A Fine Line Read Online Free PDF Page A

walked to the parking garage where I’d left my car and drove to Walden Pond, it would be nine o’clock and Evie would be gone.
    Anyway, I couldn’t just leave Walt in the hospital.
    So I walked down Mt. Vernon Street to Charles Street,went into the first restaurant I came upon, and found a pay phone inside the doorway. I dialed the number for Evie’s cell phone, knowing it was a futile hope. She’d never bring a cell phone on a picnic at Walden Pond. She liked the quiet of the place the way Thoreau did. He would’ve considered an electronic gadget to be a profound violation of everything the pond and the woods represented, and I knew that Evie shared his transcendental sensibilities.
    Her voice mail clicked in immediately, meaning she’d turned the phone off, and invited me to leave a message.
    “I guess you noticed I didn’t make it,” I said. “Sorry about that. I had a meeting with Walt Duffy this afternoon. You met Walt, remember? The man with the bird garden? He’s paralyzed, writes that column you like? Anyway, when I got here, he’d fallen and banged his head, and he was unconscious and nobody else was here, so I called 911 and the paramedics came and took him to the hospital. Then the cops came and asked me a lot of questions, and now it’s about seven-thirty and I’m supposed to be at Walden with you, but I’m not. I’m still here in the city, and I’m about to head over to Mass General to see how Walt’s doing, so—”
    At that moment the time for my message expired with a rude click.
    I redialed the number and told Evie’s voice mail, “Just to clarify, I can’t make it tonight. I hope you’re having a nice picnic without me. I’ll call you later.”
    Massachusetts General Hospital was about a fifteen-minute walk down Charles Street on the other side of Cambridge Street. It’s a massive series of structures, and it took me some time to locate the emergency room. People of all descriptions and speaking myriad languages huddled in the waiting room, and various interns and residents and nursesand orderlies were bustling around ignoring them.
    When I finally got the attention of one of the women behind the glass-fronted counter, I told her I wanted to see Walter Duffy.
    “Spell it, please,” she said. She had black close-cropped hair and pink lipstick and dark skin and a faintly Bahamian accent. She sounded neither rude nor friendly. Mainly stressed.
    I spelled “Duffy” for her.
    She poked at the keyboard of her computer, frowned, then checked a clipboard. “Walter Duffy?” she said.
    “Yes. That’s right.”
    “Upstairs. Surgery.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder.
    “How do I find him?”
    She shrugged. “I can’t help you. He’s not here.” She looked past my shoulder dismissively.
    I turned. A young man holding a baby in his arms was standing behind me. Both of them were crying.
    I went outside, walked around to the front of the building, and went in the main entrance. It was less chaotic there. A white-haired woman behind the information desk told me that visitors were not admitted to the surgical floor.
    I asked her if she could give me any information on Walt Duffy.
    She said she was sorry, but she couldn’t.
    I asked her what she’d do if a friend of hers had been brought to the hospital for emergency surgery.
    She pointed to a bank of telephones. “House phone,” she said. She gave me the extension number for the surgical unit.
    I went over and dialed it. A woman answered.
    “I’m calling about Walter Duffy,” I said.
    “Who is this?”
    “A friend of his. I’m in the lobby.”
    “Mr. Duffy is being prepared for surgery,” she said. “That’s all I can tell you.”
    “Is he going to be okay?”
    “I have no more information for you, sir.”
    “How can I get more information?”
    “Call when he’s out of surgery. Ask for Acute Care.”
    “When will he be out of surgery?”
    She sighed. “I have no idea. I’m sorry.”
    I hung up the phone.