by Brian Bakos
21. Unscheduled Layover
Frank felt exhausted. The episode with Ed had knocked the stuffing out of him, and the idea of leaving the hospital sanctuary to face the outside world became suddenly intolerable. He required some down time – alone.
He didn’t want to see his wife just yet. He needed to think about her first; he needed to think about a lot of things. The press of business waiting for him at the office seemed unimportant now. The outside world could go screw itself for a while.
He began walking back toward his room. When he got there, the door was closed and a smiling woman in a blue-flowered top with an Environmental Services name tag was loitering outside. A little orange barrier parked on the floor displayed a warning sign:
CAUTION
PULSE UV LIGHT
DO NOT ENTER
A similar sign was stuck to the door, and little flashes were shooting through the crack along the tile floor.
“What’s going on in there?” Frank asked.
“Oh, that’s just Little Snookums doing his job,” replied the Environmental Services housekeeper.
“Little Snookums?” Frank asked.
“Yes, our germ-zapping robot,” the housekeeper said. “We call him ‘Little Snookums.’”
“I see,” Frank said.
“He uses a pulse xenon lamp that’s thousands of times brighter than sunlight,” she said. “He greatly reduces the ambient bio burden and decreases our transmission rate of infectious organisms.”
“Is that so?” Frank said.
He didn’t understand what she was talking about, but was not the sort to readily admit ignorance. The woman saw through his pose, however.
“In plain English,” she said, “since we’ve been using these machines, the number of patients catching infections here has gone way down.”
“Glad to hear that,” Frank said.
“He should be finished now,” the woman said. “Let’s go get him.”
She opened the door to reveal a squat, R2D2 type machine with a domed head extended on a stalk more than a foot long. As Frank watched with a certain amount of trepidation, the glassy dome retracted against the main unit.
“We always zap these rooms after each patient discharge,” the housekeeper said.
She yanked the electrical cord from the wall outlet and wheeled the machine out to the hall.
“Little Snookums was sick last week and had to go back to the factory for a cure,” she said. “But he’s all right now, aren’t you Snookums?”
She stroked the machine affectionately, as if it were a living thing. Frank looked on, nonplussed.
“Sorry to put ... the two of you through this extra work,” he said, “but I won’t be checking out after all.”
“Oh?” the woman said with some surprise.
Frank pulled out his cell phone and called Dr. Keating. As always, the man answered quickly.
“Look, Doc,” Frank said, “I’ve decided to take your advice and stay another night.”
Keating said something about Frank being already “officially discharged.”
“Just recharge me, then, Doc,” Frank said, “or whatever it takes. Put it on my bill – along with the death ray service.”
The woman gave him a rather hurt look, as if he’d just insulted her favorite child.
“Sorry, ma’am,” Frank said after terminating the call. “I meant no disrespect.”
She gazed back at him, unconvinced.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Frank said. “It’s been nice chatting with you both.”
He patted the germ-zapping robot.
“See you later, Little Snookums.”
This brought a smile back to the housekeeper’s face.
As he entered the room, Frank jabbed out a text message to his wife, then switched off the phone. He closed the door behind him – after checking to see that the little robot was finally gone.
He kicked off his shoes and flopped down on the bed. He couldn’t remember being so tired in his whole life, not even when he was a hard-driving young buck who sometimes put in 20-hour workdays. He should be changing out of his street clothes but simply couldn’t find the energy. He grabbed the blanket and pulled it up to his chin. It felt warm and comforting. Just a little nap, then he’d get something to eat.
Sleep approached quickly. Parting thoughts ran through his consciousness:
Laila ... Laila ... something is up with her. I need to find out what it is. Nothing in this world can be taken for granted ...
And his final thought: Am I capable of real love?
$$$
Laila fired up her computer, keeping a sharp ear open for any sound of entry into the house. Frank could be coming home from the hospital any time now and she had to be careful. He wouldn’t bother telling her when he was coming, much less ask her to go pick him up. That would be way too humble for him, out of tune with his superman persona.
A romantic wallpaper appeared on the screen – a man and woman in passionate embrace, a la Rhett Butler and Scarlett O’Hara. Laila glanced toward the door, then back to the computer. She went online and pulled up the site where Frank had his email account. Working rapidly on the keyboard, she typed in the passwords she’d purloined from Frank’s home office across the hall.
Her husband was a ‘belt and suspenders man’ who believed in hardcopy backups, and he’d written the passwords down on a small tablet in a desk drawer. If he found about her theft, there’d be the devil to pay.
The Inbox folder contained a previously read message from Henry. Laila’s heart pounded at the sight – as if it were a communication from the devil himself. She opened it:
Have you thought it over, Dad? Let me know.
“Oh, God!”
Her palms were so sweaty that she had to wipe them dry. As she did so, she discovered that her hands were trembling. She opened the Sent folder ... it contained no answer to Henry’s message. Laila let out a sigh of relief; then the tension returned, unabated, gripping her skull like a steel band.
Just because Frank hadn’t answered this message didn’t mean much. He could have phoned Henry; Laila would know nothing about that conversation. Frank usually preferred speaking with people in person or on the phone. Her attempt at snooping was quite pathetic, when you came down to it.
So, she’d learned exactly nothing other than that Henry was still pressing his case. She went to the Spam folder – the usual male enhancement ads, pornographic messages, and phishing scams. None of them had been opened. The latest message screamed in bold face capitals:
GET HARDER TONIGHT!
“No problem there, at least,” Laila muttered.
She closed out of Frank’s email account and sat back in her desk chair, calculating. It would be time for another drink soon, as her current one was getting near the bottom. She began surfing desultorily among the gossip sites, reading of this or that celebrity divorce, infidelity, brush with the law ...
Murder?
She dismissed the ugly word and turned her attention to a story about some idiot movie star who had been arrested for trying to bring recreational drugs across the border from Canada. His wife had recently filed for divorce, he said, and he wasn’t thinking clearly; the ‘smuggling’ was just an accident.
Laila’s thoughts turned to the melancholy topic of divorce.
It had become much too free and easy; people could bail out of a relationship at the drop of a hat these days. Only the property settlements caused problems, or custody battles over the children – if there were any.
On the other hand, murder (there was that word again!) had a much greater and time-honored history than easy divorce did. People of all religious backgrounds could respect it. Murder had solved many problems over the centuries.
Laila had enjoyed reading history in school, it was her best subject. History abounded with examples of inconvenient people who had been dispatched at the proper time – Julius Caesar, Rasputin, Dutch Shultz ... What was one more in the big scheme o
f things?
Besides, we weren’t talking about an actual murder here. It was really more of a ‘managed accident,’ a logical outcome of character flaws. People who couldn’t control their tempers properly came to grief one way or another, didn’t they?
Her phone pinged to indicate a text message received. It was from Frank:
Staying another night. Am fine. Will be home tomorrow.
“Fine, huh?” she said.
