Chapter 46

17:50 Wednesday, November 13^th, 1991

392 7th Ave

San Mateo, CA 94401

It's nearly time, Jack Kostowe knew. Tonight, they were to have supper with two couples that had contacted them through the Oakland Yacht Club, inquiring about the berth the Joy Redux wasn't actually occupying.

Jack and Deb had discussed possibly subletting the spot out, and she'd advised sounding the other couples out, first, over supper.

Deb had done some research, and found both couples were partners on a wooden sailing vessel that competed in the Master Mariner's Regatta each year, but didn't venture out of the bay. At first, Jack was slightly scornful – what use is a ship that doesn't sail the ocean? After some serious reflection, though, he realized that either of two conditions would keep the boat in the Bay. They were, he reasoned, that either the boat was not seaworthy or would not stay seaworthy in any kind of weather, or the sailor/owners themselves were not seaworthy.

Jack was feeling his years. It would be two more months until his birthday, and he'd often wondered, facetiously, what it was about spring that had led couples such as his mother and dimly-remembered father to conceive children. You know damned well that the last thing on anyone's mind is that they'll give birth in January. They were probably drunk for their May Day or Constitution Day Celebration. With a smile for the thought, he turned to wondering how the evening would play out.

As he shaved, he played out the possibility that they'd offer a part ownership in their boat, and a chance to sail and race the boat in the various regattas over the sailing months. It had a certain attraction to Jack, coxswain and boatswain that he was, to sail a wooden boat that flexed and moved with the wind. Especially if I don't have to do much of the work, he admitted to himself.

Jack pulled on his pants, and began fastening his shirt as he moved to the top of the stairs, where he had left his shoes. Annoyed, he felt his pant cuff snag on what had to be a loose nail in the floor. Looking down at his left foot in annoyance, he failed to place his hand on the banister cap at the top of the stair, and clearly heard the pant material rip as he pitched forward into the stairwell.

Jack bounced once, and came to rest, painfully, at the bottom of the stair, having successfully used his hands to fend his face off the last stair. Dazed, he felt something in his ribcage give and then sharp pain when he tried to breathe deeply. There was something wrong with his left wrist, also, the joint looked odd, though it didn't hurt. It doesn't hurt yet, he amended the thought.

You're old. You'd better call an ambulance, he thought, and tried to sit up. Dull pain flared into white heat from his left side, where he'd bounced off the stair. Oh shit! I've broken my hip.

Resolute, Jack knew minutes would matter. Despite the pain, he pulled himself to the kitchen, sort of using his good leg to push while he pulled with his right arm. Tacking, he knew, I need to tack. Every push is making me slide to the left.

With necessarily economical movements, he slid to the broom, and then back across the linoleum floor to the telephone mounted on the wall. He knocked the receiver off its cradle, and narrowly had it miss hitting his head for his trouble. Through the growing pain, he managed, on his fifth try, to use the broom to press '0'.

"Operator, how may I help you?"

No words had ever sounded sweeter to Jack.

19:15 Wednesday, November 13^th, 1991

7914-B Arthur Street

Oakland, CA 94621

"Deb, calm down," the Gunny said, which had the effect of riveting Lenore's attention to the telephone conversation. "Okay, where is he?"

The Gunny waved the pen by the telephone impatiently when it wouldn't write. "San Mateo County Hospital," he told Lenore. "Okay, Deb, we'll be there in forty minutes."

He looked at Lenore. "Call Fales, I don't know if you're flying south tomorrow. He's in surgery." Lenore knew without having to be told who 'he' was.

"Aye aye, Gunny," Lenore said, without a trace of sarcasm. She reached for her cellular phone, as the Gunny trotted up the stairs to get redressed. Jack Kostowe, you mean too much to us to be hurt.