Next morning, though he’d wakened with a hopeful premonition that his exile might be over, and he would be allowed re-entry into Ward Six, Henry was assigned his most challenging task thus far: the bathing of bedridden patients. These were not the comely young men of Ward Six but patients in other wards of the hospital, most of them older, and some of them obese; they were gravely ill, disfigured, senile, drooling, leaking blood from orifices, comatose, inclined to unpredictable outbursts of rage. They were covered in bed-sores and they smelled of their rancid, rotting bodies. No task had more depressed Henry than this task, which filled him with revulsion where he so badly wished to feel empathy, or pity. He could not comprehend how anyone could perform such work day following day as the nursing staff did, energetically, and capably, and seemingly without complaint. “Why, sir! You are becoming very handy!”—the young nurses praised their elderly assistant, or teased him. Henry blushed with pleasure at the attention. It was his task to haul away buckets of soapy, dirty water to dump into an open drain near the latrines where every bit of filth accumulated: garbage, clotted hairs, floating human excrement, roaches. (Everywhere in the hospital these shiny hard-shelled roaches scuttled, ubiquitous as flies.) When Henry returned to the nurses’ station there was Nurse Supervisor Edwards to regard him with coolly assessing eyes that signaled approval—grudging approval, but approval nonetheless. “Mr. James, my staff has been telling me that you have not declined any task, and have executed most of them quite capably. This is very good news.”
In a gentlemanly murmur Henry thanked the woman.
“Yet you are still an American, Mr. James, are you? And not one of us?”
Henry stood stricken and silent, as one accused.
Next day, Henry knew himself fittingly punished: he was given the lowliest and most repulsive of hospital tasks, more disgusting even than bathing patients’ bodies, or carrying away their no longer living bodies: latrine duty.
In his now filth-stiffened cover-all, Henry was enlisted to help collect bedpans from the wards, and to set them, often brimming with unspeakable contents that lapped out beneath their porcelain lids, onto a wobbly trolley to be pushed to the latrines. He was to assist a gnarled, misshapen and morose individual who exuded an air of hostility toward the gentleman-volunteer, and refrained from praising him as the nurses had done. When Henry’s hand shook, and reeking waste slopped out onto the floor, it was Henry’s responsibility to mop it up immediately: “Your move, mate!” Repeatedly, Henry was overcome with nausea and faint-headedness, swaying against the trolley, so that the attendant chided him harshly; in addition to his fear that he would collapse on the job, Henry worried that the attendant would report him to Nurse Edwards, and he would never be allowed re-entry to Ward Six. Bedpans were to be emptied in latrines in the nether region of the hospital, a labyrinth of corridors in which one might wander lost for a very long time; through this endless day, Henry was made to think In all of the Master’s prose, not one bedpan. Not excrement of any kind, nor the smells of excrement. Wielding a long-handled brush to scrub the emptied bedpans clean, trying not to breathe in fumes from a chalky-white cleanser, Henry swayed, slumped, nearly sank to his knees. More and more frequently that day the sharp angina-pain teased him, for in his cover-all he could not readily reach into his coat pocket to seize his nitroglycerine tablets.
“Eh, mate? It’s fresh air you’re wanting now, is it?”
Henry must have been looking very sickly, for the dwarflike attendant seemed now to be taking pity on him. With a rough hand he urged Henry in the direction of a door as feebly Henry protested, “No, I am to report to”—he fumbled to remember—“Ward Six. I am taking a young soldier home to live with me, where he will have full-time nursing care.”
The attendant whistled through his teeth. Impossible for Henry to judge whether the man was mocking him, or genuinely admiring.
“‘Crippled and maimed’—is it? Ward Six? Bloody good of you, mate.”
Henry protested, “They are not all ‘crippled and maimed.’ Some of them—a few of them—may yet be well again, and whole. I am not a rich man, but—”
“A disting’ished thing you are doing here, mate. At last.”
The man spoke with a strange sombre emphasis, disting’ished, at last, Henry could not comprehend, for a dazzling sensation seemed to have come over his exhausted brain as of strokes of lightning, very close, yet making no sound. Henry murmured gratefully, “Yes. It is. I hope—I hope it is.” He stumbled, and would have fallen, except the man grasped Henry’s hand firmly in his gnarled hand, and held him erect.
28 July 1915. Mr. Henry James, 72, the internationally acclaimed man of letters, has surrendered his American passport and sworn the oath of allegiance to King George V, to become, after decades of living in London, a British citizen. Mr. James has been a faithful participant in the St. Bartholomew’s Hospital Volunteers Corps since last autumn.
The cruel rumor was, an emergency amputation had had to be executed in Ward Six. One of the amputee soldiers whose “good” leg had begun to turn gangrenous from poor circulation. At the threshold to the ward the elderly volunteer hesitated. For at the far end of the ward was a white-curtained screen, hiding what was taking place inside; and his eyes, that watered with tears, were not strong enough to determine which bed it was the screen was hiding. And how crowded the long ward was, how dismaying its sights, how disgusting its smells, and there was an incessant buzzing of flies, and commingled moans and whimpers and cries of the wounded, so very demoralizing. Now the Master had been allowed re-entry to Ward Six, he’d been eager to resume his duties here; eager to see his young friend Scudder again, whom he had not seen in more than a week; yet at the threshold to the ward he hesitated, for he was seeing unfamiliar faces, it seemed to him; the ward appeared to be larger than he remembered, and more congested. Preparing for this visit Henry had brought more gifts with him than usual, and special treats for Scudder; he’d debated with himself whether to show the young lieutenant the news item from the London Times, for Scudder would be surprised to learn that his devoted volunteer-friend Henry James was an “acclaimed”—still less, “internationally acclaimed”—man of letters; and worse yet, that Henry was seventy-two years old for surely Scudder would have guessed him to be a decade younger, at least. A white-clad woman was plucking at Henry’s sleeve asking, “Sir? Are you unwell?” even as Henry drew prudently back, stammering, “Excuse me—I can’t—just yet—Good-bye—”
6.
You would not call it a deathbed. For it was not a bed.
Not a bed but a leather divan overlooking the Thames. And not death but a sea-voyage the Master had arranged for his young friend the Lieutenant and for himself. The Great War had ended, the oceans were again open. On the leather divan in the bay window overlooking the river he was suffused with such childlike yearning, and yet such joy, almost his heart could not bear the strain except the young Lieutenant remained at his side, and guided his hand that moved as if he were writing with only just his fingers; as his rather parched lips shaped words he seemed to be speaking, if not audibly; and sometimes, to the astonishment of his observers, whose faces he could not identify, the Master requested paper and pen in his old, firm voice, and his eyeglasses, that he might read what he’d written for no one else, save the Master himself, and his young friend the Lieutenant could make out the Master’s scrawling hand. His high-domed and near-hairless head was regal as a Roman bust. The strong, stubborn bones of his face strained against the parchment-skin. The deep brooding eyes were sometimes glazed with dreaming and yet at other times alert with curiosity and wonder: “Where will we be disembarking this evening, Lieutenant? You have been so very inspired, arranging for these surprises.”
It was so: the young Lieutenant from Manchester, son of a tradesman, had quite taken charge. So deftly now walking with one of the Master’s canes, maneuvering himself on his “good” leg (that had been saved from amputation by the head surgeon at St. Bartholomew’s) and on his �
��peg leg” (the costly prosthetic leg purchased for him, by Henry).
In a warm lulling breeze they stood against the railing on the deck of an ocean liner. Henry thought it so strangely charming, that the vast ocean, that must have been the Atlantic, was companionably crowded with small craft, even sailboats, as the Thames on a balmy Sunday in peacetime. And now Henry was settling into his lounge chair, his young friend tucked a blanket around his legs. They planned to disembark at only the most exotic of the foreign ports. They would travel incognito. Henry would continue to read to his young friend, the verse of Walt Whitman, of surpassing beauty. Now they were lounging at the prow of a smaller ship: a Greek ferry perhaps. The wicked black smoke issuing from the discolored smokestack had a look of Greek smoke. For there was the unmistakable aquamarine of the Mediterranean. Beneath a cloudless sky, floating Greek islands. O Sir! a jarring and unwelcome voice intervened: an awkward young woman in a white nurse’s uniform was leaning over Henry on the divan with tablets on a small plate for him to swallow. Politely he’d tried to ignore this rude stranger, now with a glance of exasperation at the Lieutenant he swallowed the first of the tablets with a mouthful of tepid water, but the second tablet stuck like chalk in his throat and, ah! he began to cough, which was dangerous, the brittle bones of an elderly rib cage can be cracked in a paroxysm of coughing, the heart can be over-strained. Yet the Master was hotly furious suddenly! Demanding to know why they’d been brought back to dreary London when they’d been so happy on their Mediterranean idyl! And where exactly was this place? Who were these uninvited people? The goose-feather pillows against his back were uncomfortable. He had never liked the damned leather divan, it had long been one of those pieces of furniture that is simply in the household as if rooted to the floor. In fact, Henry preferred to travel at the prow of the ship where even if there was discomfort, there was adventure at least. Sir you are very stubborn are you? In place of the awkward girl-nurse was an older, fleshier female who wore a formidable white-starched cap on her head and nurse’s attire formal as a military uniform. I have warned you sir but you never listened did you? Yet there was approval here, even admiration, as between equals. The Master saw, to his relief, that it must be now an earlier time: this careless thing that had happened, so like a stroke of lightning entering his brain, had not yet happened. He would write about it in his diary, and then he would fully comprehend it. For there is no mystery that, entered into the diary, in the Master’s secret code, that eludes the Master’s comprehension. Speaking forcefully as in his old life he instructed the woman: “You see, I must ‘give’ blood. For that is all that I can give.” The woman frowned in hesitation as if such elderly blood might not be worthy of her needle but the Master prevailed upon her for the Master could be most persuasive when he wished to be. And so, the Master was told to lie down, to lie very still, to hold out his arm, as the woman in glimmering white drew near and in her hands was a “hypo-dermic” needle device for the piercing of skin and the drawing of blood. The Master shut his fluttering eyes, in a swoon. He was very frightened. Yet he was not frightened but courageous: “I will. I must. My blood is mine to give to—” The young man’s name would come to him shortly. Which of the young wounded men whose blood had been poisoned, the Master’s blood would restore to health. “Ah!”—Henry steeled himself as a white shadow glided over him and the sharp needle sank into the soft raddled flesh of the inside of his elbow. Swiftly the woman drew blood out of the Master’s ropey vein, with capable hands attached a thin tube to the tiny wound, that the blood would continue to drain out, into a sac-like container, in a most ingenious way. A comforting numbness as of dark rising water came over Henry, as he lay on the lounge chair, on the deck of the mysterious ship, a blanket tucked over his legs. This day, these many days, he would mark with a red-inked cross: he was so very happy. The young Lieutenant, his scarred and scabbed face ruddy with renewed strength, stood at the foot of the lounge chair holding out his hand: “Henry! Come with me.”
PAPA AT KETCHUM, 1961
He wanted to die. He loaded the shotgun. Both barrels he loaded. This had to be a joke, both barrels he loaded. He was a man with a sense of humor. He was a joker. Couldn’t trust such a man, a joker in the deck. He laughed. Except his hands shook and that was a shameful thing. His head had filled again with pus. His head had to be cleared. His head was leaking. And you could smell it: greeny pus. His brain was inflamed, swollen. He was a stealthy one. Soundlessly he moved. Barefoot on the stairs. Had to be early morning. Downstairs he’d come from bed. The woman would think he’d groped his way into the bathroom. He’d located the key in the kitchen on the windowsill. He had the shotgun now. He was fumbling to steady it. This was the new shotgun and it was heavy. He was fearful of dropping it. He was fearful of being discovered. When he drove into town, only just to the liquor store, he was observed. The license plates on his pickup were noted. In the liquor store, a hidden camera photographed him. He’d bought the new shotgun in Sun Valley. The dealer had recognized him. The dealer had said it’s an honor and shook his hand. The gun was a twelve-gauge double-barreled English shotgun with a satin-nickel finish and maplewood stock. He was sorry to defile the new shotgun. Clumsily he was positioning the muzzle beneath his chin. There his throat was wattled and stubble grew in wayward clusters like a porcupine’s quills. With his bare big toe he groped for a trigger. His toes did not quiver and quake like his fingers but the nails were badly discolored and thickened. Beneath the nails, black blood had coagulated. His feet, his ankles were swollen with edema. He prayed God damn, God help me. You did not believe in God but it was a good bet to pray. He was determined to do this job cleanly and forever for even a joker does not get a second chance. God was the joker in the deck, of course. You would have to placate Him to execute the job perfectly. This meant all of the brain blasted away in an instant. He feared that there might be some remnant of a soul remaining in some area of the brain not blasted away, or that the brain stem would continue to function, in some hospital there’s Papa in piss-stinky pajamas stuttering his A-B-C’s out of a thimble of brain left intact somewhere up inside the skull mended like broken crockery where they could trail a shunt into it. And TV would broadcast this, and a voice-over intoning The wages of sin is living death. How many sleepless nights here in Ketchum and at the hospital in Minnesota he’d ground his teeth over this fear. For he feared being pitied as he feared being laughed at. He feared strangers touching his head. Rearranging his hair. For his hair was not thick any longer, the bumpy scalp showed. If the head was to be destroyed it would have to be cleanly. He was not altogether serious about some of these fears yet you could not know: even the wily Pascal could not know: if you make your wager, make your wager one you cannot lose. He thought this might be a principle. His body had grown strange to him, clumsy and uncoordinated. Sometimes he believed he had wakened in his father’s old body he’d scorned as a boy. It is a terrible thing to wake in your father’s old body you have scorned as a boy. There is something very cruel in such a joke and yet it is fitting, too. For now he was having difficulty steadying the shotgun, for his hands shook. The satin-nickel finish was damp with sweat from his hands. There is an unmistakable odor of sweat on gunmetal. It is not a pleasant odor. He recalled that, yes his father’s hands had shaken, too. As a boy he had observed this. As a boy he had scorned such weakness. Yet his father had managed to hold his gun steady and to kill himself with a single bullet to the brain. You would have to grant the old man that, beyond scorn. His father had used a pistol which is much more risky. A shotgun, skillfully maneuvered, is not risky. A shotgun is a wager you cannot lose. Except if he could see his bare foot, he would be more confident. If he could see his big, bare toe. Positioned as he was, muzzle beneath his stubbled chin, he could not see the shotgun at all, nor could he see the floor. A misfire would be a tragedy. A misfire would alert the woman. A misfire would bring an ambulance, medical workers, forcible restraints and a return to the hospital where they would shock and fry his bra
in and catheterize his penis that already leaked piss and blood. That joke had gone far enough. He repositioned the barrels, now against his forehead. He fumbled for the trigger with his big, bare toe. He tried to exert pressure but something was in the way. His eyes were open and alert. His eyes moved frantically about like a fly’s multi-faceted eyes yet his vision was blurred as if he was staring through gauze. He could not be altogether certain if in fact he might be staring through gauze, recuperating from a head wound after the accident. It might have been the plane crash, or the other. He was facing a window and the window was splotched with rain. He was in the mountain-place: in Idaho. He recognized the interior. There was a pine-needle smell here, a woodsmoke smell, he recognized. He’d come to die in Idaho. What you liked about Ketchum was that there was no one here. In Sun Valley, yes. But not here. He would not be leaving this time. If the woman tried to interfere he would turn the gun on her. He would drop her with a single shot. In mid-cry the woman would collapse. She would slump wordless to the floor and bleed out like any dying animal. He would turn the gun on himself, then: he became excited imagining this. His hands trembled in anticipation. His truest life was such secrecy and fantasy. The truest life must always be hidden. As a boy he’d known this. As a man he’d known this amid bouts of drinking, partying, hosting houseguests, playing the Papa-buffoon everybody loved. He’d known this lying gut-sick and insomniac in sweat-stinking bedclothes. Always you are alone, as a man with his gun is alone and needing no others. It was an erotic imagining beyond sex: that explosion of pellets up into the head-cavity, powerful as a detonating hand grenade. Jesus! This would be sweet! What remained of his life was pent-up in him like jism clotted up into his scrotum and lower gut. Pent-up so it has turned to pus. He would blow out the greeny pus. His sick brains leaking down the oak-paneled wall. Shattered bits of skull and tissue embedded in the oak-beamed ceiling. He laughed. He bared his teeth in wide Papa-grin. The explosion was deafening but he’d passed beyond earing.
Wild Nights!: Stories About the Last Days of Poe, Dickinson, Twain, James, and Hemingway Page 14
