Psychiatric Nurse

by Dan Ross

  At six-thirty, she left the house, and with her cape on, she hurried through the winter's night to the main building of the hospital. Joining Head Nurse Moore, she was taken to the comfortable staff dining room. The round table for the doctors and head nurses was located in an ell. It boasted a white tablecloth and cloth napkins, while the tables in the main room had only plastic table coverings and paper napkins.

  A well-built young man in his early thirties, with reddish hair and a friendly, somewhat freckled face, stood by the table in serious discussion with a short, elderly man. They ended their talk as Jean approached with the head nurse. Miss Moore made introductions all around, and, as Jean had suspected, these men were the staff doctors, Kenneth Hastings and Firth Breton.

  Dr. Kenneth Hastings, the younger man, gave her a warm smile as they shook hands. "I suppose you expected me to be my father," he said. "Nearly everyone does."

  She smiled back. "I did question Dr. Werner about it, and he explained that you were his son."

  "Did he?" The young doctor sounded surprised. "He usually tries to pass me off as my father. But then, he'd hardly try that with a new staff member, would he?"

  Jean was surprised by his comment and the implications it might have. "I'm glad to meet you," she said instead. "You must tell me about your father and his work."

  "I'll be glad to whenever you like," he said bleakly.

  Dr. Firth Breton edged forward to show a cordial smile on his purplish, rather bloated face. "My name is not as famous as Ken's," he said, "but I hope we'll be good friends."

  "I'm sure we shall, Dr. Breton," Jean said. "It's a little overwhelming, meeting so many new people at once. And I'll be wanting to get to know the patients."

  "You'll have a fine opportunity to see most of them tonight," Catherine Moore said. "We're having our midweek concert in the auditorium. The patients provide their own entertainment, and most of them attend. It's one of the most popular evenings of the week."

  "It sounds very interesting," Jean said.

  "You'll find Tranquility Place full of challenging things," Dr. Ken Hastings assured her in a tone that sounded to her like mock irony.

  They sat down to dinner. Dr. Werner didn't join them. Jean assumed he must have gone home to have dinner with his wife. Talk at the table was spasmodic and moderately interesting. Dr. Breton seemed to have a wide knowledge of sports events; he discussed his favorite horses, football teams, and baseball stars in glowing terms.

  Jean said to him, "You must give a lot of your spare time to sports, Dr. Breton."

  "During the season I try to attend the races at nearby Scarboro nearly every night," he said. "And in the winter, I go to Boston Gardens for hockey and the like whenever possible. It's only a little over an hour's drive."

  Ken Hastings smiled at Jean across the table. "You should understand that Dr. Breton is not interested primarily in the teams or personalities involved, but rather in the winners."

  His remark was not too clear to her, but she saw that the stout doctor's face crimsoned at once and he became silent. For the rest of the meal he paid attention to his plate.

  When dinner ended, Ken Hastings told her, "I'll accompany you to the concert. It is my night to be chaperone of the event. We have it early as Dr. Werner maintains an early-to-bed-and-early-to-rise schedule here."

  "I imagine that regular hours are a necessary discipline," she remarked.

  "Dr. Werner does place great emphasis on that," Ken Hastings agreed.

  On the way from the dining room to the assembly hall, he asked her, "Have you had any experience in psychiatry?"

  "Quite a lot," she said. And she told him where she had studied and worked.

  He listened, and seemed impressed. "Sounds as if you know what you're doing. Not that it can always be considered an asset here."

  It was another in a series of odd remarks he had made since she had met him. They puzzled her, and she said, "You sound as if you do not approve of Dr. Werner or this hospital."

  He gave her a smiling side-glance. "That's just barely possible."

  "If that is true, why do you continue working here?"

  He paused before the door leading to the assembly hall, and with another of his wise looks, he said, "That will take a little time to explain. More than I have right now."

  CHAPTER TWO

  The large room had its stage at one end and was laid with a hardwood floor. It was typical of the rooms Jean had seen in many hospitals where an auditorium was combined with ballroom facilities, or used for the showing of movies. A number of chairs had been set out in rows, and already many of them were occupied.

  A brunette nurse with a pert face and a bored smile came up to them. "I think nearly everyone is here, Dr. Hastings," she said. "And Frank is ready to begin his concert." She gave Jean an inquiring look, as if she took her to be a new patient.

  Ken Hastings said, "Thanks. I guess Frank can start any time. And by the way, this is the new assistant head nurse, Jean Shannon. Jean, I'd like you to meet Bertha Fraser. She's one of our best nurses."

  "I'm glad to meet you, Bertha," Jean said politely.

  The other girl stared at her with obvious annoyance on her pretty face. "I had no idea Dr. Werner was hiring anyone from the outside."

  "Well, he did," Ken assured her.

  "So I see," the girl said, and turned and strode off toward the backstage entrance.

  Jean gave the young doctor an uncomfortable glance. "I have an idea she expected Dr. Werner to select his new assistant head nurse from the present staff. And that she expected to get the post. Am I right?"

  "I'm afraid so," the young doctor sighed.

  Jean could tell that the mere fact of her having being hired had made Bertha her enemy. The other girl had expected Jean's job, and hadn't tried to hide her chagrin at losing it. She had also not looked too happy at seeing Jean with the handsome young doctor.

  "Do you think she'll go on disliking me?" Jean asked Ken.

  "I doubt it," he said. "But she was upset. Dr. Werner may have given her the impression that she was in line for the job. He sometimes does things like that. I believe it's a cruel streak in him that he indulges occasionally."

  "I hate being caught in the middle," she said.

  "You have the position, so I wouldn't worry about it," he said firmly. He indicated the group of people seated in the chairs facing the stage. "A quiet and well-behaved lot, aren't they? Better than many such assemblages you'd find on the outside."

  "I agree," she said. "They must look forward to the entertainment."

  "They do. Tonight a patient called Frank Burns is singing for them. He does folk songs, and does them very well. He spends all week working up new songs. His programs are always new and different, though he will repeat any favorites for the crowd."

  She frowned a little. "Frank Burns. That name sounds familiar."

  "It should," Ken said. "His name was in the headlines a year or so ago. He was traveling around the country, living in the hippie havens of the big cities and doing his songs and guitar playing. He also happens to be a very wealthy young man."

  Of course she remembered. "He claimed he was going against his family's wish for him to assume responsibility," she said. "Then I heard he was ill, and there weren't any more stories in the papers about him."

  "You have it right," he said. "When the media talked of his being ill, it was a thinly disguised reference to his being mentally ill. And it was about then that he was committed here."

  "Could he be committed?"

  "It presented no great problem for his mother and stepfather, who happen to be the guardians of his estate until he can be proved responsible." Ken's voice held bitter humor. "They weren't about to allow him to squander his money."

  "But how could they stop him?"

  "By placing doubts as to his sanity. He'd been involved in several arguments with the police, and took part in some pretty wild demonstrations that ended in general violence. And when he started to give his mon
ey to his friends, his family blew a fuse. Next thing he knew, he was in here."

  Jean was startled. "But if he's not really mentally ill, how can they keep him here?"

  "No one has proven him sound as yet," Ken said amiably. "And Frank doesn't seem to care. He claims he's perfectly happy here, that it's more sane than the outside world. Of course, Dr. Werner is a friend of his family, and anxious to protect them from the scandal Frank was causing. An old family friend has to be useful for something."

  "I don't like the sound of it at all," she worried.

  "There are plenty of cases like Frank's," Ken assured her. "Involuntary Application—Indeterminate Detention—application by guardians, and certificates from Dr. Werner and Dr. Breton. All documents made under oath, of course. It represents an agreement between Frank's family and the receiving institution, Tranquility Place. And even Frank agrees it is the most tranquil place he's ever been in."

  Jean gave the young psychiatrist a searching look. "But do you believe he's mentally ill?"

  "judge for yourself," Ken Hastings said. "He's coming onstage now."

  A slim, loose-jointed young man appeared in a typical hippie garb of blue jeans and a suede jacket with Indian-style fringes. His hair was a straw yellow and he had a heavy thatch of it; his eyes were a pale blue in a face freckled, long, and youthfully appealing. He looked a cross between a wistful boy and a quiet rural worker. Certainly not like a millionaire.

  Ken touched Jean's arm and guided her to a seat in the back row. They had barely sat down when the boy held up his guitar and strummed it a bit, then looked at the audience and smiled. "Another happy night at happy haven," he said in a droll voice.

  This apparently hit a nerve with his audience. There was a relaxed laughter and a clapping of hands. They knew the joke and they were welcoming it.

  Frank Burns cleared his throat as he continued to show a smile on his wry, freckled face. "This show is for you people. Of course, if the nurses and orderlies and some of our way-out doctors want to benefit by it, I'm not about to clap sleeping plugs in their ears to shut off the message."

  This again reached his listeners. There was more applause and a lot of laughter. Jean saw the brunette nurse, Bertha, slowly coming up the aisle toward the rear of the room. And when the girl saw Jean seated with Dr. Ken Hastings, the sullen expression she had shown before returned to her pretty face.

  Not only have I robbed her of the job she wanted, Jean thought in dismay, I'm also making her jealous. She must have some sort of crush on Ken Hastings. Jean gave her attention to the stage again to avoid the eyes of the brunette, who had come to stand near them, presumably to keep a watchful eye on the audience and on the stage at the same time.

  Frank Burns was studying his guitar and strumming it lightly again. He paused and told his listeners, "When I start singing my songs about the evils of the world, it all has to do with the outside. In here we have everything in perfect order, organized by Dr. Werner and his kindly staff. And as you listen to my laments, keep in mind that they're not for us!"

  Then the yellow-haired boy began to sing a folk tune about the lost world of a country town of his youth, lost when a smart, glass-walled, spic-and-span factory came to pollute the entire countryside beyond its own antiseptic walls. The song ended with the neat observation that the interior of a factory had never been so germ-free and clean while the area around it for miles was pollution-ridden.

  The audience was enthusiastic. There were cheers, whistles, applause, and laughter. Frank Burns took it all in his stride. He had an air of friendly common sense that at once endeared him to Jean. His long, freckled face showed a smile of irony as he began to play again.

  This time he sang a song about the need for foreign wars, racial violence and poverty, and the duty of a patriotic populace to insure that these things were perpetuated. He ended by pointing out that ignorance was a freedom that should be defended on all fronts.

  Again the reaction to his biting satire was excellent. And he went on to do numbers about the draft, protestors, ivory-tower executives, and a few songs extolling the beauties of the countryside and the simple people that remained despite the havoc-wreaking changes of the day. He was on the stage for more than an hour, and after taking several curtain calls, he vanished into the wings.

  Ken turned to Jean. "That ends the entertainment for tonight," he said. "What did you think of him?"

  "Fantastic," she said. "He's great!"

  His mocking eyes studied her. "I agree. I'm glad we see things the same way."

  "But he shouldn't be in here."

  "Now, there we don't agree," Ken Hastings said. "It's my belief that he's happier cut off from the outside world he deplores."

  Jean frowned. "They've taken his freedom from him. And he has something to contribute out there."

  "If you're thinking of his fortune," Ken teased her, "that's how his guardians managed to get him in here."

  "I wasn't thinking of money at all," Jean argued. "It's his ideas and his clever way of expressing them that impress me."

  "His guardians and Dr. Werner are of the opinion that he is not able to rationalize."

  "Why, he has more common sense than most people I've ever known!" she cried indignantly.

  Ken gave her a look of comic warning. "Of course you realize the dangers of being too sane?"

  She was annoyed by his taking the affair so lightly. "You're a cynic! And if there's anything I hate, it's a cynic!"

  They were on their feet now. The audience had also risen, but didn't seem to be going anywhere. Most of them were gathered in small groups, talking animatedly. Sprinkled among them were nurses in their white uniforms and several male orderlies.

  "We finish our evenings here with tea, coffee, and cakes," Dr. Ken Hastings informed her. "And since you are so enthusiastic about Frank Burns, I'll see that you meet him."

  Some of her anger vanished as she gave the tall young doctor a bleak smile. "I'd like that. You know, I haven't been able to decide about you. I mean, the kind of person you are. Sometimes you're very nice, and then again, you can be infuriating."

  "When I talk like a cynic?"

  "Yes."

  "But I can't help that," he said lightly. "I happen to be one. Here comes Frank. I'll catch his attention before some of the others get hold of him. He's very popular here." And he waved to the young man in the blue jeans and suede jacket to join them. Jean felt a thrill of excitement as the young millionaire folk singer came up to them. He had a definite magnetism that was evident at once. He was about Jean's height, and just as slim as he had looked on stage. His modest bearing was more pronounced off the platform.

  Ken greeted him like a friend. "Frank, this is Jean Shannon, a very nice young woman who is to be our new assistant head nurse. She's enthusiastic about your work and anxious to meet you."

  The freckled face of the folk singer showed a pleased smile. "Why, thank you, Miss Shannon. I don't get too many new fans in here, though the old ones are loyal, and I'm always glad to have a fresh reaction to my work. Keeps me on my toes."

  "You're marvelous," Jean said. "Your material is so pertinent. How do you manage to keep it so?"

  "Newspapers are available to us here," he said. "I try to make good use of them."

  "You make the best possible use of them," she said. "You should have a much larger audience."

  He accepted this with an amused look. "You may be right. Perhaps I should apply to be moved to a larger institution."

  She blushed. "I wasn't thinking of an institution," she protested.

  Ken was enjoying the exchange. "You two are getting along so well, I wouldn't think of interfering with you. I'll leave you to manage a conversation by yourselves." And with a nod, he left them and went directly over to Bertha Fraser, who was standing by the refreshment table with an angry look on her face. Jean decided that Ken had gone to repair any damage caused by his being with her.

  Frank broke into her thoughts by asking, "What brings you here?"
>
  She considered. "A desire to work in a small hospital. I think psychiatric aid can best be dispensed in small groups. I've been with a large state hospital for several years. Toward the end, I found it too frustrating."

  The pale blue eyes of the young man were regarding her thoughtfully. "I hope you don't find it equally frustrating here."

  "I can't imagine that happening," she said. "This place is so much smaller, and quite different."

  "Perhaps too different," Frank Burns suggested quietly.

  All the uneasiness she had experienced since her arrival now came back to her with his quiet words. The probing and too-polished manner of Dr. Werner, the bitter cynicism of young Dr. Hastings, and the veiled remarks of the orderly, Moriarty, all joined together to create an ominous mood.

  She stared at the young millionaire. "You seem to think there are things here that I won't approve of?"

  He made no attempt to answer her question, but said, "Would you like some coffee and cookies?"

  "Please."

  "Cream and sugar?"

  "A little of each," she told him.

  He went across to the table to get served. She stood there feeling confused. Very gradually, it was becoming clear to her that Tranquility Place was not quite the perfect private mental hospital she had pictured. But then, reality was almost always different from one's imagination. No doubt she had been expecting too much.

  She glanced across to where she had last seen Dr. Ken Hastings and Nurse Bertha Fraser. The two were now engaged in a very intimate conversation. Jean made a mental note to avoid being too much in the young medic's company. I£ he and Bertha had an understanding and it was generally recognized in the hospital, it would be embarrassing for all if she were to intrude on their relationship.

  She was standing alone, still waiting for Frank to return with the refreshments, when a tiny, black-haired girl came up to her.