Free Heart and Soul by Sally Mandel Page B

cry. She let everything drop on the floor and put her arms around me. We stood holding each other for a few minutes.
    â€œThanks, Pauls,” I said, and blew my nose. “It means a lot…”
    â€œOh, shut up. What’s going on with Dutch?”
    I filled her in. Then I asked her if she had any psychic news bulletins about him.
    She shuddered. “God forbid.”
    â€œNothing so far? Give me the swear.”
    She held up her right hand with the thumb crossed in front of her palm like we used to do when we were kids. “What about your stuff?” she asked. “Do you have everything you need?”
    â€œOh my God. I’m supposed to rehearse with Montagnier.” I looked at my watch. “In exactly three hours.”
    â€œJake’s coming. We can cover for you.”
    I shook my head and drew her inside the room where Dutch lay hooked to drips and machines. Mumma’s and Angie’s frightened eyes fastened on me like I could make it all better. David Montagnier was already a fairy-tale fantasy from a dream I’d had a long time ago. It didn’t seem possible that I’d ever step back into it again.

Chapter Five
    W ell, we were the cozy little group at 62 Walnut Avenue, accent on the nut. There was Dutch, the wounded warrior, howling like a dog from his wheelchair. It turned out he probably wasn’t permanently paralyzed but his spine was going to take many months to heal. With physical therapy, he might walk again but his days as a firefighter were finished. For my father, that was like saying his life was over. What he did was sit in front of the television in his pajamas watching soap operas and yelling, as in Bess! Where the fuck is my (a) breakfast; (b) lunch; (c) dinner; (d) snack?! The worst for him and for us was cleaning him up after he’d taken a crap. Until we learned the technique, it took all three of us to shift him so Mumma could wipe him down. The first few times, he cried like a baby. A big man like Dutch, reduced to such a state.
    Obviously, there was no way I could leave. I quit all my jobs and phoned David. He told me he had to go to Europe anyway and that he’d be in touch when he got back. After that, I started having nightmares. In dream logic, it seemed the only contact I was allowed to have with music was listening to my Walkman. Desperately, I’d slip in a tape of Beethoven’s Waldstein Sonata, but after the first few measures, all I got was white sound. Or I’d be up in the cheap seats of a concert hall and instead of musicians, there’d be fish flopping around on the stage. A traffic cop came out and announced that the musicians were never coming again, ever. Nobody else in the audience seemed at all perturbed by this, but I was overwhelmed with grief. I’d wake myself up to escape the nightmares and remember that real life wasn’t exactly a comfort.
    Three weeks after the accident, my mother told Angie and me to wait up after we got Dutch into bed. We sat at the dining room table while she showed us the pile of bills. “I’m going to have to get a job,” she said.
    Well, this was different. Dutch had never let her work. I couldn’t even imagine who would hire her. “What about the disability insurance?” I asked.
    â€œIt’s not nearly enough. His medication alone eats up most of it.”
    I started to feel a chill creep up my back. I’d been figuring on sticking it out another couple of weeks and then getting back to my life. To music. To David.
    â€œI thought the fire department would take care of him,” Angie said.
    â€œThey should.” Mumma’s voice was more exhausted than angry. “Things have changed now with HMOs. Your father had a lot of expensive special tests and procedures and now there’s all the therapy. A lot of it’s not covered.”
    â€œI’m sure the fire department would contribute something if they knew,” Angie