by Jane Toombs
Alma raised her eyebrows. "Honey, everything that can happen anywhere else, can happen here. And all too often does."
"But we—we're professionals, here to take care of patients."
Someone touched her shoulder, making her jump. Frank.
"Medical professionals aren't automatically elevated to sainthood," he told her. "You've got a lot to learn about people, Ms Goodrow."
Chapter Eight
As soon as the tech shut the fence gate behind him, Sven Taterson, better known as Tate, felt in his pants pocket to make sure the grounds pass was there—you never knew when that motherfucker Bill might make you show it. The other guards were pretty much okay. If they knew you, they left you alone.
He glanced back at Thirteen West, shut away behind the chainlink fence, and hunched his shoulders. Why hadn't they left him on his old ward? Twelve East had been halfway to paradise compared to the loonies he had for ward mates now. At least he still kept his ground privileges, thank providence.
"Hey, Tate," a voice called.
He looked around and saw Harry hurrying toward him. "What's new?" he asked.
Harry leaned forward, wheezing into his ear. "Got something to show you."
"Yeah?"
"It's in the old place—you know."
"You got another contact?"
Harry shook his head. "Something else," he said mysteriously.
Tate and Harry drifted behind the east wards, making for the wall.
"I ain't got no really good buddy now you got transferred," Harry complained. "I been waiting to see you about this."
"I wait for the sun—no point in walking around in the rain."
"Yeah, well, you may be right. I went out and got soaked, that's why you ain't seen me. Had the flu. First time I been outside since. Anyways, that's when I found it, in the rain."
Tate knew better than to ask questions—Harry had to do things his way or not at all.
"It's sort of like a birthday present, you know? I got one coming up next week. Fifty-two."
As they ducked behind the tall oleander bushes next to the wall, Tate glanced at his friend and thought with some pride that he might be three years older than Harry but he sure didn't look it. Harry let himself go, too fat and all that wheezing. Tate patted his own flat stomach with satisfaction.
Harry knelt. "Give me a hand, can't you?"
Tate crouched beside him, holding back the lower branches of a huge pink oleander bush while Harry fumbled with the bricks underneath.
They'd found the place by accident months ago. A king snake had slid across their path and into the cover of this oleander and Harry had insisted on trying to catch the damn thing—who'd want a snake for a pet?
But he'd helped Harry and under the bush were all these bricks, the remains of some building or other because there was a cavity under them. Maybe an old chimney. Made a good hiding place when either of them got hold of some smuggled-in liquor. Like Harry must've done. Tate leaned forward eagerly, then blinked when Harry hauled out a green jacket, held it up and laughed.
"Thought I'd fool you," he said. "Figured you was gonna get a drink, didn't you?"
Tate fingered the jacket sleeve, trying to hide his disappointment. "Nice and heavy," he said. "I could use one." He peered at the label. "Medium. Never going to fit you, Harry."
Harry hugged the jacket to him, smiling slyly. "Maybe I'll make a trade afterwards," he said. "What you got?"
"What d'you mean, afterward?"
"You'll see. What you got?"
Tate thought. He didn't smoke but Harry did. "I can get you cigarettes," he said.
Harry appeared to consider. "Ain't you even gonna ask me where I got this?"
"Figured you lifted it from some guy."
"Naw, that can get you in trouble. I found the jacket over by the west wards fence. Was over there hanging around looking for you—should've known you'd never come out in the rain. Anyways, it was on your side of the fence, sort of tangled in a bush. Lucky for me there was a rabbit hole there under the fence. I got me a stick and fished that old jacket right through that hole. I came over here and hid it and then I got sick."
"You didn't need to hide a jacket," Tate said.
"This one I did." Harry grinned and carefully unzipped an inner pocket on the jacket. Triumphantly he produced a brown pint bottle and thrust it at Tate. "Only took one little sip the day I found it."
Tate opened the bottle and sniffed. "Pretty good stuff," he said.
"Go ahead—we'll split it. But I want them cigarettes for the jacket."
"I don't know," Tate said after he sampled the whiskey. "Suppose someone claims the jacket?"
Harry took the bottle back. "How's about if you wear it awhile and then pay me the cigarettes?"
"Okay." Tate brushed some dried mud off the jacket and slipped it on. "Fits fine."
They finished the bottle and tossed it into the shrubbery near the wall, some distance from their oleander. "Aw, I sure miss you," Harry said, throwing an arm over Tate's shoulders. "I hear you got a pretty good deal over there, though."
"That's what you think. They got them all mixed up—kids, dummies, real nuts, old farts—and they expect me to 'interact.' That's the word they use. They even got a nurse on in the evening, all kinds of staff running around watching you."
"I heard they got women, some pretty hot stuff. You got a lady roomie?" Harry guffawed.
"Jail bait," Tate said. "Gives the men techs the hots taking her clothes off. But she don't room with me. I got some guy who don't even get out of bed anymore. Belongs somewhere else. Me, too. I keep out of that room except to sleep." Tears brightened his eyes. "I don't want to stay over there."
"Aw, Tate, it's a damn shame."
"What it's like—I'm the only guy with a grounds pass. I been thinking of just walking on out the front gate for good."
"Count me in," Harry said. "We can get jobs dunking dishes, make enough so's we can get a room."
"Yeah, the two of us, we'd do okay."
They sat on a bench in the inner courtyard, half-dozing in the sunlight, enjoying the inner glow from the booze.
"I hear you got a real sexy nigger nurse over there," Harry said finally. "There's a tech on my ward got the real hots for her."
"She's okay, but we got some real dogs." Tate nudged Harry. "That one over there, she's one of our techs, you'd have to be blind to screw her."
Grace Geibel, hurrying across the inner court to work, felt the men eyeing her. Dirty pigs, she told herself. Only one thing on their minds. She flushed, thinking about it. Filthy.
Best not to tell Papa men were looking at her. Or should she admit it, come out with the shameful truth? Would he punish her for attracting attention? She quickened her pace.
What if Ms Reynolds assigned her Mr. Serrion again? Last night she'd gotten so nauseated watching him that she'd had to go into the bathroom where she'd gagged and retched. A wonder she'd managed to keep her supper down. A depraved man, holding onto his—thing like that. Taking it right out and...
Grace clenched her teeth as her stomach spasmed. No, she'd have to tell Ms Reynolds she couldn't take care of him again. Everyone knew what Mr. Serrion was like—the male techs laughed and called him Jacko, which meant something nasty, she was sure. If she ever told her father...
She felt sorry for that little teenager, even if the girl didn't like her. Imagine having nightmares where you were used by men, poor Laura Jean.
Something awful must have happened to the girl before she came to Calafia. Some man, no doubt, or even men. She'd been living in a commune, hadn't she? Driven the poor thing right out of her mind, that's what they'd done to her. She'd pray for Laura Jean tomorrow at church, she went every Sunday with Papa.
To Grace's relief, she drew the old ladies and only one male room with Mr. Weebles and Mr. Jiminez—W.W. and Jay-Jay. Mr. Weebles could be quite sweet and poor Jay-Jay was no trouble. Twenty-four, with the worst epilepsy she'd ever seen. At least one grand mal seizure
per day despite all the medications the doctors tried.
Jay-Jay had to wear a football helmet whenever he was out of bed because of falling. He wasn't a bad looking man, though extremely withdrawn and depressed.
"Hello, Grace," Mr. Weebles said. "I see you haven't taken my advice about your hair."
"I was going to, Mr. Weebles," she said, "but..."
"You were going to call me W. W., too."
"Well, all right—W.W. I did make an appointment, but my father, he's such an old-fashioned person..."
W.W. shrugged. "Of course, if you don't want my advice—"
"Oh, I do. I think you're right. I would look better with my hair short and curly. But Papa doesn't want me to cut it."
"I never ask anyone's age but you must be thirty or so. Does Papa even tell you when you can pee?"
Grace blushed and looked away.
"You poor dear," W.W. said. "I suppose it's a hopeless cause. I don't know why I bother, since I'm so unappreciated. Really, I can't go on staying where there's this crassness, this deliberate persecution."
"I brought you a Vogue," Grace told him. "The latest issue."
He ignored that. "Be a nice child and ask the doctor to step in. He'll understand a man of my distinction can't be expected to remain here. Or call the governor. Pat's a delightful person. I've known him for years."
"We have a different governor now," Grace said, hoping W.W. wouldn't get upset. Reality orientation was fraught with complications and not always safe to push. "I'm not allowed to call the doctor—I'm sure you know only the charge nurse can do that. I'll go get the magazine. You told me Vogue was one of your favorites. You'll have time to glance through it before you get ready for bed."
She left the room and went to the lounge where she'd left the magazine with her purse and coat. Lew Alinosky was having a cigarette there.
"Tucked your gay boy in and said nighty-night?" he asked.
"I promised to bring Mr. Weebles a magazine," she said primly.
"Playboy?"
Grace picked up the copy of Vogue without bothering to reply.
"What we ought to do," Lew said, "Is to put old Jacko in there with W.W., give him a thrill."
"That's disgusting," Grace said, unable to help herself. She heard Lew laughing as she went out. Another filthy- minded male.
She handed the magazine to W.W., checked Jay-Jay, who was already in bed, then hurried to the women's four bed ward to get the ladies into the bathroom before she put their nightgowns on. She was too late to catch Mrs. Exeter.
Now she had a puddle to mop up as well as washing and changing the old woman. Somehow she found it nastier to clean up after old people than it had been the retarded.
"You might have waited," she told Mrs. Exeter. "You didn't have to wet yourself."
"I didn't do that," the old lady told her. "Why do you accuse me of such an awful thing? This hotel has the most discourteous maids I've even seen. I fully intend to complain to the management."
"This is a hospital," Grace said wearily.
Mrs. Exeter paid no attention and went right on scolding.
When Grace had everyone clean and quiet and in bed, she headed again for the lounge to take an overdue break. As she passed the open doors, she automatically looked in at the patients as she'd been taught. Check and recheck. She saw the TV flickering in the day room and hesitated. Maybe she'd sit in there for a few minutes instead of the lounge which was sure to be full of cigarette smoke.
When she opened the door, she heard Lew's voice and saw him bending over someone on the floor.
"You can't sleep in here, Laura Jean, come on, get up."
"I don't like my room," the girl said. "Why can't I have a roommate? Why can't I move in with Susie Q?"
"I'm warning you, I'll pick you up and throw you in bed," Lew told her. "Come on now."
Laura Jean raised herself on one elbow and her pajama top pulled askew so that one breast showed almost to the nipple.
Lew's back was to Grace and he hovered over Laura Jean, not touching her but not moving away, either. Grace caught her breath, saliva filled her mouth.
"Laura Jean," he said and Grace heard a change in his voice that made her shiver.
The girl laughed, but when he reached for her and slung her over his shoulder she began to writhe and scream, pounding his back with her fists.
"Shut up, you little bitch. I'm putting you to bed whether you want to go or not. Cut it out!"
Ms Reynolds ran into the day room. "Put her down, Lew," she ordered.
Lew dumped Laura Jean onto her feet and she crumpled into a heap, sobbing.
"You told me to find her and get her to bed," Lew said sullenly.
"My mistake as well as yours. It seems I'll have to assign her exclusively to women." She spotted Grace, standing against the wall. "Grace, you take Laura Jean to her room, please. Lew, stay here. We'd better have a little talk."
With urging, Grace got Laura Jean to her feet and walked her to her room where the girl sat on the edge of her bed, wild-eyed.
"Don't turn off the light," she begged over and over, oblivious to Grace's assurances that the light would stay on, was always left on.
Ms Reynolds stuck her head in. "I suppose I'll have to give her a shot," she said. "Laura Jean's been jazzed up every night this week for some reason."
She left and came back in a few minutes with a syringe and needle. Grace held the girl while the charge nurse injected her.
All the way home Grace thought about Laura Jean. When her ride dropped her off, she roused enough to say thanks and good night. There was a light on in Papa's den. He was waiting up for her again. Quickly she let herself into the house and hurried to her room to remove her uniform and slip on a full-length, long-sleeved robe. Papa hated to see her in a uniform.
"What happened to you today?" he said when she ventured into the den. "Speak up. I see by your expression you've done something inexcusable. What is it?"
"I was only thinking about one of the patients, Papa. A teenage girl."
"What about her?"
Grace spotted an empty brandy glass on the side table. Her hands began to tremble. "Nothing, really. It's just that she's afraid. And this tech, this man, he was looking at her. She was partly undressed and he saw her like that. I—it was upsetting."
Her father's pale gray eyes narrowed and he began rubbing the palms of his hands along his thighs. "You watched abominations? You defiled yourself?"
"Oh, no. He didn't do anything. He just stared at her."
"You know he lusted and yet you did nothing." Spittle collected in the corners of his mouth. "Sins of omission are as punishable as sins of commission."
Grace hung her head. She heard the slick slither of leather against cloth and knew he was removing his belt. Warmth flooded through her.
"Down on your knees, sinner," her father ordered.
Chapter Nine
I should have shoved the truth at Luba, Barry told himself as he drove his white Porsche along the road to JadeBeach. Why the hell did I lie about having to dictate chart notes at the hospital? She's not my wife, the way she's acting there's no commitment anymore—that's what I should have said.
Alma's tiny ramshackle cottage was easy to find with the map she'd drawn for him, telling him he was on his own if he got lost as she had no phone.
She greeted him, yawning, wearing a white terry cloth robe tied about her waist. "You're really early." she said. "I'm still having coffee. Want some? It's not instant. I get enough of that at work."
He'd come away without eating and took not only the coffee but the toast she offered—warm, dripping with butter.
"The berry jam is homemade," she said. "My mother's a compulsive canner and preserver."
Luba didn't even see that there was bread in the place, much less homemade jam. Barry ate the toast greedily, teasing himself with the question of whether Alma was wearing anything under the short robe she had on. The vee showed a generous amount of breast.
"How'd you ever find a place like this?" he asked, looking around with appreciation. Alma had neither made the interior cutesy nor gone pop-art.
She tilted her head and smiled. "Connections. But I had to paint the whole damn place myself. Only the three rooms, but it was a real mess when I moved in. Carted out two and a half garbage cans of trash and I threw away the furniture. I suppose that's why I painted everything white, reaction from the filth. Unless you see a more sinister motive..."
He grinned at her and shook his head. "I like what you've done."
"I can't say I have a generous landlord—he refuses to spend one cent on this place and the rent is unreal. I'd find a housemate to help with costs if I didn't value privacy so much.
"They can be easier to get in than get out."
Alma raised her eyebrows.
He didn't elaborate, taking another piece of toast instead. "I envy you this place, the beach so close, swim any time you feel the urge."
Alma shivered. "Not this time of the year."
"You can still go out, walk along the sand and the ocean is right there."
"You sound like you can't wait," she said. "Hang on and I'll throw on some warm clothes."
He watched her rise and place the dirty dishes in the sink. Maybe she'd just gotten up but her hair was neat and the robe cinched in at her waist made her look anything but slovenly. She went through a curtained doorway.
Barry stared at the red and white print of the curtain, all thoughts of the ocean wiped from his mind. He put down his half-eaten toast, got up and walked to the curtain, hesitating only a moment before he pushed it aside.
Alma was naked, her back to him. He caught his breath at the lush curve of her buttocks, the perfection of her brown skin.
She glanced over her shoulder at him and smiled. "I thought you were eager to commune with the mysterious ocean."
He reached for her. "You're all the mystery I want right now."
Her scent was clean—a lemony fragrance—even afterward, lying beside her in her narrow bed. He smelled himself, the musky odor of semen, but the faint rancidity he'd noted lately in Luba was missing. He ran a finger up the rise of Alma's breast. "Lovely."
