The Nurse Novel

by Alice Brennan

  Alice loved her Navy and its hospital.

  “In 1811,” it said in one of the pamphlets she had found on her night table in her small, trim room, “Dr. William Paul Critten Barton, a young Navy surgeon who later became first chief of the Navy’s Bureau of Medicine and Surgery, was commissioned by the Secretary of the Navy to submit his recommendation for ‘Conducting hospitals and institutions for the sick.’ He wrote, ‘The NURSES, whose number shall be proportionate to the extent of the hospital and number of patients, should be women of humane disposition and tender manners; active and healthy. They should be neat and cleanly in their persons; and without vices of any description…are to attend with fidelity and care upon all the sick committed to their charge…’ This was nine years before the birth of Florence Nightingale!”

  “Oh, I am tender and humane,” she thought, “and I am neat and I have no vices unless being in love is a vice…”

  There could not be much mistaking the meaning of Jacques’ telegram. Was she ready to give this up? Did she indeed have to?

  There were Navy nurses who were married. But they had no children. No nurse was allowed to have dependents under eighteen years of age. Perhaps Jacques and she would not have a baby right away.

  And that thought cleared the air for her. For it meant that yes, oh, yes, oh, yes, she would accept Jacques’ proposal. It could not be a disloyalty to be in love. She would always remain true to the Navy.

  But somehow she did have a restless feeling of disloyalty, a gnawing feeling that she was being faithless to a trust, the while she rode in a Navy station wagon which would take her to Third Naval Command headquarters at 90 Church Street, whence she would proceed on her own to the Pantheon Club.

  It had to be the Pantheon Club, of course. That was where they had met. Jacques would think of that, remember that. He was a thoughtful and a meticulous man.

  “I’m meeting Jacques at the Pantheon,” she had telephoned Pat. “If by any chance you were going there with Morgan, would you mind steering him someplace else?”

  “Well, dearie, I don’t see Morgan all that much and I have no date with him. But if I do, I’ll keep him off enemy territory. So,” Pat added, “this is it?”

  “Yes. This is it.”

  “Well, good luck, darling, and happiness. You’re a lucky girl to have two men like that after you. Me, I’m not proud. If Morgan wants me on the rebound, he won’t know what hit him. I’ll tackle him like he never was at Annapolis.”

  “Good luck to you, too, darling. And bless you.”

  Trouble with me, Pat had thought, rumpling her red hair, is that I grew up grown up. Alice has not yet grown up. If only she could handle herself as a woman as she can as a nurse… And yet, who knows about these things? Jacques may be just the right guy. Me with a hundred friends and not a beau but all brothers. Like Morgan. Morgan, brother to me, brother to Alice. Morgan, the silly ass… Morgan, Big Brother…

  * * * *

  The taxi lurched, stopped, and lurched again up Fifth Avenue. It was six-thirty.

  “I tell you, miss,” the driver said, “the Administration is trying to put us out of business. They put a tax on us so nobody wants to take short rides and it’s on the short rides we make money. And so the next Administration will come along and they’ll figure out another tax on us and pretty soon it’ll be cheaper for you to own a Cadillac than take a cab. And it’s worth your life to get on a bus or subway. They ought to abolish all private cars except for invalids and all truck deliveries should be made at night. Otherwise, New York’ll be a dead city before you know it—like Pompeii, which I seen during the War. You been overseas, miss?”

  “No,” Alice replied, though she scarcely realized that she had been listening to his monologue.

  “Well, you got your uniform on, I see, and maybe they’ll send you there sometime. ‘Join the Navy and see the world.’ I did and you know what I seen? The inside of a mechanics shop at Norman, Oklahoma. That’s some spot for the Navy to have an air station, ain’t it? But I’ll tell you, the steaks you got in Oklahoma almost made it worth-while. You ever know Captain Trilling?”

  “No,” said Alice, still answering without listening.

  “A great sport, Captain Trilling. Used to meet him every night at seven o’clock at Ninety Church and take him up to the Knickerbocker Club. When he couldn’t make it, he’d send his yeoman down to me with a buck to say sorry. He’s in Washington now. Taxis are different down there. You can double up on passengers. The Navy’s a great place, but a good-looking girl like you should get out of it and live any place but New York. Live in the country…”

  Live in the country, Alice now heard. Live in Alexanderville?

  The driver lunged safely left from Fifth Avenue and stopped at the Pantheon. Alice paid him and hurried up the stairs.

  “Take care, lady,” the driver called cheerily and spurted westward.

  Take care! I’ll take care. But now there will be Jacques to take care. Jacques…

  She saw him first, sitting in the cocktail lounge where first she had met him. Your heart does not leap into your throat, the nurse in her told her, but, oh, yes, it does, said the girl, the woman. Alice was in love.

  Jacques rose, hands outstretched, and kissed her hand—a French gesture he had not forsaken. They went to the same table where she had sat with Morgan and in a way Alice wished they had not, but she suspected rightly that Jacques was making something of a ritual of this meeting. He ordered a Dubonnet for himself and a frozen daiquiri for her.

  “Alice, dear,” he said, “I’m sorry I did not write. It was a painful occasion and I had much to do. You can imagine…”

  “Of course, Jacques.”

  “Alice,” he began (and Alice knew—this was it, as she had said to Pat; but it was not it quite yet). “I brought you a present from Paris.”

  He handed her a package. She peeled off the white tissue paper and there was the exciting green-and-gold Cartier’s case. Alice gasped as the delicately matched diamonds flashed at her in their myriad hues of brilliancy.

  The bartender noticed, too, and shrugged. “I’d have bet on the other guy,” he thought, “but that looks like a lot of rocks. They ought to invite me to the wedding. After all, I just about introduced them.”

  “Jacques,” Alice said, “I can’t accept a gift like this—”

  “Yes, you can. If you will. It is more customary, I know, to offer a ring, but you and I have talked about diamond necklaces and this is what I wanted to bring you. You see, Alice, I want you for my wife.”

  There were tears in Alice’s eyes—truth to tell, not so glistening as the diamonds. “Jacques, Jacques,” she sobbed, “I have wanted to so long.”

  And, suddenly, there was nothing to say. There they were, sitting in a public room…what a strange place, come to think of it, for a proposal.

  “Alice,” Jacques now said, “come to my apartment. You have never been there. I should like you to see it.”

  “Yes, Jacques, I should like to.”

  As soon as he opened the door with his latchkey, he turned, the door still unclosed, and kissed her. It was, she thought, a preview of heaven. How ever could she have had any doubts?

  The apartment was small. Somehow Alice had expected it to be more expansive. But easily she recognized its exquisite taste. It was painted charcoal gray, the only illumination on entering was the real Picasso on which played a hidden spotlight from the ceiling. There was a large day bed couch, also gray, but heightened in color by a cluster of Nile green and scarlet cushions. And aside from that, one bathroom, one kitchen.

  “I’m a sort of cook,” Jacques said, “I’ll make something in the chafing dish.”

  But instead he kissed her again and led her to the couch. It was of a certainty what is commonly called a passionate embrace and though she yielded to it momentarily Alice gently disengaged herself.

>   “Jacques,” she said softly, “we will wait, won’t we?”

  “My dear, it shall be as you want.”

  Over an expertly prepared curry they discussed plans. The big problem was the Navy. Alice hated to give it up. She had done almost two years of duty now; she would like to make it at least three so that she would not have the feeling that she had resigned too soon for proper conduct.

  “But that is not a problem, my dear. I know Americans do not like long engagements, but they are customary in France. We announce our engagement and, say, in six months we marry. You say a nurse may marry but may not have children and remain in Service? Well, what if we do not have children right away? I hope they will let you stay on at St. Albans, but even if they assign you to another city I can go with you. My business does not require daily attention; rather my cousin, René, is to give it daily attention. I want to go to different places and look around for opportunities. Eventually, dear, I should like to settle in Washington. It is one of the two capitals of the world. The other is Moscow and we would not be wanted there.”

  In this he was speaking the absolute truth.

  “And you forget, my dear—I am thinking again of my business—what has happened to transportation. I can have cocktails with you here this afternoon and that same day have cocktails with another charming girl in San Francisco. Nothing is far away any more. I can be in Paris in seven hours. I can speak to it,” he gestured toward the telephone, “in five minutes as clearly and understandably as I am speaking to you.”

  “We got engaged only a few hours ago and you are already talking about having cocktails with some woman in San Francisco. Am I doing right marrying a Frenchman?” Alice asked.

  They laughed and he kissed her and it was wonderful.

  There were no problems with Jacques. He solved everything, made everything right.

  Alice had to be at the hospital by ten. Jacques took her home in a rented car—a huge, black Cadillac with air conditioning.

  In her neat small room in the nurses’ quarters, she sat on her bed and thought and thought. There were not many personal touches in this room—nothing, really, but a snapshot of the farm in Alexanderville and a portrait photograph of her father, who now had sold the farm though he still lived on it and was busily supervising the construction of the new community center.

  She must write to her father…he had mellowed with the years and would be happy. She must get a photograph of Jacques to put on her dresser and show the other nurses. She had to tell Morgan and she must tell Pat. And she must speak to Lieutenant Pringle in the morning. So much to do…so happy to be…

  * * * *

  Jacques was speaking to Henri St. Georges on the telephone. “You may congratulate me. I have become affianced.”

  “I do congratulate you. When will the wedding be? Am I invited?”

  “I don’t know whether you should he or not. But, yes, I suppose so, we are business friends, are we not? The wedding will be in six months.”

  “So long?” St. Georges asked.

  “It is better. And anyway she wants it that way.”

  “Well, we don’t want her in the Nurses’ Corps too long. She must move in a higher society than is afforded by the doctors of a hospital. But we can start working now. My felicitations, Jacques. I hope you will be very happy. And it will give you pleasure, too, to know that now you will begin to earn some of the money we have advanced you. Good night. Pleasant dreams.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Lieutenant Pringle, the one who always spoke as if she were reading, said, “Well, these things happen. I’m sorry, but of course I’m glad for you, too, Alice. You’ve been doing well in your research here and we shall miss you. I remember an old friend of mine—she’s a good deal older than any of us—who was superintendent of the Apdorpf Settlement House in downtown Manhattan used to say, ‘I lose most of my nurses to Cupid.’ Not very original, but true. We’ll be sorry to lose you, Alice. You signed up for a specified tour of duty and it will soon be over. Of course, we can’t keep you here against your will. All the training we’ve given you…pity it’s going to waste…”

  “But it’s not, Miss Pringle. I want to keep on working in the Navy. At least for another year—we’re not getting married for six months anyhow. I want to do something for the Navy and Jacques wants me to, too.”

  “All right, Alice, we’ll see. But remember, you’re still in the Navy and subject to discipline. Don’t let being in love interfere with your duties.”

  Alice looked so contrite that Lieutenant Pringle relented.

  “We’ll give you an engagement party at the Officers’ Club when the time comes,” she said. “What is Jack’s last name?”

  “Stern. But it’s Jacques. J-a-c-q-u-e-s. Not Jack.”

  “Is he a foreigner?” Lieutenant Pringle was crisp again.

  “He’s French. But he’ll probably become an American citizen. He thinks eventually we will live in Washington. You know, I could do some work in Bethesda then. He’s quite rich, so I’m lucky…”

  “Miss Smith,” this was a cold superior officer speaking, “you are still in the Navy and under its jurisdiction. I do not need to elaborate upon that. You understand—or have you forgotten—that, as a member of the Nurses’ Corps, to marry a foreigner you have to apply for and be granted permission? And you are still a member of the Corps.”

  “I knew, but I guess I forgot,” Alice said ruefully.

  “Well, the first thing to do, since you are still with us, is to get permission. Write out a request giving all particulars.”

  So Alice wrote one of the familiar “From—, To—” memos: “Subject: Permission to Marry an Alien.” And, knowing the Navy, she made five carbons.

  Thus began the investigation of Jacques Stern.

  Alice naturally told Jacques about it and Jacques, who was beginning to enjoy the feeling of power that had come to him and who now found himself genuinely desirous of Alice, passed the information on to Henri St. Georges.

  Henri St. Georges was pleased. He was absolutely certain that nothing detrimental to Jacques Stern would be discovered and to have Jacques investigated and cleared by the Navy was an excellent thing. Jacques was going to become a powerful source of information. And St. Georges would benefit thereby.

  * * * *

  Morgan was summoned to Washington.

  He was shown into the sparse office of a Captain Trilling. Trilling was a man in his forties. He had close-cropped almost-white hair that made him look younger than his years. He was up for rear admiral when next the promotions came and he was sure to make it. Although this was pure coincidence, he was the Captain Trilling of whom Alice’s taxi driver had spoken the evening he took her to Jacques and the Pantheon Club, the evening Jacques had proposed.

  The conversation, crisp, went like this:

  Trilling: Sit down, O’Neill. Glad to meet you. Know about you, of course, but somehow we never met. Cigarette? Good. Now…what can you tell me about a man named Jacques Stern?

  O’Neill (stunned, flustered): Well, sir, not much really. He’s a very engaging fellow. He’s…he’s engaged to a girl who’s a very good friend of mine.

  T.: I know. I even suspect that you wish her choice had been a different one.

  O’N.: Well, sir, a girl makes up her own mind.

  T.: I want all the information you can give me. What’s his business?

  O’N.: I don’t exactly know, sir. He’s sort of an importer-exporter. I think he’s probably in a lot of things. He once mentioned going into industrial diamonds. He seems to have a lot of money.

  T.: Too much. Even before his father’s death… You knew his father had died?

  O’N.: Yes.

  T.: Very suddenly?

  O’N.: Yes, sir.

  T.: That means he has an inheritance, of course. But before his father’s death, although St
ern lived simply, he was a big spender and he liked to pay in cash. His father was notoriously parsimonious. So it would appear that either Stern borrowed from someone against his inheritance or someone was paying him for services we don’t know about. We, or the FBI or the Sûreté Nationale, can look at the old man’s checkbooks, but we don’t want to tip our hand. We’ve been curious about Jacques Stern for quite a while, O’Neill. You realize how serious this is?

  O’N.: Yes, sir.

  T.: Sometimes a front is so perfect and logical that it becomes obvious by its very perfection. That, I think, is the mistake Stern may have made. We didn’t wish to press an investigation, but Nurse Smith has unwittingly forced our hand. If Stern is an enemy or, should I say, unfriendly agent, we cannot allow her to marry him. And if we refuse, we must have a sufficient reason. I want you to tell me everything you know about Stern and find out everything else about him you can. Your most important source of information is, of course, Nurse Smith.

  O’N.: Sir, this is an embarrassing request to make. Couldn’t somebody else be assigned to this job? You see, I’m in love with Alice. I asked her to marry me and was turned down. This, well, it injects a personal factor into it…it seems, somehow, sneaky beyond the call of duty.

  T.: A good phrase, O’Neill, but forget it. We knew this would be a painful assignment for you, but there is no one else as well qualified. I’m sorry, but these are orders. As a matter of fact, I’m disappointed that you don’t see this in its proper perspective. This girl may find herself in actual danger. You’d act to protect any other American girl. Why not someone you love?

  O’N.: You’re right, sir. Excuse me.

  T.: Okay, we’ll forget it. Take Alice Smith to dinner. I presume she’ll have dinner with an old friend even though she’s engaged. If not, take them both. No harm in becoming a friend of your successful rival. And report everything, no matter how trivial. And move quickly, and intelligently. Thank you, O’Neill. Good luck.

  * * * *