I Guess I Better Not | Fiction by Tom Andes

The instructions from the hospital and the nurse both had stressed that he wasn’t supposed to drive or operate heavy machinery after the procedure, but Hank knew the damn doctors just said stuff like that to cover their asses, which was how he happened to be driving his ex-wife’s Honda Accord up Gentilly Boulevard two hours after his colonoscopy.

“Polyps,” he’d told Elaine at Ochsner Baptist twenty minutes after the anesthesia wore off, but she had to go back to work at the auto dealership in Kenner where she answered the phone behind the repairs counter, so she didn’t have time to drive him to the library and the coffee shop where he liked to sit and talk to folks since he’d lost his job at the lumberyard and started collecting disability. And it was real as day, the gray cat that darted into traffic on Gentilly, causing him to swerve into the delivery van in the next lane, the spitting image of the old gray that used to sit on their steps and follow Elaine around and who he sometimes still fed.

He was sitting in the bike lane with his hands on the wheel at ten and two, with his legs shaking, checking to make sure he hadn’t wet himself because at his age accidents did happen, and he wondered how he was going to talk his way out of this.

The van pulled to the curb, and the guy that got out of it was a Black fellow with a God Is Good tee-shirt and a Bluetooth in his ear.

 “The cat,” Hank said. “Did you see the dang cat?”

 “Mister,” the guy said, shaking his head, “I didn’t see no damn cat.”

The guy was wearing those glasses that tinted, growing darker in the sunlight. Sweat was beading in the creases on the back of his neck. He was barrel-chested, wearing a Saints ball cap. If Hank were ten years younger, the guy might’ve beaten his ass.

“A big gray cat,” Hank said, “ran right under my car.”

He looked under the chassis, though it was as much to avoid facing the guy as for any other reason because the cat Hank was thinking of—the cat he’d seen—was the old gray who’d lived on their doorstep, and who Elaine used to feed, and there was no damn reason that cat would have ended up here, a mile and a half from the Fairgrounds, on Gentilly.

“I’m telling you,” the guy said, “I didn’t see any cat.”

But something changed in his face, and he looked under Hank’s car, too. Down the street, the light was green, and cars hurtled past, people speeding along that stretch between Dillard University and the Baptist Theological Seminary. Hank had to think of a way out of this that didn’t involve calling Elaine at work, never mind the police. Because not only was he not supposed to be driving after his procedure, but his license was expired, too. Hadn’t meant for that to happen, but the renewal date had come and gone, and like so many things, slipped past.

“You have insurance?” Hank said, trying to remember what a person was supposed to do in this situation. Could they exchange information and go on their way? If he could get the car home, he could invent a story, say the Honda had been sideswiped where it was parked in front of the house, and deal with the paperwork later. He didn’t like lying, but if he had to, he could intercept the mail.

But the guy was shaking his head, taking in the damage to Hank’s car, the left front quarter panel crushed, the headlight punched out, and even if they could both drive away, that wasn’t going to be the end of this.

“I’ve got insurance.” The guy shrugged, a weary, resigned expression, and with his shoulders slumped he trudged back to his van.

An RTA bus drove past, shaking the ground under Hank’s feet, a deafening wallop that shuddered the air around him. Hank walked around the Honda to the passenger’s side, trying to recall when he’d last paid the premium to State Farm, so that he knew even before he opened the glove compartment and took the card out with a sinking feeling like he’d crapped himself that he’d let the insurance policy lapse, too.

“You want my number?”

Maybe they could exchange phone numbers and leave it at that.

The guy was biting his lip. Behind his darkened lenses, his eyes drifted off toward the sky, where clouds were massing above the brick buildings at the seminary. He had a sharp chin, artificially whitened teeth, a soul patch, his skin nearly as dark as the black tee he was wearing, and his head bobbed from side to side, making a nervous motion, like he was palsied. He spoke under his breath, so Hank had to lean forward, straining to hear him.

“I guess I better not.” And he gestured at the vehicle with his thumb. Sighed. Like he understood what Hank was asking of him and what it would cost Hank for him to do this. “That’s my work van. I think I have to call it in.” And now he was shaking his head, still chewing his bottom lip, which looked bloody, a red strip of flesh inside his mouth.

Another time in his life, when he was a younger man, the prick and the SOB, his first wife and kids, and sometimes Elaine and her kids had rightly accused him of being, Hank might’ve had something to say about that. Might’ve cussed the guy. Might’ve shoved him, if he could get away with it, though he knew in his heart that swearing and fighting were what weak, frightened men did.

But he hadn’t eaten in 36 hours. And though the nurses had explained that they were giving him fluids when they put the IV in, he still had the same dehydration headache he’d had since he’d woken up to choke down the last half of his bowel prep—alone—at three o’clock in the morning.

And maybe also after learning they were doing a biopsy of one of the precancerous polyps they’d found, and with Elaine being gone, he didn’t have any fight in him.

“Okay.” He almost fell, sitting down hard on the curb and pulling his hat over his face, so the sun wouldn’t burn his cheeks, and so the guy wouldn’t see the tears that had surprised Hank, coming to his eyes.

The cop who showed up was nice enough, a kid named Puccini, with a broad Italian face, fat cheeks, and a dimpled chin, and right up until he asked for Hank’s license, registration, and proof of insurance, Hank might have been able to talk his way out of this, get back in his car, and drive home. He handed the stuff over, like the guy might not notice the date on the insurance, which had run out in 2020, or the license, which expired last year.

The guy did a double take, and when he looked a second time at all three, he didn’t have an expression like Hank was in trouble so much as a look of what might’ve been a concern.

“This insurance card is out of date.” He flapped the thing between thumb and index finger. “Is the policy still current?”

“I think the new one must be at home.” It must be in the blue ceramic dish next to the door where they’d kept the spare keys and where the unopened mail had piled up like windswept snow drifts across the tundra after she’d gone.

“The license is expired, too. Ran out a few months ago.”

“I’ve been meaning to get that taken care of.”

If he’d learned one thing being married twice, the first time for 14 years then to Elaine for 27, it was to admit your fault. How pissed off could she be if you’d said you were sorry?

As it turned out, pretty angry.

The cop took a deep breath, puffing his cheeks out as he exhaled.

“And the car is registered,” he said, “to Elaine Macdonald?”

“My wife,” Hank heard himself say, but it was like somebody else was talking. His stomach felt like it had turned itself inside out, and between the traffic noise, the sunlight, and the fact he hadn’t eaten since he’d heated up a can of Blue Runner beans night before last, his headache wasn’t getting any better, either.

“This your current address?” the cop said. “On Dabadie Street?”

Could tell the guy was from here because he knew how to pronounce the street name. Not like Hank hadn’t known anyway, the kid with a y’at accent, probably grown up in Metairie and gone to Brother Martin. No one was from New Orleans anymore, and Hank felt better, like he could trust the guy, even if he was a cop.

“That’s right,” Hank said. “Do you think I can go now?”

The last couple years, he’d been renting a room at his sister’s old place, which was around the corner from the house he’d shared with Elaine, on Paul Morphy. Actually, they’d never gotten married—once was enough, they’d agreed, both of them having ridden in that rodeo before—so she was technically his, what did you call it? Common law wife.

But it was too complicated to explain.

“A minute.” The cop’s tone made Hank feel like this could still work out for the best.

The cop walked to his cruiser.

The other driver was leaning against the van with his arms folded, his jaw moving like he was chewing something, still with that funny, palsied movement in his head. The guy might’ve been 40 or 70, impossible to tell because it was true what they said, “Black don’t crack,” and anyway, Hank never had a problem with a man because of the color of his skin. Grew up in the triangle between Gentilly and Broad near the Fairgrounds back when that neighborhood had been majority Black, and it was hard not to say things hadn’t been better then, even if they’d been more violent, with the gangbangers and thugs, too.

If Hank hadn’t been in his present condition—if he felt like he could stand up without falling—he might’ve gone over and passed the time with the guy. Always been a big talker, like Elaine said, spent half his time politicking, but it was all he could do not to curl up on his side on the curb like a baby, like he had when they’d put him under a few hours ago at the hospital and shoved that camera up his ass.

Still, he’d managed to convince himself this was all going to work out for the best, a simple exchange of paperwork, maybe a police report, then he could drive the car back and park in front of the house like nothing had happened and deal with the rest later. But from the kid’s look when he got out of that cruiser, Hank was in trouble.

Kid took his time about it, too. Walked around that car with that hitch in his step cops had, like they thought they were gunfighters in the Old West. Had a chat with that other fellow, the Black driver who in another life, Hank could’ve seen himself being friends, cracking a cold one with.

Then he walked over to where Hank was sitting, still taking his time about it, like he had to deliver news Hank didn’t want to hear. Took everything Hank had to stand up from the curb, Hank dizzy, the world wobbling, fuzzy around the edges.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you drive home.”

“What are you talking about?” Hank said.

The kid was studying him, as if for signs of intoxication. Like Hank was loaded, eleven o’clock on a Monday morning.

“Your license is expired.” The kid was ticking items off on his fingers. “You have no proof of insurance, and you’re driving a car that’s not registered in your name.” He was flapping the registration now, too. “And the registration ran out four years ago.”

Had it been four years?

Felt like yesterday he’d sent the forms in and not much longer than that he’d lined up in the OMV on Veterans, there with the rest of the dregs. People said the office in Chalmette was faster, but Hank didn’t like to drive to St. Bernard, not if he could help it.

All the answers that came to him, all the smartassed stuff that went through his head, everything he might’ve said, but all he could manage was this: “I didn’t know.”

The softening in the cop’s face looked a lot like pity, but if Hank got out of this without a trip to OPP, if he could go home and get a little food in his stomach, he didn’t care if the guy felt sorry for him.

“I’m gonna give you a lift,” the kid said. “And we’ll get someone to take care of the car. You have anyone you can call?”

Hank shook his head.

“No one.”

But he was mumbling, not even the energy to bluff the guy.

“You sure?”

“Oh, hell.” Hank took his flip-phone out of his pocket. Dialed Elaine’s number from the contacts. But he didn’t have it in him to face her, not even over the phone, not yet. “You talk to her.” He handed the kid the phone.

The cop took the phone, walked a few feet away, so Hank couldn’t hear his end of the conversation. From the way the kid looked back at him everything was about to get a lot worse.

But when the guy came back, he patted Hank’s arm.

“Come on,” he said.

When the cruiser rolled up in front of the house on Dabadie, the kid opened the rear door for Hank, like a chauffeur. Not the first time he’d been in the back of a police car, and not the first time a cop had dropped him home, either. But it had been a long time since either of those things had happened, and they belonged to another life, like he’d been another person then, Bad Hank, nothing to do with the man he was now.

He felt unsteady, his knees wobbling as he got out of the car. A couple cans of beans were on the shelves, half a loaf of bread, but that was at his sister’s. The block was quiet, the people he’d gotten along with across the street evicted last year.

“Your daughter said she’d be home in a little while.” The cop adjusted his belt. He had a kindly, patronizing expression. Daughter.

“Thanks for the lift,” Hank said.

“I probably should take you in,” the kid said. “Please don’t do anything to make me regret the decision I’m making.”

It took the last little bit of willpower Hank had, but he put on his best face, nodding. “Don’t worry.”

The cruiser left, tires crunching on the gravel. Their street had been torn up since before Ida. Hank climbed the steps, put the door key in the lock and twisted. But the thing stuck.

Sure enough, he’d used that same key for all three decades, nearly, he’d lived in this house with Elaine.

He took the key out, tried again. He rattled the knob, then knocked, peering in the windows.

That side table by the door, that blue ceramic dish where they’d kept the spare keys, and the mail—all of it was gone. Sunlight shone on the hardwood. In the back, at the end of the hall, the linoleum on the kitchen floor was pulled up where they’d started to remodel, quitting halfway through the demolition because they’d run out of money.

“My mind,” Hank said, “playing tricks on me,” and he sat on the top step with his back against the door.

He closed his eyes. He should walk home, back to his sister’s, but in that heat, he didn’t know if he could. After noon, the shade was on this side of the street, so it was pleasant to sit here.

He might’ve drifted off, might’ve slept.

When he opened his eyes, that old gray was nuzzling his ankles, the cat’s bright green eyes looking at Hank with an expectant expression. But the dish he’d left by the door was empty, and the cans of Fancy Feast he bought at Canseco’s Market were on the shelves at his sister’s, too.

“Hey,” he said, “Gray.”

And he held out a hand, the cat nuzzling his fist.

“Hey.”

The car pulled up, startling him awake, but it wasn’t until she shouted at him that Hank opened his eyes.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” She was the spitting image of her mother, so that Elaine might’ve been yelling at him, standing in the torn-up street with her hands on her hips, in the pants and cotton top she wore to the service center at Ray Brandt Toyota.

He blinked.

“I just came,” he said, “to check on the place, feed the cat.”

The cat had gone, taking shelter.

Smart cat.

And if people told him he should leave well enough alone, stop checking the mail and cutting the grass, well, when did your responsibility to the people you loved end? Did you have to stop taking care of them just because they were gone?

“The police called,” Joanie said. “They told me you wrecked Mom’s old car?”

She was pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Goddammit, Hank,” she said, “this isn’t how I wanted to spend my lunch break. How many times do we have to tell you, you have no rights to this house? You want to come back here and feed that cat, that’s your own business. We told you that you were welcome to drive Mom’s car, if you kept the registration up, but you can’t even do that. And I don’t know how you expect us to sell the place with you sitting here on the damn steps.”

He followed her eyes up, to the For Sale sign in the eaves of the house.

“They found polyps,” he said. “Precancerous. They’re doing a biopsy.”

Joanie was shaking her head.

“Don’t you understand, Hank?” she said. “You were my mother’s problem for 27 years, but you’re not mine, and you’re not my brother’s, either. I don’t have to care about your damn polyps.” She made a gesture, waving with the back of her hand, like she was slapping his face. “Now, I just drove all the way in here to tell you to get the hell off our doorstep. You’re not welcome here. Mom’s been gone five years, and we’re done with you.”

She was still shouting at him when she got back in her car.

In a minute, he’d walk home, back to his sister’s.

But for now, he couldn’t make himself get off the step.

“Everything I love,” he said, “it leaves me, sooner or later.”

But he kept making kissing sounds, sitting in the heat, waiting for the cat to come back, for those green eyes, that flash of tooth or claw.

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