“That’s good—real real good,” Evans said in response to
Louis’ “They’re letting me come home tomorrow.” Evans sounded like a father
speaking to his young son, though he and Louis were the same age.
“Come home tomorrow,” Evans repeated. “Yes come home tomorrow.” A part of Evans was happy Louis was coming
home. He had grown weary of suffocating
hospital rooms that had been Louis’s home for nearly a year. He was tired of the Nurse’s syrupy banter and
the all-knowing Doctor Gods with their high shiny foreheads. The endless beeping and booping of machines
made his stomach churn. He had heard the drama of death playing too many
times--the wailing family members on one side of the wall while he and Louis
watched Golden Girls or The Simpson’s on the other side.
Evans looked at Louis and felt a warm burning in his belly.
Louis had walked out of their apartment late one night with a backpack slung
over his shoulder—walked out on two legs to another man’s car. That car flew out of control on a patch of
wet road and nearly crushed Louis in its metal belly. It curled about Louis like a snake curls
about its prey. They had had to employ
the Jaws of Life to pry Louis out of the mangled wreckage. They used forceps to pull the guy’s penis out
of Louis’s mouth. And now Louis Simmons was coming home.
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