CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

 

 

Francis Le Mange had known Mike since meeting Henry. Though the three of them would occasionally have a few beers together, he and Mike always seemed to be at odds. As a rule, the mere sight of Mike put him in a mood to argue.

Francis sat in the waiting room with a dozen or so of Mike's friends. He didn't know any of them. There was a small, elderly Catholic woman who, after praying with her rosary, picked up a Sports Illustrated. Two couples huddled around a small table and spoke in hushed tones. The rest seemed to be alternating between sitting and standing, hoping the change would stifle some of the worry.

The rallying of support cast a new light on the man. Francis doubted that, if it were he, there would have been more than a few visitors. He then felt guilty for thinking about himself. Now it was his turn. The two officers watching the door were reporting directly to Sally Mae. She allowed each visitor no more than five minutes. As soon as she sensed Mike was getting tired, the visit ended.

Francis set the flowers among the others. "You are looking a little rough."

Sally Mae gave Francis an angry look and crossed her arms. Mike smiled, "I've been better, but Sally Mae is taking good care of me. I'll be back in the game before you know it."

"I am sure you will. You are a tough cookie."

"Leave it to you to speak in food."

Francis smiled, "It is what I do." Then there was silence.

Neither of the men was sure how to have a civil conversation with the other. Sally Mae sensed that it was getting uncomfortable, so she announced it was time for Mike to rest.

Francis went home and rolled a sheet of paper into his Underwood. It had been his dream to write a novel some day, but fear and self-loathing kept the dream at bay. With his head in turmoil, he turned to his words and began. It didn't go well. Without any real ideas for a plot or characters, he wandered aimlessly across the page. Before long, he had a poor man's Faulkner running for a couple of pages. He read it and thought, Stream of unconsciousness; rip and crumple.

Nothing came of his writing session, save a much deeper desire to write beyond the inches allowed by his editor. He dressed and went out for dinner, but the sadness for Mike persisted. He would go see him again tomorrow.