“Of course, Sandy,” Mainwaring responded with urbane calm. “Tell Mr. Iverson I’ll be right along.”
“Thank you, Doctor. Hi, Dr. Iverson. Hi, Suzanne. Are you okay?”
“I’m, fine, Sandy, thanks,” Suzanne said. “Everything’s all right.”
“That’s wonderful. I’ll tell everyone downstairs the good news.”
She hurried off.
“So,” said Mainwaring, “I’ll see y’all at four-thirty, yes?”
He gave Suzanne’s hand a final squeeze and then strode out of the recovery room.
“Are you going down there?” she asked Zack.
“Uh-huh.”
“Let me know what’s going on, okay?”
“Sure.”
He made no move to touch her.
“Zack?” she said softly.
“what?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t handle that situation better. Jason comes on a little strong sometimes. He caught me off balance. He’s really a decent guy. Just don’t let him get to you, okay?”
“Sure.”
“Talk to you later in the week?”
“Right.”
He turned to go.
“I hope the trouble with Guy is nothing big,” she called.
“You and me, both,” he muttered.
But as he headed for the emergency ward, feeling not a little deflated, Zack could not shake an ugly sense of foreboding.
Nothing that Zack had imagined about what was transpiring in the emergency ward prepared him for the reality.
There was commotion bordering on chaos. The hospital’s three-man security force was there, as were the director of nursing, Mainwaring, Chief of Staff Donald Norman, and half a dozen embarrassed patients and their families. The epicenter of the turmoil was behind the closed door of the family quiet room, where brief periods of strained silence separated angry, easily audible outbursts in English and in French from Guy Beaulieu.
“Damn you, Frank, get out of my way before I strike you,” were the first words Zack heard. “That woman is my patient, and I have every right to care for her. Now, out of my way!”
“Guy, sit down and quiet down, or I swear I’ll have the guards come in here and tie you down. I will not have you making a scene like this in my hospital.”
“Your hospital! If it’s your hospital, Mr. High and Mighty, then why don’t you see that this is all a plot to take my practice away? You’re in on it, aren’t you? That’s why. You’re one of them!”
“Dammit, Guy, shut up. There are patients out there.”
“I know there are. My patients! Now let me pass!”
Zack crossed to where Jason Mainwaring stood, leaning against a wall near the quiet room.
“What gives?” he asked.
Mainwaring glanced over at him and then looked back toward the source of the commotion.
“The old quack has gone berserk, that’s what,” he said coolly. “He’s been unbalanced for some time, but at least he’s had the presence and intelligence to limit his outbursts and paranoia to the staff meetings. This is disgraceful.”
“Do you know what happened?”
Mainwaring’s response was preempted by yet another outburst from Beaulieu, followed by still another, though more constrained, response from Frank.
Moments later, the door to the quiet room opened and Frank slipped out. He appeared a bit more ruffled than usual, but was still impeccably dressed, with not a hair out of place.
“Stay with him, Henry,” he said to one of the security guards—a broad, neckless man with bad skin and close-cut hair, who looked to Zack like a mammoth fireplug. “If he starts yelling again, cuff him to the chair and shove a rag in his mouth.”
“Mr. Iverson, I don’t hurt people unless they hurt me. I told them that when I started working here.”
“Look, Henry, if you want to keep on working here, you’ll do as I say and keep that nutcase quiet until Chief Clifford and his men get here. Now get in there and do your job.”
Shaking his massive head, the guard entered the quiet room and closed the door behind him. There were no shouts of protest from Beaulieu.
Frank scanned the cubicles filled with patients. “Christ,” he muttered. Spotting Zack and Mainwaring, he approached them, shaking his head.
“This is fucking insane,” he said, keeping his voice low. “And you know what? It’s my fault. I should have done something about him way back when his craziness started. Well, Zack-o, if there’s one good thing to come out of all this, it’s that at least you get to see him in action firsthand.”
“Exactly what’s going on?” Zack asked. “What tipped him over?”
Frank laughed sardonically. “I keep telling you, brother, Guy Beaulieu tipped over a long time ago. This is just an example of how far. See that woman over there in bed five? Well, she’s got some sort of bowel problem.”
“Probably a ruptured diverticulum,” Mainwaring interjected.
“Well,” Frank went on, “Beaulieu’s done some surgery on her in the past. On her husband, too, I think. This time, though, the woman and her internist apparently talked things over and decided that she might be better off with Jason, here, doing the surgery.”
“I evaluated her right before I did Suzanne,” Mainwaring explained, “and had her scheduled to follow in the O.R.”
“Meanwhile, Beaulieu, the lunatic, comes strolling through the emergency ward, spots the woman, and without a word to anyone, begins examining her and issuing orders to the nurses. Needless to say, the poor lady, who’s not too swift to begin with, was totally confused and absolutely terrified.” Frank looked impatiently toward the ambulance bay. “Where in the hell are the goddamn cops? When you don’t want them they’re all over the place.”
“Frank, you don’t need the police,” Zack said. “Let me talk to him. Can’t you see where this might be upsetting and humiliating for him? I’ll just get him out of the hospital and he’ll calm down.”
“He’s out of the hospital anyway,” Frank said acidly. “For good.”
“What?”
“This was the last fucking straw. I told him about the latest series of complaints, and about that letter from Maureen Banas. And I suspended his privileges.”
Zack’s heart sank.
“Frank, is that when he went nuts?”
“What difference does it make?” Frank said. “Nuts is nuts. Just listen to him.”
From within the quiet room, Beaulieu had again begun to shout.
“You ape, let go of me! Take your hands off me, goddamn it! Take your hands—” Suddenly, the surgeons words were cut short.
Without waiting for Frank’s permission, Zack bounded across to the quiet room and threw open the door. The guard, Henry, bad balled a red bandanna in his fist, preparing to use it as a gag. Beaulieu was sitting, handcuffed to the arm of his chair. He was staring in wide-eyed terror, not at his tormentor, but at a vacant spot on one wall.
The right side of his face was starting to droop.
“Oh, Jesus,” Zack said as he knelt by the man. “Guy, can you talk?”
Beaulieu turned to him slowly. His eyes were glassy and filled with tears.
“Head … hurts,” he moaned.
His speech was thick and slurred. His tongue seemed bunched at the corner of his mouth.
“Did you hit him?” Zack demanded of the guard.
“Not even a tap. I swear I didn’t.”
“Undo these,” Zack snapped, jiggling the handcuffs. The man hesitated. “Dammit, do as I say!”
“Do it, Henry,” Frank said from the doorway. “What’s happening, Zack?”
Zack turned slowly and looked up at his brother.
“He’s having a stroke, Frank,” he said hoarsely. “That’s what. A cerebral hemorrhage, I would guess. I need a litter, a nurse, and an IV setup. And I want the CT scanner warmed up.” He turned to the guard. “Tell me again, did you touch, this man’s head?” His voice was ice, his eyes fire.
“I di
dn’t touch nothin’ except his wrists,” the man said defensively. “I swear, I don’t hurt people unless they hurt me.”
“Undo these. Quickly now!”
The guard did as he was told, and instantly, as if made of rags, Guy Beaulieu’s right arm flopped off the chair and dangled down. Zack lowered him to the floor and cradled his head in his lap.
“I need that litter, please,” he said, barely able to contain his anguish. He bent close to Beaulieu. “Easy does it, old friend,” he whispered. “Easy does it.”
Beaulieu’s eyes opened, and Zack noted with horror and despair that the pupil of the right one had already begun to dilate.
“Okay, Guy,” he whispered, stroking the older man’s forehead and cheek, “the litter will be here in a second. Just hang on. You’re going to be okay.”
Suddenly, for a few frozen seconds, Beaulieu’s eyes stopped their random drifting and focused on Zack’s face.
“No … I’m … not,” he said, forming each word with the most excruciating effort. “God … help … me … I’m … not.”
Slowly, his eyes closed.
“Damn you,” Zack hissed, looking first at the guard and then at Frank, Mainwaring, and Don Norman, who were clustered in the doorway. “God damn you all.”
11
Over the months since her sons attacks had first begun, Barbara Nelms’s approach to housework had changed radically. Where once she had been meticulous almost to the point of obsession, now she cut corners wherever possible. She was never comfortable remaining out of range of the boy for more than five or ten minutes at a time.
With sitters unwilling to stay alone with Toby, and her husband drifting further and further into his work, the television set had become her closest ally. Only when Toby was engrossed in Saturday cartoons, or some of the programs on the children’s cable network, did she dare spend any prolonged time doing laundry or preparing meals.
It was late afternoon, and Barbara had not even begun to think about dinner. All day Toby had been even more restless and remote than usual. She had read to him for a time and taken him to the store with her. She had pulled him around the block in his wagon and pushed him on the tire swing in the backyard.
Now, as she stared at the unwashed dishes in the sink and thought about the pile of ironing she had been avoiding, it was all she could do to keep from breaking down. Through the door to the living room she could see her son, lying on his back on the carpet, staring at the ceiling.
“Toby,” she called out, “five more minutes and Robins on. We missed him this morning while we were at the park. Why don’t you go and get your bear, and I’ll turn him on.”
That the boy did not react was upsetting. When Toby was at his worst, his most distant, the prospect of watching Robin the Good usually brought a response of some sort. The actor who played Robin was overweight for the role and as patronizing to the children, as inane and vapid, as anyone she had ever seen, but his half-hour show, aired three times a day, was bright and quick.
“Okay, honey,” she said, “you just stay put, then, I’m going to do some dishes, and then I’ll turn on Robin.”
Glancing almost continuously over her shoulder, she thrust her hand into the sink and snapped a nail off so low that it drew blood.
“Dammit,” she said, sucking at the wound. “Dammit, dammit, dammit.”
She ran cold water over her finger. Then, as much from frustration as from pain, she began to cry.
She snatched up the phone, dialed the mill, and had her husband called out of a meeting.
“Bob, hi, it’s me,” she said.
“I know. Has he done it again?”
“No. No, he’s okay just now. But he’s not acting right.”
“He never acts right. Honey, I’m sorry I can’t talk now, but I’m in the middle of an important meeting. Was there something special?”
Barbara blotted her bleeding finger on a towel.
“I … I was hoping you might be able to come home early. I’d like to put a nice dinner together, but I’m worried about Toby.”
“Impossible,” Bob Nelms said too quickly. “Honey, you just said he was okay. The people from Chicago are here. I’ve got a ton of stuff to go over with them. In fact, I was going to have Sharon call and tell you I’d be late.”
“Couldn’t you postpone them for a day? Just this once?”
“Sweetie, you know I’d come if I could. But they’re only going to be here for a day.”
“Please?” she whispered, fumbling through a cabinet for a Band-Aid.
“What?”
“Nothing. Nothing. When should I expect you?”
“Probably pretty late. How about you take Toby out for some pizza. I’ll eat here.”
“Bob, isn’t there any way you could—”
“Barbie, please. Don’t make things any more difficult for me than they are. I’ll be home as soon as I can, okay? … Okay? … Doggone it, Barb, don’t do this.…”
Slowly, Barbara Nelms replaced the receiver. Then she waited for her husband’s return call. A minute passed, then another. Finally, she wrapped a Band-Aid around her finger and shuffled to the living room.
“Come on, my merry man,” she said hoarsely, “it’s time for Robin.”
Toby Nelms let his mother lead him into the den and then sank down on the floor by the couch. He wanted her to get his bear for him, but the words to ask wouldn’t come.
“Okay, Tobe,” she said, switching on the television, “I’ll just be in the kitchen. Call if you need me.”
Stay, he thought. Please stay with me.
The cartoon that introduced Robin the Good’s show appeared on the screen, along with a now-familiar voice that announced, “Hey, merry men and merry maids, get out your longbows and your stout staffs. It’s time to travel once again to those days long, long ago—to Sherwood Forest and that friend of the poor, Robin the Good.”
Toby watched quietly as his mother adjusted the color and then left the room. Moments later, she returned and set his tattered bear beside him.
“Enjoy the show,” she said, patting him on the head. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”
“Thank you,” Toby whispered. But she was already gone.
He stared toward the kitchen for a time, and then stuffed his bear between his legs and turned his attention to the television. Robin the Good, wearing a green suit and a hat with a feather, was dancing about and singing, while Alan-a-Dale played his guitar.
“… We welcome all you boys and girls. But don’t bring any diamonds or pearls. ’Cause I take from the rich and give to the poor. Then I go right out and get some more.… What ho, merry men and maids. Welcome to Sherwood, where learning is always fun, fun, fun. Today we’re going to do some drawing with Little John and take a ride on a camel with Maid Marian. But first, here’s Friar Tuck. Tell us, pray thee, good friar, what letter we are going to learn about today.”
A fat man with a brown robe and a bald place on the top of his head hopped onto the screen.
“Hello, boys and girls,” he said. “What ho, there, Robin. Today, we’re going to learn about one of my favorite letters. It’s the letter that starts off a lot of our favorite words like candy and cartoon. It’s the third letter in the alphabet, and it’s called C. So here’re Robin and Alan to tell you about it.”
Robin the Good swung across the screen on a rope with leaves growing off it. Then he dropped to the ground as Alan-a-Dale began to play.
“Alas, my love, you do me wrong,” Robin sang, “to cast me out so discourteously. Because today I sing this song about our friend the letter C.…”
Toby Nelms rubbed at his eyes as the color of the television set began growing brighter and brighter.
“… C, C, is all our joy. C’s for carrot and car and cat. C, C starts club and cloud. Now what do you think of that? …”
Robin the Good danced around a tree.
Seated on the floor in his den, Toby Nelms’s body grew rigid. His shoulders began to shake. The
sound of Robins voice grew softer as the music grew louder. Overhead, lights began to flash past. A face floated into view.
“… There’s C for comet and C for crab; and C in front of the coat we wear.…”
“… Now, Toby,” the face said, “there’s nothing to worry about. You’re going to go to sleep. Just relax. Relax and count back from one hundred.…”
Robin the Good was singing and prancing across the television screen as Toby Nelms began, in a soft, tremulous voice, to count.
He was on one knee, crooning the final lines of his ballad, as the boy began to scream.
12
It was, all would later agree, a magnificent funeral. Standing room only. The crowd, sweltering in the brutally humid summer afternoon, filled the pews of St. Anne’s Church and spilled out into the vestibule. The priests conducting the mass were not only from the predominantly French-Canadian St. Anne’s, but from the crosstown parish, St. Sebastians, as well.
“… Guy Beaulieu was not a son of Sterling,” Monsignor Tresche was declaring in his eulogy. “He was one of its fathers—a gentle man, whose skill and caring hands have, through the years, touched each and every one of us.…”
Over the three days following Beaulieu’s death, Zack had visited his widow, Clothilde, and daughter, Marie Fontaine, several times. Even so, he was surprised when Marie asked him’ to serve as a pall bearer. Although he would have preferred to remain less intimately involved with Guys funeral than he had been with his death, accepting their request was the least he could do.
It had been at his desperate urging that Marie and her mother had put aside their biases against such things and had agreed to an autopsy.
“… a man of vision and conviction. A humble man, who faced mounting personal difficulties with courage and dignity.…”
The priest droned on, but Zack, seated in the first row with the seven other pall bearers, heard only snatches. His thoughts kept drifting, as they had much of the time, to the agonizing scene with Guy in the emergency room, and to the equally unpleasant experience of viewing his post mortem examination.
As Zack had suspected, the man had died of a massive cerebral hemorrhage. There was, however, a major surprise. The arteries in Beaulieu’s brain, and, in fact, in his whole body, were those of a man decades younger. The lethal stroke had resulted not from any crack in a hardened vessel but from the rupture of a small aneurysm—a pea-sized defect in one artery which, almost certainly, had been present without producing symptoms for many years.
Flashback (1988) Page 13
