by Jane Toombs
Another thing—Alma Reynolds was black. She seemed to be a good enough charge nurse, sharp and all and not lazy, give her credit. But to have her for a boss? Grace hadn't told Papa about it, except he might read it in the paper sometime, it probably would be in the paper what with Dr. Fredericks showing off the ward like he did. Still, the paper wouldn't say Ms Reynolds was black. There might be pictures, though.
Grace tensed. Should she tell Papa or just hope he never found out? He didn't like black people. He'd be angry, really mad if he found out and she hadn't told him. He might even...
Color stained Grace's sallow complexion. She put her hands to her face and closed her eyes. No, she mustn't...
"Is something the matter?" someone asked.
Hurriedly, Grace dropped her hands and stared at Sally. "No I—I'm just tired," she stammered.
"It's time for your break—maybe that'll help. Ms Reynolds sent me to relieve you. Laura Jean and I are going to the day room and Susie Q can come with us."
Grace peered nervously at the thin blonde girl behind Sally.
"I can't stand that creep," Laura Jean said.
Sally turned to her in surprise. "You told me you liked Susie Q. You told me she was the most honest person you'd ever met."
"I meant her." Laura Jean pointed at Grace. "She's a creep."
Sally flushed, embarrassed for Grace.
"See, you're not honest, either," Laura Jean told her. Hardly anyone in this shithole is."
"Susie Q's all cleaned up for supper," Grace said, ignoring Laura Jean. "I'll walk her down to the day room and then take my break."
Sally let them walk ahead before following with Laura Jean. "You shouldn't tell people things like that when you hardly even know them," she said to the girl.
"I don't want to know her any better. I just want to get out of here. It's a permanent bad trip."
"We're going to work together on you leaving," Sally assured her. "You'll do better over here on Thirteen West."
Laura watched Sally smile at her, then quickly looked away when Sally's smile began to waver and the edges of her face began to curl. She didn't mind so much when that happened to things but she hated to see it happen to people. She clung to Sally's hand while the mist rose from the floor and the whispering began.
"The Great Mother has chosen you. You and you alone are her high priestess because of your chastity and—"
The other voice cut off the first. "A whore. A slut. A common cunt."
"High Priestess," the first voice repeated. "You must purify the body with proper rites. Be cleansed of all past."
"Pussy," the second voice said. "Everyman's pussy. Round heels. Leg-spreader."
"First you must remove your clothes. Then the Great Mother—"
"Stop that, Laura Jean!" Sally exclaimed.
Her voice came to Laura Jean from a mountain top, from the lowest valley, from under the sea. She struck at the hands that tried to hold her, tried to stop her from tearing off her clothes.
* * *
Lew ran from the day room when he heard Sally call for help, beating Frank to the door. He passed Grace and reached Sally, who was struggling with Laura Jean McRead. Quickly he forced Laura Jean's arms behind her and held them there. She'd managed to unbutton her shirt and, when she leaned back against him to look up into his face, her bare breasts thrust at him, the nipples erect.
Laura Jean smiled at him, a wanton's smile, and to his dismay he felt a surge of desire. As though aware, her lips curled down in contempt and she spat at him. "Fuck you!" she cried.
Chapter Five
"Some doctor!" Luba Rabinowitz snarled.
Barry Jacobs took a deep breath and tried to hang onto his temper. Luba stood in the living room of their apartment, arms akimbo, chin thrust out belligerently, glaring at him. She was still in her nightgown, hair tangled. She looked her worst, making Barry wonder briefly what he'd ever seen in her.
He refused to be provoked into defending himself. What a bitch she could be, as if he didn't get enough of that from old Nellie Fredericks at the hospital.
"I told you I'd arrange for an abortion," he reminded her as patiently as he could. "Although if you get much farther along—"
Luba cut him off. "Oh, sure, flush my baby down the john, that's what you'd like to do, you unfeeling monster."
Barry closed his eyes momentarily. Stay calm. Don't let her rile you.
"Okay, don't look at me," she snapped. "You can't stand the sight of me since you've known I was pregnant. I disgust you. Admit it, you're afraid of gravid females."
Barry gritted his teeth together. She did disgust him, but she'd never believe it wasn't because of the accidental pregnancy. How could she have changed so completely from a cheerful, enthusiastic sex partner to a shrew? What was attractive about a shrill, vituperative woman?
He forced himself to retain an even tone. "You tell me you don't want a child, then in the next breath you're accusing me of being inhuman because I mention abortion. I can't get any sense from you, Luba. Why don't you try to be rational? Or have a few sessions with Max Earhart as I've suggested before?"
"Now you're saying I'm flaky, is that it? You think I need a shrink. You think I've flipped." She dropped her head into her hands and began to sob.
Barry sighed and glanced at his watch. He was going to be late again.
When he finally arrived on Thirteen West, it was afternoon. Two meetings and a team session on B West had kept him from completing ward rounds. Not that he minded missing the humorless day charge nurse. Desiccated. Aging ungracefully. An efficient type, no doubt about that, but one with a repellent personality.
He'd have chosen Ms Reynolds for day charge if he'd had his way. But old Nellie just seemed to be offering you a choice. Like Luba. The superintendent wasn't called Nellie behind his back for no reason—he acted like a fussy, bitchy woman all too often. Not that he was gay, not with seven kids and a long-suffering wife. No, the feminine was confined to his personality, not his sexual orientation.
"Hello, Dr. Jacobs," Ms Reynolds said, smiling at him. Barry smiled back, her soft, warm voice soothing his ragged nerve ends. Since he'd never been assigned to the Ad Ward, he hadn't had much contact with her until now. He found himself contrasting the healthy brown glow of her skin to Luba's sallow complexion.
One classy-looking gal.
"Any problems?" he asked.
"You might look at Dolph Benning," she said. "He's regressed to staying in bed curled into fetal position. We can get him to respond some, but he's practically stopped eating. And Laura Jean McRead is having porn nightmares—she related one yesterday to our student nurse that made Sally turn bright red."
"Let's see, I think I have a session set up for Laura Jean, don't I?"
"Tomorrow morning at ten, Doctor."
"I'll talk to her a few minutes this afternoon, then we'll include her in the patient conference at the end of the week. Who else do we have scheduled then?"
"Margaret Flowers."
"The Duchess? She's an old-timer, probably not much new on her, so we can work Laura Jean in, too. I don't like the sound of the sex dreams. Up until now her fantasies of whoredom have all been in a waking state—this new symptom may herald complications."
"She's not stripping as much. Hasn't taken her clothes off once in four days. We even have trouble getting her out of them and into her pajamas at night."
He nodded. "She definitely needs discussing. Anything else?"
"Nothing important. We're never going to program Mousie—Mr. Mausser—for his BMs. He even holds back when we insert suppositories."
Barry smiled. "I don't expect miracles. I know Mr. Mausser from his former ward and I suspect you're right. He has a primitive sense of humor. Remember when he pissed on my shoes last week? I saw the evil gleam in his eye."
They laughed together as they walked toward Mr. Benning's room.
Standing over Dolph's bed, Barry called his name without any response. With Alma's help he tried
to uncurl Dolph and succeeded in getting him to open his eyes. Dolph focused on them blankly, then his eyelids drooped shut.
Alma made a face. "That's how it's been all day. Yesterday he was still whining for his jacket and today, this. I looked in his history and his wife mentions he sometimes acted 'like a baby' at home."
"Did we ever get his records from up north?" Barry asked when they were back in the corridor.
Alma shook her head.
"I'll get Medical Records to call them and check. He may need ECT and I'd like to know if they ever shocked him up there and, if so, how many times and the results. You'd think we'd have better communication within the system."
"Would I? You forget I work here, too." Alma jerked her head toward Dolph's room. "I asked social service to write his wife a week ago. I wanted to know if she could visit and bring along the green jacket he's so lost without." She sighed. "I found out yesterday they hadn't gotten around to it and I'm really bothered because of how he's regressed."
"I don't think it would have made any difference," Barry said, "The jacket may be a childhood symbol—who knows?"
"I realize that, but I wanted to find out whether or not this green jacket actually exists. If it does, it might prove to be his security blanket while he's here."
Barry grinned at her, raising his eyebrows. "Mama Reynolds?"
To his surprise, she stiffened, then turned and stalked off.
He caught up with her. "Hey, what gives?"
"Sorry. You caught me off guard. There's a—someone who calls me 'Momma A.' I don't like it. I guess I overreacted."
"A for what?" he said, looking at her uniform pin and noticing the quickened rise and fall of the nicely rounded breast under the pin.
"A for Alma." She smiled faintly and glanced deliberately at his name pin. "I know what your first name is—the B is for Barry."
"So we've progressed socially to a first name basis."
"But not professionally, Dr. Jacobs."
"I know the rules as well as you do, Ms Reynolds."
She slanted her eyes at him. "There's coffee in the lounge, if you'd like to make your visit temporarily social." He coped with a strong urge to run his hand along the smooth warm skin of her arm, settling for touching her lightly on the shoulder. Maybe he'd delay rounds on Thirteen West until afternoon every day.
Sally was seated in the lounge and looked uncertainly from Alma to Dr. Jacobs when they came in.
"Did you get the old ladies set up for their gossip session?" Alma asked her.
"All except the Duchess. You know how she is—a mind of her own. She claimed they were cackling geese and she couldn't be bothered. Why is she here? I read her chart and it said she's an alcoholic with chronic brain syndrome, but she seems so lucid."
"We're going to review her at patient conference," Alma told her.
"One good thing happening on Thirteen West," Dr. Jacobs said, "is this renewed attention to chronics. They stand out here, not mingled in with too many others like themselves."
Alma grimaced. "I'm not sure that's good for Mousie. The extra attention he's getting seems to make him more and more creative about being resistive. I doubt he was as much of a problem on the ward with the other old men."
"About the Duchess," Sally said. "She insisted I call her that because she said she rather likes being nobility. When I asked her who the president was, she got it right— Richard Nixon. She even remembered that he used to be governor of California."
"Wait till she confides in you about how her evil nephew put her away to keep in control of her money," Alma advised. "Wait till she tells you about her shining knight who'll come to rescue her and make her his bride when he finds out where she's incarcerated." She shrugged. "I'm not saying there couldn't be a thread of truth buried in there somewhere, but that's some story."
"Miss Flowers says she's been here five years, three months and twelve days," Sally said. "I looked it up and she's only three days off. Isn't that remarkable?"
"If you're really concerned about her, Sally, why don't you use her for that case study you're supposed to turn in to your instructor? You can ask medical records for her old chart and be prepared to present her at the conference this Friday, which would benefit us as well."
"Me present her?" Sally asked, obviously taken aback.
"I don't know if—"
"Nothing like doing things to gain confidence," Alma told her. "Why don't you start right now?" She glanced at her watch. "I'll relieve you of patient assignment this evening unless we find we need you to help with Laura Jean. Go call medical records before they go off duty and ask them send us the old chart."
Barry watched Sally go out. "I'd forgotten what it was like to be that eager," he said.
"One of the techs brought in some cookies," Alma said. "If you'd care for some with your coffee, they're very good." As Barry accepted coffee and several cookies on a plate, he tried to remember how long it had been since Luba made any pretense of getting a meal together. God knows he didn't expect to be served, but she got home earlier from work than he did and she wasn't on call at night. The least she could do was slap food onto the table.
"Thanks," he told Alma. "Haven't seen homemade cookies in a long time."
"Connie's always bringing us something—Mrs. Dominguez."
"The little woman with five kids?"
Alma nodded.
"You live around here?" he asked.
"Not really close. I have a cottage at JadeBeach and commute. I don't—" she hesitated, then continued. "I don't tell everyone where I live, though."
"The beach sounds like a great place." He pictured the ocean, cold in January, but cleansing. Filled with a burst of acute longing to be there, he thought of the free weekend coming up and sighed inwardly.
No use to ask Luba if she wanted to drive over to the ocean when all she really wanted was to make him miserable and that could be done as easily in the apartment. Which was so messy he'd probably have to spend half the weekend cleaning up while Luba drooped about retching and feeling sorry for herself and insisting he feel sorry for her too. "If you're ever over that way, drop by," Alma said. "You might hit it lucky and I won't be working."
"Sunday?" he asked impulsively.
"If you come before noon. I'll let you know how to find my place." She set aside her coffee and rose.
He rose too, and they faced one another measuringly.
"There you are." Frank Kent said as he pushed open the lounge door, causing them to start. He entered, making the room seem crowded. "Here's the meds you called me about," he told Alma, handing her a plastic container.
"How's it going, Frank?" Barry asked. "Quiet so far?"
"So far, Doctor."
"Good. I've got one more ward to make before I cut out," Barry said. "See you both tomorrow."
"Goodbye, Dr. Jacobs," Alma said. "See you."
When he was gone, Alma hugged herself and smiled at Frank. "At last, a doc who's a human being."
"A few of them are," Frank admitted.
"Is it true he has a live-in?"
"That's what I hear. Why?"
"No particular reason."
"I'll bet." Frank reached for a cookie. "Anything going on over here? I heard in report that Dolph Benning's not eating."
"All curled up like a baby, same as when the guards brought him in that first night. Dr. Jacobs mentioned ECT. I'm going to try feeding Dolph supper myself." She glanced at her watch. "I'd better get with it."
Sally dashed into the lounge, almost running into Frank. "Oh!"
"Hello, Sally," he said. "How are you liking us?"
"I—it's so different than I expected," Sally told him. She turned to Alma. "Medical records won't have the chart here till tomorrow so I'll go ahead with my patient assignment if that's okay."
"Fine. Why don't you hang around the desk and answer the phone—I'm going to see if I can coax some food down Dolph."
Left alone with Frank, Sally edged nervously toward the door, but
he was in the way. He was so big.
"Do you think you'll be interested in becoming a psych nurse?" Frank asked.
"I—I'm not sure. Some of the patients frighten me—I think maybe they always would. I admire Alma—I mean Ms Reynolds."
"It's all right to use first names in front of me."
Feeling trapped because he was between her and the door, Sally stared at him, unable to remember what she'd intended to say about Alma. His eyes were brown, with the right iris having distinctive wedge of yellow. Unusual.
"Are you afraid now?" he asked suddenly. "Of me? You look so scared."
"Oh, no! Well, not exactly, Mr. Kent."
"Why don't you call me Frank?" He smiled at her. "I'm harmless."
"My—I had a—a friend once who claimed no man is harmless," Sally blurted. To her distress tears welled in her eyes and she ducked her head quickly. I shouldn't have mentioned Em, she told herself, wiping at the tears. Not yet, not here, not to him.
She felt Frank's arm around her, gentle, careful. "Something's the matter," he said. "Do you want to tell me about it?"
Sally pulled away from him, shaking her head. He must think she was as crazy as the patients, she told herself.
"Is it anything I said to you?" he persisted.
"Oh, no—no, it's not your fault. No." She had to give him some kind of explanation. "My—my friend is dead," she said, forcing the words past her aching throat. "She killed herself."
Chapter Six
Sarah Goodrow-Fenz, supporting Frank's head with one arm, raised the cup of soup to his lips. "Drink this," she told him in a calm but forceful tone. "We can't stay in this place much longer so you've got to get stronger fast."
"Don't need anyone feeding me," he mumbled.
"Yes, you do. Drink. It's chicken soup, guaranteed to cure man's ills."