Flash and Filigree (6 page)

“It’s a Maidestone,” she said brightly enough, “an original. Dr. Maidestone designed it, and it was set up by Talbots. Dr. Maidestone. He was head of the department for years, a brilliant man. He’s dead now, he died in 1943.”

At the slightest waver in the young man’s smile and a tilt of his head, she went on at once. “All our small-ray therapy, of course, is Aldridge.” The young man nodded, and Nurse Jackson closed the book completely.

“Oh, I was in purchasing,” she said, almost darkly, yet allowed him his smile. “That was ten years ago.”

Actually it was thirteen years ago, just to that very day, that the Clinic had centralized its buying, Previously, the twelve various departments of the Clinic had received the salesmen, seen their catalogues of ware, and through these salesmen had given their orders—to suppliers who were paid later by the administrator, Mr. Rogers, upon presentation of their bills at his office. Then, the departments were in turn responsible for submitting their invoices, and tallying in on their departmental allowances—to Mr. Rogers, whose burden, it must be said, was even at that point particularly felt, since the Clinic might have accounts with as many as thirty-seven different firms at once, the invoices continually being forgot or misplaced by the departments, and their allowance overstepped, padded or whatnot—and
especially
felt, since he, Mr. Rogers, must report quarterly to the board, a group of public-spirited businessmen who had, in the early days, lent Dr. Hauptman a great deal of money. And subsequent to the extension of certain government health programs, of discount and subsidy, to include such private institutions as this Clinic, the pressure of the board, on Mr. Rogers in his confused relationship with departmental spending had caused that poor man’s mind, as it was, one evening before the board, being layed open layer by layer, to flip. So that he had to spend two months in a rest-home in Arizona. And it was during his absence that there developed the practice of centralized buying, through a sole agent, which as it happened, was the newly appointed head nurse, Eleanor Thorne. Now the procedure was established that a department would make known its needs by memorandum to Nurse Thorne’s office, which would first record it against the department’s quarterly allowance, then place an order with Aldridge or National Hospital, two of the largest hospital supply houses in the world. The resultant shipment would be received by this same general office, opened, the invoice removed, re-checked on the department’s allowance sheet, and finally carried, invoice and package, by Albert, the ward-boy, around to the department concerned, where the invoice, hardly leaving Albert’s hand for the purpose, was initialed by that department-head, and delivered on to the administrator, Mr. Rogers’ office.

This procedure was practice, not policy, since it had never been formally revealed to the board. And while it was yet within the prerogative of individual department-heads to order independently of Nurse Thorne, there had been, of such, only a few, isolated cases during the past 13 years.

“Oh we can do better than that now I’m sure,” Beth Jackson was saying to the young man, for he was only blotting. “The circulation,” she said indistinctly, and next was on her knees giving his feet and ankles a vigorous rub. When they were quite, possibly painfully, red, she swaddled the heavy towel there and raised her eyes to his own. “There now!” she exclaimed with too much finality if she were to remain an instant longer on her knees. “This is pneumonia weather,” she promised in retreat, “whether you know it or not!”

He nodded, laughing softly out of politeness, he who could have been as young as the boy she had lost in the war. So she half rose, leaving the towel gathered in warmth around his feet, and herself to turn away holding two small socks in her hand, which she gave a squeeze—not exactly perfunctory, standing bent above the electric-heater, alone, but a squeeze too gentle really for the one drop that fell and broke the image, that glittered incurvation as held her own twice wrought face in burning image, broken there, in reflection, at the cheek by the sizzling thin-arc of one, so natural, breaking drop. And she hung these socks on the edge of his chair, toward the electric heater, to dry.

What was the most understandable upshot of this interlude was, in the end, Beth Jackson’s having placed an order with the young man for six crockery basins for her department. And this shipment had arrived at Nurse Thorne’s office. Not as an important package but as one unexpected, opening it became something like the days before centralized buying when opening the packages always held some suspended interest of the surprises at Christmas. But, what with the breach of policy this package represented, Nurse Thorne quite forgot to remove the invoice, or if she did remove it, forgot that she had done so, and above all, where she had put it—for it occurred to her three days later that she had made no entry on the record. It was then, that after considerable effort, she began to recall exactly the scene in part, of Albert holding the open-top, pine board box to his chest, his white face strained beneath grimace as by some stiff tangle of under surface wire, while there, from where his chin touched, or so she recalled, the one, half-exposed crock, rose a curl of excelsior, bunched as it was in almost concealing, twice-folded, the sea-blue square of the invoice. And then he was gone. Actually, what she did recall was the figure, “10.95,” marked on the remaining half-top of the box in black crayon, and this figure she had entered into the allowance sheet, there, either in contempt or uncertainty, to slur the four ciphers into being very nearly illegible.

“It’s about those crocks, El,” Beth Jackson was saying in Nurse Thorne’s office.

This might have been a question
(Is
it about those crocks?) from the way Eleanor Thorne chose to answer, simply: “Yes, it is, Beth,” regarding her quite seriously, holding a patient smile.

“Oh, you’ve heard then?” asked Beth, assuming that same smile of patience with the other’s guilt.

“What I mean is this, Beth: if we take on accounts with houses that don’t know our procedure here—though a new house, how we could expect them to is beyond me—then there’s bound to be trouble. Do you see my point?”

Whereupon Beth managed a frown. “Why, how do you mean?” she asked.

“Well here for example, what’s your problem over those crocks?”

“Oh, mind I don’t say I have one,” replied fat Beth as airily as had they been speaking of lovers, two pretty girls. But even so saying, her mind’s-eye piqued with an image of gyno and her own Jane Ward, unpacking, as had happened, in Beth’s absence, the box of crocks, excitedly stuffing excelsior down the incinerator-shaft, and along with it, perhaps, the precious fold of invoice. They had never been sure. “The fact is, El, Mr. Rogers asked me to look into it.”

“He’s spoken to you about it then?”

“To tell the truth, Eleanor, I hadn’t given it another thought. Oh, it was odd all right at the time I thought so, granted. But still, it wasn’t any of our business, I said so to Jane, ‘If they’ve found a new way of getting their work in to Mr. Rogers, fine and dandy, it saves you the bother!’ And
that
poor sweet!”

“Your Jane? Jane Ward? She was there then?”

“Jane, the poor mopsy! You know what a stickler she is for procedure—‘red-tape’ I called it to her—I can tell you she was almost in tears. ‘Now you’re to listen,’ I told her, ‘it isn’t our worry I can tell you for sure! We’re here to see to the women, and not for signing scraps and bits of paper every time you turn around! What they want to do about that is nobody’s affair but their own. And that’s what they’re paid for!’ After twenty-eight years I ought to know what my duties are, Eleanor, I told her exactly that!” For this was nine years more than Nurse Thorne could say.

“How was the shipment unpacked, Beth? That may be the answer.”

“Well, of course, it’s a shame I wasn’t there when it did come, though mind I don’t say it would have made a difference in the conditions.”

“No?”

“Oh no, I was at Hillcrest with Dr. Stevens! I thought you knew.”

“Yes, I see.”

“I mean it
was
my day for Hillcrest, you would have known that.”

“Of course. Then it
was
Jane Ward unpacked the shipment?”

“Jane was in a state when I got there. I shouldn’t want this to go any further than the two of us, El, but I think it’s
Albert.
The child’s terrified.”

“Ridiculous!”

“Eleanor, I told her exactly that! But then you know yourself. And she is such a mopsy! ‘Unawakened,’ I call it. Babs too, the darling.”

Jane Ward was the youngest nurse in the Clinic, was, in fact one full year the junior of Babs Mintner, though Babs was the prettier by far.

“Beth, that
is
ridiculous,” repeated Eleanor cautiously, rather pleased.

Beth lowered her voice. “Yes, you mind I’m not blaming Albert, gracious knows, poor devil, he does his job. And El, when I think what must go through that mind of his!”

“Yes,” mused Eleanor, “I suppose.”

“Still in all, we have got the girls to think of now, El, especially Janie and Babs.”

“Barbara? What has she to do with it then?”

“Well, not that exactly. What I mean is, girls at their age, El, you know there’s bound to be some complication. And then on top of it a young man popping up in every direction! It’s only natural. And Babs I believe especially.”

“But why Barbara?” asked Nurse Thorne evenly.

“It wouldn’t be my place to say it, Eleanor, but I simply can’t help not feeling that it isn’t somehow a mistake putting the youngsters alone like that together so often, especially under the conditions.” And so saying, she actually nodded toward the window, even in the general direction of Nurses’ Lounge and the daffodils of Garcia.

“Why how on earth do you mean?” said Eleanor too shrilly.

“Well, here’s my point, Eleanor: the girls are cooped in here the whole day with all old sick fuddies—then a young man pops up! Somebody their own age—like this morning, exactly. If you could have seen our Babs! I’ll tell you she was on pins and needles the whole time. I don’t know when I’ve seen a youngster so upset!”

“Yes, this
morning,
” said Eleanor, taking a lighter view, “of course that was unfortunate I admit, Beth, I was held up at Bullock’s. But then ask yourself, how often is it to happen at that?”

“Often enough I should say from what I’ve seen,” returned Beth with dignity.

“What, an intoxication case in the morning? Really, Beth,” said Eleanor with a strange laugh, “you don’t mean it!”

“How’s that?” cried Beth, slightly raucous at being so off guard, but just as quick, so knowingly arch as her bulk and her great padded brows could manage, even so as not to be left out entirely, she said in a fine voice: “And who’s been at it this time if I may ask?”

“Why no, Beth, who are you thinking of then, not Mr. Edwards’ boy from the college?”

“Ralph Edwards, of course, Eleanor, who else
would
it be?”

“Well! Yes, well, I couldn’t say, of course, there may be something to it at that, Beth, what do you think?”

“I’ll tell you what I think, El,” said Beth grandly, “I think our girls have a crush on the young man. Unless I’m
very much
mistaken,” she added, as though she almost never were.

“Jane too then?” said Eleanor favoring another subject.

“What else?” asked Beth, as if now at last, they lay, all of them, really helpless before the man.

There followed a pause that seemed to expand with Beth’s own growing anticipations, and Eleanor cleared her throat to speak plainly. “I don’t know, Beth. Have you thought about this at all?”

“Why, how do you mean?”

“No. I mean, is there anything you can suggest?”

“Well yes, El,” said Beth, emphatic enough, though clearly she was improvising, “what I’m wondering now is this: when I’ve a day at Hillcrest, oughtn’t I to take my Jane along? After all, we’ve got to get in her General sometime, and heavens we could use her, you’ve no idea!”

When Nurse Thorne agreed to take this up at first opportunity with Dr. Charles, head of the Clinic, the two women passed on to the subject of this old man himself and his coming retirement, following which they spoke briefly, and somewhat on the oblique, of his possible successor, seemingly the most likely of which was Dr. Eichner, of whom at 49 they said, “comparatively young,” and as Beth Jackson pointed up, “on the very threshold of his career.”

There was then no further mention of the crocks as the talk of the women grew vague, themselves drifting apart, toward their own specifics, as in distraction to all the windows’ changing light, dying brilliance of the outside day—for whereas had a hundred swift young clouds, unmothered things and dear, each small and white as snow, sailed high throughout the earliest sky, completely free, to rise and sail even above the sun itself, or so it seemed, and roam the reaches of a day that never left off brilliance, as though themselves distraitly unaware, had flown too fast, were small and dear, grown so hot at mid-day, and fell with falling afternoon, through lassitude, or knew not what to do but lay all huddled now as if almost asleep beneath the sun—and this had filled the western sky with shadow.

At the station, the patrolmen turned in their report and stood together now with Dr. Eichner, before the precinct head, Captain Howie “Dutch” Meyer. After reading the report, from which, time after time, he left off, simply to look up at the accused Dr. Eichner, the Captain, a small, gray man, well past the retirement age, cocked his head and made his eyes start out, as though to crane over beyond his glasses. “Well, well,” he said—and in this he resembled nothing so much as some veteran film-actor celebrated for his handling of character roles—“
Well, well, well!
How long you been in this country, Mister?” And before the Doctor could reply, if, indeed, he would have to such seeming irrelevance, the Captain, resting on his elbows, raised both hands, palms flat together, before his face, which was set with a patronizing, almost brotherly smile, and spoke the Doctor’s name, greatly exaggerating the guttural of it: “EICHNER,” and continued in a bored, flat voice where he tried to nail each word with irritation and amusement. “What are you, Doctor? Dutch or German-Jew?”