Thirteen West (9 page)

 
Someone touched her shoulder, making her jump. Frank.

"Medical professionals aren't automatically elevated to sainthood," he told her. "You've got a lot to learn about people, Ms Goodrow."

Chapter Eight

As soon as the tech shut the fence gate behind him, Sven Taterson, better known as Tate, felt in his pants pocket to make sure the grounds pass was there—you never knew when that motherfucker Bill might make you show it. The other guards were pretty much okay. If they knew you, they left you alone.

He glanced back at Thirteen West, shut away behind the chainlink fence, and hunched his shoulders. Why hadn't they left him on his old ward? Twelve East had been halfway to paradise compared to the loonies he had for ward mates now. At least he still kept his ground privileges, thank providence.

"Hey, Tate," a voice called.

He looked around and saw Harry hurrying toward him. "What's new?" he asked.

Harry leaned forward, wheezing into his ear. "Got something to show you."

"Yeah?"

"It's in the old place—you know."

"You got another contact?"

Harry shook his head. "Something else," he said mysteriously.

Tate and Harry drifted behind the east wards, making for the wall.

"I ain't got no really good buddy now you got transferred," Harry complained. "I been waiting to see you about this."

"I wait for the sun—no point in walking around in the rain."

"Yeah, well, you may be right. I went out and got soaked, that's why you ain't seen me. Had the flu. First time I been outside since. Anyways, that's when I found it, in the rain."

Tate knew better than to ask questions—Harry had to do things his way or not at all.

"It's sort of like a birthday present, you know? I got one coming up next week. Fifty-two."

As they ducked behind the tall oleander bushes next to the wall, Tate glanced at his friend and thought with some pride that he might be three years older than Harry but he sure didn't look it. Harry let himself go, too fat and all that wheezing. Tate patted his own flat stomach with satisfaction.

Harry knelt. "Give me a hand, can't you?"

Tate crouched beside him, holding back the lower branches of a huge pink oleander bush while Harry fumbled with the bricks underneath.

They'd found the place by accident months ago. A king snake had slid across their path and into the cover of this oleander and Harry had insisted on trying to catch the damn thing—who'd want a snake for a pet?

But he'd helped Harry and under the bush were all these bricks, the remains of some building or other because there was a cavity under them. Maybe an old chimney. Made a good hiding place when either of them got hold of some smuggled-in liquor. Like Harry must've done. Tate leaned forward eagerly, then blinked when Harry hauled out a green jacket, held it up and laughed.

"Thought I'd fool you," he said. "Figured you was gonna get a drink, didn't you?"

Tate fingered the jacket sleeve, trying to hide his disappointment. "Nice and heavy," he said. "I could use one." He peered at the label. "Medium. Never going to fit you, Harry."

Harry hugged the jacket to him, smiling slyly. "Maybe I'll make a trade afterwards," he said. "What you got?"

"What d'you mean, afterward?"

"You'll see. What you got?"

Tate thought. He didn't smoke but Harry did. "I can get you cigarettes," he said.

Harry appeared to consider. "Ain't you even gonna ask me where I got this?"

"Figured you lifted it from some guy."

"Naw, that can get you in trouble. I found the jacket over by the west wards fence. Was over there hanging around looking for you—should've known you'd never come out in the rain. Anyways, it was on your side of the fence, sort of tangled in a bush. Lucky for me there was a rabbit hole there under the fence. I got me a stick and fished that old jacket right through that hole. I came over here and hid it and then I got sick."

"You didn't need to hide a jacket," Tate said.

"This one I did." Harry grinned and carefully unzipped an inner pocket on the jacket. Triumphantly he produced a brown pint bottle and thrust it at Tate. "Only took one little sip the day I found it."

Tate opened the bottle and sniffed. "Pretty good stuff," he said.

"Go ahead—we'll split it. But I want them cigarettes for the jacket."

"I don't know," Tate said after he sampled the whiskey. "Suppose someone claims the jacket?"

Harry took the bottle back. "How's about if you wear it awhile and then pay me the cigarettes?"

"Okay." Tate brushed some dried mud off the jacket and slipped it on. "Fits fine."

They finished the bottle and tossed it into the shrubbery near the wall, some distance from their oleander. "Aw, I sure miss you," Harry said, throwing an arm over Tate's shoulders. "I hear you got a pretty good deal over there, though."

"That's what you think. They got them all mixed up—kids, dummies, real nuts, old farts—and they expect me to 'interact.' That's the word they use. They even got a nurse on in the evening, all kinds of staff running around watching you."

"I heard they got women, some pretty hot stuff. You got a lady roomie?" Harry guffawed.

"Jail bait," Tate said. "Gives the men techs the hots taking her clothes off. But she don't room with me. I got some guy who don't even get out of bed anymore. Belongs somewhere else. Me, too. I keep out of that room except to sleep." Tears brightened his eyes. "I don't want to stay over there."

"Aw, Tate, it's a damn shame."

"What it's like—I'm the only guy with a grounds pass. I been thinking of just walking on out the front gate for good."

"Count me in," Harry said. "We can get jobs dunking dishes, make enough so's we can get a room."

"Yeah, the two of us, we'd do okay."

They sat on a bench in the inner courtyard, half-dozing in the sunlight, enjoying the inner glow from the booze.

"I hear you got a real sexy nigger nurse over there," Harry said finally. "There's a tech on my ward got the real hots for her."

"She's okay, but we got some real dogs." Tate nudged Harry. "That one over there, she's one of our techs, you'd have to be blind to screw her."

Grace Geibel, hurrying across the inner court to work, felt the men eyeing her. Dirty pigs, she told herself. Only one thing on their minds. She flushed, thinking about it. Filthy.

Best not to tell Papa men were looking at her. Or should she admit it, come out with the shameful truth? Would he punish her for attracting attention? She quickened her pace.

What if Ms Reynolds assigned her Mr. Serrion again? Last night she'd gotten so nauseated watching him that she'd had to go into the bathroom where she'd gagged and retched. A wonder she'd managed to keep her supper down. A depraved man, holding onto his—thing like that. Taking it right out and...

Grace clenched her teeth as her stomach spasmed. No, she'd have to tell Ms Reynolds she couldn't take care of him again. Everyone knew what Mr. Serrion was like—the male techs laughed and called him Jacko, which meant something nasty, she was sure. If she ever told her father...

She felt sorry for that little teenager, even if the girl didn't like her. Imagine having nightmares where you were used by men, poor Laura Jean.

Something awful must have happened to the girl before she came to Calafia. Some man, no doubt, or even men. She'd been living in a commune, hadn't she? Driven the poor thing right out of her mind, that's what they'd done to her. She'd pray for Laura Jean tomorrow at church, she went every Sunday with Papa.

To Grace's relief, she drew the old ladies and only one male room with Mr. Weebles and Mr. Jiminez—W.W. and Jay-Jay. Mr. Weebles could be quite sweet and poor Jay-Jay was no trouble. Twenty-four, with the worst epilepsy she'd ever seen. At least one grand mal seizure per day despite all the medications the doctors tried.

Jay-Jay had to wear a football helmet whenever he was out of bed because of falling. He wasn't a bad looking man, though extremely withdrawn and depressed.

"Hello, Grace," Mr. Weebles said. "I see you haven't taken my advice about your hair."

"I was going to, Mr. Weebles," she said, "but..."

"You were going to call me W. W., too."

"Well, all right—W.W. I did make an appointment, but my father, he's such an old-fashioned person..."

W.W. shrugged. "Of course, if you don't want my advice—"

"Oh, I do. I think you're right. I would look better with my hair short and curly. But Papa doesn't want me to cut it."

"I never ask anyone's age but you must be thirty or so. Does Papa even tell you when you can pee?"

Grace blushed and looked away.

"You poor dear," W.W. said. "I suppose it's a hopeless cause. I don't know why I bother, since I'm so unappreciated. Really, I can't go on staying where there's this crassness, this deliberate persecution."

"I brought you a Vogue," Grace told him. "The latest issue."

He ignored that. "Be a nice child and ask the doctor to step in. He'll understand a man of my distinction can't be expected to remain here. Or call the governor. Pat's a delightful person. I've known him for years."

"We have a different governor now," Grace said, hoping W.W. wouldn't get upset. Reality orientation was fraught with complications and not always safe to push. "I'm not allowed to call the doctor—I'm sure you know only the charge nurse can do that. I'll go get the magazine. You told me Vogue was one of your favorites. You'll have time to glance through it before you get ready for bed."

She left the room and went to the lounge where she'd left the magazine with her purse and coat. Lew Alinosky was having a cigarette there.

"Tucked your gay boy in and said nighty-night?" he asked.

"I promised to bring Mr. Weebles a magazine," she said primly.

"Playboy?"

Grace picked up the copy of Vogue without bothering to reply.

"What we ought to do," Lew said, "Is to put old Jacko in there with W.W., give him a thrill."

"That's disgusting," Grace said, unable to help herself. She heard Lew laughing as she went out. Another filthy- minded male.

She handed the magazine to W.W., checked Jay-Jay, who was already in bed, then hurried to the women's four bed ward to get the ladies into the bathroom before she put their nightgowns on. She was too late to catch Mrs. Exeter.

Now she had a puddle to mop up as well as washing and changing the old woman. Somehow she found it nastier to clean up after old people than it had been the retarded.

"You might have waited," she told Mrs. Exeter. "You didn't have to wet yourself."

"I didn't do that," the old lady told her. "Why do you accuse me of such an awful thing? This hotel has the most discourteous maids I've even seen. I fully intend to complain to the management."

"This is a hospital," Grace said wearily.

Mrs. Exeter paid no attention and went right on scolding.

When Grace had everyone clean and quiet and in bed, she headed again for the lounge to take an overdue break. As she passed the open doors, she automatically looked in at the patients as she'd been taught. Check and recheck. She saw the TV flickering in the day room and hesitated. Maybe she'd sit in there for a few minutes instead of the lounge which was sure to be full of cigarette smoke.

When she opened the door, she heard Lew's voice and saw him bending over someone on the floor.

"You can't sleep in here, Laura Jean, come on, get up."

"I don't like my room," the girl said. "Why can't I have a roommate? Why can't I move in with Susie Q?"

"I'm warning you, I'll pick you up and throw you in bed," Lew told her. "Come on now."

Laura Jean raised herself on one elbow and her pajama top pulled askew so that one breast showed almost to the nipple.