Thirteen West (21 page)

"Kill 'em, kill the bastards," Mousie shouted from his wheelchair.

Dolph shivered, looking around fearfully before he realized the old man was watching some kind of game on the out-of-focus TV.

* * *

Margaret Flowers looked over at Mousie. A foul-mouthed man. Bad language had always offended her. Sometimes, of course, the poor souls were so afflicted they didn't know what they said, but that old man was plain nasty.

She got up from her wheelchair and made her way slowly from the day room. She passed the Preacher standing in the hall, the first time she'd seen him out of his room since that dreadful night he was tied.

"Good afternoon," she said. "You seem a good deal better." She'd asked Sally his name—Jones—but wasn't sure if she should say Mr. or Reverend. Was he actually a minister?

He shifted his eyes to look at her but said nothing. Making up her mind, she said, "Reverend Jones? What denomination?"

Little old white lady, seem like he knew her from somewhere. She asking questions. Reverend Jones, she called him. Seem like he should answer.

"You have a wonderful memory for the Bible," she said.

"I am a Baptist minister, ma'am," he said. "I was raised on the Bible."

He waited for the wrong voice in his head to mock, but it was quiet.

"I admire anyone who has the dedication for the ministry," she said. "It takes a very special kind of person."

He inclined his head, the word special echoing inside. "Thank you."

"You have a fine voice. I know it's an imposition to ask, but if you can bring it to mind, would you mind repeating one of psalms for me? It's the sixty-ninth, of that I am sure, but I can't recall all the words."

Simpson raised his head and closed his eyes, waiting until the right words came to him. "Save me, O God!" he intoned. "For the waters have come up to my neck. I sink in deep mire, where there is no foothold..."

Margaret nodded, her eyes closed too. Yes, yes, these were the words, imperfectly remembered, that had gotten her through that first bad year at the hospital.

"...I am weary with my crying; my throat is parched," he went on. "My eyes grow weary with waiting for my God..."

She listened until he reached the end, then opened her tear-filled eyes. "You don't know how much that meant to me," she told him. "I have my Bible but I can't see to read fine print any longer."

"They do not allow you glasses?" Simpson asked.

"I have none. I'm afraid to call attention to myself by asking my nephew, for he is like the one in the psalm who 'hates me without cause.' And he controls what money I have left."

"That is intolerable. Surely the wicked do flourish as the green-bay tree."

"One of the nurses here—the young one, Sally—said she'd bring me a magnifying glass to use. But, of course, I'll be supervised with it."

"I shall be happy to read to you from your Bible," Simpson said. "By the grace of God, my eyes are still serviceable."

"You are a good man," she said. "It was cruel of them to tie you down." She didn't go on, seeing by his expression that he didn't understand what she meant.

Trying to make amends, she said, "You probably had one of your bad spells. We all have those at times."

"Spells are an abomination," he said. "A witch shall not be suffered to live."

"Not that kind of spell—"

He cut her off. "...for all that do these things are an abomination unto the Lord..."

Margaret took in his unfocused eyes and saw spittle gather in the corners of his mouth. Oh, dear, she thought, I've said the wrong thing. Regretfully, she moved away. "...the Lord thy God doth drive them out from before thee..."

The poor man.
 
Just when it seemed you could talk to someone they had a turn and you were forced to remember you dwelt among madmen. Oh, Richard, when...?

* * *

Grace Geibel heard the Preacher begin his ranting and hoped he wasn't going to be a problem tonight. It was awful enough to be assigned to that room. Could Ms Reynolds be doing it on purpose? The worst of it was that, though she struggled to think of the Preacher's roommate as Mr. Serrion, that horrible nickname kept popping into her mind. Jacko. When she'd asked Lew Alinosky to please not use it in her hearing, he'd taken it upon himself to tell her exactly what it stood for—jack-off—and why Mr. Serrion had acquired it.

She shuddered, trying not to gag.

* * *

Alma
put aside the charts of the two new female admissions—a paranoid schiz slated for ECT and their second retardate, who was not a Down's Syndrome like Susie Q. The evening seemed to be creeping by. Charlie had gotten to
Jade
Beach
after midnight and they'd been up till nearly dawn talking and making love.

Alma
smiled and hugged herself. Old macho Charles was coming around, indeed he was. Telling her if she left
L.A.
they'd had it. Ha! He'd been the one who'd finally written her in care of the hospital, asking her to call him.

She looked up to see Grace standing beside the nurses' station. "Yes?"

"I don't—I mean I can't go into that room, Ms Reynolds. You shouldn't ask me to." Grace's pale blue eyes stared reproachfully.

"What room? What are you talking about?"

"Where that Mr. Serrion is. You shouldn't assign a woman tech to him. It's not right."

"Come on, Grace, Jacko never pays the slightest attention to any of us."

"He does, too! He watches me while he—well, you know.

"Masturbates? Is that what you mean? You're a psych tech. You know the right word."

"It's—dirty," Grace whispered.

"That's a value judgment."
Alma
's voice was crisp.

"We don't make value judgments about our patients' behavior. What's the matter with you? He puts on his pajamas by himself so you don't have to touch him—merely see he's okay and his bed is ready for the night. The Preacher's been good today so he shouldn't take long, either. You'll be in and out of their room in a few minutes."

"I—just can't do it."

Alma
tightened her lips and stared at Grace. "I'm not changing the assignment for tonight. You'll have to manage somehow. I'm not going to discuss it further."

Where did they dig her up?
Alma
wondered as Grace slouched off. Jacko probably did watch her, at that. The patients had a remarkable talent for discovering which tech was most bugged by a given behavior and then they kept trying it on with that person.

She couldn't begin catering to everyone's preferences or her role as charge nurse would be shot to hell. The team concept was all very well, but someone had to be leader. Charlie would be waiting for her when she got home. Too bad she'd made a previous agreement to trade Monday with Ms Leveret—only the one full day to spend with Charlie. She'd really missed him, not that she told him so.

Last week when she went to
L.A.
, she'd been wary, not knowing how he'd act after all these months. She'd even promised Barry to come back early. Playing things real cool; See how well I do without you, Mr. Charles T. Rankin.

Charlie was what she wanted for all time, but better not let him know it—he'd pop her right back into the slave slot she'd struggled so hard to get away from. Me, King Kong Charlie, you my teeny-tiny woman.

Not anymore. He'd been jolted but good when she split. Anything came of this getting together again, she'd have a hand in writing the rules. Of course she'd have to move back to the city—Charlie had one more year of law school at UCLA.

Time to get back to work. Susie Q and the new retardate were roommates and she needed to evaluate the match. The paranoid schiz was in by herself pending the ECT, which should improve her condition.

* * *

In Susie Q's room, the new girl, Debbie, clutched her pillow and wept, her whole body shaking with sobs, as abandoned as a baby, though she was twenty-two. Janet Young sat on the bed, stroking her thick, dark hair.

"There, there, my pretty girl," she soothed. "No one's going to hurt you. Everything's all right."

"Baby cry," Susie Q said from her own bed, sitting up to see better.

"You go to sleep," Janet told her.

Susie Q was sweet in her way but her continually runny nose and gross body repelled Janet. This new one seemed to be even more retarded than Susie Q, but she was pleasant to look at.

Others must have thought so, too, because Janet had noticed stretch marks on Debbie's abdomen when she undressed her to put on her pajamas. The baby she must have had was probably the reason for her admission—to prevent another pregnancy from happening. Janet couldn't help but wonder why an abortion hadn't been performed instead.

She massaged the nape of Debbie's neck and the girl's sobs subsided to snuffling. "Let's turn you over," she said softly, "so I can wash your face."

With some urging, the girl did turn, big brown eyes staring fearfully as Janet wiped the tear-streaked, flushed face with a damp cloth.

"I'm Janet. I'm your friend. Now let me tuck you under the covers and I'll sit here for a while till you go to sleep."

"My friend," Susie Q objected.

"Yes, Susie Q. Go to sleep."

Debbie's gaze slanted toward the other bed, then came back to Janet. As she smoothed the girl's hair back from her forehead, Janet wondered what it would be like to be pregnant. Not that Debbie had intelligence enough to realize what had happened to her. It must be disgusting to have one's body distorted, a helpless host for a parasite. Nothing about it appealed to Janet.

In a way, Debbie reminded her of Sally. The big, scared eyes, the air of fragility. Who'd ever have expected Sally to get involved with a jock like Frank Kent? Wasn't there something a bit strange about the whole thing?

Chapter Fourteen

Connie Dominguez slipped a nightgown over the new woman patient's head, ignoring her suspicious gaze. Forty some, with her hands showing the marks of much use. Not an idle woman, then, as well as one who could never have been especially attractive.

"Come on, Mrs. Cobb, it's time to go to bed. We'll be taking good care of you and we're just outside the door so you aren't alone. My name is Connie and if there's anything you want I'll try to get it for you."

"Go away," the woman said tonelessly. "Leave me alone." She sat hunched on the side of her bed in the nightgown, her bare feet showing raised blue veins.

Connie hesitated. She'd been told they weren't going to admit overtly suicidal patients on Thirteen West, but Mrs. Cobb had something disturbing about her. Ms Reynolds should be told.

Leaving the room, she entered the men's four bed room where David was cleaning up Mousie.

"Want some help?" she asked, thinking David looked awful with the bruised side of his face turned all yellow and green.

"Now that's what I like to see," Mousie said. "A sexy young woman."

Connie rolled her eyes at David.

"That's more than I can say for you, young man," Mousie added, cackling at his own feeble wit.

David, who was transferring him to the bed from the wheelchair, dropped him onto the bed abruptly. "Nasty old bastard," he muttered.

Mousie went on chuckling.

Connie checked the other three old men, finding none of them wet. "All clear," she reported. "Time for a break."

"I guess," David said listlessly.