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ANNUS MIRABILIS

The pure, shining white, death colored, bleached, disinfected squares of the wall tiles with the light green color of the upper wall overhanging, stared silently, opaquely, blankly back at Bob as he lay listlessly, bleary-eyed on the bed. The white uniformed people hovering about the clean white beds in the long hall, upon which males of all ages were prostrate with pain, scurried back and forth with soundless speed. Just the rustle of a nurse's silken slip underneath her uniform, could be heard once in a while, … but this was not disconcerting. It made one feel that there were joys in life yet to be encountered, and perhaps it would be better not to die—not here anyway—not now—not in this whited sepulcher full of diseased, dead, or dying, rotten bones and flesh.

Bob reached his hand down along his blanket enclosed side until it struck the even smoothness of the newspaper that was lying on the bed. His hand just lay on top of the daily newspaper, resting, waiting until he had enough strength to pull that paper up to where he could read it. Summoning all his nerve and strength and setting his teeth hard against each other, he swallowed. The swollen uvula in his throat, that damn silly piece of flesh hanging swollenly from his palate, rode forward and back on his swollen tongue as if a hand full of sand was stuffed in his mouth.

“Oh Jesus Christ, Jesus, Jesus Christ, please … I can't stand this another minute”, Bob screamed within himself in uncontrollable delirium of imagined discomfort. “Please, please … can't you let this go away. It's only a silly little swelling … What are you trying to do to me? Why don't you help me? Why don't you do something?”

That little uvula that was making him choke and gag was wearing him down. He picked his head off the pillow slowly and propped the pillow behind his head with one hand as he pulled the newspaper closer to himself to read it. The cool air away from the warm unmoving air of the pillow stung his ear and he winced with pain.

“Madonna mia, … Madonna mia, … please”, he prayed in Italian, but even the God of his people's language did nothing to relieve his pain.

“Nurse … nurse”, he called out to no nurse in particular.

A white frocked girl of about twenty years came over to his bedside, looking down into his face with an innocent youthfulness that had become callous through exposure to grief. “What is it now, Mr. Campanella?”

“Nurse, … my ear, my throat, my back, my head, … everything … Can't you do something? I can't stand it. Tell the doctor to kill me … give me some dope … anything. Just get rid of this damn silly swelling …”

“You'll just have to be patient, Mr. Campanella”, she said, impatient with his complaint. “After all, it took some time for you to get what you've got. It won't go away in two days”.

“Three days. I've been in bed three days!” She shrugged phlegmatically. “Let me go home … Let me kill myself … something. I haven't got time for this … I haven't the patience …”

“Don't be such a baby. You've got little more than a sore throat. Look at the others. They're a lot worse off than you, and they don't complain half as much”.

“I know, I know”, he said dejectedly, feeling guilty as he looked about at the others on the beds.

One old man, cadaverous looking, his head like a skull with a bit of skin stretched over it, his eyes sunk way back in his head, lay in the unshadowed room on the iron bed, just staring at the ceiling, never moving his glassy eyes from above. His tiny, thin figure pushed up an insignificant bump under the sheet. Next to him was a younger man, a little older than Bob, whose face was turned toward Bob, only it didn't see him … His mouth kept opening and closing in spasm, as his eyes rolled uncontrollably from side to side

“Nois … nois”, the man kept calling. From time to time a nurse would pull the covers over him and leave.

Right next to Bob was a fellow who looked normal and healthy as his figure emerged over the sheets, but underneath, where his midsection should be, a huge watermelon pushed up the covers … only it wasn't a watermelon, it was him, … and he didn't say a word.

A scream echoed from the end of the corridor and Bob twisted around suddenly to see what had happened. A nurse ran over to a man on a bed as he twisted and contorted, writhing with pain. “Stop it … Stop it”, he screamed pathetically with the full strength of his weak body … “Christ help me”.

Bob lay his head back on the pillow resignedly and looked up at the ceiling, trying to rest and not complain. Actually it didn't hurt much … not really. It was the inconvenience … the botheration … the being in bed for three days … the impossibility of swallowing without pain that was so vexing, so annoying … the utter feeling of hopelessness and dejection. He leaned over and spit the excess saliva from his mouth, and it splattered metallically into a little pan by the side of his bed … this saved him from swallowing all the saliva that now purposely found its way to his mouth just to add to the annoyance.

“If only they could give me something to take this little swelling away, a shot of something, I'd be all right”.

“Have to take your temperature now, Mr. Campanella”, said a nurse as she stood over him next to the bed.

“Okay”.

She put the thermometer in his mouth.

“Leimmn … himm, I mn”. He removed the thermometer. “Listen, just get me something to get rid of this swelling …”.

“Your temperature! Would you put the thermometer back”.

“All right, all right, but get something. Why the hell do I have to suffer at all? Am I supposed to enjoy this pain cause it's not as bad as those guys”. He nodded toward the rest of the ward.

“I'll talk to the doctor”, said the nurse as she watched him put the thermometer back in his mouth.

Bob lay back on the pillow and picked up the paper and began to re-read for the fortieth time the day's news. “Tuesday, April 29, 1958 … Navy fails to orbit fourth U.S. moon … it was jettisoned into Atlantic ocean about 1400 miles out and blew up … about 18,000 miles an hour speed”.

The nurse took the thermometer out of his mouth and studied it. “Just look at that”, she said pointing to an article in the paper next to the column about the satellite.
Arm Removed. Stritch Makes Good Progress … for weeks the Cardinal felt severe pain … all treatment failed to relieve the thrombosis … arm amputated above the right elbow …

“At least you're still in one piece”, she said.

“Yeah, … maybe I can make a flight to the moon soon”.

The nurse marked his temperature in his medical chart and walked back to her desk. A young doctor, probably an intern, who had been assigned to the ward since Bob was there, walked in, looking at each patient as he passed his bed.

“Hey Doc”, called Bob in a world weary, low voice … can't you just take this swelling away so I can go home”.

“Take it easy”, urged the doctor. “It'll go away in a day or so, maybe tomorrow you'll be all right. You know, you're not a machine. I can't take one part out and put another in. I have to work with what you've got”.

“But there must be something … I gotta suffer like this with a silly God damn swelling … Give me something just to take it away”.

“If I had something I'd give it to you, believe me. Here, read your paper”.

“I read it a hundred times”.

“Well here's a ‘News'. You finished with this, Joe?” the doctor asked the patient with the watermelon of a stomach.

The fellow just rolled his eyes toward the doctor and nodded his head slowly. His eyes skimmed quickly over Bob, smiling vaguely, as they unfocused and searched the vast darkness of resignation overhead for an answer.

The doctor handed Bob the paper and walked down the aisle toward another patient.

Bob read the same news in ‘The News' … an item he hadn't seen.
British explode a clean bomb
… a
nuclear device believed to be a clean hydrogen bomb, designed for low radio-active fall out … fall out was negligible
.

“How great”, thought Bob, gritting his teeth and swallowing again … pain pulsed through his body and he let the paper fall on his torso as he lay back on the pillow. “How great … how magnificent … how benign. They worry about you being sterile while they blow you to bits”. He picked up his head and looked around the room again. All the rest of the men were still lying in their nice white clean hospital beds, waiting for relief.

A NORMAL, MODERN BOY

The round cornered square of light flickered and glowed with the shadowed flora and design of the electronic wonder of the world. Little men were riding little horses across a miniature world of sand and cactus. Puffs of smoke issued from miniature firearms in their hands; one of the little men fell off his little horse, rolled in the dust, over and over, down a steep hill, over a cliff, dropping rapidly toward water below. A long dark shadow was thrown over the buzzing electronic world which slipped upward once in a while only to be replaced after a short interlude of lines by another exact copy of itself. The long, dark shadow moved across and down the square of light, completely hiding the little man who had, by this time, reached the end of his ethereal descent and had now taken a watery exit from the minute world. The shadow twisted almost imperceptibly, and the little world was thrown into an obscurity of dull grey-black nothingness, with only a pin point of light in the center.

“Aww, why-d-ya turn the television off for, Daddy?” said a completely crushed voice from the shadowy rear of the room.

Frank Heron looked, nay searched, into the umbrageous depths of the room and said, “Jim” … his voice cracked; he cleared his throat and began again. “Jim” … Frank was nervous. This time he was going through with it. How many times before had he resolved to talk to him, to take Jim in hand and speak to him, father to son; to get to know Jim with that closeness that he had known with his father. He wanted to be a pal to his boy, and now was the time, he thought, now was the time he should talk to Jim. Jim was old enough now to be spoken to … but it was so difficult to start. He reached for the TV program guide on the top of the television set and began to dog-ear the pages.

“Jim, I want to walk with you … where the devil is the light in here? I can't see a thing. Jim, are you still there? Where are you?”

“Frank … Frank, would you come here a minute”, called Mary, Frank's wife, who was in another room.

Frank went out of the television room—it was the room that had been his den, B.T., that is, Before Television. But now it was the television room. He found Mary in the kitchen soothing the spectacle of a weeping Jim, who had run to his Mummy when Daddy had turned off the television. Well, it wasn't his fault that he was on the road so much with business; it wasn't his fault that the child had become so attached to his mother—but, damn if it didn't peeve him when the boy would run crying to his mother about what daddy did. And it peeved him even more when Mary would say:

“Now, Frank, you know you shouldn't upset Jim so. After all, you don't want to give him a complex, do you? You know what the doctor said—don't restrain the child, it shows up in after-life in the form of grave neurosis. Do you want that for your son? After all, Frank, he only wants to watch his favorite programs”.

“May, darling, you know I don't want to frustrate, or oppress, or restrain, or retard the boy in any way what so ever. I only wanted to talk to him, to become more friendly with him. I was going to suggest that he and I take a walk together, that's all. There's nothing oppressive with that, is there?” he asked, not knowing if there was.

Mary smiled, turned to the clock on the wall, then to Jim. “Would you like to go for a walk with Daddy, dear? The program is over now, anyway, and it would be very good for you to go out and get some fresh air”.

Jim was reluctant, but with a smile from mother, and a promise that she would watch the seven o'clock show with him, Jim agreed to go for a walk with Daddy.

“Now go get your coat, and you and Daddy get a nice walk before we watch Captain Smasheroo, alright?”

Jim waddled out of the room with that odd side to side gait that obesity necessitates. The boy had been rather lean in his early stages, but lately he had put on a great deal of weight. So much so, that Frank had been worried and brought him to the doctor; a bit heavy, the doctor said; there was nothing physically wrong with Jim, just the need of a little dieting, that's all. Thank heavens. Jim was their only child. Now Jim and his mother dieted together, which sort of bonded them even closer together.

“Oh, Frank, Frank, it's so good of you to suggest to take Jim for a walk”, said Mary as she watched Jim waddle out of the room with a mixture of pity for his struggle to move, and love for her only child. “This will sort of allay any fears that he has of you. Oh, you know, not that he fears you. But he hardly ever sees you, and might be a little nervous when he's with you. This will be wonderful for his psychologically, just wonderful”, she said as Jim came into the room with his coat on.

“All set to go, Jim?” said Frank with a contrived smile playing on his lips. “Let's go and see what's new and beautiful in the world, shall we?”

The Fall sunset was reflecting off the buildings of the stores on Main Street brilliantly, as Frank and Jim walked along the street looking in the windows. It was hard to see into the store windows because of the sun. Frank and Jim would lean against the window, hands cupped to the side of their eyes to cut the glare, then walk on, leaving the print of the side of the hands on the windows.

“Well, how are you doing with your school work?” Frank asked Jim in a very man to man way.

“Oh, fine, Dad, fine. I got my report card in the mail yesterday. I had three Cs and a B”.

“Say, that's not bad”, said Frank; after all, he didn't want to frustrate the boy. “How did your lessons go today?” Frank asked after a silence that became oppressive. “Did you learn anything new?” he said, trying to allay the boy's fear of him.