The Sandman (14 page)

“When did this happen?”

“Just about a half hour ago,” Charles said. “She was supposed to go onstage tonight, and we were running through some of the rewrites, and suddenly, with no warning whatsoever … Oh, God, it was so awful. I just started to scream. She just fell off the English library stairs that are in the second act.”

“Charles, where is she now?”

“Well, in an ambulance, of course. You don’t think we just let her sluuuump there like a piece of furniture, do you?”

“She’s coming into Emergency?”

“Well, of course.”

“Good-bye, Charles.”

Peter Cross opened the closet door to the armamentarium and pulled out his bag. Behind him two nurses walked by, their stiffly starched gowns rustling. “Have you heard? The actress Lauren Shaw has been admitted. They’re making the diagnosis now. She’s up in Room Two-twenty-eight.”

Cross turned and watched them moving away from him. The fat one, dressed in white, looked like a nun or a penguin. He smiled at them, turned and started toward his OR, when he smashed into someone. When he regained his composure, he looked up and saw Harry Gardner.

“Hey, Spaceman,” Harry said, “you got to keep the feet aligned with the brain. That’s the way the animal works.”

Cross looked down at the floor at his bag. It had fallen, and he heard a bottle break.

“It wasn’t me who was running down the hall, Harry. Just watch it.”

“Watch it? You getting a little testy, aren’t you, Spaceman. Whatsamatter? That woman of yours keeping you up all night?”

Cross suddenly had the urge to smash Harry in the face with his bag. The asshole, the presumptuous, condescending ape. What made it worse was that he hadn’t seen Debby in three days. But don’t let the ape know he’s getting to you.

“It beats banging June Boswell between shifts,” Peter said, and then was immediately sorry he had let it slip.

Harry shot him a look like a bull on the rampage.

“What does that mean, Spaceman? You trying to say something?”

He reached over and grabbed Peter’s lapel and pulled him toward him.

Peter smiled at him now, enjoying the game.

“No, Harry, should it?”

Gardner’s breath was in his face. He smelled of relish, and Peter wanted to gag, but he looked him in the eye.

“I wouldn’t go talking about June and me,” Harry said. “I know what’s been going around, and if you say anything …”

Peter took his hand and squeezed it. He could feel the fingers giving under his grip.

“Listen, Harry,” he said, “if I were you, I’d keep a real low profile. Some of the more unscrupulous types around here are starting some real nasty rumors about you and June.”

Harry’s mouth dropped open in surprise.

Peter leered at him, and when he had removed Harry’s hand from his lapel, he pushed him backward.

“Don’t ever grab me again, Harry,” he said. “You hear me? Don’t come near me.”

Harry rubbed his fingers and cracked his knuckles.

“Just kidding, Cross. I’ve been a little on edge.”

“Yeah?” Peter said. “That’s too bad.”

He smiled again at Harry, and for the first time since Vietnam, Harry felt a shadow pass across his face. It was as if he had never seen Cross before, and now for the first time, the mask had been pulled off, revealing the grinning skull. He watched as Cross walked away. The long, powerful gliding stride. Something almost effeminate about it—but more than that, something he hadn’t seen before—full of power, confidence.

He stood there, staring, transfixed, until Peter Cross turned the corner. Then Harry rubbed his knuckles again and thought of what Dios had said before about Cross. There just might be something to it after all.

“Lauren. Lauren. Are you awake?”

Lauren Shaw looked up, and it was a moment before her eyes focused. She had just had her Demerol shot and was feeling groggy … pleasantly groggy, but the pleasantness was unsettling, for she realized that it masked something terrifying, something not pleasant at all. It was almost too much, the millions of betrayals the body could play on a person. And just when she was coming back, finding herself again … a smash play, film offers rolling in from the Coast. Now she blinked and stared at Robert Beauregard’s handsome, reassuring face.

“Beau,” she said hoarsely, reaching out and taking his hand.

He smiled and took her hand in his.

She smiled and looked just over his shoulder at a beautiful bouquet of roses which sat in a vase by the door.

“Beau, the flowers …”

“I brought them,” he said. “The first, but not the last.”

“That’s sweet, Beau. I’m sorry to cause you so much trouble.”

He smiled at her and sat down on the chair next to the bed.

“How does your head feel?” he asked.

“Much better. They gave me a shot of something.”

“Demerol,” Beauregard said, staring at her pupils. They seemed normal. Indeed, she looked radiant, as though she could get up and walk home.

“Beau, what is it?”

She looked at him dead on, wanting the truth.

“You’ve got an aneurysm, Lauren,” he said. “Do you know what that is?”

She managed a smile.

“This is like a role I played once,” she said. “The noble dying mother with the bloated blood vessel. They can pop any time, isn’t that it?”

There was just the faintest touch of fear in her voice, and Beauregard admired the courage she was showing.

“One side of the vein simply gets tired. It’s weakened, though we’re not sure why it is. It puffs out, and it needs immediate attention.”

“Where is it, Beau?”

“In the brain, Lauren. It’s not an easy operation. But you’re going to have the best person around. Dr. Spencer Taylor. He’ll handle it all right. You’re not to worry.”

“Sure,” said Lauren. “Come on, Beau. Forget the bedside manner. What are my chances?”

He smiled at her and held her hand again.

“Excellent,” he said. “We’ve caught it in time. We’re going to fix it up tomorrow.”

“And if you don’t get it?”

“We’ll get it, Lauren. Three months from now you’ll be out in Hollywood shooting a movie.”

“Beau,” she said. “With your charm, I should have you as my director.”

She raised her eyebrow and winked at him.

“I’ve missed you, you know?”

Beauregard felt a pang of guilt. He should have called her. He should have done something. Christ—months had gone by—he knew about the pains … He sighed deeply, and for a second something flashed through his mind … another operating table … another brain operation. He saw the pleading face before him, his own hand on the oxygen tank.

“I’ve missed you too, Lauren,” he said awkwardly.

She smiled and squeezed his hand.

“Poor Beau. Guilty until proven innocent. You judge yourself too harshly. I’m glad that Heather is back. I know what she means to you. I’m happy for you, Beau. I really am. You’re my dearest friend.”

He smiled at her again and nodded slowly.

“And you mine,” he said.

“Go ahead, jerk, dial the phone.”

Debby sat in her apartment, staring at the tube. Richie Cunningham and Fonzie were playing a trick on Arnold. Debby picked up her drink—a large glass of vodka over ice—and suddenly wanted to hurl the whole thing at the screen. The goddamned 50’s. Who would ever want to live through them? She remembered her brother Sam, his whinings about women … they tortured him so often that he ended up marrying a woman twice his age, just so he could finally get in the sack. They had lasted two years, been divorced, and now he spent all his money paying for her trips to St. Croix. But that was Sam all right. He was a product of his age. Not like you, Debby. Hey, you’re in the swinging 70’s where everybody is totally “up front” about sex. Hey, you’re free of inhibitions, you can sleep with whomever you want. Pick up any magazine, turn on any TV show, and they are hitting you with the new morality … it’s a swinger’s paradise out there. Except the only man you want to swing with is Peter Cross.

And she hadn’t seen him or heard from him since Saturday. Three days. Sunday wasn’t too bad—she had spent it doing things around the apartment. Monday she was a little anxious. But things were going so well between them. Still no word. Once she called his apartment and let the phone ring and ring. No answer. He was not at the hospital; the desk said he’d called in sick. It had been so long since they hadn’t spent their time off together that she was lost. The loneliness was opening up inside of her. Oh, God—what was going on with him?

On Tuesday—still no word. Oh, God, where is he? It was then that she pinpointed Peter’s mood swing to the time spent in the wine cellar.

Enough of this shit, she thought. She walked into her bedroom—stared at the Miro print on the wall—so happy, carefree, a mockery of her melodramatic condition. She lay down, and in no time the tears were coming, though out in the living room she could hear the high-pitched cackle of the laugh track. Maybe that’s what people needed with them. A recorded laugh track carried around with them. That way, when the guy you were in love with dumped you, you could just hit the playback button and hear it, “Hahahahaha,” like a funhouse lady you heard in a cheap upstate carny, the one with the pig-squeal laugh that made you want to pound your temples and scream. What the hell had happened? Had she flirted with Beauregard? No, that was absurd. Even Peter hadn’t delivered that pronouncement with any authority. No, he was upset by something else.

Back in the living room, she stared at Fonzie, who was going “Heyyyy,” and she put her forefinger into her mouth, and bit off her nail. Christ, that was dumb. You’ve been growing that for a month. She looked down at the green telephone. If only he would call.

It came to her in a flash. It was totally against all tradition. It broke all the rules, but she was desperate. Peter would kill her if he knew she had been so bold as to call Dr. Beauregard. They all knew the way the system worked—the Indians did not take liberties with the chiefs. But, after all, it was Beau who had broken the ice, and certainly Heather had opened herself up to them.

“Hello.”

“Heather, this is Debby.”

“Well, Debby, how are you? I really enjoyed seeing you and Peter the other night.”

“So did I, Heather … I really did. It was a terrific night … except …”

“Except for what?” Heather said.

Debby felt a pang of betrayal. She hadn’t meant to get Heather involved at all. Now it was too late.

“Well,” she said, “I really called to talk to Dr. Beauregard about it, but if you’ll promise to keep it a secret, I guess I’d like to tell you both.”

“Fire away,” Heather said.

“It’s about Peter. He was in such great spirits … up until he and Dr. Beauregard went into the wine cellar. Then, when he came back, his mood had changed.”

“Yes,” Heather said. “I’m really glad you called because I noticed it too. He seemed more reserved … a little tense.”

“So you noticed it too,” Debby said, picking up her drink. “Well, it got a lot worse. When we went home he was annoyed at me. I don’t want to go into it. He just acted very tense. I just wondered if he and Beau … had some kind of disagreement in the cellar.”

“Well,” Heather said, “I’m afraid I can’t tell you for sure. Beau hasn’t mentioned anything about it to me, and he’s out with Sarah right now. Taking her to dance class—and doing some shopping. But I’ll ask him … though I rather doubt it. I’m sure he would have said something if anything unpleasant had occurred.”

Debby felt foolish, embarrassed, inflicting her private life on such new friends.

“Heather, I’m sorry to bother you with this. It was silly of me.”

“Not at all,” Heather said. “If you want my opinion, I think your Mr. Cross is … well, perhaps I shouldn’t say.”

“No, do,” Debby said.

“Well,” Heather said, “I like Peter. I like him a lot. But he seems a little tense … and from what Beau has told me about him, I’d guess that he’s been sort of a recluse most of his life. You know what I mean. He’s like Beau in some ways … a total professional. He doesn’t know how to relax properly. He doesn’t trust himself in a social situation. And he has a certain contempt for it. So, the other night he was having a good time … then he suddenly realized he was having a good time. Maybe he felt he was having too good a time … so he got nervous, and a little defensive. I hope you don’t mind my saying all this. It’s a little out of line, I know, but I had a strong feeling about him as soon as we met. He seems to me the kind of man who needs to learn how to take it easy … to enjoy the lulls. I’d say that the other night was a start, but that he needs more time doing absolutely nothing.”

Debby smiled and felt a tremendous kinship with Heather Beauregard. She was all Beau had said she was.

“You’re right,” Debby said. “That’s it of course.”

“I could be all wet,” Heather said, “but I really think Peter is an extraordinary man, and like a lot of superior people, he just doesn’t trust himself. It’s as though his mind is years ahead of his other qualities. He’s quite capable of being witty, intelligent, even eloquent—he just needs to trust people a little more—and most of all to relax.”

“Yes,” Debby said, “that’s true. But why hasn’t he called me?”

“Oh, come on,” Heather said. “You know men. He probably feels like a fool for throwing a tantrum in front of you, and he’s too embarrassed to make up. You ought to call him, and … I don’t know exactly … maybe go away together, by yourselves, and just enjoy one another. That would probably be just the thing.”

“It would,” Debby said. “I know it would. And I know just the spot.”

Heather laughed heartily. “Glad to help,” she said. “I think you’ve got to understand, with men like Beau and Peter, you’re always in a very real war with the hospital. It gets to be an obsession with them. It can even become a kind of psychosis. But a little R and R will do you both a world of good. So get the guy and take him to your lair.”

Debby laughed again.

“Thanks, Heather,” she said. “Thanks, really …”

“Advice is easy,” Heather said. “Getting that dynamo to calm down might be a little work. But I’ve got faith in you. I can tell you one thing, he likes you very, very much.”