Which was why he never saw the towering cart of luggage that fell upon him less than three feet from the glass doors, and knocked him unconscious.
He opened his eyes to a throbbing headache and blurry white of what must have been a hospital room. Fumes of formaldehyde hung in his nostrils and made him gag. “I see you’re awake, Dr. Harris,” a lazy Texas accent jarred him. “You ran into a rack of luggage at the airport and sustained a moderate concussion, but you’re going to be just fine.”
Jeff leaned up on an elbow to get a look at the nurse. “Where am I?”
“St. Paul Hospital. We’ll need to run a few tests on you, and if everything’s all right you’ll probably be able to leave in the morning.”
“I…” Jeff fell back on the pillow and tried to breathe slowly. He felt cold and clammy and slightly in shock. He took several deep breaths, and tried to focus more clearly on the nurse. Her eyes looked red and puffy. Outside his room he heard what sounded like a radio or holocenter blaring in the corridor—a tumult of loud talking and wailing. “What’s going on out there?”
Nurse K. Arthur burst into tears, and Jeff got a sudden feeling in the pit of his stomach that he knew exactly what the ruckus was about.
“They killed the President,” she sobbed. “I really shouldn’t disturb you with this. They rushed him to Parkland Memorial, but he was too far gone.” She heaved with tears. “He was so young, so beautiful. Why would anyone want to do something like that?”
Jeff reached out to comfort her. “Ow!” Pain cut through his back like a stiletto.
“Here, let me help you.” Arthur leaned over and gently eased Jeff back into bed. “You probably wrenched a muscle or two.” She puffed up the pillow and smiled. “There. I’ll tell the doctor you’re up and I’m sure he’ll look in on you a little later.” Her smile suddenly wavered and tears welled up again in her eyes. “They wounded Vice President Johnson and killed Governor Connally. They say it was one of those Communists. What’s going to happen to the country now?”
“I don’t know,” Jeff barely answered, too tired to tell her that although her information was wrong, her sense of impending catastrophe was all too on-target.
He slept fitfully the rest of the day, pestered and punctured by a procession of interns and orderlies bent on waking him up, taking his temperature, and telling him he needed more sleep. He asked for a TV or radio at least five times and got nothing. The phone by his bed was broken. He couldn’t tell whether the morguelike atmosphere was standard or a consequence of the assassination. The assassination—every time he thought of it, he felt like retching. A leaden, queasy thickness of despair seemed to hang over everything.
He fell asleep at last into something deeper that let him dream. He watched a team of 19th-century surgeons, long hair and whiskers with a bittersweet alcohol smell in the room, work over what must have been a very important patient. Straining his head closer, he could see that the patient was a fish, cut open and spread apart down the middle. The chief surgeon produced a mallet and began pounding the fish, while others cut off pieces and put them in little bags. “Oh, I’m only joking, old boy,” the surgeon turned to Jeff and said in a crisp British accent, “this is dinner, of course!”
Jeff sat up sharply in bed, awakened by yet another nurse come to stick something in him. “What do you want now?” he rasped, wincing from the pain that came as he propped himself up.
“Just some intravenous for the evening, Dr. Harris. It’ll help you sleep.” She wheeled some torturelike contraption over to him. She was a big-boned, handsome, light brown woman, about thirty-five, who spoke with a lilting accent.
He shook his head to clear some of the cobwebs. “I already ate your lousy supper. Why do I need intravenous?”
“Pity the nurse who has a doctor for a patient,” she said in the mildly scolding tone of voice that seemed a part of every nurse’s repertoire. “Now why don’t you just lie back like a good boy and let me get this working.” A strong arm pushed Jeff back gently but firmly, and she began applying alcohol to his skin.
Once again the door flung open, this time admitting two burly black men carrying an impossibly fat TV set.
“I tell you what, Nurse, ah, Daniels.”
Jeff freed himself from her grip. “I’ll take this intravenous only if it’s prescribed and administered by an intern or resident. So you want me on that, you call in a doctor, fair enough?” This should buy him a little time to think this through. There was something he didn’t like about this nurse, not to mention that he wasn’t particularly partial to the prospect of being festooned with intravenous needles and tubing, 1960s style, carrying who knew what kind of viruses and sub-vees they didn’t even know about back here, and he might not have been inoculated against.
Daniels looked at the two men hooking up the TV set and then back at Jeff. “No meat off my behind, honey,” she said, and abruptly wheeled the equipment out the door.
Good—she’d apparently decided it wasn’t worth making a scene in front of the techies. “Thank you, gentlemen,” Jeff told them as they finished up. “See? It’s not true what they say about the media always causing problems. Sometimes a TV can be very helpful.”
They looked at him as if he was crazy, and left.
Jeff pivoted gingerly in the bed, placing his feet on the floor in slow, exaggerated motions. Pushing himself up shakily from his seated position, he found he could stand. He walked unsteadily to a chair by the window, and sat himself down with the utmost caution. The pain he expected in his back was mercifully slight. He reached for the suitcase lodged neatly against the window and fished inside for his clothing. Thank God the case wasn’t lost at the airport. And a good thing, too, that it had been programmed to open only in response to his and no one else’s sweat. Otherwise he’d have had some explaining to do about some of the contents.
He had to get out of here right away. He had to get back to New York, back to the student lounge. He reached deeper inside the suitcase. The rough fiber of the janitor’s uniform finally chafed his fingertips. He doubted that an NYU janitor looked anything like the hospital variety, but this was still his best choice. He dressed very carefully, praying that his body would hold up long enough for him to walk out of this horror-movie of a hospital—this horror-show of a world.
Suitcase under his arm, he tiptoed to the door and opened it a crack. His room seemed to be in the middle of a long, orange-pink tiled corridor that stretched in either direction with no one in sight. Peering out a bit more, he could see what looked like a nurse’s station down to his right. He hesitated. His mind felt swollen and paranoid, he had no confidence in his judgments. He didn’t feel good about just walking out, but he felt much worse about staying. He opened the door and strode as casually as he could to the left.
He slowly became aware of voices ahead of him. He took a few more steps, then stopped and listened. They were definitely moving closer. He looked down the corridor the other way. Too long a distance to try returning to his room. He glanced quickly around at the rooms within reach and tried the door of the nearest one.
Locked!
He tried another one.
Same result!
His hands grew moist and his head light and the voices louder. He felt nauseated, as if he was about to vomit and pass out. He breathed deeply, steadied himself, and tried another door.