The Alcoholics

by Jim Thompson

  Doc blinked. “Well,” he said slowly, “all I meant by that was…” He paused, feeling for the moment the same stir of excitement that Jeff’s promise to forswear drinking had given him. Suzy would never have a better excuse than she had now to drink—or stay sober; depending on whether she thought only of her own ordeal or the child that had derived from it. If she was going to pull herself together, she’d do it now or never. And since she hadn’t asked for a drink—

  Naturally, she hadn’t asked Josephine for whiskey. Josephine, she knew, would have to ask him and he could deny the request without arguing about it. So, she was putting on this little act, pretending to be worried about his feelings toward her. And as soon as he stuck his bead in the door, she’d go into part two of the act.

  No, they didn’t change after they got as far along as Suzy. Not when they were psychos as well as alcoholics. About all you could do was what he had announced doing earlier this afternoon: get her out of here as quickly as possible, and see that she stayed out.

  “I’ll see that she gets a drink,” he said, “and I’ll drop in on her a little later. Everything else okay? Rufus help you clean things up?”

  “They all cleaned up,” said Josephine. “Yes, suh, everything okay.”

  “Rufus take care of the nurse? See that she has everything she needs?”

  “Nurse all taken care of,” said Josephine quickly. And Doctor Murphy misunderstood the shortness of her reply.

  “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate what you’ve done, Josephine. I wish I could—could do something in return, but the way things are now—”

  “Sho, now” Josephine was embarrassed. “Ain’t no call to feel ’at way. An’, looky, doctuh…”

  “Yes?”

  “About money…I jus’ soon you allus owe me some. It kinda give me my edge, you see? Me an’ my crazy laughin’ don’t set too well with folks. They keep me around, they givin’ me somethin’; they keep me owin’ them. So…so me’n you, we keep even, huh, doctuh? You owe me somethin’ an’ I owe you.”

  Doctor Murphy grinned. “I’ll be glad to oblige you, Josephine. Now, about the nurse. I know you’re entirely capable of taking care of Miss Kenfield and her baby, but you have so many other things to do I—”

  “An’ I bettah start doin’ ’em,” said Josephine. “You want me to bring you some coffee or somethin’, doctuh? Why’n’t you go up to your room, an’ I bring you a tray.”

  “Why”—Doc looked at her—“why, that’s very nice of you, Josephine, but…”

  She pulled the door open and nodded to him, made a small shooing motion with her hand. Doctor Murphy remained where he was.

  “Josephine,” he said, “Where is Rufus?”

  “Rufus? He around somewhere. Now, you come along, doctuh, an’—an’—well,” said Josephine, and she edged through the door herself. “I bettah be gettin’ busy.”

  “Where is he, Josephine? What’s going on here?”

  “Yes, suh,” said Josephine. “Suah, got to be gettin’ busy. Didn’t ree’lize how late it was…”

  The door closed after her.

  Doctor Murphy rocked indecisively on his toes. He cast a weary, almost longing glance at the table. Why not? Why not let them all go their rotten irresponsible way, as, without knowing the details, he knew they were doing? They had the jump on him by almost two hours. With that much of a start, it would take days—days which he wouldn’t have—to undo the damage.

  Oh, he knew what had happened, all right. Just as, basically, there is but one major danger in a powder magazine, there is only one in a sanitarium for alcoholics. Rufus was still with them—all of them together in that one room. And they’d been too occupied with themselves to notice the noisy goings-on of the afternoon.

  So it could be only the one thing. But, curiosity began to puncture Doctor Murphy’s lassitude, curiosity and hope. Where had they got the stuff? And Rufus and Jeff: how could they—?

  The answer, part of the answer, rather, came to him immediately. The Holcombs had used up their supply. No one had visited them and they, of course, hadn’t been outside the sanitarium. So, it had had to come from in here. And there was only one person, aside from himself, who had a key to the liquor closet. Nurse Baker.

  Doc cursed murderously. Goddam her—yes, and goddam Jeff Sloan! Jeff, his “success,” the guy who wasn’t going to drink anymore. And Rufus, Rufus knew better than this. Rufus would know it was all wrong.

  Nothing was to be expected from the others, but how could Jeff do this? Grab at the first drink that was offered to him.

  “He didn’t,” Doc muttered, knowing full well that Jeff could and had. “Damn him, he just couldn’t!”

  And he left the laboratory, moved swiftly and silently down the hall.

  He came to the Holcombs’ door. Without breaking his stride, he entered the room. He stood there for a moment, just inside the door, before they became aware of his presence.

  “Now, I insist,” the General was saying. “Jeff, fix a drink for our good friend, Rufus. I insist that Rufus join us.”

  “Sure,” said Jeff, busily mixing drinks at the dresser. “I’ll take care of him.”

  “Not me. No, Suh.” Rufus chuckled uneasily. “I ain’t crazy. I’m jus’ black.”

  Jeff grinned appreciatively and looked around, and his eyes met Doctor Murphy’s. “Well,” he said, “look who’s here, guys. What kept you so long, Doc?”

  Doc looked at him silently. He stared, tight-lipped, around the room, ignoring the General’s genial greeting, the Holcombs’ welcoming nods. Bernie Edmonds gestured to a chair.

  “You’re just in time, Murph. Jeff, what about a drink for Doc?”

  “And Rufus,” said the General. “Special occasion, y’know. Wouldn’t be complete without Rufus.”

  “By the way, Doc,” said John Holcomb, “what was all the rumpus about? Did Suzy finally go into d.t.’s?”

  “I thought I heard a baby crying,” said Gerald Holcomb. “Uh”—he laughed uncomfortably—“maybe you’d better give me a thorough check-up.”

  He looked at them one by one, weighing them and finding them hideously wanting. He looked down at the scuffed toes of his shoes, ridiculously in contrast with the waxed parquet floor. It was no wonder they thought they could get away with murder. It was no wonder that Miss Baker thought she could. He gave them a palace to live in; he treated them like kings—no, more than that, like friends. For them, he made a bum of himself, and who was to blame if they treated him like a bum?

  Jeff cleared his throat “Look, Doc. I—you didn’t mean for us to have this? Is that it?”

  Doc shrugged. There was a vague, half-formed thought in the back of his mind, the entangled threads of several thoughts. What was the occasion? Why wasn’t Jeff apologetic about his backslide? How had they drunk so long with so little visible effect?…But—to hell with all that. Beneath one of the beds, back against the wall, he could see the glint of two empty bottles. And Jeff was pouring from a full quart. That was all that mattered.

  “Well, how about it?” Jeff demanded, frowning. “Don’t just stand there, Doc. After all, we didn’t ask for the stuff.”

  “But you couldn’t turn it down, could you?” Doc spoke for the first time. “You couldn’t do that, could you?”

  “Now, that’s hardly fair, Murph,” Bernie protested. “I’m sure we’re all sorry if Miss Baker acted without authority, but you can hardly blame a group of alcoholics for—”

  “You’re sorry,” said Doc. “You’re always sorry. You’re not to blame. You never are. You sit in here guzzling all morning—you and Jerry and John. And Jeff—he gets drunk on his own, puts more away than you do. And the General, the only reason he doesn’t get stiff is that he can’t get out of bed. He doesn’t lose any time as soon as he’s on his feet. None of you ever misses a chance, and if you don’t have a chance you make one. And then you’re sorry, and you’re not to blame. Well, skip it. I don’t give a good goddam what you do.”

/>   He took out his key-ring, removed a key from it and tossed it to Rufus. “That’s to the liquor closet,” he said. “Ask Miss Kenfield how much she wants to drink, and give her whatever she asks. And bring back some more for our friends here. As much as they want.”

  Rufus scratched his head. His white teeth gleamed in a bewildered, uneasy grin.

  “You say what I think you did, doctuh?”

  “I said it. You don’t mind, do you? You can tear yourself away from here for a few minutes? I’m sure these gentlemen will excuse you.”

  “I—uh, no, suh, I ain’t got nothin’ to do here. Just been kinda lookin’ on. Didn’t know quite what to do, so I just—”

  “Well, now you know. Gentlemen? Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “You might sit down,” said Gerald Holcomb, quietly. “Brother, can’t you persuade the good doctor to be patient with us a little longer. I’m sure that when he understands all, he’ll be inclined to forgive.”

  “I probably would,” Doctor Murphy cut in. “I’d probably wind up by pinning a medal on you. I’m stupid enough. So let’s just save time and say that you can do as you please, get as drunk as you please, and it won’t make a damned bit of difference to me. I’m through with you—through with this whole ridiculous, heart-breaking business. As of tomorrow, gentlemen, El Healtho will be no more. I’ve had enough.”

  There was a moment of stunned silence.

  The General rose shakily from his chair. “But m-my book, doctor. What about my book?”

  “That’s your problem. You’re all your own problems from now on, General.”

  “B-but—but we’re—”

  “Have fun,” said Doctor Murphy, and he gave them an ironic salute.

  Then, as they all started talking at once, as Jeff seemed on the point of exploding, he walked out and slammed the door.

  That took care of them. Now, to take care of her.

  He went up the steps, slowly, giving his anger time to build, focusing it on the lissome and lisping person who was its logical target. After all, while it was only natural to be disgusted and disappointed with Jeff and the others, to give them up as a hopeless job, it was childish to be angry with them. It was as foolish as it was futile to scold them for lacking will power. You might feel they could have resisted, if they’d really tried. But there you were posing a contradiction. Men don’t resist the thing that has become all-important to them. They weren’t accountable.

  Miss Baker was.

  Icy-eyed, his thin face flushed and taut, he strode down the mezzanine, and his rage grew with every step. She hadn’t left yet, he knew. No cab had called at the sanitarium. And this fact, somehow, was the most maddening of all. The nerve of the dame! Telling him where to head in, feeding booze to his patients, and then hanging around! Thought she could get away with it, did she? Thought he’d be afraid to do anything.

  He stopped in front of her door, listened a moment, and raised his fist. Then, grinning wickedly, be lowered it and took out his keys. He selected one, small and flat and multiple-notched, and slid it into the lock. Silently he turned it, simultaneously turning the knob.

  He stepped inside, and—and he stopped. His Adam’s apple traveled up and down his throat in an awed gulp.

  Of course, he’d had an idea what she was like beneath that white starched uniform. He’d known she must be stacked like a brick back-house in windy country. But having an idea of what she was like, and seeing the reality—the bare reality—was something else again. So much so that Doctor Murphy felt a dangerous, almost paralyzing weakness creeping over him.

  She was sprawled on the bed on her stomach, completely nude, a lush ivory-colored figurine. Her outspread legs, tapering up into perfect thighs, emphasized the flaring, pearshaped lines of her buttocks. Her firm full breasts pressed against the pillows, exaggerating the delicious curve of her back.

  Doc gulped a second time. With an effort he tore his eyes away from her. Incuriously, a little dazed, he saw the half-packed suitcases, saw what appeared to be the remnants of a torn blouse and slip. Helplessly, he looked back at the bed again.

  It was too much. That much in one dame—all that in five feet and a hundred pounds—well, it ought to be illegal.

  He moved forward, grimly, slowly massaging the palm of his right hand against his trousers.

  He came even with the bed. He raised his hand. He swung.

  His open palm came down upon her bottom with an explosive, rifle-like cra-aack!

  There was a smothered scream. Then, a louder one as Miss Baker’s face came out of the pillow. She scrambled and stumbled to her feet, stood jiggling and swaying on the bed, at once trying to massage her pain-wracked posterior and to shield her body from his gaze.

  Doc laughed contemptuously.

  “Some fun, eh, Lucretia? Almost as much fun as giving whiskey to alcoholics.”

  “Y-you get out of here!” gasped Miss Baker. “You get out or I’ll—I’ll—”

  He bent forward swiftly and grabbed at her ankle. Miss Baker stumbled back against the wall.

  “G-get away! Y-you—you know she wouldn’t let me leave! You know I don’t dare to!”

  “Who wouldn’t? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Josephine. And don’t tell me you didn’t put her up to it!” Miss Baker gestured to her head and hastily lowered her hand again. “H-hitting me! T-trying to th-tab me! You know I—”

  “You had it coming I’ll bet. What’d you do to her?”

  “Nothing! Not a thing—help!” screamed Miss Baker, for Doc’s hand had closed around her ankle.

  He dragged her forward, screaming and sobbing, clawing at the bedclothes.

  She jerked and kicked herself free, flung herself back toward the wall. Doc cursed and made a dive for her.

  “Now,” he grunted. “Now, by God…!”

  His strong hands pinned her arms. He jerked her around, holding her helpless against him. They lay there, panting, her sweet-smelling hair in his face, her breasts crushed against his chest, her legs locked and held by his.

  She squirmed. She squirmed again. And Doc’s arms suddenly became nerveless…There was no use in stopping now, of course. This was more than enough to wind him up permanently. Criminal assault. Assault with attempt to commit rape. It wouldn’t make any difference now, so he might as well go ahead.

  He might as well—but he couldn’t do it.

  He took a final half-hearted clout at her bottom, and started to rise. And Miss Baker wiggled frantically to escape the blow. And somehow—he was never quite sure how it happened—she was lying beneath him. All the soft, warm wonder of her body was cushioning his. And she was weeping in a curious, helpless way; and her fluttering, frantic hands seemed to caress rather than claw.

  And the Doctor Murphy that was surrendered to the Doctor Murphy who had never been allowed to be—the Doc who had felt impelled to beat the dog-beater, jab the impudent waiter, collect from that little Bellevue teaser. That Doc—the one who had never been permitted to resolve a situation in the one satisfactory way possible—took over.

  Miss Baker’s eyes widened in sudden terror. They closed again, and her breasts arched and trembled with a kind of shivering sob. She gasped. She groaned.

  She cried out, faintly.

  …It was all over, seemingly, almost as soon as it began: So long had the submerged Doc been denied. Then, having had his way, he fled, leaving the other Doc—his cautious, safe and sane victim—to face the inevitable and horrendous music.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, gloomy, shaky, sick with shame and foreboding. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her. He couldn’t speak. He could only sit and stare at the floor, stare, rather, into the future with its certain disgrace, a prison sentence, the loss of his license, the loss of everything.

  Oh, she could do it all right. He wasn’t exaggerating the seriousness of the situation. A virgin, just as he’d known she must be, and it wouldn’t be any trouble at all to hang it onto him.
It would be useless to fight, even if he had felt like fighting.

  “Well,” he said, at last, and waited. “Well, why don’t you say something? Do something and get it over with.”

  Silence.

  “Oh,” he said. “Well, I’ll get out. Then you can call the cops.”

  Silence still.

  “I’ll call them for you, if you like. I’ll—do you want me to get you a doctor? I—”

  “Thilly,” said Miss Baker. “You thilly, thilly man! I already have a doctor.”

  Her arms went around him.

  16

  He was starting down the steps, moving in a blissful, pink-clouded glow, before the cold sun of circumstance again pushed into his horizon. Back there with her, everything had been simple. Now, seeing a sullen Rufus lingering at the bottom of the stairs, reality punctured the dream.

  She mattered none the less to him, but she could not be the all of his world. In her, he had added one more complication to the hopelessly snarled skeins of his life. Nothing whatsoever had been solved.

  He was broke. He was or soon would be a doctor without a practice. A doctor who had failed at the only thing he had ever wanted to do.

  “Well”—he looked at Rufus coldly—“everyone getting nice and stiff?”

  “No, suh, they ain’t gettin’ nice and stiff,” said Rufus. “An’ they ain’t goin’ to. I done picked up that bottle an’ put it back in the closet, an’ Miss Kenfield ain’t drinkin’ nothin’ either. She say”—Rufus looked Doc squarely in the eye—“she say to tell you you just as stupid as you is ugly.”

  Doctor Murphy reddened. “I think,” he began, sternly, “that you had better—” Then, the full impact of the Negro’s words struck him, and he grasped Rufus by the shoulder. “Did you say that they—that she—?”

  “Yes, suh,” nodded Rufus. “I’m sorry about the baby, doctuh—I mean, not bein’ on hand when you must have needed me. But I didn’t know, an’…”

  “To hell with that! How much did those guys have to drink this afternoon?”