Part 22 (1/2)

Caleb got the phone on the second ring and sighed inwardly when he recognized the caller.

”How was your day?” Rick asked.

The question had an intimacy Caleb found himself resenting vaguely. It was the sort of question he and Chris had asked each other at day's end. He tried to a.n.a.lyze his reaction, tried to remember at what stage of their relations.h.i.+p he and Chris had started calling each other ”dear” and caring deeply, had started asking ”How was your day?” and really giving a d.a.m.n.

”What're you doing tonight?” Rick asked.

He'd planned to catch up on all the things he hadn't done yesterday because he was with Thinnes. He hadn't told Rick about Wisconsin. ”I really hadn't any firm plans.”

”Come to the game.”

”I can't,” Caleb said, trying to remember if the baseball play-offs were finally over and which of the three winter teams he'd heard mentioned on the news earlier.

”You just said you don't have any plans.”

”Who's playing?”

”That's a good one, Doc,” Rick said.

”Jack,” Caleb reminded him. He hated Doc.

”I got two tickets for the best seats in the house-center ice, front row, first balcony.”

The Blackhawks.

When Caleb didn't respond enthusiastically, Rick reminded him, ”This is the last season in the old stadium.”

Caleb had never been to see the Hawks at the stadium. In fact, he couldn't recall having attended a live hockey game since high school. And he was too tired to think of a plausible excuse not to go. So he didn't argue when Rick told him, ”I'll pick you up. No use two of us driving. And no sense taking a chance with that car of yours. See you tonight.”

Hawks versus Sharks. Bread and circuses or, in this case, beer and circuses-there were at least twice as many beer vendors as at a Bulls game. The crowd was mostly male and almost universally white, as well as merciless, vociferous, and vulgar. Regulation jackets, hats, and other Hawks paraphernalia-with the high cost of tickets, and more than forty home games-marked many of the fans as truly dedicated. Rick was one of them.

Below Rick and Caleb, on the main floor, the fans seemed more civilized and better dressed. Above, in the second balcony, the crowd was rowdier and more inebriated. Above and below, people were plugged into personal radios-addicted to the constant prattle of other people's voices or, perhaps, unable to interpret things for themselves.

The huge neon Indian glowed on the scoreboard above the ice, and colorful ads glowed from the boards around it. The teams came out at opposite ends of the arena and circled like the predators they were named for. Warming up. Unashamed to be labeled patriotic, the fans stood for the National Anthem, clapping and whistling, increasingly louder, until the roar was like the shock wave of an explosion in slo-mo. Caleb recognized that the appeal was as old as time, though he felt personally alienated from the spectacle. His perceptions began to blur from the sensory overload.

The game was very fast and not too subtle. It resonated in the cerebellum, the old brain, and the collective unconscious. The players were ritual killing machines, their fans drawn like predators to blood. Caleb didn't grapple strenuously with the rules.

Base chords from the stadium's organ vibrated below the human noises. The pressure of the sound wave swelled Caleb from within like the first waves of a building o.r.g.a.s.m. Ecstasy.

Eight minutes into it, a Shark shot the puck past the Hawk goalie, scoring. A fight broke out. Joyful mayhem compared to the carefully ch.o.r.eographed battles of professional wrestlers, but catering to the same needs. High on the most ancient drug, the crowd tongued its cheerful blood l.u.s.t. Then there was outrage from the crowd as the announcer reported Cam Russell being ejected.

Moments later, the Hawks evened the score, and Rick jumped to his feet screaming, ”Yes! Kimble!” When Poulin scored as well, two minutes later, the whole audience rose to its feet to recite his name.

As Caleb watched Rick pound the air in a Dionysian frenzy and give high fives to the equally insane fans around him, he thought the younger man's face, in the reflected light from the arena, seemed as beautiful as the G.o.d's.

And then, the first period was over.

Smoking was prohibited in the stands, but a hazy miasma floated above the lines waiting, between periods, for beer. As they stood meekly in the queue, Caleb felt withdrawal setting in-the wolves were turning back to cattle.

Second period, there was a lot of activity but no action. Caleb found himself devoting as much attention to the fights in the stands as to the activity on the ice. The man to Caleb's left became progressively drunker. He put each new beer inside the previously emptied cup, and by the end of the second intermission, he'd collected nine of them.

”The offense really sucks tonight,” Rick told Caleb, shortly after the third period began.

A fan behind them reiterated: ”Yeah, f.u.c.kin' pacifists!”

”They seem tired,” Caleb said.

”Yeah. Well, they did play yesterday,” Rick admitted.

”Who?”

Rick looked at him as if he were suddenly psychotic, and the fan behind him demanded, ”What planet are you from?”

Rick leaned over to shout, ”Boston!” in Caleb's ear.

”But they won?” Caleb persisted. He found himself comparing Rick to Thinnes. Unfavorably. The two men were as unlike as dog and cat, and that-he realized with an unpleasant shock-was what bothered him about Rick, what made him unsuitable as a companion. Rick was one of those who needed constant rea.s.surance; Caleb knew his charming narcissism would lose its appeal. Like Freud, he failed to fill Caleb's deepest longings, but unlike the cat, he made demands the doctor found annoying.

A few minutes further into the period, Caleb began to feel that the stadium was warmer. The crowd seemed closer and louder. A free-for-all erupted in the upper levels, and security guards in yellow jackets pushed their way among the boisterous to eject the instigators. Rick leaned over and said, into Caleb's ear, ”This isn't going anywhere. What say we blow this pop stand?”

Caleb agreed.

As they climbed into Rick's Blazer, he consoled himself with the thought that it could have been worse. It could have been next Sunday and he'd be missing Trovatore.

The worst of it was that any of the guys at Spaulding House would have killed for his ticket.

Forty-Seven.

The blinking readout on Caleb's answering machine was announcing five messages when he got home. He would have ignored it-in an emergency, he'd have been paged-but Rick's eager, ”Aren't you going to check your messages?” seemed like the perfect excuse to call off the rest of the evening.

The first message was: ”Yo, Jack. Need to check the Mann.” Rafe.

The next was a hang-up; it was followed by calls-each sounding more concerned-from Brian, Lenny, and Paul asking Caleb to get in touch. Manny was obviously having some sort of crisis.

Caleb picked up the phone and hit the auto-dial b.u.t.ton for Spaulding House.

Brian answered. ”Jack! Thank G.o.d!” Caleb waited. ”Manny's IV came out, and we can't find a vein we can get a needle into.”

”Why didn't you take him to the hospital?”

”He won't go. He's afraid they'll keep him.”

It was a realistic possibility.

”I'll be right there.” Caleb put the phone down and turned.

”I heard,” Rick said. ”A suicidal client?”