“Promise?” she demanded.
“Yes.”
She smiled, nodded, slept.
4
Captain Delaney was detained by another demonstration at the embassy. By the time he got it squared away and the chanting marchers shunted off into side streets, it was late afternoon and almost time for Barbara’s operation. He had one of the precinct squad cars rush him over to the hospital. He knew it was a breach of regulations, but he determined to make a full report on it, explaining the circumstances, and if they wanted to discipline him, they could.
He hurried up to her room, sweating under his longjohns and uniform jacket. They were wheeling her out as he arrived; he could only kiss her pale cheek and smile at her. She was on a cart, bundled up in blankets, the tube still attached to her arm, the jar of feeding fluid high on a rod clamped to the cart.
He left her on the second floor where the operating rooms were located. There was also a recovery ward, offices of physicians and surgeons, a small dispensary, and a large waiting room painted a bilious green and furnished with orange plastic couches and chairs. This brutal chamber was presided over by a handsome nurse, a woman of about 40, buxom, a blonde who kept poking tendrils of hair back under her starched cap.
Delaney gave his name, and she checked a frighteningly long list on her desk.
“Mrs. Barbara Delaney?”
“Yes.”
“Captain, it will be another half-hour until the operation. Then Mrs. Delaney will go to the recovery ward. You won’t be allowed to see her until she’s returned to her room, and then only if her doctor approves.”
“That’s all right. I’ll wait. I want to talk to the surgeon after the operation is finished.”
“Well…” she said doubtfully, consulting her list. “I’m not sure you’ll be able to. Dr. Spencer has two more scheduled after your wife. Captain, if you’re hungry or want a cup of coffee, why don’t you go downstairs to the cafeteria? Our paging system is connected there, and I can always call if you’re needed.”
“A good idea,” he nodded approvingly. “Thank you. I’ll do that. Do you happen to know if Dr. Bernardi is in the hospital?”
“I don’t know, sir, but I’ll try to find out.”
“Thank you,” he said again.
The food in the hospital cafeteria was, as he expected, wretched. He wondered how long they had to steam it to achieve that spongy texture and uniform color; the string beans were almost the same shiny hue as the mashed potatoes. And it all tasted as bad as it looked. Even liberal sprinklings of salt and pepper couldn’t make the meat loaf taste like anything but wet wallboard. He thought of his wife’s Italian stew, scented and spiced with rosemary, and he groaned.
He finally shoved the dishes away, hardly touched, and had a cup of black coffee and half a dish of chocolate pudding. Then he had another cup of coffee and smoked a cigarette. He was sweltering in the overheated cafeteria, but he never considered unhooking his choker collar. It wouldn’t look right in public. He reflected on how you could always spot old cops, even in a roomful of naked men. The cops had a ring of blue dye around their necks: a lifetime of wearing that damned choker collar.
He returned to the waiting room on the second floor. The nurse told him she had located Dr. Bernardi; he was gowned and observing the kidney operation on Mrs. Delaney. The Captain thanked her and went out to the public telephone in the hall. He called the precinct. Lieutenant Rizzo had the duty and reported nothing unusual, nothing that required the Captain’s attention. Delaney left the extension number of the waiting room in case he was needed.
He went back in, sat down, and looked around. There was an elderly Italian couple sitting on a couch in a corner, holding hands and looking scared. There was a young man standing propped against a wall, his face vacant. He was smoking a cigarette that threatened to burn his fingers. Seated on a plastic chair was a mink-clad matron, face raddled, showing good legs and a wattled neck. She seemed to be making an inventory of the contents of her alligator handbag.
Delaney was next to an end table scattered with magazines. He picked up a six-months-old copy of “Medical Progress,” flipped through it, saw he could never understand it, put it aside. Then he sat solidly, silently, and waited. It was the detectives’ art. Once, on a stake-out, he had sat in a parked car for 14 hours, relieving himself in an empty milk carton. You learned to wait. You never got to like it, but you learned how to do it.
A few things happened. The big, buxom nurse went off duty and was replaced by a woman half her size: a tough, dark, surprisingly young Puerto Rican girl with glowing eyes, a brisk way of moving, a sharp way of talking. She took all their names and why they were there. She straightened magazines on the tables. She emptied ashtrays. Then, unexpectedly, she sprayed the room with a can of deodorant and opened a window. The room began to cool; Delaney could have kissed her.
The vacant-faced young man was called and slouched out, staring at the ceiling. The mink-clad matron suddenly stood, wrapped her coat tightly about her, and pushed through the door without speaking to the nurse. The elderly Italian couple still sat patiently in the corner, weeping quietly.
New arrivals included a stiff, white-haired gentleman leaning on a cane. He gave his name to the nurse, lowered himself into a chair, and immediately fell asleep. Then there was a pair of hippie types in faded jeans, fringed jackets, beaded headbands. They sat cross-legged on the floor and began to play some game with oversize cards whose design Delaney could not fathom.
Finally he let himself glance at the wall clock. He was shocked to see it so late, He hurried to the desk and asked the nurse about his wife. She dialed, asked, listened, hung up. “Your wife is in the recovery ward.”
“Thank you. Can you tell me where Dr. Spencer is, so I can talk to him?”
“You should have asked before. Now I have to call again.” He let her bully him. “I’m sorry,” he said.
She called, asked, hung up.
“Dr. Spencer is operating and not available.”
“What about Dr. Bernardi?” he said doggedly, not at all fazed by her furious glare.
Again she called, asked, spoke sharply to the person on the other end, then punched the phone down.
“Dr. Bernardi has left the hospital.”
“What? What?”
“Dr. Bernardi has left the hospital.”
“But he-”
At that moment the door to the waiting room slammed back. It hit the wall with the sound of a pistol shot. Thinking of it later, Delaney decided that from that moment on, the night simply exploded and went whirling away.
It was the mink-clad matron, her wrinkled face crimson. “They’re killing him!” she screamed. “They’re killing him!” The little nurse came from behind her desk. She reached for the distraught woman. The matron raised one fur-covered arm and clubbed her down.
The others in the room looked up. Dazed. Bewildered. Frightened. Delaney rose lightly to his feet.
“They’re killing him!” the woman screamed.
The nurse scrambled up, rushed out the door.
Delaney moved very slowly toward the hysterical woman.
“Oh yes,” he said in a voice deliberately dulled, slowed. “They’re killing him. Oh yes,” he nodded.
The woman turned to him. “They’re killing him,” she repeated, not yelling now but pulling at the loose skin beneath her chin.
“Oh yes,” Delaney kept nodding. “Oh yes.”
He, to whom touching a stranger was anathema, knew from experience how important physical contact was in dealing with irrational or maddened people.
“Oh yes,” he kept repeating, nodding his head but never smiling. “I understand. Oh yes.”
He put a hand lightly, tentatively, on her furred arm.
“Oh yes,” he kept nodding. “Oh yes.”
She looked down at the hand on her arm, but she didn’t throw him off.