The Unspeakable by Charles L. Calia Page A

white, hardly brighter.
    â€œHow’s Lucy?”
    â€œAbout time for my rounds if you want to come.”
    â€œI’d like that,” he said. “What about Helen?”
    â€œStill on the machines.”
    Marbury took off the coat that he’d borrowed from an EMS worker and slipped it back in the fellow’s locker. He’d never know.
    They walked down the hall to Abigail’s station, where she picked up her clipboard and the few things that she would need on her rounds. A blood-pressure cuff, for one, child’s size, and they went to Lucy’s room.
    â€œWho’s Franklin?” asked Marbury. “You said her name was Franklin.”
    â€œThat was the mother’s name. I guess the stepfather wanted nothing to do with the child, since it wasn’t his.”
    â€œAnd the birth father?”
    â€œNone. No records anyway. You see that a lot in hospitals. We get more immaculate conceptions than even you guys. Women without boyfriends or husbands. Hear them talk and you’d swear it was God.”
    Abigail walked through the door first. She flipped on a light and went over to the bed where the child was sleeping. Marbury looked at Lucy closely. She had dark hair, which was shoulder length, that curled up around her neck and onto her pillow. Her nose was small, like that of a pug, and matched her face. Baby fat. She looked younger than her four years.
    â€œI have to take your blood pressure, Lucy. Stay asleep if you want.”
    But the girl just rubbed her eyes. “Is that you, God?”
    Abigail glanced at Marbury and smiled. “See what I mean?”
    Marbury didn’t pay any attention to someone waking up, especially waking up in a room as gloomy as this one. Gray walls, no window. No pictures. Hardly even a bed. It looked like a room in a penitentiary.
    â€œI remember you,” said Lucy, cracking her eyes. “Terrible accident.”
    â€œThis is Jim Marbury. He’s a priest.”
    The sound of ripping Velcro. Her blood pressure was normal.
    â€œHow are you feeling?” asked Marbury.
    â€œBad boo-boo.” And she rubbed her head.
    â€œYour head hurts?”
    â€œMy head, and Mommy’s head. She’s sleeping with the angels now.”
    The nurse glanced at Marbury and frowned. Not far from the truth.
    Marbury said, “You’re right. Your mommy’s very sick. Now you have to pray, Lucy. We’re all praying.”
    â€œBut I’m not allowed to pray.”
    â€œWho says?”
    â€œJacob. Jacob’s mean to God, but God isn’t mean back.”
    â€œThen we’ll keep it as our little secret. How’s that?”
    â€œSecrets are fun as long as you don’t tell.”
    Marbury watched me write, scribbling things down as fast as I could. I wasn’t going to take notes, but I did anyway, a habit of mine, and this time was no exception. While I scrambled to catch up, Marbury had left and brought us back a few beers that he had stashed somewhere, and he opened them up. I took a long swallow.
    He said, “I heard Rinker’s burned down.”
    Rinker’s. It was an old seminary bar where we sometimes snuck away to. Hardly more than a neighborhood hangout in Decorah, Rinker’s had a jukebox and that kept us sane. Plus talking or watching sports on the TV.
    I said, “That place was a firetrap. Probably electrical, eh?”
    â€œNot this time. A woman came in with a can of gasoline and torched the place. She said her husband was spending too much time there with his girlfriend.”
    â€œGood riddance then.”
    Marbury smiled and worked his beer.
    He thought for a moment, then said, “Do you ever miss it?”
    â€œRinker’s?”
    â€œNo, I mean out there. Do you ever miss it?”
    Out there.
    I set down my notes and looked at him. Marbury was using those words but he didn’t mean them. Those were just words behind the words. He was really talking about