What was the most understandable upshot of this interlude was, in the end, Beth Jackson’s having placed an order with the young man for six crockery basins for her department. And this shipment had arrived at Nurse Thorne’s office. Not as an important package but as one unexpected, opening it became something like the days before centralized buying when opening the packages always held some suspended interest of the surprises at Christmas. But, what with the breach of policy this package represented, Nurse Thorne quite forgot to remove the invoice, or if she did remove it, forgot that she had done so, and above all, where she had put it—for it occurred to her three days later that she had made no entry on the record. It was then, that after considerable effort, she began to recall exactly the scene in part, of Albert holding the open-top, pine board box to his chest, his white face strained beneath grimace as by some stiff tangle of under surface wire, while there, from where his chin touched, or so she recalled, the one, half-exposed crock, rose a curl of excelsior, bunched as it was in almost concealing, twice-folded, the sea-blue square of the invoice. And then he was gone. Actually, what she did recall was the figure, “10.95,” marked on the remaining half-top of the box in black crayon, and this figure she had entered into the allowance sheet, there, either in contempt or uncertainty, to slur the four ciphers into being very nearly illegible.
“It’s about those crocks, El,” Beth Jackson was saying in Nurse Thorne’s office.
This might have been a question (Is it about those crocks?) from the way Eleanor Thorne chose to answer, simply: “Yes, it is, Beth,” regarding her quite seriously, holding a patient smile.
“Oh, you’ve heard then?” asked Beth, assuming that same smile of patience with the other’s guilt.
“What I mean is this, Beth: if we take on accounts with houses that don’t know our procedure here—though a new house, how we could expect them to is beyond me—then there’s bound to be trouble. Do you see my point?”
Whereupon Beth managed a frown. “Why, how do you mean?” she asked.
“Well here for example, what’s your problem over those crocks?”
“Oh, mind I don’t say I have one,” replied fat Beth as airily as had they been speaking of lovers, two pretty girls. But even so saying, her mind’s-eye piqued with an image of gyno and her own Jane Ward, unpacking, as had happened, in Beth’s absence, the box of crocks, excitedly stuffing excelsior down the incinerator-shaft, and along with it, perhaps, the precious fold of invoice. They had never been sure. “The fact is, El, Mr. Rogers asked me to look into it.”
“He’s spoken to you about it then?”
“To tell the truth, Eleanor, I hadn’t given it another thought. Oh, it was odd all right at the time I thought so, granted. But still, it wasn’t any of our business, I said so to Jane, ‘If they’ve found a new way of getting their work in to Mr. Rogers, fine and dandy, it saves you the bother!’ And that poor sweet!”
“Your Jane? Jane Ward? She was there then?”
“Jane, the poor mopsy! You know what a stickler she is for procedure—‘red-tape’ I called it to her—I can tell you she was almost in tears. ‘Now you’re to listen,’ I told her, ‘it isn’t our worry I can tell you for sure! We’re here to see to the women, and not for signing scraps and bits of paper every time you turn around! What they want to do about that is nobody’s affair but their own. And that’s what they’re paid for!’ After twenty-eight years I ought to know what my duties are, Eleanor, I told her exactly that!” For this was nine years more than Nurse Thorne could say.
“How was the shipment unpacked, Beth? That may be the answer.”
“Well, of course, it’s a shame I wasn’t there when it did come, though mind I don’t say it would have made a difference in the conditions.”
“No?”
“Oh no, I was at Hillcrest with Dr. Stevens! I thought you knew.”
“Yes, I see.”
“I mean it was my day for Hillcrest, you would have known that.”
“Of course. Then it was Jane Ward unpacked the shipment?”
“Jane was in a state when I got there. I shouldn’t want this to go any further than the two of us, El, but I think it’s Albert. The child’s terrified.”
“Ridiculous!”
“Eleanor, I told her exactly that! But then you know yourself. And she is such a mopsy! ‘Unawakened,’ I call it. Babs too, the darling.”
Jane Ward was the youngest nurse in the Clinic, was, in fact one full year the junior of Babs Mintner, though Babs was the prettier by far.
“Beth, that is ridiculous,” repeated Eleanor cautiously, rather pleased.
Beth lowered her voice. “Yes, you mind I’m not blaming Albert, gracious knows, poor devil, he does his job. And El, when I think what must go through that mind of his!”
“Yes,” mused Eleanor, “I suppose.”
“Still in all, we have got the girls to think of now, El, especially Janie and Babs.”
“Barbara? What has she to do with it then?”
“Well, not that exactly. What I mean is, girls at their age, El, you know there’s bound to be some complication. And then on top of it a young man popping up in every direction! It’s only natural. And Babs I believe especially.”
“But why Barbara?” asked Nurse Thorne evenly.
“It wouldn’t be my place to say it, Eleanor, but I simply can’t help not feeling that it isn’t somehow a mistake putting the youngsters alone like that together so often, especially under the conditions.” And so saying, she actually nodded toward the window, even in the general direction of Nurses’ Lounge and the daffodils of Garcia.
“Why how on earth do you mean?” said Eleanor too shrilly.
“Well, here’s my point, Eleanor: the girls are cooped in here the whole day with all old sick fuddies—then a young man pops up! Somebody their own age—like this morning, exactly. If you could have seen our Babs! I’ll tell you she was on pins and needles the whole time. I don’t know when I’ve seen a youngster so upset!”
“Yes, this morning,” said Eleanor, taking a lighter view, “of course that was unfortunate I admit, Beth, I was held up at Bullock’s. But then ask yourself, how often is it to happen at that?”
“Often enough I should say from what I’ve seen,” returned Beth with dignity.
“What, an intoxication case in the morning? Really, Beth,” said Eleanor with a strange laugh, “you don’t mean it!”
“How’s that?” cried Beth, slightly raucous at being so off guard, but just as quick, so knowingly arch as her bulk and her great padded brows could manage, even so as not to be left out entirely, she said in a fine voice: “And who’s been at it this time if I may ask?”
“Why no, Beth, who are you thinking of then, not Mr. Edwards’ boy from the college?”
“Ralph Edwards, of course, Eleanor, who else would it be?”
“Well! Yes, well, I couldn’t say, of course, there may be something to it at that, Beth, what do you think?”
“I’ll tell you what I think, El,” said Beth grandly, “I think our girls have a crush on the young man. Unless I’m very much mistaken,” she added, as though she almost never were.
“Jane too then?” said Eleanor favoring another subject.
“What else?” asked Beth, as if now at last, they lay, all of them, really helpless before the man.
There followed a pause that seemed to expand with Beth’s own growing anticipations, and Eleanor cleared her throat to speak plainly. “I don’t know, Beth. Have you thought about this at all?”
“Why, how do you mean?”
“No. I mean, is there anything you can suggest?”
“Well yes, El,” said Beth, emphatic enough, though clearly she was improvising, “what I’m wondering now is this: when I’ve a day at Hillcrest, oughtn’t I to take my Jane along? After all, we’ve got to get in her General sometime, and heavens we could use her, you’ve no idea!”
When Nurse Thorne agreed to take this up at first opportunity with Dr
. Charles, head of the Clinic, the two women passed on to the subject of this old man himself and his coming retirement, following which they spoke briefly, and somewhat on the oblique, of his possible successor, seemingly the most likely of which was Dr. Eichner, of whom at 49 they said, “comparatively young,” and as Beth Jackson pointed up, “on the very threshold of his career.”
There was then no further mention of the crocks as the talk of the women grew vague, themselves drifting apart, toward their own specifics, as in distraction to all the windows’ changing light, dying brilliance of the outside day—for whereas had a hundred swift young clouds, unmothered things and dear, each small and white as snow, sailed high throughout the earliest sky, completely free, to rise and sail even above the sun itself, or so it seemed, and roam the reaches of a day that never left off brilliance, as though themselves distraitly unaware, had flown too fast, were small and dear, grown so hot at mid-day, and fell with falling afternoon, through lassitude, or knew not what to do but lay all huddled now as if almost asleep beneath the sun—and this had filled the western sky with shadow.
At the station, the patrolmen turned in their report and stood together now with Dr. Eichner, before the precinct head, Captain Howie “Dutch” Meyer. After reading the report, from which, time after time, he left off, simply to look up at the accused Dr. Eichner, the Captain, a small, gray man, well past the retirement age, cocked his head and made his eyes start out, as though to crane over beyond his glasses. “Well, well,” he said—and in this he resembled nothing so much as some veteran film-actor celebrated for his handling of character roles—“Well, well, well! How long you been in this country, Mister?” And before the Doctor could reply, if, indeed, he would have to such seeming irrelevance, the Captain, resting on his elbows, raised both hands, palms flat together, before his face, which was set with a patronizing, almost brotherly smile, and spoke the Doctor’s name, greatly exaggerating the guttural of it: “EICHNER,” and continued in a bored, flat voice where he tried to nail each word with irritation and amusement. “What are you, Doctor? Dutch or German-Jew?”
An ill-bred man, this Captain delighted in handling the cases of first generation immigrants.
Dr. Eichner stood easily, cleared his throat once, and when it was quite apparent that they were all waiting for him to speak, addressed the Captain. “Identify yourself, please.”
“How’s that?” said Captain Meyer, though he had heard very well.
“I’m asking you to identify yourself, Captain. I think I’m entitled to know who it is I’m speaking with, isn’t that so?” He addressed the last to the patrolman, Eddy, without lowering his voice even though they were standing shoulder to shoulder, whereupon Eddy grimaced uneasily, shifted from one foot to the other, and failed to meet the Doctor’s eye, but where his allegiance now lay was never more uncertain. “You’ll find it in your ordinances, I believe,” the Doctor ended sternly, nodding his head.
“Captain Meyer,” said the old man distinctly then, “—or so I’m told, Doctor, though you might be better informed about it. Captain Howard K. Meyer, Middletown, Pennsylvania. Police Officer Number 4276, County of Los Angeles. If you’d like to see my record,” he went on, shaming some famous old actor or other in a joke, with a wink at the two patrolmen, “—though I won’t say it’s exactly ‘light-reading.’ Forty-two years’ worth to be exact, Doctor!”
"That won’t be necessary,” said Dr. Eichner shortly. “Let’s just get on with the accident report.”
“Accident?” returned the Captain. He allowed himself still another reflective look at the report in his hands, shaking it a little. “Could be, Doctor, could be. But from what I know about these things,” he raised his eyes to meet the Doctor’s squarely, and despite all this senile foolishness, a soft, strange drama took hold of his words—“a Grand Jury might want to call it ‘Manslaughter.’ ”
Chapter V
FOLLOWING ANY PERSONAL or professional ordeal while on duty at the Clinic, it was the practice of the young nurses to “take five,” as they expressed it, in Nurses’ Rest Room. This meant lying down on one of the mohair sofas, or taking a Coca-Cola from the giant dispenser and sitting easily with it before the dressing-table mirror, where each might sip the coke and freshen up her image while, if she were not alone, talking animatedly with anyone else who might be present.
It was Babs’ habit to do all three of these at once. This was not difficult since one of the sofas was situated at the proper level just opposite the dressing-table mirror. As she was alone now, however, she merely lay on the favored couch, legs stretched down and crossed under her tightly drawn skirt, one arm behind her head, and the other curved graciously forward holding the bottled coke that rested just on her diaphragm. She was quite deliberately relaxing, and for the moment not too mindful of her reflection in the glass, but did continue, perhaps out of habit, to focus her eyes there.
Sometimes, alone here in Nurses’ Rest Room, the girl would enjoy the most elusively delicious, and somehow unexpected transports of fantasy. These were not exactly vicarious, since they did not seem, really to concern her, even indirectly, but dealt rather with the reflection in the mirror, which she had to glance at from time to time as if to assure herself that the adventure was real after all. Today, however, for some reason or other, Barbara found the images too fragmentary, the sequences broken and unsatisfactory, or more precisely, unfair; so that after a few minutes she got up and sat at the dressing-table where she began to brush her hair, which she appeared to do with an infinite concern and tenderness, though actually she was absorbed in counting: twenty-five strokes each, to back and sides. Having no head for figures, she was very careful. Then she combed it and, finally, fluffed it here and there with her hand, setting to rights a temple-ringlet or two. She put on fresh lipstick and squeezed two blackheads from her nose, which she dusted then with very light powder. She believed that she was mostly appreciated for her fresh, natural look—which was, in a sense, true. Then at last she stood, and still before the glass where her eyes now were less adoring than critical, adroitly smoothed the back of the skirt, which was slightly wrinkled from lying with it so drawn under. She adjusted her habit completely, from collar and shoulders to the hem—first, frontally before the glass; then sideways, at which time, it still being before lunch, she drew in her belt one notch. That she was able to do this, had anyone else been present, would have come to her as an animated surprise. As she did it now, however, her face remained tranquilly grim.
After she was perfect, her movements became slower and more deliberate, yet were not without a certain luxury and grace, as though an added responsibility had been taken on, but one that was quite familiar. And then she walked about the room with an easy, inimitable assurance, holding the coke, which was only half-finished and, by now, quite flat.
A perfect white at the window, looking over the broad estate, the slopes of green and the planes of white cement, with her head lowered in absently sipping the coke, and her eyes raised round and wide, almost as in magic goodness, she could have been the one child-princess of an angel-cake kingdom, all white-iced and perfect. She was standing slightly back from the window, with the same cautious ease she had crossed the room, now in avoiding the everplay of Pacific breeze that stirred over the land with an anxiety that never left off lightness. So, back from the window and distrait, Babs was not aware of the car’s approach until it was there, rounding the gravel slope before her. It was a yellow convertible, and the girl’s first impression was that the occupants were movie-stars, since they both wore dark glasses, and the young woman at the wheel had her startling sun-like hair half hidden in a jet black kerchief, while her face shown brown as fine leather. She stopped the car at the Clinic door, and the young man got out, handsome and worldly, his dress, it appeared, richly casual. When he turned his back to close the car door and speak a word to his companion who raised her hand briefly and smiled before pulling away, Babs believed for an instant that he was Tyrone Power, and a dr
op or two melted from her heart. In the next moment the young man, having apparently seen Barbara at the window when he turned to bound up the Clinic steps, slowed his pace and, looking that way, was waving and smiling, unmistakably at her. And it was only then, of course, that she realized, though not without a shocking ambivalence that ricocheted between discovery and insult that it was Mr. Edwards the pharmacist’s nephew, Ralph, from the University. And she saw too clearly now that what had been his weary, decadent smile, was, after all, simply a boyish grin. She wanted to be furious with him for this, and for the moment, almost was, for where her mouth had dropped slightly open when he first waved, she snapped it shut now and twisted away with a really offended toss of her head, as though he had again, for the second time in as many days, tried to look up her dress.
Chapter VI
BABS MINTNER OWNED a pair of sun-glasses, but she never wore them except when she went swimming, which she occasionally did on Saturday afternoon, when she was off duty from the Clinic. To wear them otherwise, not being a movie-star, she would have felt too self-conscious, or even “silly.” And though the glare of the sun could be troublesome during her lunch time away from the Clinic, it was a luxury, indeed a pretense, that had never occurred to her. Besides, she had great, beautiful, blue eyes.
Nonetheless, to see others wearing these glasses, except at the beach, never failed to distract her, for she always assumed they were stars, or the President, and so would scrutinize them.
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