Page 108 of Fish in a Barrel
GEORGE’S SPANISHwas getting better, but it felt like not fast enough. The little girl sitting on the bench waiting for her mother was looking so dejected. George wasn’t sure Duolingo was up to this one.
Amal grabbed him by the elbow just as George was moving in to try.
“What?” George asked, keeping his voice down. Amal had the same look in his eyes he’d had when he and George had helped a busload of children get back to their parents under the eyes of a watchful military commander who hadnotwanted the children returned because he’d been, in his words, trying to catch the “big fish.”
George and Amal had told him that nobody ate fish in the desert, and he’d not been amused.
But Jason Constance and his busload of children had been on their way back to Sacramento, where, George had it on good authority, all the children had been returned to their parents.
George had apologized profusely to Amal for that. He’d put his friend in so many dangers: danger of getting arrested, danger of getting targeted by immigration authorities, even though Amal was a third-generation citizen, danger of losing his nursing license. George had no right, none at all, to ask a friend to do all that, in the name of—
“A busload of kids who only wanted to see their parents?” Amal had asked bitterly, his pretty, thin features crumpling to reveal the marks left by casual and not so casual racism, the pain he shrugged off as the price of living in a free land. He’d stopped George short, mid apology. “Don’t you fucking dare apologize. I mean, don’t make this some sort of underground railroad, home for all the people who will throw our ass in a sling, but don’t apologize. So much of what we see here is awful and painful and we can’t fix.Thatwas something we could fix.”
And the next day, when nobody had stormed into the ER of their busy urban hospital about two blocks from LA’s Skid Row, they’d given each other a quiet high five and carried on about their jobs as though nothing had happened.
Two weeks later, George had taken a week off so he could go visit his boyfriend in the desert and quietly probe into a job closer to Jai. Because George missed him just that damned badly, and he was tired of Jai being afraid that he’d drag George down into his life of iniquity and crime.
The truth was, 98 percent of the time Jai was a garage mechanic with a select set of skills that he’d probably picked up working reluctantly for the mob. The remaining 2 percent of the time, he and his friends took it upon themselves to fix things that needed fixing. After having been called in on a few of those assignments—giving medical care to those afraid of deportation, helping a busload of kids get returned to their parents—and seeing that sort of reprehensible criminal behavior, George wanted to be a criminal too.
Or at least he wanted to live the 98 percent of his life hewasn’tbeing asked to risk his nursing license next to the guy he’d gladly risk it for.
The week before, he’d been told that he had maybe a month before two of the ten nurses, four physicians assistants, and five doctors working at a tiny hospital in the middle of nowhere retired. He’d gone in to tell Amal that he’d put his hat in the ring for a job there immediately afterward.
He’d expected a couple of reactions. One was for Amal to say, “Fuck off, loser, I thought we were friends.” Another was “I can’t do this bullshit without you.” And a third was “Fine, go be with your boyfriend and be happy ever after. Don’t feel guilty or anything as I try to find a nurse who can read my mind and doesn’t mind my shitty sense of humor.”
What he’d gotten was the same steady-eyed look Amal had given him when he’d explained they were sneaking a busload of kids back to their parents right under Uncle Sam’s nose. It was a look that said Amal trusted George, and trusted what he was doing, and was all in.
“So this place got any more openings?” he’d asked, and George hadn’t been sure if he’d been kidding or not.
“Uhm, Amal, I can’t promise there will be much more to do there besides give people Gatorade and zinc oxide.”
Amal had just looked at him. “So those surplus supplies you keep co-opting—unused antibiotics, expired ointments, gauze that’s got new packaging—that’s going in a landfill unopened?”
George had flushed. He’d asked about taking those things every time. He hadn’t wanted Amal to need to lie for him. He’d expressly told his friend not to. Because the truth was that whenever he visited Jai for more than two days, he held a small, unsanctioned clinic in the home of the girl who Jai’s boss had sent to college. A home in which English was not spoken, at least not well, but people still needed checkups and medical care, and even if they were completely legitimate citizens born in the country, they couldn’t be guaranteed that their hospital stay wouldn’t turn into a nightmare in an ICE detention center, and so they avoided the hospital when they could.
“Well, my new work wouldn’t know about that,” he admitted. He shrugged and looked away. “I was probably going to pay for all that stuff out of pocket anyway.”
Amal regarded him with that steady adult expression, the new one that had come after the former administration had destroyed everybody’s innocence and COVID had taken their hope. “Just tell me where to apply,” he said.
“Amal,” George had protested. “You’re… you’re on a career track here. You’re going to be head nurse in the ER by the end of the year. You’ll be able to transfer anywhere you want! Pediatrics, OB/GYN—”
Amal just shook his head. “I want to do what you’re doing, George. Whether you’re doing it legally or illegally. It gives me hope to know you’re doing what you do.”
George had pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ll give you the name of the woman I talked to in HR, who is also their scheduling nurse because that’s how small this place is. But don’t mention the other shit. That has nothing to do with—”
Amal nodded. “I get it, George. You are off the beaten path with this one. It’s okay. Have you told Analiese yet?”
“This weekend,” George said with a sigh. Analiese worked in an entirely different hospital, and he was going to miss her coming over for wine and whine, as she called it now, on the weekends he wasn’t visiting Jai.
“Tell me what she says.”
But George hadn’t had time to tell Analiese this last week, and Amal was looking at the terrified little girl sitting on one of the plastic chairs outside her mother’s room with that level, grown-up look in his wide brown eyes, and George wondered what was up.
He was leaning against the counter to the nurse’s station, smiling at the little girl and trying to get a smile in return. The girl was wearing jeans and a zip-up cardigan, both too warm for Los Angeles in September, and her face had that peaked look that he recognized from seeing too much of it.
Reaching under the station where Amal kept fresh fruit stocked, he grabbed an apple and sauntered over to the little girl.
“Manzana?” he offered, and she took it shyly.