Five Stories

by Richard George

to eat. Ordinarily there was toast, with greasy margarine, and once a week, there was bacon. Reepicheep liked both. It didn’t take much, just a bit dropped into the pocket of a robe, to feed him.

  The toaster wasn’t working this morning. Oatmeal and orange juice were the full menu. No coffee or tea, of course. It only agitated the patients, Nurse Magill said. No toast was bad. Norman sighed. Reepicheep would go hungry until supper, unless there was something besides the customary Jell-O for lunch. There was no way he knew to carry oatmeal or Jell-O in a robe pocket.

  “Damn shame,” he said to Evers, “no toast.” Evers opened one blank eye, saw no one but Norman, and winked, slowly.

  “Magill probably shorted the toaster,” Evers murmured. “I think she suspects something. We’ll have to rub her out.” Then he closed his eye and resumed snoring. Norman shook his head. Sometimes Evers’ comments didn’t make much sense. Norman dropped the spoon into his oatmeal. He had no more orange juice, and he couldn’t wash any more of it down.

  When she saw he had stopped eating, Nurse Magill came to wheel Norman back to his room for his morning wash-up. Norman dreaded it almost as much as the hydrotherapy cold baths. The washcloth was rough as sandpaper, and there was no hot water, ever.

  “My, we aren’t very hungry this morning,” she said as she bent over to tuck his blanket around his legs. Norman looked at her cleavage and was grateful that her uniform didn’t button up to the neck. It was definitely better than television.

  Evers opened his eyes and let his knobby hand drop from the metal arm of his wheelchair. It brushed the calf of her leg, down, then up, then down. Norman could hear Evers’ dry skin rasp against her nylons. Nurse Magill screamed.

  Evers wheezed chuckles. His gray eyes sparkled. Nurse Magill turned toward him with the slow majesty of an un-amused dowager duchess and put her folded hands on her delicious hips. Norman stuck his tongue out at her back. Evers chuckles wheezed louder and faster.

  “Naughty, Mr. Evers, naughty!” she reprimanded him. “Such dirty thoughts will be scrubbed away!”

  Evers choked on his chuckle. He coughed. The cough could not leave his throat. Norman felt his own throat constrict in a gag as Evers struggled to complete his cough. His breathing sounded like an angry fly caught between two windowpanes. His face was red; his eyes squeezed shut and watering. Nurse Magill stared furiously at Evers, then decided he wasn’t faking.

  “John,” Nurse Magill shouted, “quickly, it’s Mr. Evers!” then she bent over to examine him. Then it happened. Evers’ oatmeal exploded over her starched white bosom. His dentures followed his oatmeal, and lodged themselves in her cleavage. She turned past Norman to look for John. Her disgust distorted her face, and made her more monstrous than usual.

  “Sorry,” Evers said, his words slurred and slow, “must have choked.” He slumped as Nurse Magill called for John again. Evers opened his eyes and stared at Norman. Evers eyes twinkled. Norman smiled, and mouthed a promise to Evers. Reepicheep would be glad to hear about this.

  “John,” Nurse Magill said to the orderly as he came up, “Mr. Evers has had an accident. Please take Mr. Holliwell to his room for his morning wash.” She looked down at Evers.

  “Oh, Mr. Evers, such a fright we’ve had!” She put her hand to her bosom, and encountered his dentures. Disgust struggled with fury on her bat’s face.

  “Oh, Mr. Evers!” she said. The dentures were in her hand. She was shaking. The dentures rattled. Norman coughed to cover his laughter. Her rage was too high for him to agitate her further.

  “You all right, Nurse?” John asked her.

  “Yes,” she snapped. “I’m quite all right. Filthy, but unhurt. Please see Mr. Holliwell to his room then ask Nurse Carruthers to assist me. Tell her it is urgent.”

  “Yes, Nurse Magill,” John said and turned Norman and wheeled him into the hall.

  “Poor Nurse Magill,” John said mournfully, “she does hate dirt, specially someone else’s dirt.” Norman twisted his neck to look at John’s face. A grin was struggling to escape from the confines of his mustache.

  Norman nodded. “So sad,” he said. “Such a mess for such a starchy lady.”

  “She is a bit stiff,” John said. He chuckled the rest of the way to Norman’s room.

  In the room John helped Norman into bed, then turned on the television. It was a morning talk show that Norman detested. A black haired woman was arguing about the evils of pesticides with a scrawny red-headed man. Reepicheep came out from some hiding place only he knew about and squeaked mournfully, begging food. Norman held an empty hand out before him and apologized in a whisper.

  “No toast this morning, little guy,” he said; “blamed toaster is on the blink. We’ll have to hope for lunch.” Then he chuckled. “Should have been there, to see Nursie Magill, all covered with oatmeal.” He chuckled again and started to recap the breakfast. Reepicheep sat, listening. Norman was sure his whiskers were twitching with laughter. He even clasped his forepaws together when Norman told him about the dentures landing in Nurse Magill’s cleavage. Norman was certain he was applauding. Norman fell asleep; it was his only escape from the television.

  John woke Norman for the noon meal. He helped him into the wheelchair. Lunch was soup with crackers. Norman slipped the crackers into his pocket for Reepicheep. Old Evers was not at lunch. He was not in his bed after lunch. Norman fretted a little about Evers’ continued absence, but he drifted to sleep before Reepicheep came out. Afternoon Television was all talk shows and soap operas.

  Evers wasn’t at supper, either. John didn’t return him until after supper. Evers didn’t respond to Norman, didn’t answer questions or even seem to hear him. John shook his head. Evers shivered, then rolled over to face the wall.

  “Where’s he been?” Norman asked John.

  “Being treated. Hydrotherapy. By the way, Mr. Holliwell, not that I should say it, perhaps, but if I was you I’d be careful the next couple of days. Nurse Magill saw a mouse in the hydrotherapy room, and it made her madder than a wet hen. She does hate mice with a passion.” John shook his head and shut the television off.

  “Hope you don’t mind, Mr. Holliwell. Mr. Evers needs his rest, needs it bad. I’ll shut out the lights, too, if you don’t mind.” Norman nodded. Night time television was almost as bad as the day time, mostly murders and sex. Norman had seen all that stuff before he got old. Nobody made westerns any more. He wondered where Reepicheep was.

  Reepicheep didn’t come out until the door that led to the corridor closed. The agitated mouse ran back and forth between Norman’s bed and old Evers’ bed. Most nights he listened to Norman’s whispered reminiscences or settled down to sleep with Evers. Norman gave up talking and listened to Evers’ hoarse breathing, until sleep came. Evers was still breathing when he went to sleep. He was sure of that, next morning, just as he was sure Reepicheep had tried to warn him.

  It was Nurse Magill who discovered Evers had died in the night. Norman heard her stifle a small outcry. That was enough to wake him. He listened for Evers breathing and heard nothing but Nurse Magill’s breathing. He knew Evers was dead. His sadness surprised him. He hadn’t thought he was very close to anybody since his wife, Zelda, had died, not close enough to miss them. Then he felt angry that she had shortened Evers’ few months. Angry, and helpless to do anything.

  Nurse Magill came and got him up. Her voice was harsh under the professional tones. He thought she was afraid, and the thought pleased him. He wondered where Reepicheep was as she forced his arms into his robe sleeves. On their way to the dining room he felt movement in his robe pocket. He guessed it might be Reepicheep.

  “Easy, little guy, easy,” he whispered. John heard him and leaned over to talk softly to him.

  “Don’t fret, Mr. Holliwell,” John said. “Can’t do old Evers any good. She shouldn’t have kept him in the water so long. I told her that, but it can’t be helped n
ow.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Yes, gone to Glory, as we all will come to do. May the good Lord rest his soul.”

  “What bath are you talking about?”

  “Don’t pay me any mind, Mr. Holliwell, just rambling. Don’t pay me any mind. The Lord has his ways and his instruments, don’t you worry.” John patted his shoulder.

  Norman knew better than to press John for details. John had his job to do, and did it, for the most part, with some kindness toward the patients. Norman guessed John had passed him a warning. Nurse Magill’s bat face floated in his mind’s eye. He tried to call up the picture of her stretched out in her coffin, but all he saw was Evers lying there. He shivered suddenly, though his robe was warm. It wouldn’t do to cross her. Old Evers had found that out. He felt Reepicheep squirm in his pocket, as if he were trying to get comfortable, or to breathe. Norman opened the pocket to let in a little air.

  The toaster was working again, and Norman crumbled almost a whole slice into his pocket. The crumbs disappeared as fast as he dropped them.

  John was