Chapter 19: The Wall

We hung the wall on Wednesday night, after visiting hours, because the night staff said it was the only time nobody would complain.

The glass came up from the loading-dock stairwell on a pallet jack the security guard had borrowed from the kitchens.

There were six panels, each as tall as a door.

"Who's in charge of this?" the guard said.

"Me," said Gene.

He had driven in from the dock with a chain hoist, two ratchet straps and a coil of rope in the bed of his truck.

"Sir, I have to ask whether you have a permit."

"I've got a daughter," my father said. "Move your jack."

The night charge nurse had put on her gym shoes and tied her sleeves around her waist.

Nine other nurses stood around the lobby floor with their arms crossed, which in my experience meant they were about to lift something.

The grandmother had arrived at six with a card table and a thermos and appointed herself to sit beside the wall and read.

"I'll do the names," she said. "You people are going to drop something."

"We're not going to drop anything," Gene said.

"You people are going to drop something and I'll have the names ready."

We bolted the rail to the lobby wall opposite the front doors, where the potted palm had been.

My father rigged the hoist from the beam over the entrance, with a knot I did not know the name of.

He swung the first panel up off the pallet on his chain, and eight nurses took the corners.

The glass was cold, and the etched letters ran under my fingers as I steadied it.

"Left," Gene said. "Left. A hair. There."

"Colt," I said.

He had come in at seven and stood by the doors with his bad hand in its sling and his good one in his pocket.

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