There’s nothing she can do. I’ll call her tomorrow, I promise.”

That really annoyed me. My mother had completely dis-engaged from my grandmother’s care. Dumping it all on me. It wasn’t particularly fair—nor wise. On a good day, I was better than nothing. And that, I’m afraid, is the best you can say about me.

Not that my mother would be an improvement. Mainly I wantedherto take care of her mother so I didn’t have to.

And then, after what seemed an eternity, Edward walked through the curtains.