Thirteen West

by Jane Toombs

  "Uh, yes, sir."

  "Hello, Daddy," Mrs. Exeter said from her bed.

  Dr. Fredericks ignored her, focusing on Zenda. "You must have an opinion about the incident with Laura Jean McRead."

  Zenda tried to gather her wits, avoiding his gaze as best she could. "I—I wasn't right there when it happened, you know, Doctor," she said finally. "Whatever it was that did happen."

  "Perhaps you'd rather come to my office and discuss this with me in private."

  Zenda knew a threat when she heard one. "But I really don't know anything for sure."

  "I intend to discuss it with you all the same. Where, is your choice?"

  "If I go to your office, everyone will think..." She broke off, biting her lip.

  "Mrs. Holm, I'll give you my private line number, the one that doesn't go through the hospital switchboard." He wrote on a card and handed it to her. "I'll be expecting your call. Shall we say nine this morning? That should allow you sufficient time to get home."

  Zenda stared at him sullenly.

  "I will expect that call, Mrs. Holm," he said. "Good night."

  Left alone, Zenda looked at the phone number he'd given her. "Bastard," she muttered. What the hell was she going to do now? All she'd ever wanted was to mind her own business, but it was as if he knew she could tell him what had happened to Laura Jean.

  "Where's Daddy?" Mrs. Exeter asked. "Want my Daddy."

  "Shut up!" Zenda snapped, which made Mrs. Exeter cry. Feeling guilty on all counts, Zenda finished up what she'd been doing, determined not to come out of the room until she was certain the superintendent had left the ward.

  "We'll have to open one of the vacant rooms," Joe said to Dr. Fredericks when he came back to the nurses' station. "Is that all right? I understood those rooms were to be left for new admissions."

  "Of course you may use a vacant room," Dr. Fredericks said. "I issued no such edict."

  "Then we'll transfer Mr. Taterson right away, Doctor. Sorry he bothered you."

  "That's what I'm here for, that's what the whole damn hospital is here for." Dr. Fredericks voice grew shrill. "Don't forget you work here only because Mr. Taterson and others like him are unfortunate enough to be labeled mentally ill. That is also why I work here and I'm always available to listen to a patient."

  Joe swallowed and nodded, thinking, In a pig's ass you are, Doctor.

  "I found my little tour quite informative. Good night, gentlemen. No, don't bother, I'll let myself out."

  When the ward door closed behind Dr. Fredericks, Willie looked at Joe and rolled his eyes.

  "What's Nellie think he proved?" Willie asked.

  "God only knows," Joe said. "And you'd better remember that as far as this place is concerned he's God."

  "Pussyfooting around and talking like we're all little ole bugs on the floor," Willie said.

  Joe shrugged. "Be glad you don't see much of him."

  "Him and that high squeaky voice of his. Bet be has trouble getting it up."

  "Where do you think his seven kids came from—remote control?"

  Willie grimaced and thrust up his middle finger.

  "You see where Zenda was?" Joe asked.

  "In the shit-pit with the old bags."

  "Go tell her he's gone."

  "You think she told him something?"

  "What's she got to tell him? You know of anything she's got to tell him, Willie?"

  "Who, me?" Willie grinned and left the station.

  * * *

  As he returned from his new I.T. work assignment, Tate spotted Harry sitting in the sun on a bench in the courtyard. He didn't like the new job. They'd taken him out of the laundry and put him in the library where he had to talk to a lot of strangers and he'd never been much for that. He took a deep breath in preparation to spilling out his woes to Harry.

  "Hey, Tate," Harry said, speaking before he could. "I got me a contact. You got any money?"

  "A little," Tate said cautiously.

  "As much as ten bucks?"

  "Maybe. What's the deal?"

  "There's this new town guy at the laundry. He came since you left. I been feeling him out and for five bucks he'll get us some stuff. That's all I got right now, so I figured if you had some cash we could finance ourselves a cache."

  "Can we trust him?"

  "Yeah—he already brought some wine in for Greg."

  "Sounds good."

  Harry grinned. "Man, is it ever."

  "Okay, I'm in. Only he's got to get some good stuff— not all wine."

  "Anything we want."

  "First good news I heard since they put me in unlucky Thirteen. You won't believe what's happened..."

  * * *

  In Dr. Fredericks' office, Willie Rhone waited for the superintendent to come in. Though his legs were thrust out in a casual sprawl, Willie was far from relaxed.

  Shit. Zenda must've seen more than he thought. Fat old cunt, never did trust her. Joe'd never admit anything if he did know. Wasn't nothing nobody could prove, though. Hang onto that, don't let Nellie shove the needle in. Deny everything.

  He'd spent too much damn sweat getting where he was to be set up for the drop. Wouldn't risk it again for a free fuck. Hadn't done it for the balling, anyhow. Done it to see how much he could he get away with. They couldn't prove nothing.

  Willie tensed when he heard Dr. Fredericks' voice in the outer office. His gaze shifted to the door.

  "Mr. Rhone."

  Willie rose. "Yes, sir."

  Dr. Fredericks seated himself behind the desk and waved Willie back down. Then he steepled his hands and looked at him with those beady little eyes, saying nothing.

  Willie forced himself to sit still. It'd do him no good to fidget.

  "I presume you know why I've sent for you," the superintendent said finally.

  Oh, no, you don't, you motherfucker. "No, sir, I don't."

  "Why were you spending so much time in Laura Jean McRead's room? Up to forty-five minutes on at least one occasion."

  "There must be some mistake."

  "In view of the incident report I've received, I'd like an explanation. What were you doing in her room?"

  Willie clenched his fists. Damn that Zenda.

  "Only times I ever went in her room was to check on her like I do with all the patients."

  "I have a witness that tells me otherwise."

  Screw your witness. "Someone's lying to you, sir."

  "Yes, Mr. Rhone, someone is. I trust it is not you."

  "No, sir."

  "Does it usually take forty-five minutes to check on a patient?"

  "I was never in her room that long. Two, three minutes is all." Willie clamped his teeth together to keep back reasons why he wouldn't be interested in a female patient. The most important thing he'd learned from counseling was don't talk too much. Be polite. Answer questions.

  Don't volunteer nothing extra.

  "I've pulled your record and called L.A.," Dr. Fredericks said. "I've never condemned a person because of his past but you'll have to agree I have some grounds for doubt when I find you've been remanded on one occasion for rape."

  Willie ground his teeth together. Careful. Think. Don't spill your guts. "The mother didn't like blacks, sir. It's true the chick was fifteen but she'd been balling for a couple years. They said rape but it was 'cause of her mother. I didn't rape the girl—she wanted to, uh, do it."

  "I understand you've had psychological counseling since then."

  "My lawyer arranged for it."

  "Apparently you profited by it, since you went back to school and were able to complete the psychiatric technician course."

  "Yes, sir, I learned a lot about myself."

  "Did you learn enough, Mr. Rhone? To quote an authority, 'A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.'"

  "I'm doing my best to get along."

  "On the surface. But what's underneath? What's written on your hidden agenda?"

  "I think I know what I'm doing, sir."

  "Yo
u did say, 'think.' If you'd told me you knew what you were doing I'd be sure you were a liar." Dr. Fredericks gazed unsmilingly at him.

  Willie forced himself to meet the doctor's eyes. Don't say nothing, he warned himself. Keep still. Wait till he talks. He's screwing that needle around, calling you a liar, wants you to get mad. Stay cool.

  "Do you like working at Calafia?" Dr. Fredericks asked. "Are you comfortable with the mentally ill?"

  "I like it all right."

  "And you like working nights, I gather, since you asked for that shift."

  Willie nodded.

  "Any reason?"

  "My counselor told me to try to get night shift till I got used to what I was doing. He said things were quieter then. So I did what he told me."

  "Did you choose this field or was that also at his suggestion?"

  "He mentioned psych tech training, said I should think about helping others that were worse off than me, that I'd feel different about myself if I did."

  "And do you?"

  "Some."

  "It's evident you're quite an intelligent person, Mr. Rhone. I suggest you also become more careful. There's nothing I can prove or disprove in this situation, as I'm sure you're aware. I recommend that you think seriously about a transfer out of Calafia. If you do not, you will be transferred to days and placed on a men's ward. I will consider it my responsibility to see how you're getting along and will be visiting you often. Do I make myself clear?"

  Willie sat mute for a moment, fighting back the expletives that came to his tongue. Don't blow, this mother would like nothing better. Cool it.

  He stood up, fists clenched. "I'll think about that transfer," he said, eyeing the doctor. "With your recommendation."

  Dr. Fredericks smiled thinly. "With my recommendation."

  Willie let his breath out in a whoosh as he closed the office door. The bastard wasn't going to black-ball him, didn't dare go that far. So he'd go back to L.A. Or maybe up north. No big deal. Lots of state hospitals in the system.

  Been his counselor's idea for him to get out of the city to begin with and he'd picked Calafia 'cause he knew that's where Momma A had got to. She was one changed chick. Like to show her she ain't the high and mighty piss-slinger on wheels she puts up to be.

  He'd done okay in there with that big shit in there. Yeah, he'd done okay. Old Nellie knew exactly what had happened on Thirteen West, but he didn't really care about anything as long as Calafia wasn't involved. An operator all right. Got rid of me, but didn't get to shoot me down like he wanted. Willie grinned.

  * * *

  In his apartment, Crawford Greensmith took off his shorts and stepped into the shower. Getting out of shape, those three sets had damn near killed him. Just his luck to have the first interesting person he'd met in months turn out to be a tennis freak.

  The game was okay, but if you didn't keep at it—Crawford winced as he shifted his stance. Be a miracle if he could move at all in the morning.

  Better be worth it. Taylor Stevenson seemed well worth cultivating, but you never could be sure. Maybe after the bash tonight—just an informal get-together, according to Taylor—he'd know more. It was the first time the man had invited him anywhere except to the tennis courts.

  Generally the townspeople treated the hospital workers—even the doctors—as though they were inmates, as though there must be something wrong with them to want to take care of crazy people. He'd had his share of elevated eyebrows.

  An accident really, meeting Taylor. He'd been strolling past the courts when a ball came flying over the fence. After he tossed it back, while they were exchanging a few words, Taylor's partner had showed off by leaping over the net, landed wrong and twisted his ankle.

  Crawford shut off the water and reached for a towel. Taylor must have decided if he played tennis he couldn't be all bad. He'd almost forgotten what it was like to talk to normal people. In some ways the ones who worked at Calafia were weird.

  Another year and he'd be out of it, couldn't come soon enough.

  Meanwhile, what to wear tonight? Casual, of course, but distinctive. Crawford smoothed his mustache.

  * * *

  Dolph Benning sat in the large room with the TV. Day room, they called it. Why had Vera put him in a hospital?

  Or had he been out at all? He wasn't sure. Yet he thought he remembered Ron driving him, remembered hiding a bottle from Ron.

  He glanced about furtively. That man who had the green jacket—where was he? Sometimes he saw him, but he hadn't been able to find out if he was on this ward. Today the tech had taken Dolph and some others out for a walk—it looked different out there, this had to be a different hospital—and he'd seen the man sitting on a bench. The tech had waved and called him by name—Tate.

  "Kill 'em, kill the bastards," Mousie shouted from his wheelchair.

  Dolph shivered, looking around fearfully before he realized the old man was watching some kind of game on the out-of-focus TV.

  * * *

  Margaret Flowers looked over at Mousie. A foul-mouthed man. Bad language had always offended her. Sometimes, of course, the poor souls were so afflicted they didn't know what they said, but that old man was plain nasty.

  She got up from her wheelchair and made her way slowly from the day room. She passed the Preacher standing in the hall, the first time she'd seen him out of his room since that dreadful night he was tied.

  "Good afternoon," she said. "You seem a good deal better." She'd asked Sally his name—Jones—but wasn't sure if she should say Mr. or Reverend. Was he actually a minister?

  He shifted his eyes to look at her but said nothing. Making up her mind, she said, "Reverend Jones? What denomination?"

  Little old white lady, seem like he knew her from somewhere. She asking questions. Reverend Jones, she called him. Seem like he should answer.

  "You have a wonderful memory for the Bible," she said.

  "I am a Baptist minister, ma'am," he said. "I was raised on the Bible."

  He waited for the wrong voice in his head to mock, but it was quiet.

  "I admire anyone who has the dedication for the ministry," she said. "It takes a very special kind of person."

  He inclined his head, the word special echoing inside. "Thank you."

  "You have a fine voice. I know it's an imposition to ask, but if you can bring it to mind, would you mind repeating one of psalms for me? It's the sixty-ninth, of that I am sure, but I can't recall all the words."

  Simpson raised his head and closed his eyes, waiting until the right words came to him. "Save me, O God!" he intoned. "For the waters have come up to my neck. I sink in deep mire, where there is no foothold..."

  Margaret nodded, her eyes closed too. Yes, yes, these were the words, imperfectly remembered, that had gotten her through that first bad year at the hospital.

  "...I am weary with my crying; my throat is parched," he went on. "My eyes grow weary with waiting for my God..."

  She listened until he reached the end, then opened her tear-filled eyes. "You don't know how much that meant to me," she told him. "I have my Bible but I can't see to read fine print any longer."

  "They do not allow you glasses?" Simpson asked.

  "I have none. I'm afraid to call attention to myself by asking my nephew, for he is like the one in the psalm who 'hates me without cause.' And he controls what money I have left."

  "That is intolerable. Surely the wicked do flourish as the green-bay tree."

  "One of the nurses here—the young one, Sally—said she'd bring me a magnifying glass to use. But, of course, I'll be supervised with it."

  "I shall be happy to read to you from your Bible," Simpson said. "By the grace of God, my eyes are still serviceable."

  "You are a good man," she said. "It was cruel of them to tie you down." She didn't go on, seeing by his expression that he didn't understand what she meant.

  Trying to make amends, she said, "You probably had one of your bad spells. We all have those at times."

 
"Spells are an abomination," he said. "A witch shall not be suffered to live."

  "Not that kind of spell—"

  He cut her off. "...for all that do these things are an abomination unto the Lord..."

  Margaret took in his unfocused eyes and saw spittle gather in the corners of his mouth. Oh, dear, she thought, I've said the wrong thing. Regretfully, she moved away. "...the Lord thy God doth drive them out from before thee..."

  The poor man. Just when it seemed you could talk to someone they had a turn and you were forced to remember you dwelt among madmen. Oh, Richard, when...?

  * * *

  Grace Geibel heard the Preacher begin his ranting and hoped he wasn't going to be a problem tonight. It was awful enough to be assigned to that room. Could Ms Reynolds be doing it on purpose? The worst of it was that, though she struggled to think of the Preacher's roommate as Mr. Serrion, that horrible nickname kept popping into her mind. Jacko. When she'd asked Lew Alinosky to please not use it in her hearing, he'd taken it upon himself to tell her exactly what it stood for—jack-off—and why Mr. Serrion had acquired it.

  She shuddered, trying not to gag.

  * * *

  Alma put aside the charts of the two new female admissions—a paranoid schiz slated for ECT and their second retardate, who was not a Down's Syndrome like Susie Q. The evening seemed to be creeping by. Charlie had gotten to JadeBeach after midnight and they'd been up till nearly dawn talking and making love.

  Alma smiled and hugged herself. Old macho Charles was coming around, indeed he was. Telling her if she left L.A. they'd had it. Ha! He'd been the one who'd finally written her in care of the hospital, asking her to call him.

  She looked up to see Grace standing beside the nurses' station. "Yes?"

  "I don't—I mean I can't go into that room, Ms Reynolds. You shouldn't ask me to." Grace's pale blue eyes stared reproachfully.

  "What room? What are you talking about?"

  "Where that Mr. Serrion is. You shouldn't assign a woman tech to him. It's not right."

  "Come on, Grace, Jacko never pays the slightest attention to any of us."