“‘Escape was possible since the patient was not injured in any way and was only brought in for a routine medical examination,’” supplemented the director. “It sounds better that way. And since he was able to run away on his own two legs, we are covered.”
“Covered for today and maybe for the next few weeks,” said Dr. Snyder, “and at least for now the insurance company is covered. But if the guy fakes it, of course, and wants to sue for a large sum, his lawyer and a ruthless doctor can say that the accident, minor as it was, confused him and that’s why he fled, and that the serious consequences only appeared later, after several months.”
“That may happen,” agreed the director, “it may happen. You know we have that other patient Merquer; every six hours, on the dot, he has a fit of screaming that lasts ten minutes. You know as well as I do that he is a malingerer. But one day, he will walk into a trap set by the insurance company and he will serve several years for his crime. That’s his problem, not ours. So, report the case as we agreed!”
Dr. Snyder was already at the door and wanted to leave.
“Snyder”—the director called him back—“did you personally examine the man?”
“Just briefly.”
“What did he look like?”
“Tall, about six feet, strong and muscular. Built like a wrestler. I would say, an athlete.”
“I pray to all the gods I have ever heard of,” said the director, “that he wasn’t a Korean War veteran.”
“Why?”
“You know, Snyder, hundreds of veterans who returned from Korea have gone a little bit crazy after serving several years there. The only thing wrong with them is that they received a nervous shock there—and now all kinds of things can happen.”
“For example?”
“They run amok and don’t mind at all raping women and girls and strangling them afterward—”
“You don’t need to worry about that. This guy who escaped may have served his time, but he is not the type to have lasted any amount of time in Korea.”
“I hope you are right, Snyder.”
The young man who had inadvertently caused such a ruckus in this very respectable hospital had only wanted to avoid having the residents mess with his body, examining every mole and drawing blood from every wart, just to have it examined by the apprentices of bacteriology in the labs. It seemed idiotic to him that finally, after weeks, he would probably just find out something he had already known for years. He had an ingrown toenail on his left toe that did not bother him in the least.
All of the above was completely unnecessary and a waste of time, even though he had plenty of time to waste ever since he had realized that he was wasting his youth calculating logarithms and cubic square roots and tangents.
By the way, the young athlete was twenty-eight years old and born in Texas, which was not his fault, of course. His name was Beckford and he was just as innocent of having this name as he was of being Methodist, the only religion that led to salvation. When he received this name and religion, he’d been completely defenseless and you could just as easily have labeled him Buddhist, Confucian, a sun or moon worshipper. At the moment, he would have preferred to be a Muslim.
He had been sent to Korea against his will to fight against Chinese volunteers and others in uniform who had not volunteered. His orders were to kill them with machine guns, hand grenades, and flamethrowers.
Otherwise, there was nothing special to report about Beckford, at least nothing about his personal information.
3.
Five weeks had passed since the fateful day that a rogue Cadillac had crushed Beckford to death. He could almost convince himself that this was what had happened, by reading the story that ran in The Manhattan News on the day of his successful flight from the hospital. To his surprise, the newspaper correctly reported that the accident had occurred on the corner of Thirty-Fourth Street. The truth had also been told about the time and day of the crash.
The Cadillac, however, had morphed into a Dodge. The license plate was from the state of Idaho. His name was reported as Earl Jones, from Saint Louis, Missouri. According to the media, the elderly, rather shabbily dressed driver of the Dodge had managed to escape before the police—dutiful as always—could catch him. The newspapers claimed that once again, it was a case of a contemptible “hit and run.” What had happened to the body, whether it had been left on the street or had been donated to science, could not be determined from the newspaper article. Not that the reader cared at all about that; he was only concerned with skimming the sports pages to find out whether Thin-as-a-Rake, the horse on which he had bet ten dollars, had won.
When Beckford crossed the street these days, he did so with the care of a mother who was holding one child in her arms, a second by the hand, and dragging a third attached to her skirt. But one day around noon, a car stopped right in front of his feet without the slightest sound of squealing brakes. He couldn’t say from where it had appeared so unexpectedly. It stopped so close to him that he immediately leaned back, thinking he might lose the tip of his nose.
It had all happened so fast that he had forgotten to run. He felt the shock sink in, once he realized how close he was to being turned back over to the medical residents waiting to probe and poke his body.
Then he heard the voice of a woman.
“Oh, there you are, young man. Finally. Looking for you is like looking for a gold coin in the sand at Atlantic City beach.”
Beckford was shocked when he recognized the lady. “Don’t take me to the emergency room, ma’am. If you do, I’ll commit suicide, or murder one of those phony residents, just so you know.”
“Nothing to do with the hospital, young man. I have collected a stack of books that deal with floods, dams, and canals for you. It’s an entire library, and it all has to do with water and how you can channel and control it.”
“That is all very nice, ma’am,” Beckford answered hesitantly, “but right now I’m not sure whether I have the peace and quiet and the right place to read those books.”
“I will get you a place where you can study the books in peace.”
Somewhere they could hear a police whistle. The lady did not know whom it was addressing. Since it was possible that it was meant for her, she said: “Get in my car! I know a quiet café with good food. We can discuss details there. I can’t stop traffic here any longer.” She gestured with her head to the left. “He’s already coming. Get in and let’s go, before he can read my license plate.”
Beckford got in the car sulking. What does this woman want from me? he wondered as he slammed the door and the car drove off. His thoughts were all over the place as the car found its way through the streets congested by lunchtime traffic.
Does she want an affair? I don’t think so. Too elegant. Too rich. Probably married. Though that may not be the greatest obstacle. Happens all the time. Probably bored to death. Could I fall in love with her? I don’t think so. Not really my type. She is beautiful. But probably most of it enhanced or just makeup. Very elegant perfume. But love? I don’t know. I don’t have the patience to worry about this kind of affair at the moment. I don’t want any headaches. She looks like she is two or three years older than I am. Maybe she’s not even older, just more run down. Maybe she has three or four kids. Where in the world is she taking me? Maybe she wants to use me to get her husband out of the way. His life insurance is probably worth a million or more. But she’s got the wrong guy. I’m not doing that. Maybe she is not even married. One of the arrogant guys from her circle miraculously got her pregnant and now she is looking for someone to marry. I’m not walking on that kind of tightrope with any woman, not even if she has enough money to drown in it. Maybe she snorts cocaine and thinks I can get it for her. After all, she knows that I was in Korea, where you can get snow on every street corner and in every teahouse at ten dollars for half a pound.