In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

  • A Bit of a Thief
  • Joel Fishbane (bio)
Keywords

Joel Fishbane, Fiction, veteran, Iraq, casualty

Hartley was survived by more than just his parents; he also left behind a diabetic cat. His parents, Gibb knew, had resented the animal up until the moment of Hartley’s death, at which point the cat was apotheosized. In their youth, Hartley’s mother had been a woman of girth. Today, as she lets Gibb into the house, she’s a woman of enormous smell. A cloud of perfume. A faint breeze of peppermint gum.

“The cat needs insulin,” she tells Gibb. “We’ll be gone for two weeks. Do you think you can manage? I usually board him at the vet, but they’re all filled up.”

Gibb is allowed to feel his way into the house so he can start to understand the layout. The narrow hall, smooth to the touch, gives way to the kitchen, which is stuffed, apparently, with the latest in home-dining wizardry. The two-thousand-dollar espresso machine seems like some great sculpture and he touches it gingerly, moving his hands over this great piece of culinary art. Mrs. Hartley leads him to the fridge. He feels bottles of beer, soft apples, a firm rectangle of Tupperware. Finally, he comes to the array of disposable syringes, meticulously arranged with the plunger side facing out.

“I put three point five units in each,” says Mrs. Hartley. “I prefilled all the needles you’ll need.”

“Good thinking.”

“Although I guess you could ask Iris to help.”

“Eye’s busy. She just started school.”

“That’s right,” nods Mrs. Hartley. “We’re all so impressed with the both of you. Still, Iris, you’ll help if you can, right? You don’t mind?”

There’s a double knock from somewhere in the room. No, Iris doesn’t mind. Gibb feels a stab of annoyance. How long has she been here? It isn’t the first time Eye has caught him talking about her in the third person. She’s not even whisper silent: mute since birth, Eye makes all the noise of a beam of light. He wishes she was at home; he wants to handle this himself.

“He takes his shots at eight and eight,” Mrs. Hartley continues. “You can change that, if you want, but the important thing is that the shots are twelve hours apart. That won’t be too much trouble?” [End Page 317]

Gibb shakes his head. Time isn’t a problem; aside from visits to the army shrink, there isn’t much for him to do.

Inside the top drawer, its tiny knob firm as an erect nipple, Gibb finds the glucometer, test strips, and plastic lancets. Mrs. Hartley explains how to check the glucose level in the cat’s blood. You feed a fresh test strip into the glucometer before using the lancet to prick a vein in the cat’s ear. A single drop on the end of the test strip is all that’s needed.

“You’ll probably never have to test him anyway. Anyway, even if Iris isn’t here, the meter has a talking feature. I use it myself. It’s like having a little doctor right there in the room.”

“How will I find the vein?” asks Gibb. “I mean, in case Eye isn’t here?”

“I’ll test him before I leave. That way there will be a little scab. Just feel for the scab and voilà. But like I said, you’ll probably never have to bother.”

She tells them that anything below four millimoles per liter is too low. At that point, the cat will go into hypoglycemic shock. Too much insulin, not enough glucose in the blood.

“You’ll have to feed him right away. There are glucose tablets. I once had to give him corn syrup. It sounds strange, but it worked.”

“Show me where the tablets are,” he says.

“They’re in the cupboard. Is that all right? I can move them somewhere that will be easier to find.”

“It’s fine,” says Gibb. His pride is still in the way. He won’t learn Braille. He won’t get a...

pdf

Share