The Edge

beer."

    "It's been a long time," I said, licking beer foam off my mouth. "I just couldn't help myself. The edge is off now." I heaved a thankful sigh and took a smaller drink, realizing that she wasn't likely to get me another beer. At least the terror of that nightmare was deep below the surface again, not sitting right there on my shoulder, waiting to whisper in my ear again. I had about a quarter of a can left. I rested it on my stomach.

    Midge had moved next to me and now she was taking my pulse.

    "My neighbor, Mr. Kowalski, waters my plants when I'm out of town or in the hospital, like now. He also keeps things dusted. He's a retired plumber, older than the paint on my great-aunt Silvia's house, and real sharp. James Quinlan-he's an FBI agent-he sings to his African violets. Healthiest critters you've ever seen. His wife wonders when she'll wake up some morning to find some plants cozying up to her in bed. Oh shit, Midge, I want to go home."

    She lightly cupped my face against her palm. "I know, Mac. Soon now. Your pulse is just fine. Now, let me take your blood pressure." She didn't tell me what it was, but she hummed under her breath, something from Verdi, I think, and that meant it was good. "You need to go back

    to sleep, Mac. Is your stomach happy with the beer? No nausea?"

    I took the last pull of beer, kept the burp in my throat, and gave her a big smile. "I'm fine. I owe you, Midge, big time."

    "I'll collect sometime, don't you worry. Your plants sound great. Hey, how about I get Mrs. Luther for you?"

    I whimpered, and she left me alone, grinning and waving at me from the doorway. In the next instant, Jilly's face slammed back into my mind.

    "You've got to face it, Mac," I said very quietly to myself in the still night, looking toward the window that gave onto the nearly empty parking lot. "All right. Let's just say it out loud. Was that a dream or some kind of prophecy? Is Jilly in some sort of trouble?"

    No, that was bullshit. I knew bullshit.

    I didn't go back to sleep. Truth was I was too scared. I wished I had another beer. Midge dropped by at four A.M., frowned at me, and shoved a sleeping pill down my throat.

    At least I didn't dream for the three hours they gave me before the guy with the blood cart came by, shook my bruised shoulder to wake me up, and shoved a needle in my vein. He never paused in his talk-I think it was about the Redskins-slapped down a Band-Aid hard over the hole in my arm, and whistled as he pushed his torture cart out of my room. His name was Ted and he was, I thought, what the shrinks call a situational sadist.

    At ten o'clock that morning, I simply couldn't wait any longer. I had to know. I dialed Jilly's number in Edgerton, Oregon. Her husband, Paul, answered the phone on the second ring.

    "Jilly," I said, and knew my voice wasn't steady. "Paul, how's Jilly?"

    Silence.

    "Paul?"

    I heard a shuddering breath, then, "She's in a coma, Mac."

    I felt an odd settling deep inside me, the slow unwrapping of the package whose contents I already knew. I hadn't wanted this, but it hadn't really surprised me at all. I prayed as I asked, "Will she live?"

    I could hear Paul riddling with the phone cord, probably twisting it over and over his hand. Finally he said in a dead voice, "Nobody wants to even take a guess, Mac. The doctors did a CAT scan and an MRI. They say there's hardly any damage to her brain, just some tiny hemorrhages and some swelling, but nothing to account for the coma. They just don't know. They hope she'll come out of it really soon. Bottom line, we have to wait and see. First you getting blown up in some godforsaken place, and now Jilly in this ridiculous accident."

    "What happened?" But I knew, yeah, I knew.

    "Her car went over a cliff on the coast road last night, just after midnight. She was driving the new Porsche that I gave her for Christmas. She'd be dead if a highway patrolman hadn't been passing by. He saw the whole thing, said she just seemed to let the car drift, then speeded up through the railing. He said the Porsche made a perfect nosedive into the water. The water isn't more than fifteen to twenty feet where she went over. The Porsche headlights were still on, thank God, and the driver's side window was open. He got her out on his first try, a pure miracle, he said. No one can believe he managed it, that she's still alive. I'll call you as soon as something changes-either way. I'm sorry, Mac, real sorry. Are you feeling