I’m no romantic. When I met my wife, it was love at first sight. You hear about that happening, but who believes it’s a real thing? Not me. But it happened.
Sometimes I wonder if there’s nothing I fear more, since Elaine died, than a touch that will cause an unknown reaction, even though I might have a suspicion which way that reaction will lead. I haven’t wanted to come near what might be reaching toward me. My family was a very affectionate one. It was one of kissing and hugging. So it’s not that physical contact is something foreign to me. But once I lost my wife, I tended to avoid physical contact with anyone who might raise that kind of emotion in me again.
With Kathy, if such a thing exists, it was friendship at first sight. We clicked as buddies right off the bat. I think it was the way we could make each other bust out laughing. A facial expression. A turn of phrase. We helped each other humor our way through high school.
And now, the feeling I had when I ran into her in the morgue, especially when she placed her hand on my back, it somehow didn’t feel like what I might expect when I’d not seen a buddy after many years. No, instead of that “Hey, it warms my heart that we’re running into each other after all this time” feeling, it was as if someone I loved as much as I loved Elaine had come back to me.
Maybe it’s because I’ve been alone for so long. Ten years. In my mind, you know, it’s as if Elaine is still here, still with me. When someone has become so much a part of you that you almost feel like you’re one single human being, one body, one brain, one heart, well, that person can never die.
But I have to admit, I’ve been lonely. Even though I can still see her, imagine conversations with her, and know what she might think about something, I can’t deny I’ve thought about someone, a living person, to care for again, maybe to love again.
As I say, I’m no romantic. But English majors, I tell you, we think too much about things like this. Once your mind is molded in a literature-is-life way, then love is always in the air. Every novel, every short story, every play, if you look at them closely, the English major in you knows every work of fiction involves a love angle of some kind.
“Hey Kathy,” I said, as I watched her slide a body out of the cooler, “what’s the best thing that’s happened to you since you graduated from high school?”
She paused, the body halfway onto the gurney. I think maybe winning the honor of Best Bedside Manner when I graduated law school.”
“Wow, that’s a real thing? Wait. From what?”
“Yeah, it’s real, all right. And they should have something like that for lawyers. But for medical school, yes, it’s real. Some of these doctors, you know, they’re colder than the people we work with here. Like lawyers.”
Her arm swept an all-inclusive indication of every cooler compartment.
“I know,” I said. “I’ve had that kind of doctor. The guy thinks of you as a project, not a person. It’s almost as if you are a cadaver.”
Hank Lee chuckled.
“You know you guys,” I said, “you two as physicians. You should be working with living patients. I mean, all this warmth you two have, it’s kind of wasted. None of these people you autopsy can know what good, kind doctors they have when they’re with you.”
“Well,” said Hank, “for me, and probably for Kathy, too, I’m sure, that bedside manner, well, that translates into the way we care for the bodies here, even if their spirits have left them.”
“Oh yes,” added Kathy, “the way we treat them is as if they weren’t projects, but as if they almost were living. We honor the lives, ah, the lives that they’ve led.”
I watched the way she cut into a man’s chest. It was efficient, but somehow delicate.
“Even if they’re criminals?” I said. “I mean the worst of the worst. Murderers, rapists. When you have to autopsy them, you can’t honor their lives, can you?”
Both Hank and Kathy looked up from their work, then at each other.
“In a different way,” said Hank. “We honor everyone by doing our job to the best of our ability. We do what we’re supposed to do as thoroughly as we can for all people, regardless of what they may have done in their lives.”
“That’s right,” said Kathy. “We don’t have to respect rapists and murderers, but we do have to respect the work we do for them.”
Sean Daniel called from the front. “David, David come out here. A car just pulled up.”
I went out to the front. It was Jimmy Doi. I unlocked the door and let him in.
Jimmy laid out three photos on an empty table.
“So do you recognize him?” I asked Sean.
“Ah, no,” he said, “I don’t.”
“Great. So we’re no closer to knowing who exactly is behind this.”
“You know,” said Sean, “I think I’d better consider this a sign of the end of my R and R. Rather than dither around over here, letting them bring the fight to me, I think it better I head home and bring the fight to them.”
“All right,” I said. “I’ll take you back to my place to get your things. I’m going to put you on a plane personally, and we’ll have the Captain, Kona, and Chin with us. Hopefully, it’ll be a day in the park.”
Kathy laughed. “That’s not the way it goes.”
“The way what goes?”
“It’s a walk in the park, not a day in the park.”
“Really? I always said it that way.”
And then again, smiling that smile, she put her hand on my shoulder, and it did feel like love.
Clearing my throat, I said, “Shall we?” I pointed the way to the front entrance.
Sean headed out ahead of me, pushing through the door. I turned around to say goodbye to Kathy, and I heard the shot.
Spinning around, I saw Sean, halfway out the door, lying on the ground. I leaped over him. A black Ford sedan sped out of the parking lot and was gone before I could fire a shot or get a license plate number.
Lanning Lee 