The Sixth Commandment (12 page)

“Sounds fine,” I said again, trying to get some enthusiasm into my voice.

Stella Beecham looked like a white stump: squat, straight up and down. She was wearing a short-sleeved nurse’s uniform, and I caught the biceps and muscles in her forearms and thick wrists. But nurses are usually strong; they have to be to turn a two-hundred-pound patient in his bed, or lift a deadweight from stretcher to wheelchair.

Beecham wasn’t the prettiest angel of mercy I’ve ever seen. She had gross, thrusting, almost masculine features. No makeup. Her complexion was rough, ruddy, with the beginnings of burst capillaries in nose and cheeks. To me, that signals a heavy drinker. She had a faint mustache. On the left side of her chin, just below the corner of her pale mouth, was a silvery wen with two short, black hairs sticking out. It looked for all the world like a transistor, and I consciously avoided staring at it when I talked to her.

Dr. Kenneth Draper cut out, and Nurse Beecham took me in tow, spouting staccato statistics. It went like this, in her hard, drillmaster’s voice:

“Fifty beds. Today’s occupancy rate: forty-nine. We have a waiting list of thirty-eight to get in. Seven addicts at present: five alcoholics, two hard drugs. Six mentals. Prognosis: negative. All the others are terminals. Cancer, MS, emphysema, myasthenia gravis, cardiacs, and so forth. Their doctors have given up. About all we can do is try to keep them pain-free. A hundred and fifty meals prepared each day in the main kitchen, not counting those for staff, maintenance personnel, and security guards. Plus special meals. Some of our guests like afternoon tea or a late-night snack. We have a chef on duty around-the-clock. These are the nurses’ offices and lounges. The doctors’ are across the hall.”

“You have MD’s in residence?” I asked—not that I was so interested, but just to let her know I was listening.

“Two assigned to each wing. Plus, of course, Dr. Thorndecker and Dr. Draper. They’re both MD’s. Two RN’s around-the-clock in each wing. Plus a pharmaceutical nurse for each wing. Three shifts of aides and orderlies. Our total staff provides a better than one-to-one ratio with our guests. Here’s the X-ray room. We have a resident radiologist. Therapy in here. Our resident therapist deals mostly with the addiction cases, particularly the alcoholics. Spiritual therapy, if desired, is provided by the Reverend Peter Koukla of the First Episcopal Church. We also have an Albany rabbi on call, when needed. Examination room here, dispensary here. Combined barber and beauty shop. This is handled by a concession. Dietician’s office here. We send out all our laundry and drycleaning. I think that about completes the main floor of this wing.”

“What’s in the basement?” I asked, in the friendliest tone possible.

“Storage,” she said. “Want to see it?”

“No,” I said, “that won’t be necessary.”

It was a short, brusque exchange—brusque on her part. She had the palest blue eyes I’ve ever seen, almost as colorless as water, and showing about as much. All they did was glitter; I could read nothing there. So why did I have the feeling that my mention of the cellar had flicked a nerve? Just a tensing, almost a bristling of her powerful body.

“Now we’ll go upstairs,” she said. “The vacant suite is in this wing, so I’ll be able to show it to you.”

We had passed a few aides, a few orderlies. But I hadn’t seen anyone who looked like a patient.

“Where is everyone?” I asked. “The place seems deserted.”

She gave me a reasonable explanation:

“It’s lunchtime. The dining room is in the rear of the main entrance hall. Most of our guests are there now, except for those who dine in their rooms. The aides and doctors usually eat in the dining room also. Dr. Thorndecker feels it helps maintain rapport with our patients.”

“I hope I haven’t interrupted
your
luncheon,” I said.

“Not at all,” she said. “I’m on a diet. I skip lunch.”

That sounded like a friendly, personal comment—a welcome relief from the officialese she had been spouting—so I followed up on it.

“I met an acquaintance of yours,” I said. “Agatha Binder. I had a talk with her yesterday.”

“Did you?” she said. “Now you’ll notice that we have no elevators. But during Dr. Thorndecker’s refurbishing program, the stairways at the ends of the corridors were made much narrower, and ramps were installed. So we’re able to move wheeled stretchers and wheelchairs up to the top floors without too much trouble. Actually, there’s very little traffic. Non-ambulatory guests are encouraged to remain in their suites. What do you think of Crittenden Hall so far?”

The question came so abruptly that it confused me.

“Well … uh,” I said. “I’ll tell you,” I said. “I’m impressed,” I said, “by how neat and immaculate and sparkling everything is. I almost suspect you prepared for my visit—like sailors getting ready for a white-glove inspection on a U.S. Navy ship.”

I said it in a bantering tone, keeping it light, but she had no humor whatsoever—except, possibly, bad.

“Oh no,” she said, “it’s like this all the time. Dr. Thorndecker insists on absolutely hygienic conditions. Our cleaning staff has been specially trained. We’ve gotten highest ratings in the New York State inspections, and I mean to keep it that way.”

It was a grim declaration. But she was a grim woman. And, as I followed her up the narrow staircase to the second floor, I reflected that even her legs were grim: heavy, thick, with clumped muscles under the white cotton stockings. I wouldn’t, I thought, care to be given a needle by Nurse Stella Beecham. She was liable to pin me to the goddamned bed.

“I won’t show you any of the occupied suites,” she said. “Dr. Thorndecker felt it might disturb our guests unnecessarily.”

“Of course.”

“But he wanted you to see the one vacant suite. We have a guest arriving for it tomorrow morning.”

“Was it occupied by a man—or maybe it was a woman—named Petersen?” I asked.

I don’t know why I said that. My tongue was ahead of my brain. I just said it idly. Nurse Beecham’s reaction was astonishing. She was standing on the second-floor landing, three steps above me. When I said, “Petersen,” she whirled, then went suddenly rigid, her lumpy features set in an ugly expression that was half fear, half cunning, and all fury.

“Why did you say that?” she demanded, the “say” hissed so that it came out “ssssay.”

“I don’t know,” I told her honestly, staring up at her transistor-wen. “But I was at the Thorndeckers for dinner last night, and late in the evening Dr. Thorndecker was called away by Dr. Draper. I got the impression it involved some crisis in the condition of a patient named Petersen. Dr. Thorndecker said he was afraid Petersen wouldn’t last the night.”

The gorgon’s face relaxed, wax flowing. She took a deep breath. She had an awesome bosom.

“He didn’t,” she said. “He passed. The empty suite is just down the corridor here. Follow me, please.”

She unlocked the door, and stood aside. I walked in ahead of her. It was a suite all right: sitting room, bedroom, bathroom. There was even a little kitchenette, with a waist-high refrigerator. But no stove. The windows faced the sere fields of Crittenden.

The rooms were clean and cheerfully decorated: chintz drapes and slipcovers. Bright, innocuous paintings on the warm beige walls. A new, oval-shaped rag rug. Windows were washed, floor polished, upholstery spotless, small desk set neatly with blotter, stationery, ballpoint pen, Bible. The bed had been freshly made. Spotless white towels hung in the bathroom. The closet door was open. It was empty of clothes, but wooden hangers were precisely arranged along the rod.

Nurse Beecham stood patiently at the hallway door while I prowled around. A quiet, impersonal suite of rooms. Nothing of Petersen showed, nor of any of the others who had gone before. No cigarette butts, worn slippers, rumpled pillows. No initials carved in the desk top. There was a faint scent of disinfectant in the air.

I stood at the window, staring down at the withered fields. It was a comfortable place to die, I supposed. Warm. Lighted. And he had been well cared for. Pain-free. Still, the place had all the ambience of a motel suite in Scranton, Pa. It had that hard, machine look, everything clean enough, but aseptic and chilling.

I turned back to Stella Beecham.

“What did he die of?” I asked. “Petersen?”

“Pelvic cancer,” she said. “Inoperable. He didn’t respond to chemotherapy. Shall we go now?”

I followed her in silence down the stairway to the main floor. We stopped three times while she introduced me to staff: one of the resident MD’s, the radiologist, and another RN. We all smiled and said things. I don’t remember their names.

Nurse Beecham paused outside the back door of the west wing.

“It’s a few steps to the lab,” she said. “Would you like your coat?”

“No, I’ll leave it here,” I said. “Thank you for showing me around. It must be very boring for you.”

“I don’t mind,” she said gruffly.

We walked out to that roofed port that led down the hill to the Crittenden Research Laboratory. It was a miserably rude day, the sun completely hidden now, air biting, wind slicing. But I didn’t see Beecham hurry her deliberate tread or hug her bare arms. She just trundled steadily along, a boulder rolling downhill.

The side door of the lab was locked. Nurse Beecham had the key on an enormous ring she hauled from her side pocket. When we were inside, she double-locked the door.

“Wait here, please,” she said, and went thumping down a wide, waxed linoleum corridor. I waited, looking around. Nothing of interest to see, unless closed doors excite you. In a few minutes, Dr. Kenneth Draper came bustling down the hall, rubbing his palms together and trying hard to look relaxed and genial.

“Well!” he said again. “Here we are! See everything you wanted in the Hall?”

“I think so,” I said. “It appears to be a very efficient operation.”

“Oh, it is, it is,” he assured me. “Quality care. If you’d care to test the patients’ food, just drop in unexpectedly, for any meal. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

“I’m sure I would be,” I said. “But that won’t be necessary, Dr. Draper. By the way, Nurse Beecham strikes me as being a very valuable member of your staff. How long has she been with you?”

“From the start,” he said. “When Dr. Thorndecker took over. He brought her in. I understand she was the first Mrs. Thorndecker’s nurse during a long illness prior to her—her accident. I don’t know what we’d do without Beecham. Perhaps not the most personable, outgoing woman in the world, but she certainly does a job running the Hall. Keeps problems to a minimum so Dr. Thorndecker and I can devote more time to the lab.”

“Where your real interests lie?” I suggested.

“Well … uh, yes,” he said hesitantly, as if afraid of saying too much. “The nursing home is our first responsibility, of course, but we are doing some exciting things here, and I suppose it’s natural …”

Another Coburnite who couldn’t finish his sentences. I wondered how these people expressed love for one another. Did they just say, “I love …” and let it go at that?

“Now this is our main floor,” Dr. Draper was saying. “Here you’ll find our offices, records room, reference library, a small lounge, a locker and dressing room, showers, and a room we’ve equipped with cots for researchers who might want to sleep here after a long day’s work or during a prolonged project. Do you want to see any of these rooms?”

“I’d like to glance at the reference library, if I may,” I said. “Just for a moment.”

“Of course, of course. Along here, please.”

This place was certainly livelier than the nursing home. As we walked along the corridor, I heard voices from behind closed doors, hoots of laughter, and once a shouted argument in which I could distinguish one screamed statement: “You’re full of shit!”

We stopped several times for Dr. Draper to introduce me to staff members hustling by. They all seemed to know who I was, and shook my hand with what appeared to be genuine enthusiasm. There were almost as many women as men, and all of them seemed young and—well, I think “keen” would describe them best. I said something about this to Draper.

“Oh, they’re top-notch,” he said proudly. “The best. Dr. Thorndecker recruited them from all over: Harvard, Duke, Berkeley, Johns Hopkins, Chicago, MIT. We have two Japanese, one Swede, and a kid from Mali you wouldn’t believe, he’s so smart. We pay them half of what they could be making with any of the big drug companies.”

“Then why …?” I said. I was beginning to suffer from the Coburn Syndrome.

“Thorndecker!” Dr. Draper cried. “It’s Thorndecker. The opportunity of working with him. Learning from him. They’re very highly motivated.”

“Or he’s charmed them,” I said, smiling.

Suddenly he was sober.

“Yes,” he said in a low voice. “That, too. Here’s our library. Small, but sufficient.”

We stepped inside. A room about twenty by forty feet, lined with bookcases. Several small oak tables with a single chair at each, and one long conference table with twelve captain’s chairs. A Xerox machine. The shelves were jammed with books on end and periodicals lying flat. It wasn’t too orderly: the ashtrays filled, wastebaskets overflowing, books and magazines lined up raggedly. But after a visit to the late Mr. Petersen’s abode, it was a pleasure to see human mess.

“Looks like it’s used,” I commented, wandering around.

“All the time,” he told me. “Sometimes the researchers will get caught up in something, read all night, and then flop into one of those cots I told you about. Very irregular hours. No one punches a time clock. But if they do their jobs, they can work any hours they please. A very relaxed atmosphere. Dr. Thorndecker feels it pays off in productivity.”

Meanwhile I was inspecting the titles of the books and periodicals on the shelves. If I had hoped they’d give me a clue to what was going on at the Crittenden Research Laboratory, I was disappointed. They appeared to me to be standard scientific reference texts, with heavy emphasis on human biology and the morphology of mammalian cells. A thick stack of recent oncological papers. One shelf of US Government publications dealing with demography, census, and public health statistics. I didn’t see a single volume I’d care to curl up with on a cold winter night.