Martin, Crook, & Bill

by Donna Nitz Muller

  Dr. Durkson inhaled, folded his hands on his desk, and continued. “The law has changed. Back in 1968 if the criminal was sent to a mental hospital and determined to be cured, he was released. Now he would have to finish the sentence in prison; back then he didn’t. The law was not retroactive, so Crook actually could have been out of here years ago. He just didn’t have anybody to do the paperwork. He didn’t have family or a lawyer on the outside pushing for him, no place to go, until now.”

  Martin’s fingers adjusted the change on the desk, but he never moved his eyes from the Doctor’s face. He listened. He did not know Crook’s crime. He felt no need to know. He trusted that whatever Crook did, he had good reason to do it.

  “Crook has befriended you, so I believe you will be fine. I know no one else will harm you. That is a fact. You may not need that kind of protection, but you’ll have it.”

  The doctor paused and cracked his knuckles. Martin returned his straight-eyed look, and waited.

  “I’ve assigned a doctor at the hospital in Yankton to provide outpatient care. I thought that would be easier than reporting to the Sheriff’s office in McCook County even though Yankton is a long drive and transportation may be a problem. What do you think?” He looked at Martin.

  “Yankton is best,” Martin answered. He tried not to look blank. He tried to look thoughtful.

  “Good,” Dr. Durkson pushed his palms against his desk and stood up.

  “You talked to the Sheriff’s office in Wheaton?” Martin did not stand.

  The doctor exchanged a quick glance with Martin and then he laughed a big football guy laugh. “No,” he answered. “I know how it can be in rural counties. I don’t want to set Crook up for harassment. I talked with the hospital personnel in Yankton. I sent the required letters to the McCook County Sheriff’s Office. McCook County did not have the facilities for professional counseling. It would not hurt you to seek some counseling at the same time. Make the trip worth your while.”

  Martin nodded. He knew the rules: no trouble and check in once a month to the assigned doctor. Only Crook was required to go. But Martin should. He moved his change around, looking at his fingers. Martin heard and he understood. When words were not required, do not speak. Extra words only prolonged the lecture.

  Dr. Durkson came around the desk and reached out his hand. “That’s all there is to it. The papers are in order. Crook is free to go with you.”

  Martin shook the doctor’s hand, but he didn’t get up. “Do you mean that you personally could have released Crook years ago?” Martin intently moved the quarters to stand as guards for the dime.

  “Yes, I could have, but he had no place to go. All I needed was an outside address and a signature on the release forms.” The doctor shrugged. “Crook hasn’t been receiving any actual therapy or drugs for years, ever since he asked to stop attending the sessions. He isn’t diagnosed with any mental illness. He was labeled ‘Criminally Insane’ thirty years ago. I had to dig to find his real name for the forms. Anyway, the papers I found suggested Crook was a perpetrator in an unfortunate situation. The 60’s were a time when anyone could sign anything and it was so. I suspect that route was taken by some lawyer and a humane judge to save Crook’s life.”

  Dr. Durkson abruptly turned and walked to the bare window behind his desk, his back to Martin.

  Martin understood the doctor had nothing more to say. He unfolded from the chair and stood six inches taller than the beefy doctor. Now Martin sensed an advantage. Dr. Durkson had to look up to address him. That is if he bothered to look at him at all.

  “So why are you willing to do this?” Martin felt compelled to ask despite the nagging feeling that he should leave now. “You got everything ready. You filed the reports and made the call, and cleared the way. Why?” Martin with his soft tones and straight bearing felt strong. He felt good.

  “The truth, Martin? For years I’ve watched Crook run this place on the inside. He did a superb job. He made life easy for me. No hassles, no fusses. I like Crook. I believe he deserves a chance on the outside. He’s already lost a lot of years. Besides, the man coming to replace me is a hard-nosed, by-the-book asshole. Once you made the first move, I decided to get Crook out. Save Crook from breaking in the new man.”

  He finally turned from the window with a new hard look covering his face. The game face vanished. “Do not make me regret it.”

  Martin said, “Thank you,” and started for the door. As Martin reached for the door handle, the doctor said, “Your change.” He handed the money to Martin. As Martin closed his hand on the change, his heart beat fast. He had done it. Crook was free to go. It was all he could do to resist hugging Doctor Durksen.

  Sandra, Crook and Bill sat in their circle. Bill was showing Crook pictures in a magazine, and Sandra looked pinched and uncomfortable. Her hands clutched the sides of her chair, and she did not even pretend to be looking at the open pages on her knees. As Martin approached, all three faces looked at him, judging him, their anxiety showing various degrees. He deliberately tried to look dumb, which he couldn’t do when he wanted to.

  “I can go?” Crook could not keep the fear from his eyes.

  Martin knew Crook had prepared to be denied this chance. He also knew hope still fed some corner of Crook’s hard heart. For that reason Martin could not play any guessing game. He nodded like a child, and clapped his hands, and danced for joy.

  “I can go,” Crook told Bill, and Crook did not even try to hide his excitement. How many years since Crook had shown his true emotions? Martin, recognizing the depth of his friend’s emotion, felt tears on his cheeks.

  Crook sprinted to the receptionist’s desk. He had one bag, a tan suitcase with one thick brown stripe down the center on each side. He looked at the receptionist until she handed the bag to him. The suitcase was older than its owner. Crook had to sign a form placed before him by the prissy woman. He did this, took his suitcase by the handle like it held gold bars, and moved with his graceful stride to stand at the glass door. Bill held the door open and then both men turned to find Martin and Sandra.

  Martin stood beside Sandra. He watched Bill and Crook. He heard Crook say, “I got to two inches from the door. Do you see that Bill? I can feel the outside air.” Then he lowered his head and sighed. “Not yet.”

  Bill let the door shut.

  Martin bent over Sandra. Her face was streaked with tears. The floor beneath her chair puddled with water. Unable to speak, she lowered her head and looked down at herself.

  “When did your water break?” Martin asked her in an infinitely gentle voice. She could not answer.

  “Are you in pain right now?” he asked. She shook her head no.

  “Can you walk?” he asked. She nodded.

  Martin straightened and looked at Crook. Bill and Crook stood beside Martin and formed a protective circle around the girl. “The hospital personnel will remember your departure, first puke and then a baby,” Martin said to Crook.

  “Sandra is only seventeen,” Bill said quietly.

  “They can’t know,” Sandra said.

  Martin knelt before the girl and said softly, “It will be all right. Crook will take care of everything.”

  Martin stood and saw Crook’s questioning look. He was asking without words, “Who is this girl?”

  “Sandra is with Martin. He has emotionally adopted her,” said Bill.

  Crook said under his breath into Martin’s ear, “Was this rape or incest? It makes a difference on our survival chances. If we lose either the mother or the baby, I can not keep it under the radar.”

  Martin was stunned first at Crook’s perception and then at the thought of anyone not surviving. Of course they would all survive. “Rape,” he mouthed. Crook nodded.

  He said to Martin, “Go, stand in front of the receptionist and ask for my bag like you don’t know that I already have it. Make sure you block her view of the elevators.” Crook paused, looking Martin full in the face and speaking soft and slow. “This is no tim
e to stress out. Keep it together.”

  Confidence surging from his recent success signing Crook out, Martin strode to the desk even as he felt the odds of Crook’s escape into the world plummeting out of reach. Martin stood in front of the woman and addressed her.

  He tilted his head to read her name tag. “Tamara,” he said, “Crook expected his freedom would slip away at the very moment he believed he had freedom. That is what he expects. We won’t let it slip away, will we?” He tried to smile at the woman who allowed none of it.

  Martin counted to five by tapping his fingers on the counter. He assumed Crook, Bill and Sandra waited for the elevator. He adjusted his body to block the woman’s gaze as she moved with her chair on wheels. Some skills come back and defensive feet were one of them.

  When he heard the elevator door open, he said, “I need Crook’s suitcase.” He stepped two inches to his left following her head and eyes.

  Martin refused to step away even when the receptionist told him that Crook had his bag. He refused to shrivel before the badly hidden look of disgust in her saucy expression. With her painted nails, she moved the form signed by Crook so Martin could see Crook’s signature. Still Martin did not move away. He shuffled back and forth always blocking her line of vision until she finally stood and glared at him.

  When Martin heard the whoosh of the elevator door closing, he said, “Well, Crook forgot his carving piece.” He turned quickly to the elevator, and pretended not to hear her say, “You are not allowed.”

  Martin waited for the elevator while ignoring the receptionist behind him. It took a few minutes for the elevator to return. Once inside he pushed third floor. He wanted the sixth floor, but the third floor was Crook’s sleeping quarters. That was where the receptionist/detective would expect him to find a carving piece.

  At the third floor he went to a different elevator and pushed six. He did not have time to plan, he just moved. Crook would take Sandra to the sixth floor where the medical rooms were located and a surgery room that wasn’t used for much more than temporary patch ups.

  When the elevator stopped and the door opened at the sixth floor, Martin poked his head out expecting to find some type of activity. The hallway was deserted. Lit only by the small square night lights along the floorboard, the space was eerily silent. Martin tried walking lightly down the echoing hallway to the last room. He was so afraid for Sandra and for Crook he felt stiff and cold. Only his confidence that Crook was in charge prevented the fear from turning into blackness. “No time to stress out,” he mumbled several times.

  Though no light showed beneath the door or through the small square window near the top, Martin knew they were in there. He knocked lightly with a shaking fist. “Merciful Jesus. Merciful Jesus.” That was his prayer.

  An orderly Martin recognized opened the door and replaced the towel along the bottom of the door to cover the light. The square glass above the door was covered with black construction paper saved in a drawer for just this purpose. The people in the room were silent specters under fluorescent light.

  Clandestine surgery had not happened often, but it had happened, and the long timers knew the routine. Most secret surgeries were in the line of wounds. Martin was sure that this was the first baby. If there was an expectant mother, she would normally be moved to a medical hospital.

  Crook controlled the room. He picked the helpers -- all people who owed him favors. Crook whispered between his teeth, “We all know this situation never happened, right fellas?”

  Another orderly from the medical ward stood by a high table on which Sandra lay. Bill stood by Sandra. The area above the table was so brightly lit that it felt to Martin like a stage. And it was silent, the only sound Sandra, breathing in and out with deep breaths. Martin’s gut wrenched when he looked at her. He knew to show no emotion, not now. Now she had to survive.

  Never having participated in anything clandestine while he was a patient, Martin had not actually believed Crook’s stories. Now he believed the knife wounds and broken fingers. Everything was synchronized; everything moved to Crook’s command as though he conducted a small but elite orchestra. Martin could not help his smile.

  Crook left to fetch a woman named Clara. Martin moved to Sandra’s side. He took her hand. She looked white, her eyes glazed and nearly rolling into her head. “Sandra,” Martin called her name. “You will be all right. Sandra, can you hear me?”

  The girl focused her eyes toward him and nodded. “I want my mom,” she said.

  “You all have to be quiet,” an orderly hissed. Martin glared.

  The black orderly took Sandra’s blood pressure and felt her stomach, but he didn’t write anything down. “Doing fine,” he told Sandra.

  “Your blood pressure is good,” Martin repeated to Sandra in a whisper. She grimaced. Martin considered pointing out that she was not having this baby by herself in an abandoned farmhouse. He did not say his thought because the sushing police stood across from him, and Sandra was in enough pain. He held her hand.

  “You must not talk.” The orderly’s face contorted with urgency. Sandra nodded. Martin made no response though it was Martin who was guilty of talking. The guards did walk this hallway every now and then in the afternoon. Twenty minutes passed without a sound in the room but Sandra’s controlled breathing and occasional moan.

  Martin watched her. Her stomach stretched like a drum. He watched her eyes grow large. “I want my mom,” she repeated.

  A light tap sounded on the door. Crook entered, followed by Clara, the obese, crazy midwife. Clara had blond tufts of hair that looked like a badly burned home perm surrounding fat cheeks and small features. Clara was the only one in the room who actually looked crazy. The group assembled nodded to her.

  Sandra’s body was so tight that Martin thought her arm would break off if he moved it. She was literally paralyzed with fear. She gagged and swallowed.

  “Don’t tighten up like that,” Martin whispered to her. He was present in the room when his daughters were born.

  “I want my mom now,” Sandra whispered.

  “SShh,” Bill whispered to her, “we will call your mom when we get home.”

  Martin noticed Bill for the first time since entering the room when he stood by Sandra. Bill looked miserable, ready to have a stroke. His face was blotchy red. His hands kept going to his head as though he wore a cap. He stood close to Martin, nearly touching him. His eyes shifted from the teenager to Martin.

  Martin exchanged a look with the old farmer, but Bill was too tense to speak. He patted Sandra’s arm and looked steady at her face. If Sandra felt uncomfortable with all these men around her, she made no mention of it.

  Bill must have thought of that as well because he whispered to her, “Would you rather I leave?”

  Sandra made no answer, so Bill stayed.

  The black orderly stood across the bed from Martin and Bill. He kept his fingers on Sandra’s wrist. Crook and Clara stood at her feet. The second orderly was really a guard at the door.

  “No mommy, no mommy,” Clara sang back to Sandra. Everyone tensed and averted their eyes from the woman, everyone except Crook

  Martin, who watched Crook’s face, saw Crook as much as he heard him say to Clara, under his breath and in her ear so Sandra could not hear. “Give the baby to me right away,” he told her. His eyes and expression were as cold and hard as lifeless stone. “Now tell her what to do. You will not hurt her. Do you understand? I am standing right here, and I will cut your eyes out.”

  “All right,” Clara snarled back. Then she smiled at Sandra, showing teeth with several black fillings. “She’s lost her water and there ain’t nothing I can do about that. And she’s all tensed up. That’ll make her bleed a lot. There’s nothing here to give her for the pain and besides it’s too late. Anything now would slow the labor.”

  Martin knew who Clara was through hospital scuttlebutt, but he had never spoken to her. He could see from the excitement in her eyes that she relished pain, asking Sandra
about it as she put Sandra’s feet in the stirrups. The orderly covered her with a sheet like a tent.

  Bill looked sharply at Crook and made a gesture with his hand for Crook to move away, at least look away to give the girl some privacy.

  “He has to watch Clara,” Martin said to Bill.

  “Try to relax,” Martin said to Sandra, rubbing her hands and arms.

  Sandra’s eyes were wild with fear so Martin told her, “No choice now, Sandra. Go for it.”

  “I see Hauk,” she whispered.

  Martin put his hand gently over her eyes. Then he bent to within inches of her face. “Hauk will pay someday. Think now of breathing in and out. Don’t fight the pain. I learned that in pre-natal daddy class. Not for me, but for you.”

  Sandra stuck her tongue out at him while one hand gripped his and her other hand gripped the bed. Martin lifted his hand from her eyes. Determination began to turn the brown color dark. For a second Martin glanced away. He thought he saw hate in Sandy’s eyes. He didn’t like it. Bill continued to stand at Martin’s elbow.

  Clara nodded to the orderly and the orderly said to Sandra, “You are doing fine. Keep breathing like I told you. When we tell you to push, push hard. Push with the pain. Then it won’t hurt so much. Try not to scream.”

  Martin saw the blood. Quickly he looked away. “You are safe. You are all right. Scream if you want.”

  He could see only Sandra but he said the name, “Crook, Crook, Crook.” God worked in the world. Crook worked in the hospital.

  Bill touched Martin’s elbow and gestured to Crook. The bald, wiry man focused on Clara with burning intensity. Bill was showing Martin the knife in the palm of Crook’s hand.

  Martin said, “Only Clara can see that.”

  “Push,” Clara sang.

  “We can see the head,” the orderly reported.

  “Once more, once more, push with the pain,” and on it went. And then it was sudden and total relief and over.

  “It’s a boy,” the orderly whispered while he wiped Sandra’s face with a cold wash cloth.