Nighthawk Blues Read Free Page B

emphysematous puffs just what had happened and what was likely to happen. It was just as Hawk had said. An automobile accident, Wheatstraw like a big black crow sailing through the windshield. Teenochie had escaped unharmed. Teenochie in fact had escaped altogether, vanishing into the early-morning squalor of Indianapolis, where no doubt he had a friend, knew a woman, was acquainted with a bar where thirty-five years before he had passed through and no doubt thirty-five years hence he would expect to pass through again. And what about Hawk?
    “Mr., uh, Jefferson is doing about as well as can be expected,” said the doctor as the elevator doors finally opened and a stretcher with a covered-up body on it was wheeled out. “He is, after all, not a young man. He’s subjected his body to a considerable amount of abuse. From what he says, I gather he must be in his seventies, he has sustained a number of coronary attacks already—”
    Jerry expressed surprise.
    “Oh yes, there’s no doubt about that. There’s some evidence of ventricular damage, cholesterol level is high, blood sugar is elevated, too, and of course he suffered a small shock.”
    “Shock?” Jerry remembered Hawk saying something like this, but he thought Hawk said it had been quite a
shock.
    “Yes. Mr. Jefferson suffered a slight shock, a cerebral incident—in fact that’s probably what caused the accident, though it’s difficult to be sure. For a period of time he lost control of his functions, which is not uncommon, and until a short while ago he was unable to move his left side—”
    “You mean he’s paralyzed?”
    “The feeling seems to be coming back. I’m quite sure he’ll have nearly full use in no time. With the proper therapy we’ll probably even get him back to strumming on the guitar. But, of course, there can be no question of his continuing as an entertainer. The shock should be taken as a warning, really. The effects will probably wear off, but it’s a signal, it can’t be ignored. The next one could leave him paralyzed or worse—and there’s bound to be a next one, unless he radically changes the way he lives. I don’t know how much of this Mr. Jefferson can take in, but I hope you can appreciate the seriousness of his condition. There can’t be any thought of performing. His diet, medication, drinking will all have to be strictly regulated.” He paused, stared openly into Jerry’s eyes, as if he doubted that Jerry was even listening to what he was saying.
    Jerry glared back at him. He could have been a doctor, he supposed. Except he hadn’t wanted to be a doctor. Cold-hearted motherfuckers—he might have made his parents happy.
    “Do you think he’ll be all right?” said Jerry miserably.
    “Well, frankly, I just don’t know,” said the doctor. “It’s always hard to tell with this kind of case. You know, these people really don’t take very good care of themselves.”
    He shrugged, and for a moment Jerry bristled once again with the kind of indignation he rarely felt these days.
Take in … these people!
Hawk had never been a lush—what did these assholes mean? Didn’t they realize they were in the presence of a great American poet, proud spokesman for a proud people who had had to reinvent language and experience for themselves as strangers in a strange land? His heart wasn’t in it, though. His heart hadn’t been in it for a long time. Let the chickens come home to roost, let everyone suffer under his own self-perpetuating delusions.
    “You know, we had to put Mr. Jefferson in restraints. He insisted that he had to leave the hospital, that he had to make an engagement—”
    “He did,” said Jerry helplessly. “He had a concert at Notre Dame tonight.”
    “Ah, well, perhaps if you could speak to him—”
    Jerry nodded, not so much in agreement as out of exhaustion. This man didn’t understand, he couldn’t understand, how could anyone understand if they didn’t know Hawk? You could talk for a