Carolyn’s husband, Richard, was home alone when the telephone rang. He tried to manipulate his electric wheelchair close to the wall-mounted phone, but by the time he got there the caller had been transferred to the answering machine.                

“I won’t be home tonight,” he heard Curtis, his live-in attendant, shout through the speaker. “I’m in the Alameda County Jail. The police picked me up for dope. But it wasn’t me, it was the dude in the seat next to me. Tell Carolyn her car is on the corner of Peralta and 17th. She should go down there and pick it up. Won’t be tires on it in the morning if she don’t go now. I’ll be out by tomorrow, Richard. Sorry ‘bout this. I gotta go.”

Richard called Carolyn’s office. Using his lips, he lifted his mouthstick, an eight inch, lightweight, thin metal tube with a plastic tip on one end, from its stand on his wheelchair tray. He gripped it between his teeth in order to tap the oversized numbers on his specialized telephone. He reached her voicemail, but he didn’t leave a message. He looked at the clock on the wall above his television set. She had probably already left work and was on her way to the 16th Street BART station.

When she arrived home he was waiting for her in their living room, which also served as their dining room and Richard’s office, bathroom and bedroom. Before she could put down her bags or say hello he was shouting.

“Curtis is in big trouble,” he said in a rush. “He’s in jail. You’ve got to go get your car, it’s in West Oakland. That stupid son of a bitch. We should let him rot there!”

Carolyn took a deep breath and looked at Richard. His steely blue eyes stared back at her. The mouth and lips that she had once found so warm and sensuous were turned down in a permanent scowl. On the television screen behind him, Jerry Seinfeld cracked jokes and the audience sound track laughed. She felt panic rise in her throat.              

“Fuck,” she whispered as she dropped her bags on the couch and wrestled off her coat. Then she took a deep breath. “Okay,” she said in a controlled voice. “Let’s not get upset. I’ll put you to bed and in the morning I’ll call a lawyer.”

Richard turned his wheelchair around by pushing, with his chin, a joystick mounted in front of his face. He gazed blankly at the TV. What could he do? Like almost everything else since his accident, jails, and dope were a new experience for them. Carolyn didn’t even know how to look up the county jail in the telephone book. She called information. Then she dialed the jail.

“May I please speak to Curtis Washington?” she asked the woman on the other end of the line.

“Who’s Curtis Washington?” the woman answered, sounding annoyed.

“I believe he is being booked or has been booked this evening.”

The woman let out an audible sigh. “What did you say his name was?”

“Curtis Washington.”

After a moment she came back on the line and said, “Yeah, he’s here. But you can’t talk to him. He’s in a cell.”

“Can I come in and see him now?”  Carolyn asked politely.

“No, you can’t see him. I told you, he’s in his cell. You can’t see him ‘til the weekend.”

“But how do I get in touch with him?” Carolyn asked.

“Lady, you can’t,” the woman answered with impatience. “If he decides to call you he can. He gets arraigned tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry,” said Carolyn, “but what exactly does that mean?”

“It means he could be in here for a long time, or he could be out by noon tomorrow. It means his arraignment could get postponed and he won’t be out ‘til Friday. If he’s charged, he could go to Santa Rita as early as tomorrow. It means he’s in trouble.”

There was a pause and Carolyn thought the woman had hung up, but then she continued to speak. “You can’t do anything for him right now. Call the D.A.’s office at noon tomorrow. They should be able to give you some answers.”

“Oh, I see,” Carolyn stammered. But she didn’t really understand what was going on. She thought of another question. “Can you tell me what he’s been charged with?”

Carolyn heard the woman sigh again. “Hold on,” she said. After a moment she came back and barked, “Sellin’ crack cocaine. Bail is set at $20,000. Like I said, if he wants to call you he can. But you’ll have to wait until tomorrow to talk to the D.A.”

“Thank you,” Carolyn whispered. She was out of breath.
      

Carolyn found an Oakland map in a drawer and searched for 17th and Peralta. It wasn’t far away. She briefly considered asking a friend to drive her, but it was late. Calling someone for help in the past had often resulted in disappointment. She dreaded the hesitation, real or imagined, that she heard when she waited for their response. She had learned not to contact anyone unless it was an absolute crisis. Carolyn’s definition of emergency had changed radically within the past year. These days emergency meant life or death, not Curtis in the clink, or no one available to help her with Richard’s care, or a car abandoned in a potentially unpleasant neighborhood.              

She looked inside her wallet to see if she had enough money for a taxi. It contained $2.85 and a partially used BART ticket. It would cost at least $5 to get to West Oakland. She knew that Richard didn’t have any money. His wallet contained only his official California ID, his HMO card and a wrinkled photograph from years ago of himself and Carolyn on a backpacking trip in Yosemite. Of course, he could only look at the photo when Carolyn pulled it out for him and put it in front of his face. He hadn’t seen it in months.

“I’ll ride my bike down there and get the car,” she told him. “Seventeenth and Peralta isn’t near a BART station and I don’t have any idea how long it will take me to get there by bus, or if a bus even goes there. When I get back I’ll give you dinner and then I’ll put you to bed.”  Richard was a C-4 quadriplegic. He’d been in a bicycling accident the previous year. He was paralyzed below the shoulders, the result of whacking his neck on the pavement after flying over the handlebars of his Italian racing bike. He had been muscular, handsome, independent, but now he needed help with everything: eating, washing, voiding. Without Curtis, Carolyn would have to do it all herself: make dinner and spoon it into Richard’s mouth, pull him out of his wheelchair, slide him into bed, take off his clothes, detach his leg bag and empty its contents, brush his teeth, clean his ears, turn off the television and the lights before falling into her bed upstairs, alone.
            
“Be careful riding your bike in the dark,” Richard told her when she said she was ready to leave. His eyes never left the screen as he watched George, Elaine and Kramer in Jerry’s apartment. Carolyn wanted him to tell her not to go, that it was too dangerous in that part of Oakland and that it could wait until the morning. She wanted him to get out of his wheelchair and go with her. She needed him to be in control like he used to be, before the accident, when he was strong and healthy, when he’d worked as a financial analyst in the city and had been in charge of almost everything in their lives. She had been content to be his lover and companion. She had never planned on being his nurse.

She went into the garage and pulled her old mountain bike out of the dusty clutter of unused skis, climbing gear and rollerblades. She squeezed the knobby tires. They were soft from disuse but she thought they’d make it as far as West Oakland. She found her bike helmet hanging from a nail between ski poles and lifejackets. She brushed aside the cobwebs and put it on. As she snapped the straps together under her chin she thought about Richard’s cracked and dented helmet and the bloody clothes that the ER orderlies had cut off of him. They were in a paper bag, hidden away in a nearby corner. She didn’t dare look in that direction, but she knew they were there. The helmet had saved Richard’s brain, but not his body.

She rolled the bike down the driveway toward the quiet street. The night air was cool and she could smell the sticky, sweet scent of jasmine. She noticed for the first time in months that the vine Richard had planted many years ago, when he had been an enthusiastic and passionate gardener, was overgrown. It covered the entire south side of the house. She’d have to get out the clippers and trim it soon before it covered the windows and took over their home entirely.

She mounted the bicycle seat and pedaled over to 53rd Street, crossed Martin Luther King and continued onto West. The thoroughfare was wide and well-lit. There was no traffic. She was surprised by how good it felt to be on a bike again. Her legs felt strong, but she had no time to relax. She looked straight ahead, afraid to make eye contact with the young men hanging out on the corners. As she pedaled westward, the streetlights thinned, and the avenue became dark. Large, shadowy warehouses stood back from the street interspersed with small wooden houses, a few lit, some with people sitting on the front porches. She caught the red glow of cigarettes and heard the faint murmur of conversations. She knew from the evening news that this was an area known for crime, for drug traffic, and drive-by shootings. She shouldn’t be here by herself, at night.

Within 15 minutes she found the Subaru. It was parked crooked in the middle of a quiet block, the front tires against the curb, the back end partially out onto the street, as if someone had pulled over and gotten out in a rush. The windows were open and Carolyn could see that the passenger seat was set in full recline position. Whoever had sat in the seat must have been very tired. Or maybe they hadn’t wanted to be seen.                              
She hopped off her bike and looked around to see if she was alone. She popped open the trunk. Things were in disarray. The carpeting that covered the spare tire was pulled up and had not been replaced. It looked as if someone had rifled through it, searching for something. It gave her chills.

She wrestled her bike apart, opened both back doors and pushed from one end, then pulled from the other in order to cram it into the backseat. Carolyn threw the front and rear tires into the trunk and closed it. She slid into the driver’s seat, took off her helmet and tossed it onto the backseat. The glove compartment was open, its contents strewn across the floor. She slammed it shut, adjusted the rearview mirror and turned the key. A blast of loud rap music frightened her. She slapped at the OFF button, locked the doors, closed the windows and pulled out onto 17th Street. The neighborhoods remained eerily quiet as she drove through them, but her car felt occupied by more than just herself.

Curtis did not call again that night and this worried her. She wasn’t happy that her car had been involved in an apparent drug raid, but Richard’s welfare was her main concern. What would she do if Curtis didn’t come home soon? She couldn’t take care of Richard by herself. She would have to get someone else to help her. She knew how difficult it was to find anyone willing to do this kind of work, to bathe and feed her husband, lift him in and out his wheelchair, empty the contents of his bladder and his bowels. It was an ongoing challenge that Curtis, although not perfect, had been willing to fulfill with laid-back reliability in exchange for a small wage, a roof over his head, a well-stocked refrigerator and the occasional use of her car.

In the morning she phoned a lawyer friend, who gave her the name of an attorney who specialized in criminal law. She called him and told him what she knew.

“Mrs. Carson,” he said. “How long have you known this guy?”

“Since my husband’s accident almost a year ago. He’s been living with us since December. He helps me with my husband’s care. I depend on him.”

“Do you know if he’s got a previous record?”

“Yes,” she answered.

“Do you know what it’s for?”

She remembered the words Curtis had thrown around casually when he was telling her stories about his old life, the days when he used to “own” Fillmore Street in San Francisco. “Pimping, pandering, prostitution,” she said, trying to make her voice sound casual. “But that was over twenty-five years ago, when he was practically a kid.”

There was a pause. Then the lawyer said, “Listen, I know you want to help this guy, but don’t bother. I see this kind of stuff all the time. You don’t have the money for bail, do you?”

“No.”

“Get a new attendant for your husband. He could be in jail for a long time. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, but that’s just the way it is. You’ve got to take care of yourself.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly as she hung up the phone and tried to quell her anger at his arrogance. He may see this stuff all the time, she thought, but he doesn’t have to live with it.

At noon she telephoned the D.A.’s office. “Could you give me the status of Curtis L. Washington?” she asked.

“Just a moment,” said a voice. Then a second later, “He’s not being charged. He’ll be out around 1 p.m.”

Relieved, Carolyn called the jail. “Could you tell me when I can pick up Mr. Curtis Washington, please?”

“What?” asked the man on the other end.

“I’ve just gotten off the telephone with the D.A.’s office,” Carolyn explained. “They told me Curtis Washington will be out by 1 p.m.”

“Lady, the guys at the D.A.’s office don’t work here.”  He sounded angry. “We ain’t heard nothin’ from them yet. If he gets out and he wants you to come and get him he’ll call you. You’ll have to wait.”

So she waited. She knew that Curtis would telephone her when he was out. There was no way in hell he’d walk home. Curtis didn’t walk anywhere if he could help it. And he knew that she would come and get him as soon as he called.      
            
Carolyn spotted Curtis sitting alone on a bench in front of the county jail, a huge gray complex that took up two city blocks. It was not far from Carolyn and Richard’s home, but she had never noticed it before. She pulled over to the curb and he got up off the bench and slowly walked toward the Subaru. He had a way of swinging his broad shoulders and rolling his slim hips that made her half believe his stories about Fillmore Street.

“See what you get for bein’ a nice guy?” he asked her as he folded his length into the passenger seat and adjusted it to a semi-upright position. He looked straight ahead and pulled down the overhead visor. “How was I to know that dude had dope on him and $3,000?  I was jus’ tryin’ to do the dude a favor. Goddamn, you can’t trust nobody no more.”

Carolyn said nothing as she glanced in the rearview mirror before pulling back onto the street. Her blonde hair hung limp and uncombed. The wrinkles around her hazel eyes seemed to have multiplied overnight. Long ago, after she had found empty Saint Ides’ bottles rolling around in the backseat of the Subaru and Curtis had feigned ignorance as to how they could have spontaneously appeared, she had restricted him, like a teenager, to only using the car during daylight hours. But Curtis always pushed the limits of her middle-class sensibility and it seemed the car was no longer hers, except when the gas tank needed to be filled.

“You know, that dude asked me to drive him somewhere and wait for him,” Curtis continued. “So I did. How was I to know that the police were watchin’ that house?  That there be a shitload of coke and money in there and that kid was hidin’ it under his balls and stuffin’ money in his pockets. I was just tryin’ to help him out, that’s all. Next thing you know, blue lights come up behind us and there be The Man. I told him I ain’t got no money and no dope. I shouldn’t of even been taken in. He knew I hadn’t done nothin’. Dude told him I ain’t done nothin’, but still I got hauled in with him. Goddamn!”

Carolyn glanced at Curtis. His eyes were puffy and red. Stubby, day-old beard growth, some of it gray, covered his chin. His black jeans and white t-shirt were wrinkled and dirty.                                  
“Where did you sleep?” she asked at the first stoplight.

“On a hard seat,” he answered. He tracked a young woman with his eyes as she crossed the street in front of them. “It was like a shelf,” he continued. No pillow, no blanket, no nothin’.” He didn’t look at Carolyn but he nodded to let her know the light had changed.

“Were you alone?” she asked as she pressed down on the accelerator.

“Shit, no. There was four or five other dudes in there. All drunk or high on somethin’. No, I wasn’t alone, that’s for damn sure. Wish I’d been alone.”

“I tried to call you.”

“Yeah, well, you can’t call nobody in jail, baby. I was afraid of that. Afraid you’d be worried. I can take care of myself though, you don’t have to worry ‘bout me.”

“Did you eat anything?”

“Yeah, you know I did. And it wasn’t half bad either. Better than I remember it bein’. But I’m tired now. Goddamn, I’m tired.”  

She glanced at him again. His eyes were closed. She gripped the steering wheel harder to prevent herself from pulling over to the curb. She wanted to stop the car and carefully trace the deep lines on his cheeks with her fingers, rub her hands through his soft black hair and press his face against whatever was still left of her heart.

“I’m tired too,” she whispered through clenched teeth to no one as she drove the sleeping man who could take care of himself home to her house.

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