DELORES MILES WAS SLEEPING when Oliver entered her room. It seemed she was sleeping in more and more lately. Oliver sat in her recliner and watched her breathe, wondering exactly when she started to look her age. When his own eyelids grew heavy and sagged, he forced himself up and out of the chair. He kissed his mother on the forehead and made his way back to the lobby.
Betsy looked up and said, “What? No breakfast this morning?”
“She’s still sleeping.”
“I heard she was up late last night. Revival week.”
“Oh no,” Oliver said.
“Apparently she climbed onto the dinner table and started rebuking all the vile fornicators and gluttons in her midst.”
“Did she use the cooler?”
Betsy nodded, then relayed the details. Apparently his mother had enlisted a guy named Simon, a former Green Beret, who had already filled the oversized Igloo with generic fruit punch. The orderlies arrived as his mother and Simon hoisted the big jug over Mrs. Hazeltine, who was nibbling a piece of jelly toast unsuspectingly in her wheelchair.
“They really doused her,” Betsy said, “like a couple linebackers splashing their coach at the Super Bowl.”
Oliver allowed his chin to plummet dramatically to his chest, partly out of genuine shame for his mother, but also so Betsy wouldn’t see him smile.
“I think it worked too,” Betsy said.
“They say Mrs. Hazeltine stood up for the first time in years, raised her hands to heaven, and yelled, ‘Jesus wept!’”
Oliver didn’t have to feel guilty for smiling. Betsy thought this was much funnier than he did.
“So, is she in trouble?”
“Not as much as the orderlies,” Betsy said. “They were watching SportsCenter instead of the cafeteria.”
“In light of all that, I kind of hate to ask. But is Dr. Strahan here?”
“I think he’s in a meeting.” Betsy made talon-like quote signs when she said the word meeting.
“He seems to be in a lot of meetings lately.”
Ever since the untimely death of Ms. Tompkins, Oliver had tried to call the good doctor no less than ten times. But every time he called, Strahan was either in a meeting or he let the call go to voice mail.
Betsy looked conflicted, as if there was something on her mind. But all she said was, “I’d be happy to give him a message when I see him, if you think that would help.”
“Just tell him to call —”
Before Oliver could sarcastically state his full name and phone number, the thick door behind Betsy opened revealing the hulking security guard followed by none other than Dr. Strahan himself. He propped the door open with one foot while reaching toward Betsy with a thick, legal-sized envelope.
“Could you see that this gets in today’s mail?” he said, then noticed Oliver standing there. “Oliver, hey good to see you. And I apologize. I did get your messages, but things have been kind of crazy around here lately.”
“A lot of meetings?” Oliver said.
“I’m on my way to one right now, in fact.” To prove his point, he glanced at his watch.
“I need to talk to you about my mother.”
“I agree. And unfortunately, I don’t have a lot of time right now. But you would do well to remind her that she’s not going to get better if she won’t take her meds.”
“Are you saying she’s going to get better if she does?”
Strahan retreated back through the doorway until only his head and shoulders were visible. “We can only hope.”
“She’s convinced you guys are poisoning her,” Oliver said to the now closed door.
He looked to Betsy for help. She opened her mouth to speak, but then swiveled her gaze toward the recently closed door behind her. The burly Shady Grove security guard was perched in his customary spot by the door. Betsy closed her mouth again. It seemed the best she could offer was a sympathetic shrug.
Oliver stepped out of Shady Grove and squinted into the morning sun. He was surprised to see Roscoe there, leaning against his enormous Lincoln, squinting cross-eyed at the glowing tip of his cigarette.
“Here to see Mom?”
Roscoe looked up, startled. His attempted smile gave way to a series of small twitches. After a final, and seemingly painful, drag, Roscoe exhaled a long column of smoke and flicked the spent butt out into the parking lot. “Morning, Oliver. How is she?”
“You do realize you just littered?”
“Sorry,” Roscoe said. “Bad habit.”
“I’d say that’s at least two bad habits.”
Roscoe bent and picked up the smoldering butt, stubbed it on the bottom of his shoe, and tossed it through the open window of his car. “There,” he said. “Feel better?”
“I would feel better if you just quit smoking.”
“And I would feel much worse.”
“Are you coming inside?” Oliver said.
Roscoe stared at the building and seemed to tremble at the thought of actually stepping inside. Instead he said, “Let’s go get some breakfast.”
“They serve breakfast here. And Mom is probably up about now—”
But Roscoe was already ambling down the sidewalk. Oliver caught up and they walked in relative silence. Two blocks later they entered the parking lot of a donut shop Oliver had never noticed before. He made his way between a pair of shiny black cars. The first was a bulky Mercedes, very new and probably very expensive. But the more interesting car was parked alongside it at an odd angle. Oliver didn’t know cars, but he did recognize the sleek silvery wildcat leaping from the hood as a jaguar. The car was definitely old, but in immaculate condition from its taut convertible top to the flawless wine interior.
“Man, this thing is older than me,” Oliver said. “And in way better shape.”
“Probably closer to my age,” Roscoe said. “And worth more than my house.”
“That’s not really saying much,” Oliver said, watching his own playful grin in the reflection of the Jag’s window.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Same argument as your car. You could afford much better.”
Roscoe raised his hand to open the door but withdrew it again to pound a series of labored coughs up and out of his chest. Oliver wondered if he’d be able to muster the courage to ask Roscoe about his cancer. Why hadn’t he told Oliver about it before? Knowing Roscoe, he probably didn’t want to be a burden.
A cowbell dinged over the door when he finally held it open for Oliver. They approached the counter and ordered a pair of thick apple fritters and two coffees from a bored teenager who appeared to be trying to cure her ravaging acne with acupuncture—her pale face had more piercings than Oliver had ex-girlfriends. Roscoe paid for their breakfast and Oliver dropped a couple dollars in the tip jar. But the teenager never looked up.
They sat in a creaky booth near the door, elbows propped on the scarred table, and ate. Roscoe still seemed pensive, as if trying not to think about Shady Grove. Oliver wanted to ask how he was feeling, if there was a lot of pain, if he could do anything to help, but he knew it would just make Roscoe grumpy. The man did not abide unwanted attention well.
“How’s the donut?” Oliver said.
“It’s no Roscoe Platter. But it’ll do.”
“I know it kills you to hear this. But you’re famous for spotting talent, not frying burgers.”
“I’m not famous for anything, Oliver.”
“Of course you are. You’re a legend, and you know it.”
“But that’s not the same as famous.”
“How so?”
“I’m just a guy who owns a restaurant with a stage and a microphone.” Roscoe took a long, hard swallow of coffee. “Cenodoxus was a legend.”
“Who?”
“My point exactly. Now eat your donut.”
Oliver never tired of Roscoe’s paternal scoldings. Although he would never admit it, he kind of craved them. He followed Roscoe’s gaze toward a noise behind the counter where the thinnest, darkest man Oliver had ever seen ambled around the pierced adolescent, with a broom in one hand, a dustpan in the other, and a thoroughly confused look on his craggy face. He seemed to be searching for crumbs that weren’t there. Finally he shrugged and started moving the broom around. Oliver was about to whisper a reminder to Roscoe that it was rude to stare. The guy with the broom sensed it too. He blinked once, then again. His expression brightened, then exploded into a big smile.
The broom clattered to the floor and the man gathered Roscoe’s extended hand in both of his, pumping madly and saying over and over: “I can’t believe it. Roscoe? Is that really you?”
Instead of letting go of Roscoe’s hand, the guy cupped the back of his head and pulled him close, planting a loud kiss on his forehead.
“Ain’t that sweet?” the man said. “Roscoe’s blushing.”
Then Oliver caught himself flinching at the large brown fist arcing in slow motion toward his face. But the man was offering him a fist bump, not a punch in the schnoz.
“I’m Eddy Murphey,” the guy said, trying not to laugh at Oliver. “Eddy with a Y; Murphey with an E … the original Eddy Murphey. You tell him, Roscoe.”
But Roscoe didn’t need to tell him anything. Oliver recognized Eddy from Downers, from a decade ago. His face had weathered, his hairline retreated, but there was no mistaking the boisterous force of his personality. He used to refer to himself as a one-man cult. But the thing Oliver remembered most was how thoroughly hysterical the man was. His material was erratic, often ranging between zany and cerebral, but always funny.
Oliver was about to show his belated admiration when Eddy leaned in close and said, “Wait—is that the little paper football man? Oliver, right?”
“Good to see you again, Eddy,” Oliver said. “You still doing comedy?”
“Every day. But these young punks nowadays don’t get it. All that hip-hop done made ‘em too dull to appreciate the finer points of my comedic sensibilities.” Eddy jerked his thumb at Oliver and said to Roscoe, “He your new funny man?”
“He is funny,” Roscoe said, like he actually meant it. Oliver knew better than to indulge the pride swelling inside him. If Roscoe really thought he was funny, Oliver would have headlined at Downers by now. “We’re still working on the man part however.”
“He’ll get there.” Eddy squared himself in front of Oliver. “You just listen to what Roscoe says and you’ll be fine.”
Oliver nodded. Eddy stared thoughtfully at his broom, then picked it up and started sweeping a few donut crumbs into a neat pile.
Roscoe cleared his throat and said, “Bleak House here?”
Oliver remembered the name from an autographed black-and-white headshot. It was tacked up near the stage of Downers and revealed a wide face on an impossibly thick neck, a thin Casanova mustache, and one gold tooth. His signature read: Bleak as a tombstone, big as a house. If there was a real name attached, Oliver couldn’t remember it.
Eddy with a Y shook his big head.
“Off counting his money?” Roscoe said.
“Preparing to tell it goodbye,” Eddy said. “He in court again.”
“Another divorce?”
“Practice makes perfect.”
“Will he get to keep the cars?”
“I hope so. He already gave up the house. As soon as he got out of rehab, he moved into his office out back.”
“Rehab?” Roscoe said, real worry etched into his expression.
Eddy mimed tipping a beer mug to his lips, smiling. But it was a sad smile.
“Tell him if he needs anything to call me,” Roscoe said.
Eddy nodded and moved his broom around.
Roscoe said, “Stop in and see me sometime.”
“I’d like that, Roscoe. You know I would. But I’m afraid all those demons hanging around might recognize me, invite me back in, you know?”
“You need anything, Eddy?”
“No, sir. I’m as good as it gets.”
“Well you let me know if that changes.”
“You’ll be the first.”
Roscoe offered his hand, but midshake Eddy pulled his old friend to his feet and wrapped him in an awkward man hug, trading backslaps. He turned to say something to Oliver but squeezed his shoulder instead. Then he collected his broom and disappeared back into the kitchen.
“You ready?” Roscoe said.
“You didn’t finish your coffee.”
Roscoe blinked at his mostly full cup, then drained it in a single loud slurp. Then he slid out of the booth and dinged the bell again on his way out the door. Oliver finished his breakfast slower than necessary and watched Roscoe through the dirty glass as he leaned on the hood of the Jag and lit up another cigarette.
When Oliver finally made his way out into the sunlight he said, “Should we get it over with?”
“What’s that?” Roscoe said.
“The lecture. Or parable, or whatever you call this. I feel like Scrooge being shown my own miserable future as a comedian.”
“Oh, I thought we were here so I could buy my friend a donut.” When Oliver didn’t reply, Roscoe added, “He was the funniest one of the bunch, you know.”
“Who?”
“Eddy. He had real talent. But he was never going to make any money at it.”
“Money’s not everything, Roscoe.”
“Agreed, but it is something.”
“So are you going to tell me the point of all this? Or do I have to guess?”
“You’re a smart kid. I don’t think I have to spell anything out for you. I will tell you that, at some point, guys like Eddy and Bleak and a bunch of others ended up broke and homeless. They were still funny, mind you, but had no plan B when the comedy thing didn’t work out.”
“Bleak House appears to be doing alright. He owns his own donut shop, right?”
“He actually took my advice.”
“You mean he took your money?”
“And then he paid it all back. With interest.”
“Okay, so you helped a few former comedians get back on their feet. But in case you missed it, I already have a job.”
“And how long do you plan to be a security guard?”
Finally, Oliver said, “As long as it takes. It beats sweeping donut shops. Bleak House ended up divorced, drunk, and sleeping on a couch in his office. Seems like he could have accomplished all that without your help. Maybe if you hadn’t talked him out of a comedy career he’d be even more successful.”
“That’s the point, Oliver. I never told him to quit comedy. I encouraged him to think about his future. Most guys need a contingency plan.”
“And I’m one of those guys?”
“Yeah, Oliver, you are. We all are.”
“Hey, I’m already thinking of my future. I even hired a manager.”
That’s when Roscoe’s features creased in disgust. Evidently, Barry really had made an impression.
Oliver didn’t realize they were walking again until Roscoe stopped at the corner to allow a delivery van to pass.
“You’re a funny kid,” Roscoe said. “Always have been. But you allowed your expectations to outgrow your actual talent. That’s exactly what happened to Bleak House and Eddy and a hundred other guys.”
“Okay, if I’m so funny, why can’t I play your club?”
“I’ve told you a dozen times.”
“Tell me once more. I can be a little slow.”
Roscoe pointed toward the brick structure looming in front of them. “I promised your mother.”
Oliver resisted the urge to stomp his foot, stick his tongue out, and tell Roscoe that, for his information, he’d be playing his stupid club in a few weeks anyway. With or without his consent. But the emailed invitation had been explicitly clear that Roscoe’s benefit gig was to be kept secret.
Instead they just stood there in silence, staring up at the building. Roscoe alternated from an almost prayerful stillness to nonstop fidgeting. He fondled his lighter, smoothed whiskers, picked invisible flecks off his pant leg before settling back into another long stretch of forced tranquility. Every time he looked up at the building he seemed surprised to see it still standing there. Finally, he cleared his throat, then again. “I don’t know how you do it, kid. I honestly don’t.”
“Come on, Roscoe. Let’s just stop in and say hey. She doesn’t bite, I promise.”
“She used to.”
Roscoe chuckled at the confused expression on Oliver’s face, then offered his left hand for inspection. When it was obvious Oliver didn’t see anything, Roscoe pointed at a curved line of purplish scars that ran along the webbed meat between his index finger and thumb.
“She did that to you?”
Roscoe nodded, soundless and rueful and grinning like mad.
“Well come on then,” Oliver said, reaching for the ignition. “Seems like she owes you an apology.”
“I’m sorry; I wish I could. And I do try sometimes. But I can’t.” He rubbed the stubble on his chin and said again. “I just can’t.”
“Thanks for breakfast, Roscoe.”
“You’re welcome. And sorry if it sounded like a lecture.”
“It’s fine, Roscoe. A little preachy on your part, but fine.”
“You know I just want to help.”
“I’ve been asking for your help for years.”
“No, you’ve been asking to play my club. Big difference.”
Roscoe gave Oliver’s shoulder a squeeze, then turned and walked away from his hulking Town Car.
“Where are you going?”
“St. Anthony’s,” Roscoe said, pointing toward an ornate bell tower in the distance. “Been awhile since my last confession.”
“You’re going to walk?”
“It’s only eight blocks or so.”
“But you’re … you know … sick.”
Roscoe set his jaw, narrowed his eyes, and eventually looked away.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Oliver said.
“What’s to tell? I have a disease.” He pointed toward the bell tower again and said, “I’ll do what I can and leave the rest up to Him.”
“You sure I can’t drive you?”
“I have lung cancer, son, not dementia. Besides, the fresh air makes my cigarettes taste better.”