Ozark Nurse (2 page)

"Miss Thorpe, what do I do about that old fellow in the men's ward who's scheduled for abdominal surgery?" Breathless, sounding a bit distracted, the girl rushed on: "I'm supposed to shave every single hair off his chest. But he won't let me. He says he's been working on that hair ever since he was born fifty years ago, and he don't aim to lose it now."

Nora smiled. Many a time she had had to cope with similar gripes. It was partly, she thought, that people resented the invasion of their privacy which was an unavoidable part of hospitalization. No doubt a guinea pig felt much the same way.

"The old nut says I'm trying to rob him of his manhood!"

"You might try gentle persuasion," Margaret suggested, smiling. "Explain that according to one school of modern scientific thought, males with smooth, hairless chests are the most virile of all. If that doesn't do it, Sally—"

She dealt with the ever-jangling phone before she continued: "Try tranquillizers, as they do in the African jungles when they want to quiet wild animals."

"You're kidding," Sally said solemnly.

She walked off, still looking worried, just as a tall, blond, white-coated doctor came striding along the corridor from the opposite direction.

Instantly Nora's heart skipped a beat; sudden warmth sent a flush to her cheeks. By the time she was ninety, she supposed, she would get over a sense of tingling excitement at the very sight of Paul Anderson. Or would she?

At the corridor desk he stopped, said a pleasant good morning to both women, and informed Margaret: "I'm taking the morning off. If any emergencies come up over at the children's sector, Lee Bradley will be available, or one of the resident doctors."

Margaret stared at him, shocked. "Lee Bradley does his best, but he is still only an intern. As for the resident doctors—" She hesitated before she said bluntly: "Has it escaped your mind, Paul Anderson, that you are the staff pediatrician? First you refuse to do surgery. Now—"

"As you say, Miss Thorne, I am the staff pediatrician." His tone was curt. "That means, among other things, that I don't take orders—or a calling-down—from the head nurse."

Suddenly Nora felt as if she were going to be sick. It wasn't like Paul to be throwing his weight around, addressing Margaret as if she were an underling. What was happening to him? She had the awful feeling that she was looking at a stranger.

Apparently Margaret had the same idea. "Fine. You won't take orders from me. I suppose you won't care for any advice from me, either. But like it or not, you're going to get it. You were scheduled for surgery this morning on a very sick little boy with an infected kidney. That child needs your help.
But you're taking the morning off
."

"Exactly. I don't happen to feel up to doing an operation today."

"And you haven't felt up to it for a solid month." She leaned forward a bit, her expression both worried and angry. "Why don't you use your morning off to go see a psychiatrist? You certainly need one."

"I agree with Margaret." It was the first time Nora had spoken, and for the first time Paul turned and looked at her as if he were actually aware of her presence.

"Oh, you do, do you?"

"You certainly need help of some sort."

"I'm sorry if both of you ladies believe I'm going nuts, but—" With an indifferent shrug he turned away, as if to say he couldn't care less.

Nora began to fume inwardly. Patience she had in plenty. Understanding she had tried to have, knowing that he was undergoing some private ordeal which he must fight through for himself. But there was a limit to patience and loving understanding.

She called him back. "Has it escaped your mind," she asked coolly, "that you were supposed to take me to dinner yesterday evening?" Their Sunday dates had been regulation procedure for months and months. "When you didn't show, didn't phone, didn't anything, I wondered what had happened to you."

"I'm still wondering," she said, ice in her tone.

The look he gave her was one of complete bewilderment. His voice sounded contrite, but also bewildered. "I forgot all about it, Nora. I'm truly sorry, honestly I am, honey. But I just forgot."

"With the help of a certain little redhead in a certain flashy red convertible?" Margaret's words were a withering accusation.

As Paul strode off, not deigning to reply, Nora stood transfixed. She had no idea what Margaret was talking about, but suddenly she was afraid.

Was something going on behind her back? Had Paul found another girl? Holding herself stiffly erect, as if preparing for the worst, she asked carefully: "What was that all about?"

But Margaret Thorpe had a hospital to run and no time for girl-to-girl talk at the moment. With a reassuring smile, she got up. "Probably not as worrisome as it sounds, Pet." She added that she would meet Nora in the cafeteria for lunch.

"You run along and brighten up Mr. Fine's lonely life. And if he should invite you to share his New York penthouse, and you should say yes, don't ever forget that I'm your best friend. I've always yearned to be the guest of a millionaire."

"Oh, shut up, Maggie."

Margaret Thorpe headed down the corridor, laughing. Nora walked in the opposite direction, frowning, her eyes a little sick with the sudden doubts that were closing in on her like the walls of a contracting closet. She was frightened. She had trusted Paul's love so completely—and suddenly he was so changed.

She walked slowly, paying no attention to Grace Barnes, the stout, pleasant-faced nurse who was wheeling a cart of breakfast trays; not answering Grace because she didn't even hear her call: "You in a cataleptic trance, Nora?"

In his choice corner room with a spectacular view of the hills which were now decked out in a froth of April green, Andrew Fine lay on the bed where he had been trapped for a solid month. The man was a born worrier. As a boy, he had worried about how to become a rich man. Once he became rich, he worried about getting richer. Now that he had more money than he had any use for,
that
was beginning to worry him. What had he gotten out of all his money? Certainly not happiness. So maybe he had been all wrong to start with. That was enough to worry any man—thinking that maybe he had spent his life struggling to get something he didn't very much want after he got it.

This last month, of course, he had been worried about dying. It had been a close thing; he had been hit by a coronary attack while he was eating dinner in a town he had never heard of before. He had just happened to be driving through, on his way back to New York from New Orleans. Finding himself hungry, he had stopped. The next thing he knew, he felt a pain like a red-hot knife stabbing his chest. And the next thing after that, he was in a hospital, with wise-looking docs in white coats shaking their heads and warning him not to move without help.

He had been pretty sure he was a goner, just from the way they looked. He had never thought much about dying. He certainly wasn't ready to go. But he understood that there was a distinct likelihood that his number was up.

So that worried him. Every time he thought about dying—and he thought quite a lot about it as the days passed—he would get the most terrific sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Even after he was well on the road to recovery, he would still get the feeling. And he was not at all sure that he ever would have recovered if it had not been for that lovely, sweet-faced nurse, Nora.

The wise-looking docs in their white coats had done their bit, to be sure. But when all was said and done, a doctor had his limitations. It was the nurse who served as a—well, as a kind of mother-figure, he supposed you'd call it.

It was Nora who had cheered him up when he was feeling low.

Nora could give his spirits a lift just by opening the door and walking in with her lovely smile. And she had a look in her eyes, as if she really cared about him as a person. Maybe it was just an act, but he didn't think so. He believed she was a truly thoughtful, compassionate human being who cared about other people and would put herself out to help them over the rough places.

He thought of all the little favors she had done for him: writing business letters for him; reading to him, when the docs wouldn't allow him to sit up and read for himself; coming back in the evening sometimes to visit with him, on her own time. "I know how rotten lonely it must be for you," she would say, "lying here all by yourself."

And she would laugh and talk about all sorts of things. Sometimes she discussed what was going on in the world. At other times she told him about herself—not very much, but enough for him to read between the lines. He was sure, as much from what she had not told him as from what she had, that she had a family who were riding on her capable little shoulders. The very thought angered him. Why was it always the nice girls, the loving, unselfish girls, who got stuck with a bunch of deadbeats for a family?

He wished he could do something about that. He probably could not. But at least he wanted to make some gesture which would tell Nora how much he appreciated all that she had done for him. And that had led to another thing that worried him.

On the bed beside him was the watch in a jeweler's box which had just arrived air mail from New York. He had ordered it a week ago, by phone. He picked up the box and studied the little watch, which was studded with diamonds and very nice indeed. But what was Nora going to think about it, or rather, think about
him
?

That was what disturbed Mr. Fine at the moment. The last thing he wanted was for her to get the idea that he was a silly, middle-aged widower who had fallen for his pretty nurse.

He realized, of course, that it was very possible he had done precisely that. If so, he would keep it to himself. No need for a nice, level-headed girl like Nora to know all about his secret thoughts and dreams. His job was to make her understand that this was strictly a gift of appreciation, that his feelings about her were much like those of—well, say a loving uncle toward his favorite niece.

But the question was: would Nora believe that and accept his gift on that basis? He would become sick all over again if she misunderstood his intentions.

"Hi, there." The door opened, interrupting his thoughts. Immediately he brightened as Nora came in briskly, her smile warm and friendly as always, her voice gay. "I'm told you want a baby-sitter, and I'm elected. You know what I think?"

She was carrying a tray on which were a bottle of ginger ale, a small saucer with several capsules and a razor. She placed the tray on the night table. "I think you're just an old fraud, Mr. Fine. You're practically well, and you don't really need a special nurse. You just want to be babied."

"Sure I do." He smiled up at her, marveling at how much better he felt, the minute she came in.

Nora herself was feeling better. She had stopped in the rest room to splash cold water on her face, have a cup of coffee, and tell herself to stop moping like an adolescent schoolgirl who was afraid her "steady" was stepping out with another girl.

"Any law against an old fellow like me wanting to be babied?" he asked, before submitting to the inevitable thermometer which she pushed between his lips.

"You
old
! Ridiculous." She was grinning. "Forty-five. A mere stripling, and you don't look even that."

He didn't look it, either. Making allowances for his illness, Andrew Fine could easily have passed for forty, a quite handsome forty. There was just enough gray in his black hair to give him distinction. Flashing dark eyes were set in a strong-featured face, and his whole face lighted up when he smiled.

He must, she decided, have been a real dream boat when he was young. However, from what he had told her about himself, except for the wife who had died five years ago, he had never had much time for or interest in girls. He had always been too busy making money.

He spoke of that now, after the thermometer bit was finished, and after he had told her to forget about the razor. He wasn't in the mood for a shave. "Bring a chair over and sit down."

When he handed her the jeweler's box, saying: "I want you to take this as a little gift of appreciation," Nora stared at the little jeweled watch.

She was mad about it! What girl wouldn't be? But of course she could not accept such an expensive gift. "I wouldn't feel right about taking it, Mr. Fine."

"
Andy
. What would be wrong about it?"

"Well—" As she floundered, he began to talk about himself; about the thoughts that had gone through his mind during all the tedious hours and days he had lain there, with nothing to do but stare at the ceiling and look back over his life.

It was a sad thing, he said, for a man to look death in the face and realize that he had never really lived.

"You don't really mean that, Mr. Fine. Why, you—"

"
Andy,"
he corrected her.

"Okay," smiling, "Andy. Why, with all your money, you could have almost anything in the world you want."

"Sure."

But all he had ever really wanted to do was to work to make money. That was all he had had time for, all that really interested him. "You call that living?"

"Well—" Nora's experience with wealthy men was extremely limited; still, she had seen his type before: men who had to reach the end of the trail, or see themselves coming close, before they realized that money wasn't everything. She began to feel sorry for Andrew Fine.

There had been, he said, so many things he had never learned to do. His wife had been crazy about traveling. He was not. He could never see the point in wasting time rushing off somewhere, anywhere, just so it was far away and you'd never been there. He was too busy for that sort of nonsense.

"I never learned how to play," he said sadly. When he was a kid, he had been too busy helping his dad in the crummy little corner grocery store in the crummy little town on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. And if you didn't learn to have fun when you were a youngster, the chances were you'd never learn.

Another thing he had never learned, he said, was how much happiness a man could find, just in doing things for others. Not that he had ever willfully been heartless or selfish. He simply never gave much thought to other folks, or to what he could do for them. "Too busy," he said grimly.