Then she moved into the room hastily with a muttered apology left behind her, and Michael saw the wheelchair, Janey, and eventually, the boy.
There was a great deal of confusion as the nurse and Cora did a dance to avoid collision, and Carolyn marched through with orders for moving in. Michael watched it all with amusement, deciding on the spot it wouldn’t hurt to love three women, not if they were realistic about a man crippled in his bed and his emotions in turmoil. He almost forgot about the boy until he heard the bed squeaking on the other side of the curtain Janey had pulled along its ceiling track. Shadows swayed, swelled, and shrank, and he looked away from it with a shudder; it was too much like the nightmares he’d had when he was little — things that prowled, things that stalked, things that came to him in shadows on his nursery wall.
It was silly. It was the remnants of the drugs. It was all he could do to put a smile on his face when the curtain was drawn back, and the three women were ranged around the young boy’s bed. Nine, perhaps ten, with red hair and freckles and a large padded bandage that covered his left ear. He wasn’t smiling, and finally Carolyn ushered the others out, returned, and stood between the two beds.
“Mr. Kolle,” she said with a nod to Michael, “I’d like you to meet Mr. Rory Castle. Mr. Castle has had his appendix out. He will also probably talk your ear off.”
She blew a kiss to both of them, left with white coat flapping, and Michael cleared his throat.
“I didn’t know you had to stay in so long for something like that.”
Rory sat up, pushed away the sheets, and crossed his legs. “I had . . .” He touched the bandaged ear. “I don’t know. They told my mom all about it, but they didn’t tell me.”
“Complications?”
The boy nodded, “Yeah, that’s it! Something happened, and they had to fix my ear, too.”
“Is Miss Player your doctor?” “Yep. Neat, ain’t she?”
Yeah, he thought; neat is right.
“Wow!” Rory moved closer to the edge of his bed. “How’d you do that?”
“Fell off a porch. “
“Wow. Wow, that’s neat.”
“You think so, huh?”
“Yeah,” the boy said. “It looks better than this stupid thing on my head.”
They talked for the next hour, Rory’s eyes widening when he learned Michael was a reporter, shifting away when he was asked if other kids had been moved. They were, but he wouldn’t talk about them, and Michael decided not to push it just yet. It occurred to him that he had been handed a byline on a silver platter, and all he had to do was make friends with Freckles.
And that, he soon realized, wouldn’t be hard. Carolyn was right — the boy talked as if he’d been locked away for most of his life. He talked about his schoolmates, his teachers, his pets, his house, and when all that was done, he began to tell stories. All kinds of stories. About cowboys, and cops and robbers, and spaceships, and sports, not once finishing one, something he’d said reminding him of something else and sending him off on an entirely new tale. Michael listened, and nodded, and laughed when he was supposed to, and didn’t feel at all guilty when he finally shouted, “Enough, boy, for god’s sake. Have pity on an old man.”
“But you’re not old,” Rory said.
“I will be if you keep it up. Old before my time and collecting my pension.”
Rory wanted to know what a pension was.
He told him they were both too young, and maybe it would be a good idea if they both rested a while.
Rory laughed, and started a story about his grandfather that made Michael groan; and it wasn’t until dinner that he remembered the girl, Cora, and realized it was too late to call Marc and find out what was going on. He didn’t object to the help, but he would have thought Clayton would have given him some warning. For a moment he wondered if the woman’s appearance was a comment on his abilities, and once the moment had passed, he knew he was being childish. Feeling sorry for himself again, when he ought to be thinking of ways to use her as his eyes, as well as his legs.
He grunted, swore, and blinked when the boy giggled. He’d forgotten all about Freckles and would have to get used to keeping his comments to himself.
He ate then and traded acid reviews of the meal with Rory and the orderly who took the trays away. The boy, he noticed, had eaten very little, and when the television was turned on, Mike spent as much time watching him as he did the small screen. Rory had grown silent, nervous, his hands clutching the sheets into clumps, smoothing them out, clutching them again. He looked to the door several times, to the window, which reflected nothing but the room.
And the only thing he said before the lights were turned out was, “Mr. Kolle, do you ever have nightmares?”
At night. All night. The hospital whispering to itself in faint footsteps along the hall, the wind testing the windows, every so often a low moan from another room, a muffled chime, a hiss-and-delayed thud as elevator doors opened and shut and no one came out, no one went in.
All night. Bedsprings and sheets and the scratch of a pencil, the burr of a telephone, somewhere down around the corner a toilet flushing and the scuff of worn slippers and the flap like wings of a nightgown on thin legs.
All night.
Without dreams.
Feeling like a child who couldn’t call his mother.
When he woke in the morning, Michael felt as if he hadn’t slept a wink. His eyes stung and his bladder was swollen, and when he saw the crutches leaning against the wall beside his head, he knew he didn’t want to use the bedpan again. Slowly, exaggerating every movement in case he was ambushed with pain, he swung both legs over the side of the mattress and sat there, head down, breathing steadily and grinning because he was so proud for not killing himself.
He reached for his crutches.
He saw Rory watching him, and swore him to secrecy with a raised fist and a scowl.
The boy grinned.
He set the padded tops under his arms and swayed to a standing, prayed, and moved across the floor. By the time he reached the bathroom door, his mending leg was screaming and his arms were cramping and his hands on the grips felt as if they were holding molten iron.
Rory applauded and giggled.
Michael closed the door, flipped the bowl’s lid, and sat down, and sighed, glad for the first time he was wearing the standard gown that never shut inback, knowing the full meaning of heaven and vowing never again to take his plumbing for granted.
Janey found him in there, yelled without raising her voice, and virtually dragged him back to bed. Didn’t he know, she asked acidly, there were procedures to follow? Someone had to show him how to use the crutches so he wouldn’t fall on his face and break his nose, so his legs would behave, so he could go a fair distance without dislocating a shoulder.
“I know, I know,” he said, unable to stop grinning. “I didn’t do so bad, though, all things considered. “
“You were lucky.”
“I am bored!”
She didn’t kiss him, didn’t tickle him, only told him to stop acting like a child, that she would make a full report of his behavior to Dr. Player.
“Boy,” Rory said after she’d gone, “she’s a grouch. “
An orderly came in with a gurney. After a moment’s sullen staring, Michael winked at Rory, climbed aboard, and was brought upstairs, where new X rays were taken and, an hour later, a shorter, sturdier walking cast was substituted for the one he already had. No one said a word to him; none even looked up when he asked about the children.
When Carolyn finally arrived on her rounds, she was cool, distant, mechanically going through the instructions of using new cast and crutches and telling him he had to practice once every hour until the middle of the afternoon. The leg would hurt like hell; he wasn’t to let it bother him. The more he moved around, the more used to it he’d get.
He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t help feeling she was stalling, and didn’t mention the lines that were deep by her
eyes, the weariness that drew down the hard corners of her mouth,
“Jeez.” Rory said when she’d finished checking his ear and his side, “you’re sure grumpy.”
She glared at him, glared at Michael, and marched out of the room.
“What did I say?” the boy asked.
“Nothing,” Michael assured him. “I guess today just isn’t a good day all the way around.”
“Nuts,” the boy said and stared glumly at the wall.
Shortly afterward, Rory was sent off in a wheelchair to see his parents in the visitors’ room, and Michael got on the crutches again and practiced as he was told. Every hour. Once an hour. Damning the cast for being so damned heavy. Damning his good leg for being so damned weak. He didn’t fall, though he came close twice, and once lunch had been cleared away and the throbbing had eased, he decided to take the measure of the hall.
“I don’t think Dr. Player’s gonna like that,” Rory warned when he returned.
Michael grinned at him. “The way she’s feeling today, if I dropped dead, she’d sue me. What have I got to lose?”
“She could lock you up, put you in solitary.”
“Not me, pal. She loves me, you know.”
Rory made a face, and he threatened him with a sound thrashing, laughing until he saw the panicked look on the boy’s face.
Shit, he thought; Kolle, you’ve got a lot to learn about handling kids.
He waited until he was sure Rory knew he was kidding, then leaned against the jamb and checked for a destination, a goal he had to reach before he dropped of exhaustion.
The easiest way would be straight ahead, along the white and soft-brown tiled corridor that split the building in half. But if he went there, he would have to pass two pairs of elevators facing each other, examination and storage rooms, and the nurses’ station. That was too many people he might meet and who might see him fall, too many nurses who might question his journey.
Left would take him to the rear of the building and the intensive care units; the opposite way would bring him to the front and, at the corner, a large open area — a visitors’ room, where patients sat with their families, had coffee and snacks from machines, and watched the trees and sky through dark-tinted windows that reached to the ceiling.
He liked the idea of coffee not brewed in the hospital’s miserable excuse for a kitchen. On the other hand, he didn’t want all those people laughing at him should he slip. Damn, he thought, closed his eyes, and flipped a coin. A slow inhalation, and he swung to the right, keeping close to the wall and avoiding nosey stares into the other patients’ rooms ranged along the hospital’s outer rim.
He half expected, half hoped for, Carolyn or Janey to show up and scold him for his foolishness, then drag him back where he belonged. When nothing happened, he hobbled on, ignoring his left leg while he found the rhythm that matched the weight of his cast and the swing of the crutches. It wasn’t fun, but it was mobility, and by the time he reached the visiting room, he was sweating and feeling just fine.
And then, not so fine at all.
The room was twenty feet long, almost that wide, and the light through all the windows turned suddenly bright. White. Brilliant white. Bleaching the walls, shifting the molded plastic chairs and long plastic tables to sharp-edged black stone. He squinted as he passed over a metal floor strip that guided shut sliding doors when visiting hours were over, and hesitated when he realized no one was here. He groped for the nearest chair, couldn’t find one, and swung around on his crutches to face the way he had come.
“Jesus,” he muttered.
White. Blinding white filling the window at the hall’s far end, spilling from the rooms and covering the floor, killing shadows and colors, bringing tears to his eyes, and stoppering his ears as if he were deaf.
He felt himself swaying but there was nothing to hold on to, and he cursed his stubborn pride, cursed the doctors and nurses, cursed the burning pain that spiraled beneath the cast and made him grip the crutches so tightly he could feel his fingers beginning to cramp.
Something touched him behind his knees. Someone’s hand dropped lightly to his shoulder. Someone said, “Sit,” and he didn’t question the order. He lowered himself into a wheelchair, gathered the crutches between his legs, and felt his leg tremble as it held the cast an inch off the floor.
“Thanks,” he said. “God, I thought I was going to die.”
“You’re not going to die, don’t worry about it.”
They turned right, into, the light, and he lowered his head to keep the tears from returning.
“No offense, but this isn’t the way to my room.”
“I know. I just thought you’d like a tour or something.”
He looked up and over his shoulder, but the damned light had turned the woman’s face to shadow. “Cora?”
“Yeah, Hi, Mr. Kolle!” Brightly. Smiling, though he couldn’t see it. “How are you doing?” A high-pitched laugh, a young girl’s laugh, and the wheelchair swerved when she covered her mouth.
He looked straight ahead, shading his eyes, wondering what the hell was going on outside. Cora said she didn’t know, probably just a break in the clouds.
“What clouds?”
“What clouds? It’s been raining all morning.” How nice, he thought, angry that he hadn’t even noticed the damned weather.
“Mr. Clayton,” she said a few yards later, “wants me to tell you everything’s okay on the insurance. If they try to charge you for something, sue them.”
One of the wheels needed oiling. He shifted the crutches until they were lying across the armrests. It didn’t matter. No one was in the hall but them it seemed.
She talked rapidly, almost nervously, telling him about the weather, the work on Centre Street that was replacing blacktop with brick, the way the boy with the bandaged ear wouldn’t talk to her even though she’d brought him some candy.
“Rory ,” he said. “His name is Rory.”
“Weird. “
“Scared, Cora.”
They paused at the corner, swung left, and moved on, through the light, soft and soothing, turning the few passersby into silent, nunlike shadows that were swallowed again as soon as they moved on.
He was reminded of cloisters and didn’t know why,
“Scared? No kidding. Of what?”
“I don’t know. That’s why you’re going to help me.”
She leaned down, her lips close to his right ear.
“Me?”
“Well, sure. Aren’t you supposed to be my legs?”
“Oh. Right.”
They passed the middle corridor, and he heard an elevator’s door hiss open, hiss shut. No footsteps. No gurneys. No chatter at the nurses’ station.
The medicine, he thought then. His stomach churned briefly; he swallowed bile and took a breath.
“What do you want me to do?”
He started, not realizing he had almost dozed off, and had to think a moment to remember what she was talking about. “The children’s ward is where, upstairs?”
“Down,” she said. “In back. Upstairs are the operating rooms and the labs, stuff like that. “
“So go downstairs,” he said, “Talk to the nurses. Find a doctor and talk to him. See why they’re moving the kids out.”
When she didn’t answer right away, he thought she hadn’t been listening; then she grunted, and moved a little faster. On the left were windows, most of them blanked by white blinds, the dying behind them and “No Smoking” on the doors.
“Mr. Kolle?” Whispering now, as if in deference to the place, and to the silence it commanded.
“What?”
“Why’d you come to the Station?”
Mike, his former editor had said, you do not walk up to the mayor of Boston, shove a pad and pen in his face, and ask him flat out if he knew, when he bought that harbor-front parcel, that they were going to kick out the lobstermen and bring in the condos.
“I didn’t much like the city.”
“You like this place better? Really?”
Patience, he had thought, was for cowards, and for people who had buckled to the weight of the system; patience, he discovered, was the hardest thing to learn.
“I like it okay. “
Around the corner, toward his own room, the light fading, colors returning, noises once again unmuffled and sharp.
Cora wheeled him in, careful of his extended leg, and he saw that Rory was gone, his bed still unmade. She said something about the kid going for an ear test or exam, helped him onto the mattress, and put the chair beside the window. Then she reached down by the door and with a smile held up a large white wicker basket filled with fruit and cheese, covered with cellophane she tore off with a flourish.
“From the office,” she said. Smiled shyly. “And me. I know what it’s like to be stuck in a place like this. It’s awful. The pits.”
She was, he saw now, much younger than he’d first thought. Barely out of her twenties, rather pale, and too slender. She looked ill and too proud to give in to it; she looked, he thought, as if she were dying.
“Cora, you all right?” Fussing with his bathrobe, holding his leg above the cast to subdue the pain.
Startled, she tried a smile. “I’m tired, that’s all.” Mr. Clayton’s a real slave driver. He says, if I want to learn the business, I have to learn all of it, even back where they print it. I told him I just wanted to learn investigative reporting, and he said that was redundant.” A melancholy frown as she placed the basket on the table. “I don’t think I’m gonna stick around very long.”
“You could learn from worse,” he said. “Marc Clayton’s a hell of a man.”
Working five years for the Globe, from the time of his graduation, wanting it all before he was thirty, before he was too old to enjoy it. Running around like a jackass, hunting the elusive scoop that would bring him his fame, his fortune, his gold-plated place in the journalistic sun.
Playing at Clark Kent without the costume underneath.
Christ, he thought when he looked at the girl; Christ.
Music from the next room until a nurse turned it down; an orderly shambling behind a broom and a bow wave of dust.
The Complete Short Fiction of Charles L. Grant Volume 2: The Orchard (Necon Classic Horror) Page 15