The Chicken Hanger

Chapter 8

55 EIGHT after two hours,they called Tomás’s name, and Ricky went with him to a large room separated into smaller rooms with curtains.There, in one of those rooms, they waited again; Tomás in a bed, Ricky in a chair. Ricky could hear somebody moaning. In the room next door, a man and a woman argued about the car accident they’d had that morning. “You shouldn’t have been talking on your cell phone.” “How many times are you going to say that?” Tomás had just fallen asleep when a woman—not a nurse, because she wasn’t in scrubs—wheeled a cart with a computer on it into the room. She asked, in Spanish, for Tomás’s full name, his date of birth, his next of kin, any known allergies. As Tomás answered, she typed. She didn’t seem surprised that he had no employer, no Social Security number, no insurance. She asked what he was here for. What was his medical complaint? Didn’t we already go through all this? Ricky wondered. Tomás said he’d cut off his thumb with a lawn mower. “It hurts a lot. Can I get something for the—” “A nurse will be right with you.” And she was gone. Tomás sat quietly, miserable, waiting his turn. He’d be okay. He was tough. He made no sound. The man next door: “What was I supposed to do? Hang up on my boss?” “You could’ve pulled over.” Ricky tried to take Tomás’s mind off the pain. “I know these two guys, José and Carlos, who panhandle at the same intersection. José always collects a lot more money than Carlos. Almost every driver that passes by gives money to José. One day, Carlos asked José how he does so well. José said, ‘Look at your sign. It says you have a wife and six kids to support.’ And Carlos says, ‘So? What’s wrong with that?’ And José says, ‘Well, look at my sign. It says I need just ten more dollars to move back to Mexico.’” c Ricky thought about all the things Tomás wouldn’t be able to do with one hand. He couldn’t wash dishes or paint houses or lay brick. Couldn’t use a shovel or a chainsaw. Couldn’t hang chickens. When a man pulled up in a truck look- 56 ing for laborers, he wouldn’t want a worker with a disfigured hand.There would be very little work available to Tomás. He might be able to push a lawn mower. That was ironic. “The ranch where this happened,” Ricky said quietly. “Can you find your way back to it?” Tomás had been resting with his good arm over his eyes, blocking the light. He lifted it and looked at Ricky, puzzled. “I think so. Why?” Right then, the nurse finally came. A short Hispanic woman. Maybe sixty years old. She took Tomás’s temperature, blood pressure, heart rate, respiratory rate. Left, then came back and drew some blood. Left again, then came back and started an IV. Another long wait, then another person, a young white man in scrubs of a different color, came with a gurney and said he was taking Tomás for surgery. “Where should I go?” Ricky asked. “Follow us. There’s a waiting room near the O.R.” c Ricky chose an open chair in a corner of the room away from the television. It was a different sort of crowd here. More white people. Less chaotic. Most of them hadn’t come to the hospital at a moment’s notice; they’d brought a loved one for a scheduled surgery. Now they were waiting for the results. Nobody was crying or moaning.They were reading magazines or paperback novels, listening to iPods. Ricky was trying to decide whether he should call Tomás’s wife or wait and let Tomás call her himself. That would probably be best. Sarafina would freak out if Ricky told her what had happened. She might not believe that Tomás was okay. She might think Ricky was making it sound less serious than it was. It brought back memories. Ricky was eleven when his favorite uncle, Raúl, set out for Arizona to work as a carpenter. Before he left, he told Ricky he would write him a letter once a week. He’d send pictures...