Night Must Wait

by Robin Winter

  God, she sounded mental, telling a drunk about Wilton. But what if Wilton were lost on the streets, stumbling about in the company of men like him? She shivered.

  "Be kind to her if you meet her on the street someday. She's a little thing and she'll be cold, so cold. She ought to be in Africa. That's the place she loved, the land where she lived. She shouldn't be here."

  Gilman folded the chair before putting it away against the wall. She turned to the doorway and saw a man brilliantly outlined by the corridor fluorescents slip fast away. Flicker out of sight, as if he fled. She hurried two steps and leaned out the door staring wildly at the swinging doors midway down the hall. He'd been black. Wearing scrubs. Was it only her imagination that said he didn't move like an American? How could she be sure or had she gone crazy too?

  Chapter 94: Gilman

  February 1971

  New York, USA

  Even in New York City with its barrage of sounds, colors, and light, Gilman found herself thinking of Nigeria. Not the miserable enclave of desperate refugees she'd fled, but the cockeyed marvel of a new nation that she'd known in the beginning. Rocking with music and quick laughter, the upraised welcoming hands that reached for miracles.

  Biafra too, was like that when newborn and brave. Now and again the memories savaged her, all the more cruel for their innocence and beauty. No one to share them. The rare letter from Sister Catherine only hurt. She even missed Allingham.

  Once she was looking through a book of poetry in a store, more out of idleness than out of any desire to read. She happened upon Kipling.

  I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty paving stones

  An' the blasted English drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;

  Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand,

  An' they talks a lot of lovin', but wot do they understand?

  Beefy face and grubby 'and—

  Law! Wot do they understand?...

  Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst..."

  It didn't matter that he spoke of the East—she understood too well, and a crowd of memories swung into momentary focus before her eyes. She smelled the intoxicating musk of ivory papaya flowers and saw the sky yawn orange overhead. She saw Jantor's face, creased in a grin of relaxed delight. She slapped the book shut, shoved it back on the shelf and felt her legs tremble under her. She dusted her fingers on her pants legs as if she could brush away the clinging memories.

  There were other times when the horror rose again to shake her. Like the recurrent tide of malarial fever in the blood. Nightmares as unrelenting as delirium.

  Gilman heard nothing from Allingham. No letter, no call. But she wasn't going to go looking and asking, whining like a beggar. She managed to stay off the cigarettes. After all, they reminded her too much of Jantor and Sister Catherine and Biafra. She worked at Bellevue in the emergency room most nights—it was as close as she could come to war and tried to make frenetic hours of work her sleeping pill.

  Chapter 95: Lindsey

  March 1971

  Lagos, Western Region, Nigeria

  "Allow transfer of patient," Lindsey wrote and initialed it. Precise, legible beyond doubt.

  When the secretary arrived in response to her bell, Lindsey handed the message to him.

  "Send this to Lawrence Sullivan," she said, "via telegram. Affix customary code for authorization."

  When the man was gone and the door closed behind him, Lindsey allowed herself a smile. Let Gilman believe she was safe from her past. Yes, she'd permit Gilman and this doctor Lowenstein to have Wilton. They couldn't help poor Wilton much anyway, but if they did and any secrets were told, by this time Lindsey's position couldn't be shaken by rumors from a madwoman.

  Lindsey felt herself come alive at the sound of Oroko's voice. She straightened, tightened her face into order. Anything but that. No replacements for Sandy. She wouldn't drink with him or talk with him. Nor anyone except for those societal niceties that her plans required. Everything must focus on the one purpose, the one payback for which she worked with such care.

  She imagined Gilman eating a grease-dripping hamburger back in New York in some dive. Gilman always had bohemian affectations. Always the one to assert that lack of hygiene accompanied superior and dramatic tastes. Vulgar prerequisites. A hot dog from the right vendor equaled haute cuisine. Probably a reaction with Freudian implications about Gilman's relationship with her father. Gilman with her messy hair and overcoat stuffing down a burger in a linoleum-floored place shaped like a boxcar, and never knowing, never sensing that just around the corner, someone was watching, noting how she slathered ketchup before the first bite.

  She felt herself smile.

  "Good afternoon, Oroko," she said. "What's the latest?"

  Chapter 96: Gilman

  March 1971

  Boston, MA, USA

  Gilman came in through the doorway and declined Lowenstein's offer of a seat, standing to one side of his desk. He glanced up, and she noted the brilliance of excitement in his eyes. Anticipation and worry. The worry irritated her, though she knew she should expect it after their many meetings. Gilman clenched her hands behind her back.

  "You've found her?" In that instant she realized how much she feared knowing. But she could never show Lowenstein weakness. Sometimes she suspected he considered her one of his patients. Irritating man.

  "A lead. I think a good one," he said. "Do take a seat, Doctor. I should think you could relax with me by now."

  "I'm comfortable," she lied, but she sat. Maybe he was testing her. "Have you found her?"

  "The patient in question is female, approximate age between thirty-five and forty, black hair, brown eyes, weight ninety-odd pounds." His tone belied the impersonal words he chose. "She might be of mixed parentage. Both hands bear consequential scarring, possibly the result of an accident. X-rays reveal a previous broken ulna and radius, left side, broken carpals and several fractured ribs, all well healed. Some indications of poor nutrition in childhood. Her name is down as L. K. Wilson. I'm assuming she was entered under a pseudonym but close enough to 'Wilton' that she might respond to it if she improved. Admit date is within your suggested search parameters. The reason that I..."

  "Where?"

  When Lowenstein blinked Gilman realized how sharp her tone sounded. She resisted an impulse to shake the information out of him.

  "Gilman," he said. "Whoever this woman is, she's in poor shape. Underweight, unresponsive, astasia abasia—you know the drill. It may not be the woman you know, but meeting this patient will be a shock for you."

  "It has to be Wilton."

  "That's not what I meant."

  "Then what? You think I'm nuts? Loony? Crackers?"

  "Gilman, it's up to you. We need your verification of identity. I'll just remind you again that this person is tended by professionals, her basic needs met and there's no great urgency."

  "Lowenstein, how could I wait? And how can you say tended. Ninety-odd pounds is neglect. Abuse."

  "She'll be under sedation," he said.

  "Yeah, I know that's what passes for tending in those places."

  He cleared his throat and Gilman knew exactly what was coming next.

  "Katherine, I feel strongly that it would be helpful for you to talk about your experiences in Africa. I suspect that's one of your motives in seeking out your old friend. If you ever choose to talk, I would be honored to listen. And if you'd feel more comfortable with some other professional, I'd be glad to make recommendations. As for confidentiality—you know the ethics of a doctor extend even into my maligned branch of the profession."

  Lowenstein would never understand. No one would understand. She took that thought and shielded herself behind it. There were times the urge to spill out the past in words nearly overwhelmed her, but what if the past never went back under cover? What if she couldn't control it any more? Besides, she'd be more likely to choose a Bowery bum for her confidante than a fellow profess
ional.

  Gilman had once told Lowenstein that she thought she was being followed by a Yoruba man, and he'd invited her to his home in Deerfield and his matronly wife for dinner and asked a few questions that even now made her uneasy. He must not have believed her then. Too much to expect him to believe all that she would have to explain, especially what she would have to say of Lindsey.

  Purest paranoid fantasy. Bring on the prescriptions, bring on the psychoanalysis. Not quite straightjacket level but getting there. Ever since that one slip, she'd held back. But none of this had importance now. Rescuing Wilton took precedence.

  "Yeah, I know, Lowenstein," she said, not looking at him. "When I'm ready to rip off the scabs, I'll tell you. I appreciate the offer."

  Lowenstein fingered a sheet of paper on his desk.

  "Well," he said. "Are you ready to go?"

  "Now? Today?"

  "Yes. Now. Today." He looked at her and smiled. "You see," he said, as if he could not resist the opportunity to bait her, "I thought I knew my patient."

  Gilman brushed an unruly curl of hair from her sticky forehead. The tide of panic rose with each step up the stairs. Pastel-pink walls, gray steps, she tried to distract herself with the ugliness. Wilton hated pink. With that thought, she felt better. She tried to slow her steps, realizing that she was racing up the stairs, and felt for the first time how quickly her breath came and the pound of her pulse. It seemed louder than the Muzak floating through the halls. Impatience mastered her. She hurried on.

  So what if she disobeyed Lowenstein's order to wait downstairs in the office. Hell, she was a doctor too. He tried to protect her. She thought in that unguarded moment of Tom, and stopped. Protecting didn't work. No one could ever do that. Forcing herself on, she reached the top of the flight and looked down a long naked corridor. Hyperventilating, she derided herself and went on. She almost passed the open door before she caught herself and swung around.

  Everyone in the room wore white except for Lowenstein. Her gaze went to him in his casual and comforting blue jacket, then to the small figure at his side. She barely registered the horror that passed over Lowenstein's face. She stepped toward them, her stare locked on Wilton.

  "Doctor," Lowenstein said. Warning her, pushing her back with his voice.

  Wilton straightened, gaunt face lifting. Enormous black eyes found Gilman and lost the dull placidity of drugs in an abrupt transformation.

  "Wilton." She felt the name tear from her throat. She stopped. "It's me. Gilman."

  Wilton stiffened, her lips drawing back from her teeth. When Wilton tore free of Lowenstein's restraining hands to hurl herself to the floor, Gilman stepped back.

  Wilton clawed the floor, beating at the waxed surface with both hands, breath coming in gasps, short nails breaking against the linoleum. Gilman thought she heard a tile snap just before the orderlies pinned Wilton's arms. They dragged Wilton to her feet, her head thrashing. But she made no words, only the harsh moan of her breathing.

  Gilman stood rigid, taking in the wide eyes and crooked mouth, a thin smear of spittle oozing down the chin. Already the right cheekbone darkened with the promise of an enormous bruise. The last startling detail was the close-cropped black hair, so thickly mixed with white. Wilton with a crew cut. God.

  "Doctor Gilman," Lowenstein said.

  Gilman turned to him, fighting back the need to strike someone, to hurt whoever had done this.

  "Doctor Gilman," Lowenstein said again softer now, as if reminding her of who she was. A doctor should never run. A doctor had control. "Go down to the office and wait."

  She found herself complying, like a bad dog. She forced her feet to move, to carry her through the doorway, and stumbled down the corridor alone.

  After the long ride, hands jammed into her pockets, Gilman stood on the walk and watched Lowenstein and an orderly lead Wilton off. There were a few lights on in the modern wing the Lowensteins had added to their farmhouse. Each window of the private hospital cast its yellow square on the broad black expanse of lawn. Somewhere a door opened and closed, but the smallness and distinctness of the sound only emphasized the rural silence. She nudged her suitcase with one foot, nervous, reassured by the familiar scrape of Samsonite on concrete.

  A figure from the dark impinged on her vision and Gilman spun to meet it.

  "Did I startle you, Doctor? You look as if you'd seen a ghost."

  Gilman had to smile even if it hurt.

  "There's a lot of that going around."

  Mrs. Lowenstein's round cheerful face stilled briefly, but Gilman knew she had long training in how not to pry. A man came striding up, and she stared, for he was surely African, casually dressed as if he might be a groundskeeper. He smiled at her the full pleased smile that she'd never seen on the face of an American black and took her suitcase.

  "You must be exhausted. Alan will show you the arrangements. Every room has several assistance pulls, for any need at any time. I bet you'd like to go to bed, especially since I hear you've got to leave us and be back at work tomorrow, but I have strict orders to put you in the library until Alan can come back and report on your friend. Of course, that can't wait until morning. I should warn you that he will dawdle over his patients. Once it took him two hours to give someone an aspirin," she said with pride.

  "We were late to a dinner party over an aspirin. Don't ever marry a doctor, dear. But I guess you're the last person I should say that to? Not that I don't admire you. Wouldn't change a thing about doctors, really. But I want you to know it isn't my idea you can't go straight to your room."

  She loved the feeling of Lowenstein's study—though the fireplace stood cold and dark, the rest of the room had the warmth of old wood and books. She wondered what it would be like if she made a place of comfort for herself here in America. An old farmhouse like this with rest in it, and peace. For a few minutes she managed to believe in the possibility. She turned when Lowenstein opened the door and came in.

  "Not much to tell you, Doctor," Lowenstein said. "No more than the obvious. Withdrawn, malnourished. Broke a finger on the floor this afternoon when she went into fugue. Give me a while to see what I can add to the file."

  "Of course," Gilman said.

  She found it hard to say the next thing, but made herself go on.

  "I apologize," she said. "I shouldn't—"

  "Too late for that," he said, "I should have known you wouldn't wait for us. That was my fault."

  She would have contradicted him but he spoke first.

  "Shut up, Doctor Gilman. If you want to make me happy, you know what I want. You're still living in blackest Africa in your head and until you have the guts to talk about it with someone, you'll never leave. Now that's enough for tonight, isn't it?"

  "Yes sir," she said, angry again at him for prodding a sore spot. Therapy about Africa? Like it was a disease to be cut out of her? He had no idea and he didn't believe the few things she'd said anyway. At least Wilton would be safe in his hands—of that she felt sure.

  "You have a Nigerian on your staff. The man who took my suitcase?"

  "Bothers you? His name is Leviticus Johnson. There's a community of Nigerians in the next town over, started with a fellow brought over for high school by a missionary some time back. This is his cousin who picks up odd jobs."

  "How can it not bother me? Brings back memories." Gilman made it casual. She knew how to do that, didn't she? "Been with you long?"

  "A year or two. No, Gilman, he didn't just show up a week ago and ask for a job. He's a good gardener though the accent's thick."

  "He came to the US to be a gardener?"

  "His cousin brought him to go through high school and try after that for college. I think he's bright enough to make it."

  In the night, Gilman awoke out of heavy sleep, afraid. She tensed in her bed, waiting, not sure what sound or touch had yanked her from oblivion. She thought she heard bodies breathing, and her mind's eye saw them, massed, stacked brown and black bodies, with seeping blood i
n a slow soundless drip. Horror stopped her voice, and that whispered breathing grew louder and louder in the room.

  She held herself still with an effort. She felt that something alive moved near her bed. She tried to remember where she was. What or who stood by her now? Then memory woke, and she knew. Lowenstein's private hospital. The only thing that stood by her was ghostly. Wilton slept a drugged sleep a few passageways away. She was no threat. But how crazy to dream that Wilton threatened her. Her muscles remained ready for action. She waited, chilled by her dread.

  Impossible dread. You never go home. You'll never be free. Things that go bump in the night. God. She should be taking pills for this, but what if they made it worse? Took control? No one was going to get in her head, fix her up. Not shrinks or drugs.

  Blackest Africa, God help her. Lowenstein saw too many movies.

  Chapter 97: Wilton

  July 1971

  Massachusetts, USA

  Wilton always listened for the sound of engines overhead. Only a matter of time before the bombers found her again.

  She saw the doctor take notes. He watched her when he sat in her rooms. She sensed some days that he stared from the mirror, from the ceiling, from the walls.

  It was quiet here in her exile. New England, America, soft and chill. No throb of music from fireside drums, no radios competing each with each, no chatter of voices singing stories. No heat, nor joy, nor babble of wonder. Her blood moved slow. In this place, day and night slipped each over the other without vibration or color. No screams to keep her from her sleep. She could sleep forever. Perhaps she would in this place of negatives.