The Night Visitor by Dianne Emley Page B

mouth.
    “What in the world was Danny doing?”
    “He flipped out.”
    “I’m used to family members talking to their loved ones, but I’ve never seen anything like Danny with Junior,” Corliss said. “Danny would sit beside Junior, holding his hand and looking at him for hours. Danny told me that he and Junior were talking in their heads. I’d ask Danny ‘How’s Junior doing today?’ And Danny would say ‘He’s sad’ or ‘He’s showing me a beautiful place.’ It was sweet. Sad. I didn’t think it was real, of course. Whatever gives the family members peace.”
    “Peace,” Sylvia said. “Whatever that is.”

23
    Sylvia went to room 1. A sheet of hot-pink laminated paper was tacked to the doorframe. A message on it said:
Q UARANTINED
Please wear clean protective garments to prevent the spread of infectious bacteria.
Discard garments in special receptacle when leaving.
    Another notice in blue laminated paper was tacked beside it:
W ELCOME TO MY HOME.
Please let me know you are here by greeting me by name.
Your touch is also appreciated.
I am trying hard to get well, so please bring only good
thoughts and words for me. Thank you for coming by. I enjoy your visits.
    Sylvia heard her mother inside the room talking to Junior in the same tone one would use with an infant.
    “Hi, Mom. I’m here.”
    “Do you hear that, mijo ? Sylvie’s here to see you. Sylvie’s here, baby.”
    Sylvia knew the drill. She opened the top drawer of a pressboard cart outside the room. From boxes in the drawer, she took out a mask and gown of yellow paper cloth. She slipped on the gown and reached behind to loop the ties together. She pulled open the crimped mask, fitted it over her nose and mouth, and circled the elastic bands around each ear. From another drawer, she grabbed a pair of latex gloves.

    She entered the room. “Hi, Bob,” she said to Mr. Patyk, an elderly man in the bed closest to the door. He held his right arm up high in the air for no apparent reason. He hadn’t been bedridden long enough for his limbs to have withered and retracted. His blue eyes were open but restless, focusing on nothing.
    On a wall beneath a TV were two bulletin boards, one across from each bed. Tacked to the top of each was a sign hand-lettered in black marker:
Hello
I’m Robert Patyk (Bob)
    and
Hello
I’m Guillermo Lara (Junior)
    Fastened with thumbtacks to the cork were photos of the patients in healthier days and mementos. The items on the boards seemed to proclaim, I once was standing, just like you.
    The wall space around Junior’s bed was covered with replicas of his artwork. His artist friends had reproduced many of Junior’s works so the family would have souvenirs. Junior’s art, painted by the alleged murderer of the supermodel Anya, brought top dollar at auction. The family had sold nearly all of it over the past five years to pay expenses, holding on to just a few pieces. Junior’s star had been rising at the time of the Five Points shootings. A critic had labeled his style “Barrio Renaissance” because of the way Junior melded the classics with the street art of East L.A., his hometown, in his work.

    In the room was a reproduction of a nude Junior had done. The model’s pose was openly sexual, her legs crossed at the ankles, her arms stretched above her head. Her skin was luminous. Her long yellow hair was smooth. Her light blue eyes were sleepy and sensual. She waited for her lover wearing only heeled bedroom slippers. The model was Rory Langtry.
    Rory had been Junior’s favorite subject during the two years they’d been together. Sylvia didn’t like this painting here. Danny had brought it to Junior’s room a few weeks ago. She’d asked him where he was going with it when she saw him taking it from the house. He’d told her that Junior had asked for it.
    “Junior, Sylvie finally came to see you.”
    Sylvia grimaced behind the mask as she approached Junior’s bed.
    Fermina Lara was nuzzling Junior with a