The Flex of the Thumb by James Bennett Read Free Book Online Page B

remember pitching baseball? Did I hear you right?”
    â€œYes. I do. I believe my memory is intact.”
    â€œWhat did that blow to the head do to you?” Vernon Lucas felt his blood pressure escalating to a higher level. “ You remember pitching baseball ?? That’s like saying Michael Jordan remembers making a basket!”
    Approximately five seconds passed before Vano said, “I can’t remember who Michael Jordan is.”
    Vernon’s agitation intensified beyond his best intentions. “I don’t know what zone you’ve been in for the last month, but I’ve been in the combat zone. I’ve been fending off questions from the Oakland management, legal inquiries from soft drink companies, nagging from the media, and prayer requests from Sister Cecilia. We’re going to have to talk a little turkey here. With all due respect for your condition, of course.”
    â€œHow is Sister Cecilia doing?” Vano heard himself asking. But then he felt himself retreating down the corridor of hooommm to a place of deeper reverberations. He said again, “I can remember pitching.”
    â€œDo you remember pitching to the Oakland A’s? Do you remember blowing them away in the Coliseum?”
    Eventually, when the answer arrived, it was “Yes.” But Vano discovered that even when his memories were clear, there were no emotional attachments associated with them. They were utterly neutral, like recollecting the turns you might take along a route to reach a particular destination.
    Vernon continued aggressively, “Then maybe you remember what’s at stake? The gold mine is still out there waiting. When do you suppose you’ll be ready to do some throwing?”
    Vano pondered the question, but without urgency, in a condition of total serenity. “When it sounds like it might be fun?” he asked, by way of answering.
    â€œFun?!” sputtered Vernon. “Did you say fun ??” His crescendoing level of frustration warned him to slow down. As luck would have it, they were on the outskirts of Bakersfield, where he had a favorite restaurant. He swung the car into the parking lot of The Cut Above .
    The Cut Above had subdued lighting and a decor to suggest the turn of the century. Vano’s father stopped at the bar long enough to order two dry martinis. He downed one in a hurry, then carried the other to their table. On the table was a kerosene lamp, but it wasn’t burning; it was only for looks.
    The waitress came. Vano’s father ordered garden salad and braised sirloin tips on toast, cooked in wine sauce. He told the waitress, “And one more of these martinis. Dry. Make that right away, please.”
    When it was his turn, Vano said, “I’d like a cheeseburger, please.”
    â€œOh come on,” complained his father. “Is that what you’re going to order?”
    Vano felt another of the uncomfortable flickers before the answer came to him. “They didn’t have cheeseburgers in the hospital, I think I’d enjoy one.”
    â€œHow do you know what they fed you in the hospital? You were eating through a tube.”
    Briefly, “I’m pretty sure it wasn’t cheeseburgers.”
    â€œThat’s not something you order in a place like this. You can get a cheeseburger at Burger King, for god’s sake. This menu has a large selection. Maybe you’d better look it over again.”
    The waitress stood with her pad and pencil poised while Vano tried to peruse the menu again. He wanted to think of a reply, but these things seemed to come or they didn’t. He found himself flickering again, just before going numb. Finally his father instructed the waitress, “I guess you might as well bring him a cheeseburger.”
    There was no conversation during the meal. Vano thought the cheeseburger tasted very good. When they were finished eating, Vernon ordered coffee.
    The waitress brought the