by James Jones
“Reach in and get it,” the man had snarled, “and throw it out on the seat.”
“Yes, sir,” ’Bama had said. He reached slowly with his right hand inside the coat, keeping on talking as he did so: “I never did see the sense of gettin killed over a few lousy bucks, mister. But my driver’s license and car registration’s in there, too. Don’t take them, will you?” The last sentence was pretty well drowned out in the roar of both guns inside the car.
The little .32 had slipped easily out of its spring clip and he had flipped it out and fired. The man, looking startled, had clamped down on his .38 snub nose convulsively and fired almost simultaneously. The .38 slug struck ’Bama in the hip, slamming him back against the car door. The man dropped his gun into the car and disappeared from view, his face looking surprised and rather hurt as if he had been tricked. The bullet from the .32, ’Bama had learned later, had struck him high in the right chest, nicking the top of his lung. If he had only straightened his arm out just a hair more, he would have got him straight in his heart and killed him like he meant to. He just had been a little too hurried.
(But the look on that man’s face still made him want to laugh, ’Bama said; every time he thought about it. Here he was, tryin to take my money, and he looks resentful because I pull a gun. ’Bama threw back his head and laughed, and then groaned—at having moved his hip.)
Inside the car, feeling no pain, just numbness, ’Bama had held onto his gun and waited to see if the man got back up. When the man did not, he had laid the gun in the seat where he could get it easily and had shucked out of his coat sleeves and got the little shoulder holster off and stuffed it in the dash compartment and put his coat back on. By that time, people had begun to come out of the restaurant.
The police, of course, and an ambulance had already been called from inside. They were not long getting there. The man outside on the sidewalk was unconscious. He himself had suspected that the man was not a professional stickup man; and as it turned out this was right. The man had a burglary record, but up to now had never been involved in armed robbery. ’Bama himself had stayed in the car until the police came, even though the ambulance got there first, because he wanted the police to see everything just like it was. They arrived only a minute or so later, and he had turned the gun over to them and told them the whole story. Then he let them put him in the ambulance. The police, of course, had found the shoulder holster in the dash compartment, and he had shown them his lapsed sheriff’s permit from Illinois and explained that over there he sometimes wore the gun when he was carrying large amounts of cash and, of course, always took it off when he came over into Indiana. The gun, he had told them, had been lying beside him in the seat, because he was carrying so much money. Whether they believed it or not, it didn’t matter much; he was obviously the attacked party. And anyway, he knew a number of the cops in Indianapolis, who knew he was clean. He did not intend to press any charges. The state could do that if they wanted to, and he might have to come back later on as a witness, and they would have to pick up his gun down at the station on their way out of town. That was the whole story.
Dave listened to it all, fascinated, mainly by the coolheadedness ’Bama had displayed all through the whole thing, all just as if it were a common, everyday occurrence. He had absolutely no doubt that ’Bama had intended to kill the man, and would, in fact, have done so if he had been able to. But what fascinated him most was the way ’Bama—completely caught short—had just bullheadedly decided he was not going to give up two thousand in cash. Whether it got him killed or not. And that was the kind of thing, Dave felt, that he himself could never have done.
However, if ’Bama was proud of it, he certainly showed no signs. He finished up his story several minutes before the doctor came, eased himself into another position in the bed while he groaned, and then stared out of the window at the drizzly March weather. “And all I got to do now,” he said irately, “is get myself out of this damned, miserable, frump of a hole!” Dave had never seen him so irritable. But his irritation changed to sheer pugnacity when the doctor arrived.
The doctor was a tall, heavy-boned, self-satisfied looking man with cool commanding eyes, fiftyish, and obviously used to a great deal of respect. Perhaps this was what ’Bama didn’t like about him, Dave thought. But he didn’t look so bad to Dave. He came in behind the sister who held the door for him, carrying a clipboard chart and wearing a sort of stern-father smile. He was not wearing his white coat but an expensive and conservative business suit, a diamond stickpin conspicuous in his tie, a large diamond ring equally conspicuous on the little finger of his left hand.
“Well, Mr Dillert,” he smiled paternally. “Giving us more argument today?”
“Hi, Doc,” ’Bama said insolently. “Givin me more medicine today?” His ingrained sneer deepened appreciably.
The doctor didn’t like it, but he had admirable self-control to go with his commanding presence. “As a matter of fact, I expect we will be,” he smiled. “I have some things here I want to discuss with you,” he said, raising the clipboard. “Sister Theresa tells me you’ve been asking to leave again today.”
“’At’s right, Doc,” ’Bama said. “My friend here come to drive me home. And I ain’t askin to leave, Doc. I am leavin.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” the doctor said crisply.
“Whatta you mean, impossible?” ’Bama snarled. “As I understand it, there’s no law that says you can keep me in your dump if I want to leave it.” The commanding presence obviously did not work with ’Bama. Dave thought he could see why it rubbed him the wrong way: The man was so completely sure of himself that it disturbed you. You felt as if you were only a small boy while he was a big grown-up adult. Dave himself felt a little afraid of him. But ’Bama was making an insolent ass out of himself.
“Quite so, Mr Dillert,” the doctor smiled. “All I could do would be to insist that you sign a release absolving us of any responsibility.”
“Gladly,” ’Bama snarled. “Now why don’t you give me my clothes and let me go. If I have to, Doc,” he said insolently. “I’ll go without the clothes. Believe me.”
The doctor smiled, but his face was a little stiff. “As I said, Mr Dillert, there are some things here I want to discuss with you.” He raised the clipboard portentously. He plainly did not like to be called “Doc,” and was equally plainly used to being treated with considerably more respect. The look on his face showed both, and ’Bama’s cold eyes narrowed.
“Then let’s have it, Doc,” he said. “I want to get goin.”
“You’re rather a sick man, Mr Dillert,” the doctor said bluntly. “You definitely have a rather advanced case of diabetes, and your condition is complicated by a definite cirrhosis of the liver.”
“I got what?” ’Bama said, his eyes narrowing.
“Diabetes mellitus,” the doctor said. He smiled gravely. “Sugar diabetes. We ran the usual tests on you and discovered a fairly high blood-sugar content. I note you are from Alabama, Mr Dillert, and that your father is no longer living. May I ask what he died of?”
“Gangrene of the legs,” ’Bama said, staring at him narrow-eyed. Dave, who had tried to keep himself in the background, was listening unbelievingly.
“A fairly common cause of death in cases of neglected diabetes, Mr Dillert,” the doctor smiled. He looked as if he had just won the poker hand. “Diabetes is inherited. Or rather, a tendency toward diabetes is often inherited. This tendency is aggravated, usually, by overeating and overdrinking until it becomes definite diabetes. That is what you have. Inherited from your father evidently.” He paused, and smiled again.
“Do you,” the doctor said, “often feel listless and weak and tired?”
“Yeah,” ’Bama said insolently. “I been feelin that ever since I was big enough to stay out at night.”
The doctor did not smile. “Do you,” he said, “have to get up often at night to pass water?”
“Yeah.”
“Have you noticed itching of the skin, particularly around the genitals?”
“Yeah,” ’Bama said. He grinned narrowly. “But I always thought that was just another dose of crabs, Doc.”
The doctor did not answer this. It was evident he thought the remark was in poor taste, especially in front of Sister Theresa. “These are all symptoms of diabetes, Mr Dillert,” he said. “The best test is, of course, the blood sugar. It definitely confirms my diagnosis.”
“So what am I supposed to do? Weep?”
The doctor did not answer this, either, and instead turned a page on the clipboard, his face set rather stiffly. “When I noted considerable alcohol in your system, also, Mr Dillert, I decided to check for cirrhosis. I shall want an X-ray, of course, also. But what you have is undoubtedly Laennec’s cirrhosis; a type formerly thought to be due to excessive use of alcohol; now known to be due to the associated nutritional disturbances. The liver is slightly nodular, with fibrosis especially in the portal spaces; characterized by degeneration and regeneration of the hepatic parenchymal cells, often accompanied by ascites, esophageal varices, and ultimately icterus.”
“What’s ascites?” ’Bama said.
“An abnormal accumulation of serous fluid in the abdominal cavity,” the doctor said.
“What’s icterus?”
“Acute jaundice,” the doctor said.
’Bama stared at him silently, asking no other questions; and the doctor stared back at him, stony-faced, authoritative. For almost half a minute, they simply stared.
It was the doctor who finally spoke. “How much whiskey do you drink a day, Mr Dillert?” he said.
“Oh, I don’t rightly know, Doc,” ’Bama said. “A fifth. Maybe more. Maybe less.”
“You will, of course, have to stop drinking immediately. Alcohol puts enormous sugar in the blood.”
“I will?” ’Bama drawled.
“Also, the rather advanced diabetes,” the doctor said, “coupled as this is with the cirrhosis, requires immediate treatment, Mr Dillert.”
‘You mean I’m liable to die?” ’Bama said bluntly, his eyes completely expressionless.
“No, Mr Dillert,” the doctor said, “not immediately at any rate. I would say you have five—maybe even ten—years of life ahead of you at the rate you’re going now. But your condition should have immediate treatment. Any further complications could be very serious and might easily kill you sooner. Those are the facts, Mr Dillert.” He looked at ’Bama with a certain satisfaction.
’Bama merely stared at him narrowly and did not say anything.
“I recommend,” the doctor said, “that you stay here in the hospital until we can run further tests and set up your insulin allowance and your diet and teach you how to use the syringe and all the other information needed by diabetics.”
“That’s what you suggest, Doc?” ’Bama said. “Okay. Now will you have Sister Theresa go down and get my clothes for me?”
For the first time since he had entered the room, the doctor lost his poise. He opened his mouth as if to say something, and then shut it again; and then he looked down at the charts in his hand. Then he looked back up at ’Bama stonily.
’Bama merely stared back at him, narrow-eyed.
“Sister Theresa,” the doctor said, “go downstairs and get Mr Dillert’s clothes. Bring a release form for him to sign.”
The sister, who had been watching all of this anxiously, went to the door without a word. ’Bama shifted himself a little in the bed again, but Dave noticed he did not groan this time. He and the doctor continued to stare at each other.
“How’s this hip wound, Doc?” ’Bama said after a moment.
“I removed the bullet and opened up the puncture wound,” the doctor said, “but I thought it best to put gauze drains in it.”
’Bama merely nodded and continued to stare back at the doctor. “Doc,” he said after a moment; “were you ever in the Army?”
“Yes,” the doctor said. “I was.”
“What were you? A colonel?”
“I was a lieutenant colonel,” the doctor said.
“In the Medical Corps.”
“That’s correct,” the doctor said stonily.
“I figured you were,” ’Bama said. “I was a sergeant, Doc.” He paused a moment. “A tank sergeant. You know, I was wounded twice in that war, Doc. Both times they put me in the hospital. And you know something, Doc? I actually preferred bein shot at up the front to bein in those hospitals because both of them were full of doctors like you. Can you feature that? In the Army, Doc, you could have made me stay in the hospital, if you wanted me to. And I’d have had to stay. Or get court-martialed.” He stopped, apparently unfinished, but actually not unfinished at all, and stared at the doctor with eyes as flat as two windless ponds.
“It would be better for you if I could do so now, Mr Dillert,” the doctor said stonily.
“Maybe. What’s ‘better,’ Doc?” ’Bama said. “Doc, do you believe in adultery?”
The doctor’s face stiffened. “Mr Dillert, I don’t think—”
’Bama raised his hand. “Or in excessive alcohol drinkin?”
“No, Mr Dillert,” the doctor said; “I do not.”
’Bama grinned. “Well, you see? there’s the difference. I believe in both adultery and excessive alcoholism for the human race, Doc. In fact, I don’t see how they could get along at all without ’em. You and me just don’t see life alike at all. You believe it’s yore duty to live like you do,” he said insolently; “well, I believe it’s my duty not to live like yore duty tells you to do,” and once again they stared at each other in that strange antagonistic way.
“Well, Mr Dillert, perhaps so,” the doctor said finally. “At any rate, I feel it is my ‘duty’ to try to impress upon you the seriousness of your condition.”
“You done did, Doc,” ’Bama said.
“Then my ‘duty’ is done, Mr Dillert,” the doctor said. “If you will excuse me, I have other important ‘duties’ to perform. Please sign the release which Sister Theresa brings.”
“Sure thing, Doc,” ’Bama said with insolent cheerfulness as the doctor went to the door; and after he had gone, he sat staring at the door, his eyes and face flat and cold—(once again Dave had that chilling feeling about his friend)—until gradually he became aware of Dave and his face softened. He turned to look at him and suddenly he winked, and then grinned, and then laughed out loud.
“I guess that last was about the best statement of the credo of the artist I’ve ever heard,” Dave said with a grin.
“Shore,” ’Bama grinned. “I’m a real artist.” He moved himself gingerly again in the bed and this time he groaned. He looked back out the window at the drizzly weather. “I hate hospitals. And I ain’t got much use for most of the medical profession, either. The pompous bastards.”
“What are you going to do about the diabetes?” Dave said.
The Southerner shrugged. “I’ll worry about that when I get out of this dump. I got a doctor at home I go to. I’ll see what he says.”
“You don’t think this guy was lying, do you?”
“Hell, no! He’s a damned good doctor, I ’magine. I just can’t stomach him, that’s all. He’s just a little too happy over all he found wrong with me. Come on, help me get up out of this sack. I got to piss.”
When the sister returned with his clothes and the release form, he was standing by the window in the knee-length gown. He signed the release form and returned it to her, and looked at the clothes on the bed, the suit pants and the coat still both torn and bloodstained. “Sister, what about my money?” he grinned. “That’s what I got into all this mess over in the first place.”
“There’s a slip there,” Sister Theresa said. “You can draw it at the desk when you go down. Mr Dillert, you weren’t supposed to get out of bed!”
“Sister, I’m gonna be out of this place in five minutes,” ’Bama grinned. “Cool off.”
“Just the same, you should ha
ve rested all you could before you left,” the sister said. “The trip is going to be quite an ordeal for you.” She started to bustle around trying to help him. It was obvious she was going to miss him.
“Sister,” ’Bama grinned, “you just go on out and let us get me dressed. You know how bashful I am.”
“Yes! I certainly can see that, Mr Dillert!” But reluctantly, she went outside. When they had him dressed and ready to go, amid much groaning and cursing, she came back.
“God bless you, Mr Dillert,” she said, her round, little face encased in its cloth staring at him earnestly. “God be with you.”
“Sister,” ’Bama grinned, “I’m shore He is. I left that deck of cards there for you on the table. Don’t forget to practice.”
They left her then, standing in the doorway, still looking embarrassed over the card playing.
The trip home was every bit of the ordeal she had said it would be. ’Bama, silent while Dave drove the heavy Packard for the first time since they had come back from Florida, tried to sit on his left buttock and favor his right. Only twice did he speak at all. Once it was to tell Dave, grinning stiffly at him, that his own wound was actually very similar to the wound received by Bedford Forrest at Columbia, Tennesseee, from the hands of the young Confederate officer who tried to kill him because Forrest had transferred him from his command for incompetency. Speaking through clenched teeth, he told Dave the story, how the young lieutenant had come to Forrest to ask to be taken back, how when Forrest who happened to be twirling a closed penknife in his fingers had refused he drew his pistol and shot Forrest, how Forrest had grabbed the gun and got the penknife open with his teeth and stabbed the lieutenant in the belly, a wound he later died of, how the lieutenant had then run from the building and Forrest had then walked to a doctor and being told the wound was probably mortal had started after the lieutenant to make sure he killed him, too, how in the end when he was assured the lieutenant who was by now lying in the street would also die he had desisted. Finally, in the end, Forrest had had himself carried to the room where the lieutenant lay dying so the lieutenant could apologize, and they had wept together over it.