Bloodman by Robert Pobi Page A

long time they had helped. “Got on with my life.”
    Jake’s eyes left Spencer and slid down to the safari pool out on the deck. In a way there was something serene, almost meditative about it. Maybe it wasn’t a sign of neglect after all. Maybe his father had been going Zen.
    “What, exactly, do you do, Jake?”
    “I paint the dead.” He looked back to the pond/pool.
    “Another great American artist,” Spencer said, and poured his coffee down the drain.

8
    His father’s jaw hung slack, cheeks dented in as if an invisible hand squeezed his face. Charred gray stubble flecked his skin and white specks of mucus hung at the corners of his closed eyes and open mouth. The left side of his face was a black-red mess of scab and antibiotic ointment bisected by a long sutured scar that ran from eyebrow to chin. His hands were bandaged knobs at the ends of his wrists, bloody gauze clubs. He snored loudly, the tremor of his voice shaking the air in the room. Even in medicated sleep the man commanded attention.
    The room was full of flowers of every conceivable color, hue, and proportion. It smelled like a jungle, and Jake wondered what his old man would say about the composition.
    The pneumatic door closer hissed softly and Jake turned to see a nurse in hospital blues come in. She was small, compact, and there was something familiar about her. “Has anyone asked you about the mail?”
    Jake’s eyes swept back to his father, then to her brown stare, then down to her name tag. Rachael , it read. He would have much preferred a last name to go with the woman. “Mail?” was all he said.
    She nodded. “The mail department called up and asked the station what they should do.”
    Jake looked at her, wondering what the hell she was talking about. “About what?” he asked.
    “About your father’s mail. It’s piling up.”
    Jake sighed, tightened up his chest to process oxygen a little more efficiently, then shrugged. “Just put it in his nightstand. I’ll take care of it.”
    The nurse stared at him for a few seconds, then her head began to shake side to side. She raised an eyebrow. “There’s an awful lot , Mr. Coleridge.”
    “Cole. My name is Cole.”
    She paused for a second, as if her hard drive had crashed. “Um, there’s nine sacks of mail for your father downstairs. I suspect that a lot more is coming. There will be more flowers, too.”
    Jake’s brain was still hung up on trying to figure out what was so familiar about her. “Nine sacks?” he asked, jerking a thumb at his father. “For him?”
    “Apparently so, yes.”
    Jake let out a sigh that he followed with a loose shrug. It was hard to forget that his father was famous but he had somehow managed it. But the world of the triple W would no doubt be abuzz with news of his father’s accident. “Any suggestions?”
    “Peter Beard stayed overnight once. His people took care of everything. We’re not equipped to handle this much mail.”
    Jake smiled. “I don’t have any people.” Or a desire to be here , he wanted to add. “I’ll get someone to come collect it.” His father’s snoring hitched with an interrupted breath, then stopped. “Do you have a pediatrics ward?” he asked.
    Nurse Rachael nodded. “Of course, second floor. Why?”
    “Take all of my father’s flowers to pediatrics. Hand them out to the children. Throw the cards out.”
    The nurse nodded slowly as she tried to find something wrong in his directives. When she couldn’t find a loophole, she smiled. “That’s a wonderful idea.” Suddenly, Jake realized what was so familiar about her.
    Jake turned back to his father. “Has he been awake at all?”
    Nurse Rachael nodded. “He was up last night, at the beginning of my shift.” As if to accentuate the point, she suppressed a yawn with the back of her hand. “He was in pretty good spirits.”
    “Him?” he asked, not meaning to sound so surprised. Jake could not remember his father ever being in good spirits. The light