Free Spirit of the Place (9781101617021) by Samuel Shem Page B

and tiny raisins of clots blew out of the open end of the needle and the heart, like a swimmer surfacing, expanded fully and contracted fully, and he watched as the girl turned from white to blue to pink. He waited, monitoring her for a while until he was sure. She would live.
    He went out to face her parents. In their eyes was the question.
    â€œShe’s going to be okay,” he said.
    They collapsed into each other’s arms.
    â€œYou can go in and see her.”
    â€œThank God, thank God!” they cried and rushed to her.
    He arranged for the medevac helicopter to fly the girl up to Albany Medical to have a cardiac surgeon remove the bullet. Walking out of the hospital, he realized how lucky she’d been—there wasn’t even much of a risk of infection, since bullets, going in hot, are sterile. It wasn’t until he sat behind the wheel of the Chrysler that he started to shake.
    Hey, wait a second, he thought.
Why
did a nine-year-old boy shoot her?
    Getting no answer, he floated the car down to Bill’s office and walked through the full waiting room and in the IN door. Bill, cigarette in hand, had already taken over his shift and was listening to a woman named Tracy Liebowski. Orville had known her in high school, she a junior to his senior. Cute, and in the band—flute. Bill and Tracy were discussing Tracy’s five-year-old boy, Wally, who had become unmanageable. She was confused and unsure how to handle him.
    â€œWally has behavior problems. He bites other kids, he won’t read, he flies into rages, and he
never
sleeps through the night.” She sounded fed up, bitter. “Worst is the pooping. He won’t poop in the potty or the toilet. He poops in his bed at night, and it wakes him up and he wakes us
up. He poops all over the house—under the dining room table, behind the Lay-Z-Boy, yesterday in my husband’s motorcycle helmet.” She turned to Orville. “Which he didn’t notice ’til he put it on.”
    Despite himself, Orville smiled.
    â€œI’m exhausted,” she said to Bill. “Jeffrey is threatening divorce. Wally’s killin’ us. Like he’s from another planet or somethin’. He’s in the waitin’ room.”
    â€œBring him on in,” Bill said.
    Orville braced himself for the encounter with the little alien.
    In walked an angel, a beautiful boy all silken blond hair and cowlick and clear blue eyes and freckled nose. Orville wondered what Bill would do.
    â€œHi there, little tyke,” Bill started, handing the boy a lollipop. “How ’bout we talk about your poopin’?”
    The boy said nothing. Bill started talking. The boy seemed to listen. Bill kept talking. Soon, to Orville and Tracy’s surprise, the boy started to talk, too.
    â€œWally,” Bill explained, “it’s about having a job. Your mom’s job is at Columbia Cold Storage, right?” Wally nodded. “And your dad’s job is at Scomparza Demolition and Upholstery, right?” Another nod. “Well, son,
your
job is to poop in the potty. And I’m gonna give you your very own poop-juice, to help you.” He handed him a bottle. “Take a drink every night—
every
night, got it?” Wally nodded. “And take a drink of this every morning.” Bill handed him a cute little bottle with a label that read “Elixir of Starbusol.” “And whenever you poop in the potty, you get a star!” He handed him a packet of stars. Little Wally had trouble holding all these gifts. “Okay?” He nodded. “You do your job, and I’ll see you again next week and you can show me your stars
.
”
    Wally jumped up, eager to start, and scampered out the OUT .
    In the doorway, Orville said to Tracy, “He’s beautiful.”
    â€œYeah,” she said, her eyes brightening for the first time. With a sudden sureness she went on, “There’s a reason for