Martin, Crook, & Bill

by Donna Nitz Muller

  “The cobwebs are gone. The dust is gone. All rat bodies, all bugs, all creatures of any kind or size are not only gone but scrubbed away.”

  Bill listened, absorbing the gigantic improvement in Martin’s speech. He wondered how that happened. He decided being home was good for Martin. Thinking of someone other than himself was good for Martin.

  Sandra leaned against the car window out of reach of Martin’s gestures. Bill caught a sad smile holding the corners of her mouth.

  Bill wondered about her. She had said nothing of those nights alone in the house with the scratching in the walls and scampering feet under her bed and the merciless heat. She said nothing of planning carefully. Obviously, she stowed stuff for several weeks. She must have approached the house from the west so that she did not pass his house. He likely would have seen her. Early Saturday morning, she must have walked the three miles across the fields.

  “Sandra had her sleeping bag and pillow, ice water, cookies and apples and books to campout for the day. The room gets hot in the late afternoon sun, but not too bad. She couldn’t walk around. She could tiptoe in bare feet if she had to use the bathroom, but no flushing. If some nosy carpenter wanted to look through the house, I instructed her to duck into the closet. She stored her supplies inside the closet door in preparation. Fortunately, no one walked past the bathroom. The scaffolding is not on that side. In comparison to her recent days and nights, she was in the lap of luxury.”

  Sandra added nothing for several minutes. Bill was adjusting to the quiet, considering finding a news station when Sandra’s raspy voice surprised him.

  “I wanted to go home,” she said. “I almost left all the stuff behind and went home, but I couldn’t. No matter how hot it was or hideous, the one thing I could not do was go home. I would see Hauk’s ugly face or feel movement inside of me and just hunker down.”

  Bill glanced; no tears. Martin moved his hand toward her shoulder but he did not touch her.

  “I read Harry Potter, all of Harry Potter. I looked around the closets. I didn’t walk around downstairs. I was afraid of the rats down there. The upstairs rats didn’t seem to notice me much. I walked outside everyday, in the pasture or the apple trees where I couldn’t be seen from the road. I just waited for it to end.”

  “What about the bathroom?” Martin asked.

  “I thought of water, but I didn’t think of the toilet. I went outside. That is until you came. I heard you downstairs. I heard you talking to yourself. Then you came right through my bedroom and took something from the closet. A rat ran over my sleeping bag, and I didn’t move a muscle. You know what I thought about?”

  They looked at her, waiting.

  “I pretended I was Anne Frank hiding from the Nazis.”

  For the last few miles into Lincoln, Martin’s head and shoulders filled the space between Bill and Sandra. He could just as well sit up front with them. He provided perfect instructions right to the red brick, sprawling government hospital on vast acres of immaculate lawn. Martin reached for his coat and then changed his mind, giving it a pat like leaving a pet in the car.

  Bill felt stiff from driving and anxious for what was to come. He silently prayed, “Let this be easy, in and out.” After that he would deal with the new guy. After that he would take Sandra home and deal with Hauk.

  He did not know why his thoughts reverted back to Korea. He rarely thought of those hard years any longer. But his mind went there. Bill lifted his hand and held two fingers aloft.

  “Forward, march,” he said.

  Chapter Seven

  This morning, Martin cared how he looked. Martin wore his tan pants and shirt. He appeared trim and neat. His hair was now too short for a pony tail and too long to leave alone. He parted the natural curls straight down the middle right to his forehead. He looked like a tidy mystic. The hard square of Christy’s letter still left a worn square image on his pocket. His fingers traced the shape of the letter while invisible pliers squeezed tight around his middle.

  As the three of them walked the curving sidewalk to the front door of the hospital. Bill looked as he was, a dressed-up farmer. He walked like a no-nonsense, take-care-of-business man. He had farmer hands, brown and a little gnarled and newly scrubbed.

  Sandra looked like a plump, big girl, but her carriage and self-possessed step and cold, distant aura reminded Martin of royalty though he had never seen royalty. Martin knew it was never the reality that mattered; it was the impression that mattered.

  Martin noticed that Sandra did not look well. She looked hot and blotchy, occasionally putting her hand to her back. “Tomorrow is for the baby, today is for Crook,” he said quietly to himself.

  The three of them entered the new glass and chrome entry built onto the old brick front. Martin was preoccupied, checking in his mind the list of forms and signatures required for Crook’s release. This was Saturday, and if there was a problem, Crook would not like waiting until Monday. So Martin, with his head bent down in thought, was the last of the three to see Crook, who stood less than six feet away.

  Crook stood in the middle of the lobby, waiting. His body had the tension, flexibility and wiry strength of a dancer. He resembled Yule Brenner. More than his build, Crook’s continence gave pause. Martin heard Bill’s sharp intake of breath which was why he looked up.

  Crook looked like a Pac-Man when he smiled, it cut his face almost in half, but his smile was rare. His head was completely bald. If it were not for the hard, cold expression on his face and in his bearing, Crook would be comical.

  Crook was a small man, maybe five feet, seven inches tall. Sandra was taller. He was trim and smooth and fluid, maybe fifty years old. He was ageless. Martin and Crook did not hug or even shake hands. They nodded.

  “You need to do the paper thing,” Crook told Martin. His manner had the feel of telling secrets. He nodded toward a doorway set inside a miniature entrance. The door had a window above it and a placard to the side that read “Administration.”

  Martin went white. His eyes fogged over. His hands flapped limply at his sides. All he saw in a narrowing tunnel was Crook. Crook’s expression never changed. Martin was going under, and he wanted Crook to help him stay up. He tried to reach out but couldn’t.

  Bill said, and Martin heard the panic, “Martin was fine this morning. In fact he was so coherent that I almost forgot that Martin was sick. This change is crazy.”

  “Quick, Sandra.” Bill sounded as though he struggled to get the words around his tongue. “Run to the car, get his coat.” Bill produced the keys without looking at his hands. Sandra ran for the door. Martin could see Bill’s scared eyes looking at Crook as Bill stepped closer.

  “It’s a stress attack.” Crook’s expression remained unchanged, no panic in his controlled voice or manner.

  Martin fought. He fought hard. Suddenly Bill grasped his hand to either stop the motion of his hands at his side or help him push faster. Martin felt the heat in Bill’s hand until Bill released Martin’s fingers to move on their own.

  “Tough watching a battle you can’t see, ain’t it?” Crook’s eyes held the slightest flash of concern, but Martin had to look fast to see it. Crook was inscrutable. For the first time Martin dimly wondered if Bill would get along with Crook. He would ask Crook later not to hurt Bill.

  Sandra ran to them, producing the coat. Martin noticed that Sandra looked drained and flushed. He saw things in circles as though that spot alone was illuminated by a stage light. Considering the run down the steps, to the car and back, her appearance was not striking. Still, the skin around her eyes and mouth was drawn tight. Sandra was in pain.

  She lifted Martin’s arm to slide the coat onto his shoulder. Bill grabbed the other side and shoved Martin’s arm through the sleeve. “It’s your coat, Martin. Feel it.” Bill took Martin’s hand and rubbed it on the coat. Martin stroked the coat front with a heavy, sloppy gesture.

  Martin noticed the receptionist who sat watching with cold detachment. “This man is going to puke
,” Crook told her. His voice sounded with the slightest echo, as though in a tunnel.

  Martin puked. He bent his head and opened his mouth.

  “Now, we’ll know.” Crook directed his quiet voice at Bill. “Within the next few minutes he will either pull himself out of it, or he won’t. Any longer and you’ll be going home without him.” He paused. “Or me.”

  “Come on, Martin!” Sandra pumped his hand as she talked. Martin felt her strength as she pumped his hand like priming a well.

  Martin raised his head and turned around to follow Crook’s gaze. He looked through the big, square windows lining the front of the entry. He looked at the heat coming off the parking lot pavement. He looked at the playground equipment, sitting on worn grass with bare ground beneath the swings and in a circle around the merry-go-round.

  Crook whispered to Martin, speaking close to his face, “I did not allow a look outside while I still had hope of seeing it from the other side of the door.” Crook turned his head to Martin. “I was this close.” He gestured with his thumb and forefinger touching. Martin heard him but could not answer.

  An orderly with a mop and bucket came running out of the elevator like a code blue heart doctor. Behind him were two white clad men, ageless and faceless. They stood on each side of Martin. Crook turned toward them, slowly, gracefully. He put his face within an inch of the man on Martin’s right.

  “He is not a patient and don’t touch him.” Crook’s voice was calm and his face was blank. Martin felt the white clad men step back. Crook elicited raw fear. Martin saw it but it was as he expected. Unlike the shock he saw on Bill’s face, even Sandra’s, he felt nothing.

  “Martin, please,” Sandra whispered to him.

  Martin thought she sounded like his ex-wife. Sandra did not realize that her plea added weight to the heaviness already enclosing Martin, just as Nancy never realized how her pleas made everything worse.

  Due more to Crook’s piercing calm than to Sandra’s pleas or Bill’s agitation, Martin began to focus. Crook had a way of lifting the weight by not adding to it. Crook did not lay any emotion on Martin. Martin thought how hard and ugly his friend, Crook, must seem to outsiders. Crook knew how it was as they never could. At least Martin hoped they never would.

  Sandra was crying, but it was a natural crying, no commotion, no fuss. Even in his frozen fear, Martin saw that Crook liked Sandra and did not dislike Bill. Martin saw this in Crook’s eyes.

  Martin focused on his friend, Crook. He smiled just as a “suit” walked up to the gathering. Martin noticed the prim receptionist at her desk as he looked over the shoulder of the new man. “A problem here, gentleman?” The suit had a voice.

  “Not at all, Dr. Durksen, I was just on my way to your office,” Martin answered with calm authority and clear diction. He appeared unaware of vomit on his chin.

  Martin’s three friends, even Crook, could not completely hide their amazement. Bill recovered from his surprise quickly. He helped Martin remove his putrid coat, and Sandra wiped his face. Crook gave the newcomer an odd, sloppy smile not at all consistent with his manner only a minute earlier.

  Martin did not look back at his friends as he followed the shorter doctor toward the door marked Administration. He felt stronger. He could do this.

  Chapter Eight

  Sandra walked behind Bill and Crook as they moved to the other side of the hospital lobby and sat down on orange plastic chairs that encircled a round coffee table covered with magazines. She felt miserable, but she could not allow her misery to matter. Ever since Hauk attacked her, she had refused to feel it. He could not hurt her. She sat on her hard plastic chair and watched Bill as he pointed toward the vending machines with a questioning expression.

  Crook said, “Coke.”

  Sandra said, “I’ll have a coke also.”

  She watched Bill stride toward the machines. She wondered why these men were trying to help her when she did not need help. Well, she did need help, but not as they expected, not as a victim. She would return to her life just as it was, and she would make Hauk pay.

  When Bill returned he handed Crook a coke. He offered to Sandra a fruit punch. She frowned at him and indicated with her hand for him to set the drink on the table. Her mouth was dry enough to drink anything but her stomach was too hard and tight to allow for food. She watched Crook accept his drink without comment, just a slight nod. Crook frightened her, and she wished for Martin’s quick return. She had liked how Crook smiled at the doctor, that phony smile, but she would keep her distance from the man.

  Bill smiled at the receptionist and glanced at the spot where Martin had stood. Sandra followed his look. Clean as a whistle. Only a lingering odor of antiseptic remained. The receptionist reached out with a lawn and leaf sized garbage bag. Bill walked over and took the bag. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said.

  Sandra liked the old farmer. What you saw was what you got with Bill Bendix. He was kind, but not stupid. Now he was here, in her life. She felt Crook studying her. She thought as long as I am with Martin, I will get through this. Martin was a life preserver in a stormy sea. Plus Martin played basketball. Plus Martin was handsome.

  Bill’s soft soled shoes made a muted echo as he walked back to his friends. Smiling, Bill held the garbage bag full length in front of himself. He snapped the bag open with a flourish and a loud crack of plastic. The snap echoed through the entrance hall. Sandra enjoyed the sound of Bill’s show of rebellion to such a place as this. With tentative fingers, Sandra reached from where she sat to deposit the coat into the garbage bag. Martin would undoubtedly want it cleaned. The three of them each found something to read.

  In all this time not another person entered the front door. Saturday, obviously, wasn’t a big visiting day. They began the wait. Not a trace of concern showed on Crook’s face. Crook looked over his Money magazine and said, “I will believe I am outside of those doors when I see my feet on the outside steps.”

  “We will be in and out of here like a covert special forces mission. We have to trust Martin.” Bill looked stiff and uptight. Sandra did not want to add her problems to the situation, so she did not tell Bill of the constant, hard pain in her lower back. The pain was reaching intolerable. She could not stand or drink. She hunkered down to wait it out.

  She thought it could not be the baby hurting in her back. She must have pulled a muscle cleaning and lifting stuff. Sandra believed contractions should come and go. This was solid. The fast walk to the car and the return trip up the steps relieved the pain a little. Still, she felt as though a rubber band stretched around her mid-section. She glanced toward Bill. He was reading a Field & Stream. He was actually reading.

  “Ever been fishing?” Bill asked Crook.

  “Nope,” Crook answered.

  “Want to go?” Bill looked over the top of his magazine.

  Sandra saw excitement in Crook’s eyes, but only for a second.

  “Yup,” Crook answered. His voice was toneless and flat.

  If excitement in Crook sounded like that, Sandra wondered if he talked at all if he were bored.

  “I’ll take you tomorrow,” Bill told him. “By then you’ll want to get away from Martin. He’ll work you to death.”

  Sandra leaned her head back on her chair. She closed her eyes and laid her hands across her tight stomach. It is not the baby, she told herself.

  Chapter Nine

  Martin sat on the visitor side of the doctor’s clean desk. In a neat stack in the middle of the large varnished surface were the papers Martin signed. There was not a pen or a calendar or a clock or a picture. Martin wanted to put something on the desk. He dug in his pocket and found some change. He lined two quarters and a dime and a penny across his edge of the grained wood surface. The papers didn’t look so intimidating with something else on the desk.

  Then he sat calmly listening to the doctor, focusing on the man’s words. It was important to understand what he was being told, what the words actually meant for himself and for Crook. He kne
w there were always two sides to the words, what was said and what was meant.

  “I know,” Dr. Durkson was saying, “that people who sign the checks think I’m in charge around here. Well, you and I both know that isn’t true. Crook’s been in charge around here since before I even knew this hospital existed. He’s done a good job. I even reached the point where I watched him before I did my employee evaluations. If he treated the employee with respect, so did I. If he did his senile smile routine like what we just saw him give to me, I knew that employee was a shithead. Fortunately, my own superiors do not know this secret.”

  The doctor paused, sucking in his lips. He was a big man, football scholarship type. He had the look, the broad shoulders and the square chin and the game face. Martin knew that Dr. Durkson talked to him as most people did because he was like a universal receiver.

  “Crook is a lifer, Martin. He could tear you apart in seconds both emotionally and physically if he chose to. His crime was before we had our computer system, and I had to dig in boxes of paper files to find it. He’s been lost in the system. Just before his eighteenth birthday he was convicted of killing a man in Chicago. His lawyer got him off on temporary insanity which leads me to believe there was something in the case the judge considered mitigating.”

  Dr. Durkson took a breath and looked at Martin. He seemed to want Martin to say something. Martin focused on the doctor’s face. His eyes watched his lips. When Dr. Durkson at last understood that Martin had nothing to say, he smiled at him.

  “I know the whole thing with you and Crook as house-mates is hopeless for both of you, totally hopeless, but the paper work is correct. I have no reason to prevent Crook’s departure, unless you give me one.”

  Martin nodded his understanding of these words. Generally he accepted what he was told, but he had to disagree with the good doctor. He felt hope. Crook gave him hope.