by Jane Toombs
Frank took two steps and dropped onto the carpeted floor where he sat at her feet, leaning his head on the chair perilously close to her knee. "Better?"
"I'm not sure." She'd touched him many, many times while he was recovering, but that had been in a nurse/patient relationship. Frank was no longer her patient. They no longer touched.
"You always were hard to satisfy."
"You never tried!" she snapped.
"Can't argue with that." He eased down, stretching out on his back on the floor, hands behind his head. "Satisfied?"
She gave him a reluctant smile.
"Do you want to talk about it or not?" he asked her.
"What part?" she temporized.
He shook his head. "Don't give me that."
Gazing down at him, she marveled at how far he'd come from the stumblebum she'd rescued. He was a still a good looking man at what—fifty eight?—despite the abuse his body had taken over God only knew how many years.
"You had a quick enough tongue as Sarah," he said. "But now that you're Sally, you're reverting, turning inward again."
Solo ambled into the room, crawled onto Frank's chest and settled down to purr.
"You can't be all bad if cats like you," she said, still avoiding his question.
"Too bad you didn't own a cat when you were almost twenty," he shot back.
"You were all bad then," she blurted.
He half-smiled. "And I'm not now? How do you know?"
"I'm not a skinny kid any longer. I've put on a few years and a few pounds since then."
"But not a few more smarts. Didn't it occur to you that my tastes might have changed, too?"
She leaned over to glare down at him. "You're baiting me. Just like you always did."
He laughed and sat up, disturbing Solo, who shot him an indignant look and stalked off. Putting his arms around his bent knees, Frank looked away from her and said. "We have to lay it out. We talked all around it when we contributed to our ongoing Calafia story. It's time to stop that nonsense. I could wish I was still a sicky in a drugged daze but I've come back to myself and, unfortunately, my memories survived pretty much intact. Who the hell was Daddy Keith?"
Shock shot through Sarah, momentarily turning her into little Sally. "He was a bad man!"
"When I raped you, you thought I was him."
She gaped at him, startled by his open admission of what he'd done but even more by his mention of Daddy Keith. She'd had no memory of saying the name to Frank—but she must have. It made sense. Though he'd never penetrated her, in a way her first stepfather had raped little Sally.
"He was an abusive stepfather," she said finally.
"What happened to the bastard?"
"He drowned."
"Good. How?"
She opened her mouth to tell Frank she didn't know when, from nowhere, frightening pictures began flashing one after another into her mind.
"A rowboat," she whispered. "Mama and Sally and Daddy Keith. He yelled at Sally 'cause she kept moving around. He said if she didn't keep still she'd tip the boat over and they'd all drown. Sally knew he'd call her a bad girl and hurt her when they got home and she was so scared she wished she could drown. She stood and jumped up and down and, sure enough, the boat tipped and they all fell in the water."
"What happened after that?" Frank's voice brought her out of the nightmare reliving of the accident—or had it been an accident? She'd never before recalled any part of the terrible event.
"I don't know," she said slowly. "I woke up on the beach with my mother. She told me later that Daddy Keith drowned. I wanted to forget him so badly that for years I did."
"How old were you?"
"Seven. Until you—until that night I let you in, I repressed all memory of him."
He shook his head. "So I was guilty of more than I realized." Looking up at her, he added, "But I knew all along it wasn't really me you were afraid of. Till I gave you reason to be, anyway."
"I think we should call it a night," she said. "I can't handle anything more right now."
"You didn't kill him," Frank said.
"I think I wanted to—it's hard to remember my exact feelings. It was certainly my fault that the boat tipped over." She stood up. "Enough. I need time to deal with this."
Chapter Nineteen
In the Thirteen West dining room, Frank heard the clink of spoons against plates and the voices of the ward staff through a haze of fatigue. The sound filtered in, but he had difficulty defining the sense of it.
"My God, Frank, you look awful," Alma said, momentarily jarred from her own concerns. "You should have stayed home. What is it—the flu?"
"Just tired," Frank muttered. He didn't look at Sally. "Everything okay here?"
"So far."
"Good." He turned away and started out.
Alma glanced at Sally, who had her back to the door. She raised her eyebrows. When Frank was gone, she said to Sally, "You mad at him?"
Sally didn't answer. Alma stepped closer and peered into her face. "Sally?"
Sally burst into tears.
Alma led her from the dining room and into the lounge. Frank, letting himself out of the ward, paused to glance at them. For a moment Alma thought he intended to come back, but then he turned and went out.
"What's the matter?" Alma asked. "Frank looks like death warmed over and you're bawling. What gives?"
"I can't—nothing," Sally stammered, huddling on the settee.
"I don't mean to be nosy. Take your time. Don't come out till you feel better."
I should have told her, Sally said to herself when she was alone. Pride had made her come to work, though the dread of seeing Frank was as heavy as a stone in her stomach. Physically she felt all right, only a little sore. Just enough to keep reminding her what had happened. Mentally was an entirely different matter—she couldn't seem to stop crying.
Without warning, Daddy Keith's voice echoed in her mind. "You know what happens to cry babies?" She cringed back as though he were there with her, bringing the burning end of his cigarette closer and closer to her bare skin.
Her hands clenched into fists. Dead. He was dead.
The frightening memory dried her tears. She wiped her eyes and took a deep breath. All that was in the past. The episode with Frank was finished too. Since she'd decided not to do anything about what had happened, she must put it behind her. Forget it. Go back to work, finish the few days she had left at Calafia and then forget Thirteen West too. She wasn't cut out to be a psych nurse.
* * *
Connie, readying Susie Q for bed, finally got her to stop brushing her teeth. She wiped the girl's face and coaxed her under the covers.
"Kiss," Susie Q insisted.
Connie bent and kissed her on the forehead. "Good night, Susie Q."
The new patient, Debbie, looked at her from the other bed with wistful brown eyes. A pretty girl. "Would you like a kiss too?" Connie asked.
Debbie nodded and held up her face, lips pursed. When Connie kissed her on the forehead, Debbie clutched at her. "Good night, Debbie," Connie said, disengaging herself.
Poor girl, she thought as she left the room. Desperate for love and affection. Her history showed she'd had a baby two months ago, father unknown. She had the mentality of a three-year-old—what maldito, what evil man had done this to her? A shame she had to be shut up in here by a court commitment. Wasn't her fault she got pregnant.
It's not going to happen me again, Connie vowed. If Ramon ever found out she was on the pill he'd have a fit. It was going against their religion. But she'd almost rather die than have another child to raise. More years added on before she could live for herself. Someday she would, that's what kept her going.
They made it sound so simple in the feminist articles. Do your thing, come what may. Be blunt. Be honest. Leave them all if they refuse to accept your reality.
How could she leave her children? Or Ramon, who did his best and who loved her? Connie sighed and entered the next room.
Like Laura Jean, Mrs. Cobb had had ECT this morning. Laura Jean was definitely more alert, but there was no change in this patient's affect.
"I'm Connie," she said to the woman. "I work in the evenings and we'll see a lot of each other. Do you have a nightgown? Oh, yes, here's a pretty flowered one."
"You let them," Naomi said suddenly, looking up at Connie from shadowed eyes. "You let them shoot the poison into my head."
"There's no poison here," Connie assured her. "It's time to put on your nightgown."
"My shroud, you mean," Naomi said. "You want me to die."
Connie laid the gown on the bed next to her. Better check with Ms Reynolds about some medication.
* * *
Simpson sat in the day room, the flickering shadow pictures dancing above him. Shadow voices spoke, but not to him, didn't speak to nobody. The voices in his head were quiet. Yet he knew something had gone wrong.
He remembered how he'd been tied for the sacrifice, for Macardit, but the Great Black One hadn't come. Instead, the old white lady had loosened him. White, she had nothing to do with Macardit, less he sent her to undo the bonds for some reason. Why?
Blood. That was the answer. Wash me in the blood of the lamb. He'd been tied, but there was no blood. Simpson frowned. Grandma said it should be a black cockerel. No black cockerels in this place to kill for blood.
Macardit must want his blood instead. But where could he find a knife? Didn't give out no knives around here, wouldn't let you keep nothing sharp.
"...and they cried aloud and cut themselves after their manner with knives and lancets, till the blood gushed out upon them...," he intoned.
"Cool it, will you, Simp?" David said. "I don't need you to get started preaching tonight. Time for you to crash. Come on."
Simpson allowed himself to be led into the bedroom. He knew he must wait till all was quiet. No use to go against those in power when he was without protection.
* * *
Alma prepared an injection for Naomi Cobb. Weird, the way she felt tonight, like what she was doing made no sense, like it was unreal and she was watching some other Alma Reynolds go through the motions of being charge nurse.
Off and on she snapped out of it and then it seemed like last night couldn't have happened, that Willie would show up for work tonight, same as always, that Barry was MOD and would stop by to see her before she went off.
It was as though reality had stopped existing.
* * *
David found Sally in Laura Jean's room. "Looks like the shock's going to do her some good," he said, watching as she tried to coax Laura Jean into brushing her hair.
"Yes," Sally agreed.
"You don't sound as if you cared. I thought Laura Jean was your pet project."
"I care."
"If you're wondering about this—" he touched his face defiantly—"it doesn't hurt. I'm okay."
Sally glanced at David's fading yellow and green bruises. The night he'd come to her apartment seemed so long ago. "I'm sorry about what happened to you," she said.
"You don't sound as if you cared much about that, either."
"I—don't feel very good," she admitted.
"You probably wrote me off after that night."
Making an effort, Sally focused on him and saw the effort it cost him to talk about it. "Oh, David, that didn't matter," she assured him.
"You must think I'm hopeless."
"No, I don't think that at all."
"Like you made a big mistake bothering about me."
"We both made the mistake of pushing too fast, that's all."
"I suppose you're going to give me the old line about still being friends. Right?"
"But we are friends, aren't we?" she asked. "As a friend, I wouldn't want to be the cause of—of further unhappiness between you and your housemate."
"You mean you don't think I'll ever be able to make it with you, so why bother. Isn't that it?"
Sally sighed. Couldn't he see how upset she was about her own life? This evening was definitely not the right time for her to try to deal with David's hurt ego. "I like you," she said finally. "If I was going to be here longer we might have—well, become better friends."
"But as it is, forget it. Right?"
She looked at his pleading eyes instead of the belligerent thrust-out chin. What could she say to him that would be of any help? She really didn't care. He was right. She didn't have any caring left.
"Oh, hell, Sally, I'm sorry to keep picking on you. It was all my fault."
"It might have been more my fault than you realize," she said. "I'm not experienced."
He blinked.
Feeling she'd found the way to go, Sally added, "You picked the wrong girl, David. That's the real mistake."
"I never thought of it that way."
I can't keep this up, she thought. Too little with David; too much with Frank. She felt hysterical laughter rise in her.
"I need to pee," Laura Jean said, startling them both.
"She's talking again!" Sally exclaimed.
"Some first words," David commented.
* * *
In his room, Tate pulled out the jacket and slipped his hand inside to unzip the pocket. He'd get under the covers and... What the hell? He shook the bottle. Empty? Impossible. He unscrewed the top and tilted it over his mouth. A few drops trickled out, no more.
Damn that Dolph! Tate sat on the bed and contemplated the empty bottle morosely. He couldn't even complain to anyone.
After a time he got up. Had to ditch the damn dead soldier—wouldn't do for them to find it in his possession. His thought had been, when he finished the bottle, to stash the empty back in the zip pocket and wear the jacket outside tomorrow and get rid of the bottle on the grounds. But maybe they weren't going to let him go out tomorrow. And what if they found Dolph drunk tonight? Might do a ward shakedown. Shit.
No good hiding place in the room and they kept an eagle eye on the bathrooms—always knew who went in and how much time he took. Too hard to get at the locked up trash containers and the dirty linen bags were already off the ward.
Maybe he could sneak the bottle back into Dolph's room without anybody spotting him. Wouldn't do to be caught pussyfooting around. They'd put two and two together on account of that lousy day tech reporting him. Hope to hell his balls rot off.
Tate slipped the bottle inside an outer pocket of the jacket and put it on over his pajamas. Just an innocent stroll to the bathroom with the jacket to keep off the chill. He started down the hall.
"...thither shall ye bring your burnt offerings, and your sacrifices..."
Tate jerked back, startled as the Preacher came out of his room, eyes staring, his lips foam-flecked.
"Beware!" he exhorted. "The hour approacheth..."
One of the techs was sure to pop up to collar the Preacher. Tate hesitated, then darted into the Preacher's room. He flicked a glance at Jacko. In bed with his back to Tate—good. He slid the bottle under the mussed covers of the empty bed, then hurried back to his own room. Best he could do. At least no one had seen him except the Preacher, who never made sense anyway.
* * *
David led the Preacher back to his room, warning, "You stay here or next time you'll wind up four-pointed— understand?"
Simpson lay down and drew up the covers. The time was not yet. He must wait.
I'll go back to school, David told himself as he left the room. When I get my RN things'll be different. I will do it. He touched the side of his face and grimaced.
* * *
"I'm sorry I'm late," Sally said to the Duchess. "I'm slow tonight."
"That's quite all right, dear," Margaret said. "I know you wouldn't forget me. You're not that kind of person. In many ways you remind me of Richard—so gentle, so caring. I hope someday you'll be able to meet him."
"Oh, but..." Sally's words trailed off.
"Bu
t what, dear?"
Sally took a deep breath. Frank had advised her not to tell the Duchess but after what had happened, why should she believe anything he'd said? He was wrong. She knew he was. "I—I tried to call Richard for you," she told the Duchess.
Margaret sat up very straight. "And who told you that you might do so, if I may ask?"
"Well, I—I wanted to help you," Sally faltered.
"I consider it interference. You had no right—"
"But I wanted to help you!" Sally cried. "I'm sorry I made the call because now I have to tell you what I found out."
"I don't wish to know." The Duchess had never sounded more imperious.
"You don't understand—" Sally began.
"I'll thank you to leave my room immediately!"
"But I have to tell you Richard is—he's no longer alive. I talked to his sister and—"
"Richard has no sister. You obviously made a terrible mistake. Snoopers usually do."
"I wasn't—I didn't—please, you must listen to—"
Margaret put her hands over her ears. "I've heard too much from you already. To think I considered you a friend. Get out of my room. Out!"
Sally retreated. I shouldn't have said anything, she thought as she went to find Alma. The Duchess will never forgive me. Tears sprang to her eyes. Everything I do is wrong.
* * *
At the nurses' station Connie was speaking Spanish into the phone. Her face was strained. Her fingers clutched the instrument tensely.
"Immediatamente," she said and hung up without saying goodbye.
"It's my baby," she told Alma. "Maria's only five. Ramon—my husband—says she's out of her head with fever. I told him to call the doctor but he—well, he wants me there. I told him to give her the fever medicine, but..."
"Do you want to go home?" Alma asked.
Connie hesitated, glancing at the clock. "I think I'd better," she said finally. "Ramon may have trouble getting a doctor this late and that emergency room is always busy."