John Grisham

After ten minutes of virtual silence, she says something that draws a hot response. I wish I could hear. He’s suddenly shaking and snarling words at her. She dishes it right back. The volume increases and I quickly discern that they’re discussing whether or not she’ll testify against him in court. Seems she hasn’t made up her mind. Seems this really bothers Cliff. He has a short fuse, no surprise for a macho redneck, and she’s telling him not to yell. He glances around, and tries to lower his voice. I can’t hear what he says.

After provoking him, she calms him, though he’s still very unhappy. He simmers as they ignore each other for a spell.

Then she does it again. She mumbles something, and his back stiffens. His hands shake, his words are filled with foul language. They quarrel for a minute before she stops talking and ignores him. Cliff doesn’t take to being ignored, so he gets louder. She tells him to be quiet, they’re in public. He gets even louder, talking about what he’ll do if she doesn’t drop everything, and how he might go to jail, and on and on.

She says something I can’t hear, and he suddenly slaps his tall cup and bolts to his feet. The soda flies across half the room, spraying carbonated foam on the other tables and the floor. It drenches her. She gasps, closes her eyes, starts crying. He can be heard stomping and cursing down the hall.

I instinctively get to my feet, but she is quick to shake her head. I sit down. The cashier has watched this and arrives with a hand towel. She gives it to Kelly, who wipes Coke from her face and arms.

"I’m sorry," she says to the cashier.

Her gown is soaked. She fights back tears as she wipes her cast and legs. I’m nearby but I can’t help, I assume she’s afraid he might return and catch us talking.

There are many places in this hospital where one can sit and have a Coke or a coffee, but she brought him here because she wanted me to see him. I’m almost certain she provoked him so I could witness his temper.

We look at each other for a long time as she methodically wipes her face and arms. Tears stream down her face, and she dabs at them. She possesses that inexplicable feminine ability to produce tears while appearing not to cry. She’s not sobbing or bawling. Her lips are not quivering. Her hands are not shaking. She just sits there, in another world, staring at me with glazed eyes, touching her skin with a white towel.

Time passes, but I lose track of it. A crippled janitor arrives and mops around her. Three nurses rush in with loud talk and laughter until they see her, then they’re suddenly quiet. They stare, whisper and occasionally look at me.

He’s been gone long enough to assume he’s not coming back, and the idea of being a gentleman is exciting. The nurses leave, and Kelly slowly wiggles an index finger at me. It’s now okay for me to approach.

"I’m sorry," she says as I crouch near her.

"It’s okay."

And then she utters words I will never forget. "Will you take me to my room?"

In another setting, these words might have profound consequences, and for an instant my mind drifts away to an exotic beach where the two young lovers finally decide to have a go at it.

Her room, of course, is a semiprivate cubicle with a door that’s subject to being opened by a multitude of people. Even lawyers can barge in.

I carefully weave Kelly and her wheelchair around the tables and into the hallway. "Fifth floor," she says over her shoulder. I’m in no hurry. I’m very proud of myself for being so chivalrous. I like the fact that men look twice at her as we roll along the corridor.

We’re alone for a few seconds in the elevator. I kneel beside her. "Are you okay?" I ask.

She’s not crying now. Her eyes are still moist and a shade red, but she’s under control. She nods quickly and says, "Thanks." And then she takes my hand and squeezes it firmly. "Thanks so much."

The elevator jerks and stops. A doctor steps in, and she quickly lets go of my hand. I stand behind the wheelchair, like a devoted husband. I want to hold hands again.

It’s almost eleven, according to the clock on the wall at the fifth floor. Except for a few nurses and orderlies, the hallway is quiet and deserted. A nurse at the station looks twice at me as we roll by. Mrs. Riker left with one man, and now she’s back with another.

We make a left turn and she points to her door. To my surprise and delight, she has a private room with her own window and bath. The lights are on.

I’m not sure how mobile she really is, but at this moment she’s completely helpless. "You have to help me,"

she says. And she says it only once. I carefully bend over her, and she wraps her arms around my neck. She squeezes and presses harder than necessary, but no complaints. The gown is stained with soda, but I’m not particularly concerned. She’s a snug fit, up close to me, and I quickly discern that she’s not wearing a bra. I squeeze her tighter to me.

I gently lift her from the chair, an easy task because she doesn’t weigh more than a hundred and ten, cast and all. We maneuver up to the bed, taking as long as possible, making a fuss over her fragile leg, adjusting her just right as I very slowly ease her onto the bed. We reluctantly let go of each other. Our faces are just inches apart when the same nurse romps in, her rubber soles squishing on the tiled floor.

"What happened?" she exclaims, pointing at the stained gown.

We’re still untangling and trying to separate. "Oh, that. Just an accident," Kelly explains.

The nurse never stops moving. She reaches into a drawer under the television and pulls out a folded gown. "Well, you need to change," she says, tossing it onto the bed beside Kelly. "And you need a sponge bath." She stops for a second, jerks her head toward me and says, "Get him to help you."

I take a deep breath and feel faint.

"I can do it," Kelly says, placing the gown on the table next to the bed.

"Visiting hours are over, hon," she says to me. "You kids need to wrap it up." She squishes out of the room. I close the door and return to the side of her bed. We study each other.

"Where’s the sponge?" I ask, and we both laugh. She has big dimples that form perfectly at the corners of her smile.

"Sit up here," she says, patting the edge of the bed. I sit next to her with my feet hanging off. We are not touching. She pulls a white sheet up to her armpits, as if to hide the stains.

I’m quite aware of how this looks. A battered wife is a married woman until she gets a divorce. Or until she kills the bastard.

"So what do you think of Cliff?" she asks.

"You wanted me to see him, didn’t you?"

"I guess."

"He should be shot."

"That’s rather severe for a little tantrum, isn’t it?"

I pause for a moment and look away. I’ve decided that I will not play games with her. Since we’re talking, then we re going to be honest.

What am I doing here?

"No, Kelly, it’s not severe. Any man who beats his wife with an aluminum bat needs to be shot." I watch her closely as I say this, and she doesn’t flinch.

"How do you know?" she asks.

"The paper trail. Police reports, ambulance reports, hospital records. How long do you wait before he decides to hit you in the head with his bat? That could kill you, you know. Coupla good shots to the skull-"

"Stop it! Don’t tell me how it feels." She looks at the wall, and when she looks back at me the tears have started again. "You don’t know what you’re talking about."

"Then tell me."

"If I wanted to discuss it, I would’ve brought it up. You have no right to go digging around in my life."