by Brian Bakos
3. At the Hospital
Some hours later, Frank Armstrong was ensconced in his private hospital room, sitting up in bed with a cast on his right wrist. He also wore silk pajamas and a thunderous frown. Laila occupied one of the room’s two cushioned chairs. Even amid the drab, antiseptic decor with its Positively No Smoking! sign, she looked elegant and poised, notwithstanding the fatigued expression on her face.
She’d never seen Frank in such a reduced state, didn’t know what to make of it. He seemed to have shrunk to half his usual size. Always he’d been hale and hearty, a veritable Rock of Gibraltar among the lesser men. Even the cardiac incident last year had hardly dented his image. He’d simply brushed it off and continued on his way, dominating the world around him.
Her cell phone began playing the theme song from Gone with the Wind. Frank shot her an irritated glance. He didn’t like that movie much with its romanticized depiction of the Old South.
“Bunch of damned slave holders, they deserved to get the hell kicked out of them,” he’d once commented. “I just wish I’d been there to see it!”
He’d had a faraway look in his eyes when he said that, as if he truly regretted missing the burning of Atlanta and Sherman’s march to the sea. If nothing else, the rebuilding contracts would have been highly lucrative for him.
Laila picked up: “Hi, Sharese!”
She couldn’t contain her pleasure. A bright smile replaced her dour expression. Frank gave her another irritated look.
For some reason, he disliked Sharese even more than Gone with the Wind. Laila didn’t know why. His antipathy was a fairly recent phenomenon; earlier he’d mostly regarded her friends with indifference. It was just another of his many quirks, Laila reasoned, not worth discussing.
She turned toward her husband and got out of her chair.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I’ll just take this outside.”
Frank grunted approval.
She left the room and began walking toward the small lounge area at the end of the corridor.
“Who were you talking to,” Sharese asked. “Was it Frank?”
“Yes.”
“Am I interrupting something hot?” Sharese asked in a voice loaded with insinuation.
“Hardly,” Laila said, “we’re at the hospital.”
Sharese’s joking tone became abruptly serious.
“What happened – are you all right?”
“It’s Frank,” Laila said. “He broke his wrist falling off the roof. He’s okay.”
“Falling off the roof!” Sharese said. “Let me guess, he was up there bawling out some workmen, right?”
“Something like that,” Laila said.
“Sounds just like him,” Sharese said. “Give him my get well wishes.”
“Thanks,” Laila said, “I will.”
Laila was at the lounge entrance now. She glanced back down the hallway of ‘Millionaire Row,’ the wing of private rooms that catered to the upper crust of the sick and injured. On any given day, the net worth of the occupants must be enough to buy the hospital many times over and all the people working in it, too, Laila figured.
Rumor had it that a particular mogul kept a suite on permanent reservation, just in case he might need it some day. The cumulative rent must have been astronomical.
“Is Henry there?” Sharese asked.
“Oh, he’ll probably show up soon,” Laila said, “unless he’s got some big case to handle.”
“Yes, well ...”
Sharese seemed to want to talk more about Henry Armstrong, but she let the subject fade. A momentary silence ensued.
Laila glanced around at the oil painting reproductions adorning the walls. Some were in rather dubious taste for a hospital setting. The desolate seascape hanging inside the lounge could not have cheered anyone’s heart, and the opulent Thanksgiving dinner scene back toward the nurses’ station would not be appreciated by people on restricted diets.
“I just called to remind you about the Musketelles’ luncheon tomorrow at Gemrock,” Sharese said. “You’re still planning to come? I mean, Frank is doing ok, right?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Laila said. “I’ll be there.”
“Of course!” Sharese said. “Where would we be without our 4th Musketelle? All for one and the rest of that stuff.”
“Right,” Laila said. “How are the others?”
“We’re all doing fine,” Sharese said. “Nichole’s husband just opened another branch office.”
“That’s good,” Laila said.
She gazed down the dreary corridor; it seemed to go on to a meaningless infinity. Just how ‘fine’ was she doing herself, she wondered?
“I’ll let you go, then,” Sharese said. “See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, see you tomorrow,” Laila said.
She began walking back toward Frank’s room. The trip seemed to take much longer than was necessary. She had the odd sensation that she was merely walking in place while the floor moved under her feet.
Back in the room, dark suspicion was gnawing at Frank Armstrong. Perhaps his ‘accident’ this morning had not been so accidental after all! He was not very experienced at scaling ladders, but the damn thing had seemed to be very unstable. Shouldn’t it have been secured somehow – what about that dope on the ground, shouldn’t he have been hanging on to it better?
During the time that his wife was away blabbing with her friend, he felt increasing isolation and loneliness. He knew such feelings well; they had often bedeviled him over the years, and he’d fought against them. He’d been fighting his entire life, come to think of it. Fighting against his worthless brothers and his jerk of a step father, fighting at school and in the military where he’d served a brief period until he got discharged for belting an NCO. Then he’d fought in the business world where he’d struggled his way up from the absolute bottom.
Maybe it’s time to quit fighting so much.
The thought struck him like a bolt out of the blue. Before he could consider its ramifications, his wife came back in.
The emotional boost she’d gotten from talking to Sharese vanished when Laila reentered the room. Frank looked even more testy and out of sorts than when she’d left.
“Sharese sends her ‘get well’ wishes,” Laila said.
Frank grunted in reply.
Dr. Keating arrived soon afterwards looking rushed and frazzled, as per usual, and older than he actually was. The thinning gray hair, stooped shoulders, and pasty complexion made him look worn out.
Here’s a guy in need of some great sex, Laila thought.
“Hello, Mrs. Armstrong,” he said.
“Hello, doctor,” Laila said.
Dr. Keating gazed reluctantly at his patient from over his half-moon reading glasses, then shuffled through the papers on his clipboard. He appeared to be steeling himself for a difficult task. Finally, he presented his unwelcome advice.
“A man with your heart condition shouldn’t be climbing around on roofs, Mr. Armstrong,” he said.
“I was standing on a ladder, Doc,” Frank snapped, “not climbing on the roof.”
Dr. Keating flinched slightly, but soon recovered his professional demeanor.
“Even so, after your cardiac episode last year – ”
“It was only a bit of angina!” Frank said.
Dr. Keating looked resignedly down at his clipboard. Years of battling with Frank Armstrong had left him weary. His stomach felt sour, and he wasn’t at all certain that he wasn’t experiencing angina pains himself. He gathered his forces for one more approach.
“You need to slow down a bit, Mr. Armstrong,” he said. “I’d like to keep you here another day for some tests.”
“No!” Frank barked.
“Please, Frank, listen to Dr. Keating,” Laila said. “It’s for your own good.”
Frank glowered at her, then back at Keating – resentful and distrusting – as if he expected better news from somebody he was paying so much.
“Oh, all righ
t, Doc,” he finally said, “but just one more day! At least I won’t have to listen to any more complaints at home for a while.”
Laila recoiled with embarrassment in her chair. She felt her cheeks flush. Dr. Keating gave her a knowing glance, then looked back toward Frank.
“Very well, Mr. Armstrong,” he said. “I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”
“Yes, do that,” Frank said. “It sounds like a fun time.”
Dr. Keating left the room, rather hastily, as if he were escaping a den of big cats at the zoo.
“Damned money grubbers,” Frank muttered. “They’d run tests on a dead man if they thought they could get paid for it.”