Jelznick comes in at lunch and orders Wedding. I finish up my sandwich while Carl crams me into the dress. Then he starts Canon in D on the keyboard. Jelznick stands there crying while I walk up the aisle. We say the vows, and then he lifts my veil.
“Oh God, Sheila,” he says. “If only I could hold you in my arms one more time.”
Carl snaps a Polaroid and then hands it to Jelznick.
“Okay,” Carl says. “That’s one wedding, plus photo fee, comes to one hundred dollars and seventy cents.”
“Great,” Jelznick says, grabbing my ass. “How about I throw in another fifty and the blushing bride here gives me a hand job.”
“Make it seventy-five,” I say.
“Done.”
Jelznick puts his Polaroid on the counter and walks toward the bathroom. “Don’t forget the lotion,” he says.
I tell myself, This is a low as you go. But then I think about Ronnie, and I know I can go a lot lower.
When I get to the hospital, they’ve got him back in the isolation room, and they’re running more tests. The nurse checks my PPE and I step in to give Nancy a break.
“Hi Dad,” Ronnie says. He’s holding Little Ronnie. He pushes a button, and a noise comes from Little Ronnie’s voice box that’s supposed to say “Hi folks!” but it comes out more like “Glorx blorx!” One of Little Ronnie’s marble eyes is off-kilter. Ronnie starts coughing, and then he can’t stop coughing, and then he’s vomiting into a safety bag. Nancy comes back into the room.
“Poor guy,” she says. “He’s getting worse.” She sends me down to the pharmacy to pick up his new meds.
“Okay,” says the lady behind the plastic screen. “That comes to nine hundred fifty-two dollars and twelve cents.”
All I have is the seventy-five dollars from hand-jobbing Jelznick.
Carl runs a two-for-one special at the Memory Palace. It’s a frenzy of whispers, shouts, and crying out for God. I’m an endless well of unmet need. Mother, father, sister, brother. Orphan, widow, blind and mute. Mrs. Kelzer gives me fifty bucks to dress up like her dead husband and play canasta. Mr. Jensen gives me seventy-five to dress up like his daughter, kidnapped six years ago. Old man Taylor gives me a hundred to dress up like a sailor and toss his salad. Hand jobs, blow jobs, foot jobs. Any job you can think of. Spankings, chokings, confessions, grievances. Slaps and tickles, hugs and tears. I’m a priest, a track coach, a Chinese schoolgirl. Oil rigger. Tugboat captain. Indian princess. Carl goes out twice a day for Gatorade, wet wipes, and potpourri spray.
By the end of the week I’ve pocketed enough extra cash to cover Ronnie’s meds, plus a new Little Ronnie. I’m closing up shop when Nancy comes through the door.
“Hi, hon,” I say. “I thought you didn’t like coming in here?”
“Ronnie,” she says. “Today’s his birthday.”
I can’t believe I forgot. It’s been a literal whirlwind of assholes and elbows. I show her my wad of cash, and she smiles.
“That’s great, hon,” she says. “I just want to do one thing before we go see him.”
We go out to the van and bring in about twenty paper bags of canned chicken soup, a blanket, and a giant plastic bin. We pour the soup into the bin, and then I take off my clothes and slide in. The soup stings my eyes. Nancy puts the blanket over the top of me and turns off the lights.
“Ronnie,” she says. “Here we give you your second birth. A brand-new birth. We love you. We love you so very much.”
I close my eyes, and I’m Ronnie. I’m smiling. Mom and Dad are holding me. My little mop of hair is blowing in the breeze. I feel a warmth that starts in my heart and then spreads out through my body. I can feel it in my nose and my fingers, my eyes and my toes. When I emerge, I know that I’ll be clean and whole.
William Clayton’s stories have appeared in FRiGG, Otis Nebula, Lotus-eater, and elsewhere.