Native Tongue

by Suzette Haden Elgin, Susan Squier

  She stood calmly before Thomas’ desk and listened to his courteous objections, but she was absolutely firm. He could of course force her to go through the formal procedure of contacting her brother-in-law and having him petition for her release, if he chose to do so. She knew no reason why he should, because he would have no trouble finding a replacement for her; but whatever he did, she was not going to change her mind.

  She did not tell him her problem was that her life’s mission was to murder linguists and that she found herself in the uncomfortable dilemma of having for patients only linguists she could not bring herself to kill. She provided him with logical reasons, instead.

  “My patients are endangered by this situation,” she told him when he asked for reasons. “There’s no way that I, a single nurse, can provide so many sick women with adequate care. And while I am not in the least afraid of hard work, Mr. Chornyak, I do have standards. When the work reaches a point where it’s literally impossible for me to do, my patients’ welfare must become my primary concern. I can’t any longer pretend that I can fill this post, sir.”

  “But surely they haven’t suddenly become so much sicker than they were?” Thomas asked.

  “Oh, no . . . not at all. They are in fact remarkably healthy, all things considered. But they are also remarkably long-lived, these women of your Household. And as more and more of them become extremely aged, sir, they require constant attention to their personal needs. Almost every one of them, Mr. Chornyak, must now be helped even for such simple matters as bathing and eating.”

  And I always have a dozen or more willing pairs of hands ready to help me with those tasks. Even the four-year-olds are contented to sit with a bowl of rice and spoon it one tiny morsel at a time into the mouth of a beloved aunt. And I have seen two seven-year-old girls bathe a frail lady of ninety as competently and gently as any adult woman could have done, chattering the whole time about their verbs and their nouns. . . .

  She thought of all this, waiting, but she said none of it. She had learned enough to know that if Chornyak for one moment suspected that the women of Barren House had any leisure to spend tending others he would find a means for them to put it to gainful work instead; even for the four-year-olds, he would have had strong opinions about the “waste” of their time.

  “Well, Mrs. Landry,” said Thomas slowly, “I do see your point. I’m afraid we’ve been rather inconsiderate, as a matter of fact. When I hired you, I thought there was very little for you to do—but I haven’t paid any attention to the facts of the matter, and I should have realized that the situation was a progressive one. I apologize, of course, but you should have spoken to me sooner—it appears that our old ladies are determined to live forever, doesn’t it?”

  Michaela had been braced for strong protests, intricate arguments, and a great deal of linguistic manipulation along the lines of doing one’s duty and keeping one’s word. But Thomas didn’t behave as she had anticipated.

  “Fine,” he said, nodding agreement and making a quick entry to his wrist computer. “Fine. You may consider yourself released from your contract as of the end of this month, my dear.”

  Taken aback, but grateful that it had been so simple, Michaela thanked him.

  “Not at all,” Thomas said. “I regret that you were obliged to ask, and I apologize on behalf of the younger women at Barren House, who most assuredly should have spoken to me about this long ago and spared you the task. And now that that’s settled, may I offer you a different post, Mrs. Landry?”

  “A different post?”

  “Yes, my dear. If you would be so kind as to give me your attention for just a moment.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “If I understand you correctly, what’s needed at Barren House is primarily strong backs, not nursing skills. Isn’t that right?”

  “For the most part, yes.”

  “How many nurses do you think should be available, for all this bathing and feeding and so on?”

  “Two at least, perhaps three.”

  “Very well. We’ll begin with two, and add another if it becomes clear that it’s necessary. If you agree, what I’ll do is find two strong and willing women looking for work as—what do they call them? practical nurses?—all right, I’ll hire two of those. One in the daytime and one at night?”

  “No, sir, I’m sorry; you need two in the day, and then one on duty during the night in case she’s called. They could manage nicely if both were there all day and they alternated spending the night on call, first one and then the other.”

  “Well, let’s give that a try. And then I’d want you to stay on for two purposes, Mrs. Landry. Neither would be very burdensome, as I perceive it, but you must feel free to tell me if I am mistaken.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  “My father is vigorous and alert. But he has spells of severe vertigo that trouble him frequently, he has what I understand are mild infections of the urinary tract, he needs someone to keep track of his diet because he has a tendency to gout—as well as a tendency to gluttony, unfortunately. He’s acquired a disgraceful sweet tooth.”

  “He needs a nanny with a nursing license, in other words.”

  “Exactly. He’s not bedfast except when he’s suffering from one of his illnesses, off and on, but we need someone at hand for those times. We also need someone who will notice that he should be in bed, because we often don’t see it soon enough. I’d like you to move here to the main house to look after Father, as described, but also check in once a day at Barren House to see that everything’s being done properly there. And to do anything that actually requires a trained nurse. And of course if someone there became seriously ill, you could stay at Barren House until the crisis was past and we would manage without you here temporarily. Could I persuade you to do that, my dear? It would be a tremendous help to us all.”

  Michaela was delighted. This would let her carry on her vocation of death without having to exercise it on the women; it would let her maintain her relationship with the women of Barren House—which, to her complete astonishment, had come to be something that she treasured—and it would save her the nuisance of hunting for a new post, learning the ways of a new family and patient, all those tiresome things. It was a pleasant surprise, something she had not expected at all and found very welcome.

  And perhaps she would be able, once in a while, to see something of the progress of the woman’s language. She had no skills that would let her be part of the work, and she had better sense than to get in the way by trying to help with things she understood not at all. But if she stayed on, and if she observed carefully and discreetly, perhaps she could stay in touch with the project. Now that the women of Barren House knew that she was aware of Langlish, they might talk to her about it sometimes, even teach her a few words—it was at least possible.

  “Do you need time to think it over, Mrs. Landry?” Thomas asked her.

  “No,” Michaela answered. “I’d be delighted to accept. It wasn’t that I wanted to leave, sir—it’s very beautiful here, and I’m happy with the post. It’s just that the situation as it is currently set up had become impossible. What you propose should solve it, and I’d like to stay.”

  “Wel’ll have to put you in a guest room, I’m afraid—and there are no elevators. And no private bath.”

  “I don’t mind that, sir. Really.”

  “It’s settled, then?”

  “If you’re satisfied with the arrangement, Mr. Chornyak.”

  “Then I’ll proceed at once to find the two practical nurses . . . you don’t mind staying on at Barren House until they’re hired and then getting them settled in their duties, I assume.”

  “Not at all. I’d be pleased to do it. And if I can do anything else to help in this transition period, Mr. Chornyak, please let me know. For example, sir . . . I know the Nursing Supervisor well. If you would call him to authorize it, I could probably find competent women quickly and make the necessary arrangements. There’s no reason w
hy you should have to trouble yourself about that.”

  “Would you do that?”

  “Of course.”

  “Excellent, Mrs. Landry. I’ll call the man, and we’ll get all this out of the way. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a great deal of work to tackle.”

  Michaela allowed her lashes to fall, modestly presenting him a gesture that would imply the ancient courtesy without demanding it of her, and then looked at him carefully. Yes; he liked that.

  Thomas found himself much taken with Michaela Landry. There was something about her, some quality he could neither define nor describe, that made him feel somehow . . . oh, taller, when she was near him. Taller and stronger and wiser, and in every way a better man. He had no idea what it was she did, and hadn’t time to observe her to find out, but he knew that he enjoyed it. When she was in the room, he found that he tended to move to be closer to her, if he could do it without seeming obvious. And he fell quickly into the habit of calling her to his office each day to discuss various minor matters having to do with the health of Paul John or the Barren House patients.

  While she was with him, once the actual purpose of the discussion was accomplished, he noticed that without any awareness of having changed the subject he would suddenly be in the midst of some other discussion entirely. His own projects, his plans, his problems . . . not indiscreetly, of course. He never let slip anything that it was improper for her to know, or for any nonlinguist to know. But their talk went far beyond the remotest outer fringes of what could be called nursing. And she didn’t seem to mind at all. She was the most remarkable listener Thomas had ever encountered. Never bored, never uneasy and anxious to leave him and get on with something else, never wanting to put her own two cents in. She made him feel that every word he said was a pleasure to her ears . . . which could not be true, of course, but was a delightful illusion and a credit to her womanhood. If only Rachel could have been like that!

  When he found himself sharing her bed, scarcely three months after the move to the Chornyak Household had been accomplished, he was a little disappointed. Not in her performance; she was as skilled in his arms as she was at everything else she did, and he would have been very surprised if that had not been the case. But he had somehow thought of her as a woman of exceptional virtue, still entirely faithful to the memory of her dead husband—a respectable widow of sterling character and decorous charm. He could not help being disappointed that she wasn’t as he had imagined her to be.

  On the other hand, there were advantages to the arrangement. It reinforced his conviction that no matter how admirable a woman might seem, no matter how superior to the usual run of her sex she might appear to be, might in fact be, nevertheless all women are truly weak and without genuine strength of character. It was instructive, and it taught him the necessity for keeping an eye on the other women of his Household, an eye that went beyond surface judgments; he had been lax about that, he thought, without realizing it.

  They were frail reeds, women, especially in the hands of an experienced man like himself, and a man who was—as he was—a master of the erotic arts. If he’d had any doubts about that mastery, due to his advancing years and Rachel’s dutiful lukewarm attentions, Michaela’s rapt ecstasy at even his most casual efforts would have swiftly dispelled them. She was never in any way indelicate, never demanding, never lustful—lustfulness was abhorrent in a woman, and had she shown any sign of it he would have instantly dispensed with her. But despite her modesty he could always perceive that his touch carried her to the heights, and he realized that her husband had no doubt been one of those bumbling incompetents in the bedroom.

  It pleased Thomas to be able to show Michaela how a real man made love to a woman, and he found her reciprocal pleasure precisely what he would have asked for. He had never disappointed her, when her body was what he preferred: and if he wanted to talk rather than make love she was as contented with his words as with his caresses. If he fell asleep, he could be certain that when he woke she would be gone, the bed fresh, the room made neat, and no rumpled and frowsty female presence to interfere with his comfort. Unless he had specifically asked that she stay, in which case she would have somehow managed to arrange her hair and tidy herself without disturbing him, and would be fragrant and ladylike beside him, waiting on his pleasure. An entirely satisfactory woman, this Michaela Landry. As nearly a flawless woman as he had ever encountered. Under the circumstances, he was willing to forgive her her inability to resist his advances and live up to his earlier expectations.

  It is unjust, he reminded himself, to expect of a female more than her own natural characteristics allow her to accomplish. Unjust, and always a source of discord. He could not imagine Michaela ever being a source of discord, but he took very seriously his responsibility not to destroy that quality in her by spoiling her or allowing her to take liberties. She was perfect, just as she was; he wanted no changes.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Gentlemen, I’d like to get one crucial point settled before we do anything else here today. I want to begin by properly defining the medical specialty known as gynecology; I want that straightened out and out of the way so that we may move on to other matters. If you’ll bear with me . . .

  For those of you considering gynecology out of a sense of compassion and selflessness, the definition will not matter. For those considering gynecology for the sake of pure research, for the opportunity it provides to add to the sum of scientific knowledge, the definition will be irrelevant. But for the rest of you, who may be wondering if you have made a serious error—I strongly urge that you listen very carefully to what I am about to say. It is of the utmost importance that you do so.

  Gentlemen, gynecology is not just “health care for the female human being past puberty.” That definition, seen far too often in the popular press, is a distortion that can be a genuine threat to your self-respect—if you accept it. You must not accept it; it is an error, understandable in the layman perhaps, but not in the professional man of medicine.

  Let me tell you what gynecology is. What it really is. Gentlemen, it is health care for your fellow man—whose women you are maintaining in that state of wellness that allows the men to pursue their lives as they were intended to pursue them. As this country desperately needs them to pursue them. There are few more distasteful burdens, few more severe impediments, a man can find himself saddled with than a sick wife, an ailing mother, a disabled daughter—any female in poor health. It is the gynecologist who sees to it that a man does not have to bear that burden or struggle against that impediment.

  Gentlemen . . . I know that you have all heard jokes about the gynecologist “serving” women. They are ignorant jokes. By keeping women healthy, the gynecologist serves man; few duties are more truly essential to the welfare of this nation and its people. Never forget that, gentlemen, for it is the truth as God is my witness. . . .

  (from a welcoming address,

  Northwestern Medical University,

  Division of Gynecology, Obstetrics, and Feminology)

  SUMMER 2205. . . .

  Nazareth lay in the narrow hospital bed and waited for the doctors to appear. She was indifferent to the peeling paint on the walls, to the ancient metal beds, to the rows of strangers who shared this decaying ward with her; she was not used to either luxurious surroundings or to privacy. But she was not indifferent to the manner in which she was treated, the hostility that was the primary message whenever anyone spoke to her, no matter what the actual words used. It was cruel of the nurses to have spread the news to all the other patients that she was a linguist and subject her to that hostility—but they inevitably did it. How else were people to know? It was not as if her skin had been pale green, or as if linguists had horns to identify them to the unsuspecting public. . . .

  Once, years ago, she had been in the hospital to have her appendix removed. And because she was only a child, and still very naïve, she had asked the nurses specifically not to tell anyone she was a child of the L
ines.

  “Why not, Miss Chornyak? Are you ashamed of it?”

  She had wanted to ask, “Aren’t you ashamed of your hard hearts?” But she had kept still, warned by the swift sting of their response. And of course the nurses had told the others not only that she was a linguist, but that she had asked them not to tell. Of course.

  She understood all of this much better now. Doctors despised the nurses, but that was not the problem—doctors despised everyone except other doctors, and were trained to do so. But the public despised the nurses, too, and that was the problem. Nursing, Nazareth understood from the histories, had once been an admired calling; there were worlds on which it still was. Nurses had once been called “angels of mercy”. . . . there had even been male nurses. But that was before so many of the nursing functions had been turned over to computers. Once the bedside computers, the healthies, had taken over all the record-keeping, all the decision-making not done by doctors, had begun dispensing all medications and injections automatically, the role of the nurse had gone rapidly downhill. And when the healthies were programmed to interact with the patients and provide even the words of comfort—words that the nurses unfortunately had thought they did not have time to provide—that was the end of the road of prestige.

  Now nurses bathed patients, changed beds, fed the helpless, tended sores and wounds, disposed of wastes and other foul bodily excretions, saw to the cleansing of the dead . . . all the distasteful and unattractive things that are natural to sickness. It was a rare woman now who went into nursing for any reason other than that she needed the money badly, or that some male who had power over her felt that he needed the money. Thus the nurses despised themselves; it was no surprise to Nazareth that they took out on the patients the frustration that was their daily and nightly portion.