“Why don’t they leave her alone?”
“Your head’s aching again, isn’t it, Dr. Claude?”
“Yes. Listen, I’m going into Physiotherapy and lie down for a bit. If I go to my room the telephone will annoy me—” I paused at the threshold. “When Dr. Andrews comes in, will you call me? He wants to see the autopsy on Mrs. England. She died last night, you know.”
Bleeker nodded. “I’ll look after things, Dr. Claude.”
I walked rapidly down the hall and turned into the darkened Physiotherapy section, leaving the door ajar behind me. This was a barn of a room not yet in operation. The Venetian blinds were kept closed. It was crowded with extra furniture and accessories that had yet to be distributed.
An iron lung sat in the center on the floor, where segments of shipping batts still clung to its under structure. Ranged against the wall was an array of surgical stands, instrument cabinets, wheel chairs, unopened crates, and complex diagnostic equipment. I noted with satisfaction the bust of Beethoven (which I was planning to pilfer) still perched incongruously in a far corner on top of an EKG machine. A donation from some civic-minded citizen of Southport, no doubt.
Against the wall to my right was a clumsy looking wicker chaise longue. I had arranged the high end of it toward the door, so that if anyone entered (such as Conrad), he’d have to look twice to see me lying on it. He didn’t really care; it was a question of pride with me.
I stretched out gratefully on the thin mattress and closed my eyes. Almost at once the headache began to subside. It had been like this since the Tenaru engagement on Guadalcanal where, as Regimental Surgeon, I was nearly killed by a grenade fragment. It penetrated my skull and lodged precariously in the subarachnoid space. With a little rest the periodic headaches vanished like magic. In the circumstances, I was very lucky indeed.
I had been advised to avoid a vigorous practice, so I took the opening at Southport’s new general hospital. Like Conan Doyle’s celebrated Watson, I came home from the war something of an invalid, keeping my professional boot in the door.
I lay there several minutes listening to the muffled wind outside portending an approaching storm. Then I heard hasty footsteps, and the starchy unmistakable swish-wish of approaching nurses from out in the hall. They came into the room and began whispering together like pretty witches on a heath.
“Are you sure we can get it?”
I recognized Miss Kirk, our Central Supply nurse.
Another one whispered. “We can get it, Kirk, but do you really think we ought to do this?”
“That’s what I’m wondering,” said still a third. “Don’t you feel this is going a little too far, Kirk?”
Now the whole group erupted into a chorus of dissenting feminine whispers.
“Oh, look, you kids... Hush!” Miss Kirk was exasperated. “It’s all in fun. How about what she did to me? I didn’t get mad. Remember after the hospital opened last March — she put that spider on my bed? It almost scared me to death. Oh, no. I owe little Norma a good one. She’s probably cooking things up for me right this minute.”
There was a moment of silence. Now I was too embarrassed to get up. If I moved, the chaise would creak, so I lay still and waited, faintly annoyed.
The furtive conversation was resumed, mostly in hoarse, indistinct whispers until one of them said, “All right, Kirk. I’ll go along. I hope you know what you’re doing.”
This acquiescence broke up the meeting and they moved to the doorway where someone said, “Count me out, girls.”
As their footsteps retreated down the hall, I heard Miss Kirk again. “All right, Phyllis. You’re out. Now, who’s going to ask Bleeker...” I heard no more. Little Miss Kirk. I never heard her voice again. Not ever.
I got up yawning, rubbing my face with both hands. I smiled indulgently. Good kids, I thought. Our nurses were good kids. I wondered idly what they were up to. Then I forgot about it for the moment.
I opened a blind and stood looking out at the prospect. It was heavily overcast, and the wind was mounting. While this part of South-port had better homes, they were somewhat scattered over a vast desolate woodland area. It wasn’t raining yet, but toward the east the sky was black and menacing. Truly, the shape of things to come.
Perhaps the weather induced me to pick on my laboratory staff that afternoon. I wound up a tirade with my chief technician. “You’re in charge of this lab, Bleeker. You’ve got two girls under you. Keep them on the ball. Joan’s on vacation, so Millie will have to bear down a little until she comes back.
“Millie’s getting careless. She does good work, but she leaves glassware all over the place. I don’t like it; Mr. Conrad doesn’t like it. After all, he is the superintendent. You know, being your sweetheart doesn’t excuse Millie...”
“No, sir. But you’re my boss, not Conrad. He doesn’t have to be such a snoop. The creep.”
“Conrad’s not such a bad sort,” I protested. “He’s responsible for this entire hospital — you know that. Don’t worry; run this lab properly and I’ll back you to the limit. Don’t forget, Conrad’s got to answer to the board of directors.”
“Yes, sir.” Bleeker started to scratch again but caught himself and pretended to reach in his pocket.
I leaned back in my chair and regarded the golden haired beauty at the other end of the lab. She was browsing through Todd and Sanford while waiting for a solution to come to temperature, and she was looking very pretty doing it.
“And Bleeker...”
“Sir?”
I lowered my voice. “This is a small hospital. I know Millie is a very attractive girl, and that you’re engaged. But you’re going to start a scandal. Go somewhere else besides my chaise longue to hold hands.”
“But, Dr. Claude, I haven’t—”
“Oh, come on, Bleeker. I haven’t always been silver-haired and fifty-five, you know. Here — I found this on my favorite headache chair.” I handed him one of Millie’s scented handkerchiefs with the big M in the corner.
I laughed. “And don’t tell her I found it. Enough said?”
Early that evening the storm broke and raged far into the night. About two a.m., it settled into a steady cadent downpour. Sharp exploding thunder and frequent arc-bright flashes of lightning had subsided to the horizon where feverish veins persisted along with heavy intermittent rumbling.
That’s when they brought in Norma Walden. I recall the details of that tragic morning only too clearly. It was mere chance that I happened to be around. Really, it was something for the resident to handle, but this time I meddled a little.
My bachelor’s room was a little cul-de-sac off the laboratory. I had slept a few hours when the grumbling of thunder awakened me. I went prowling to the dining room for a midnight forage and a chat with the night nurses, then wound up in an argument with the orderly about the battle of Savo Island. He’d been on the Vincennes when she was blasted from under him.
With happy malice I had awakened Shelley, the resident, and we played chess in the doctor’s lounge until two. He had gone back to his room when I started up the corridor past the silent Ward 3. I was about to swing into the lab when a group of girls appeared in the hallway.
They were coming from the front lobby, pushing a wheel chair. Miss Kirk was among them. Hers was the voice I had recognized in Physiotherapy the day before.
We met under the light outside Ward 2. They were all Southport nurses. Miss Kirk and the girl in the wheel chair were dressed in pajamas and bathrobe; the other two were in street clothes.
I looked at the figure in the wheel chair more closely and at first did not recognize Norma Walden, day nurse from OB.
She sat frigidly, hands together in her lap, fingers locked securely. Her blonde hair was in violent disarray and her face was a staring mask of psychogenic despair. Except for occasional jerking of fingers, she made no sign of life. Her pupils were enormously dilated. Across her upper lip I saw a curious rusty streak, like an absurd, painted moustache.