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At least they think I’m funny.
Twelve
AT FIERRO’S, I PICK UPa pizza, then drop the box on my kitchen counter. After I run to the ocean and back, I eat only a couple of reheated pieces with the one beer I’m allowing myself tonight. Then I turn on the Mets game and my laptop.
I will get to the coverage of the first day of the trial later. I was there, so it will be light reading.
For now I read up on neck and head cancer, and how it progresses, and how quickly. Doing what just about everybody else does these days, which means self-diagnosing on the internet.
But after too many websites educating me about too much bad shit, I finally give up.
I know what Dr. Sam has told me, that the beginning of my treatment will mean chemotherapy plus radiation, and that the worst-case scenario, depending on my own particular pathology, might eventually include loss of my voice and—even worse—a feeding tube at some point. I can only imagine how romantic that might be for Dr. Ben, the most popular vet in the area.
Sam has made it clear that I can put off starting treatment for my specific cancer, which has only progressed locally so far, but hasn’t metastasized. I just can’t put it off for long. And I’ve made it clear that it’s a risk I’m willing to take, because starting treatment now would mean somebody else would have to finish the trial. And that wasn’t going to happen on the chance that this was the last case I was ever going to try.
“I just don’t want you to do anything that reduces your best chance at being cured,” Dr. Sam had said.
“Makes me even more motivated to get a fast acquittal,” I’d said.
“Just know that if you don’t, I’ll be the one putting you in handcuffs and taking you to chemo,” she had said, and then shook her head. “Still crazy.”
“After all these years.”
I don’t fall asleep in my car tonight, just in front of the Mets. When my ringtone—the Boston College fight song—awakens me, the boys on the postgame show are breaking down the loss as if it’s some kind of ballparkCSIepisode.
It’s Jimmy.
“I’ve been thinking on it,” he says, “and the case up-island where the people got deep-fried is one we definitely take.”
“I already locked it in on my way home from court.”
“Without locking it in with me first?”
“I knew you wanted me to,” I say. “I could hear it in your voice.”
“Okay, then. So unless you got something you need me to do with Jacobson tomorrow, I’m gonna take a ride over there and meet with McCall and get after it.”
“Please take me with you,” I say.
“C’mon. I been reading about what happened today. Sounds like you killed it.”
“That’s me. A killer.”
Jimmy says, “You’re sure your plate’s not too full for us to do the other?”
“Girl’s gotta eat,” I say, and end the call.
I’m about to head up to bed when I hear a familiar scratching at the back door. I throw on the porch light, unlock the door, and open it.
The dog is back.
It’s a black Lab who started showing up about a week ago. No collar. Male. Moving slowly, but not limping, or in any obvious distress. I don’t know a lot about dogs, but this one’s coat seems to have a lot of gray in it, whatever that means. His eyes, though, seem pretty alert.
His tail is always wagging when he shows up in the yard.
It is now.
“You looking for a nice home?” I say.
