The Alcoholics (3 page)

And last night!

Ah, last night!

Throwing open the French doors of her room, she stood naked in the cool-gray light of dawn, drinking in the tangy air of the Pacific. She looked out past the balcony and down the cliff, seeing the hunched red-tipped speck that was Doctor Murphy, reveling in the childish, age-old joy of seeing without being seen. In her imagination-a very vivid, much-practiced instrument-she mounted the balustrade of the balcony and called to him, sweetly in the voice of Circe, sweet but imperious, a Salammbo commanding the barbarian. And he came to her, scrambling up the rocks; and suddenly he was there, his feet and hands somehow bound, stretched helplessly on the bed.

She bent over him (in her imagination). She let her full breasts brush back and forth across his face.

"Well," she whispered, "don't you like me? Ith there thumpthing wrong, Doctor?"

She shivered delightedly. The scene changed.

Now, it was she who lay bound and helpless; and it was the doctor who bent over her. And if she was helpless. well, if a person was

helpless, how could she…? A brief wave of sickness, nausea, swept over her. Her imagination, vivid and much-practiced as it was, would go no further.

She sat down on the bed and lighted a cigarette. She tried to reason with herself, to squeeze out past the door of inhibition which always, when she was on the point of escape, crushed so cruelly and firmly against her… A doctor would be all right. Doctors had always been all right. Wasn't it a doctor who had been nice to Mama, all those years when no one else had been nice? Well. There you were. Doctors were different.

Doctors were all right.

She showered in luke-warm water, then turned the cold faucet on full, letting it beat for minutes against the molded curves of buttocks and belly. She took a great many cold showers, and usually they helped; she supposed, anyway, that she might have felt much more unease without them. But even if it had helped this morning, that help fell far short of the aid she needed.

Less than thirty minutes before she had felt relaxed and joyous, ready for anything. Now, there was no joy in her, only the old, never- satisfied hunger, and it was as if she had never rested.

And it was
his
fault! It was always
their
fault! It had been
their
fault with Mama, the mean, wicked, dirty things.
They
had killed Mama-always demanding, and giving nothing in return…

Miss Baker dressed in her clean white uniform, her spotless white shoes and stockings. Eyes sparkling strangely, she pinned a white, blue-edged cap upon her brown brushed bright hair.

Last night was just a beginning. It was just a sample of what she would give him. It was
his
fault, and…

And why wait until tonight?

In the long hospital day, there is no firm conjunction of one shift with another. Their edges come together raggedly, notably with the ending of the night and the beginning of the day. Feet drag; there is much thoughtful drinking of coffee. Departures are prompt, arrivals late or present only in the flesh. Six o'clock, for all practical purposes, means six-fifteen or six-thirty.

No harm comes of this circumstance. Patients who have not rested well are now fatigued and asleep. Those who have rested are well able to wait upon the satisfaction of their needs and wants. And, naturally, where a real emergency exists, it will be promptly-if sleepily- provided for.

Patient is in convulsions? Oh, God,
another one?
Well, give him paraldehyde-two ounces. Paraldehyde orally, ACTH intravenously.

Patient is in a coma? Caffeine, benzedrine, oxygen.

Patient's heart has stopped? Nicotinic acid. Jab your finger up his butt.

Patient is violent? Hyocsin, restraints.

Then…?

Nothing then. That is all, brother. We can only sprinkle talcum over the cancer. Convulse if you must. Remain in your coma. Let your heart stutter and stop. You won't die, not permanently; only for a few hours, days, a week. The great crazy-colored snakes will coil around you, crawl lazily from your eyes, your ears, and mouth and nose. And you will slide around the wall of your room, clawing, and striking and screaming, and your heart will fail and your eyes glaze and your limbs will stiffen. And you will be dead-but not dead. Only dying. And for such a short time, brother. Think! You need only die this death for a maximum of a week. And then it will all be over… until the next time… But, to return to Lucretia Baker, R.N., the sanitarium was still silent as she crept out of her room. The halls were still empty. She breathed quietly, listening, and heard only the faint, faraway clatter of Josephine and her kitchen utensils. She closed her door without a sound. There were only three rooms in this wing of the house; her own, the diathermy and X-ray chamber, and Room Four. Moving swiftly down the hall, her footsteps silent on the ribbed rubber matting, she paused briefly in front of a heavy oak door with a single nickeled numeral. Then, she pulled the bolt-there was no lock on the inside-and thrust all her weight against it.

She opened it just enough to allow her to enter; and once inside, she blocked it open with a small wooden door-stop she had brought from her own room. That would allow her to leave quickly-to hear anyone coming up the stairs. And she didn't need to worry about
him
. He
couldn't
call for anyone.

The room was windowless. The walls and floor were of underpadded canvas. The one item of furniture was a low, formicatopped table, its legs bolted to the floor
.

He lay on the table, an oval oblong of damp white sheets, held in place by the straps which also held him motionless. Miss Baker inspected the wrappings and was momentarily frightened. Someone had re-done them. That Judson! Would he…? But they wouldn't think that. Why would anyone think that about her?

She looked down at the white-bandaged head, held level with the cocoon of sheets by a stack of pillows. Van Twyne's eyes were open. They looked unblinkingly into hers in a blank uncomprehending stare. Then, they blinked, and something crept up through the blankness.

He recognized her. He knew what she'd done. But he would not remember long; and, at any rate, he was virtually as powerless to speak as a newborn baby.

He
was
a baby, in fact. A big, old mean helpless baby. Couldn't even talk, the nasty, lazy thing!

Terror was crowding into his eyes, stretching the lids, making the whites greater and greater. They rolled in his head, wildly. And his lips moved, his mouth opened and closed-in silence.

Miss Baker laughed merrily.

She took a folded hand-towel from her pocket-oh, yes, yes, she had come well-prepared-and placed it over his mouth. He tried to bite into it, but she knew exactly what to do about that. She gripped his nose between her thumb and forefinger and squeezed the nostrils shut. He began to smother.

"That'll fixth you, you nathty thing!" Miss Baker whispered. "Thtupid, that's what you are! Lazy, bad, thtupid man! Don't even know your own name, do you?"

She had to force herself to remove the gag, to take away her fingers. The sweet agony in her loins was racing to a climax, and in a few more seconds-
oh, thweet heaven, just a few more!-
she would… But she did not have those seconds. The mean, stupid thing was strangling.

She looked down at him, all fairness now, her own pleasure merely a necessary potential of a job to be done.

"Tell me your name," she whispered. "If you don't tell me your name, I'll have to…" She waited. She lowered the towel. She reached for his nose. "Very well. In that cathe, I have no choice but to…"

The smothering began, again. Again Miss Baker's body trembled with a hot orgiastic tide. "T-tell me"-she panted: she was breathing for both of them-"Tell-me-your-name…" And the billion uncohered images of Van Twyne's subconscious hurled frenziedly against themselves; they struggled upward, seeking a new exit for the one that was strangely absent. They broke through into nothingness, into a patterniess uncharted void: just as the exit had been missing, so now was the pattern. Unguided, unrelated, each struggled and shrieked for command; and yet, gradually, a kind of order-a kind of super-chaos-emerged from the chaos…

"Name?" He tried, the images coming from way, way back.
Huh-huh huh-huhwhoooah
…

"Name?" Name, things, words. And his mind sweating.
Huh-huh-huh-c-a-t, man. C-A-T, Man?

"Name?" A rush, a void, a meaningful meaninglessness.
Huh-huh-huh, sugar, honey, darling, dear, mama's little mannowilayme goddamlilsnob on, daddy DADDY? what you do to me I said so didn't I well who the hell are you think because you're assdeep in dough you can
.

"Name?" Everything, everything he ever remembered, mixed up with all the nothing.

Multiply the diameter times pi which gives us well how would you have it if we are to employ the Socratic method the world according to weighs six sextillion four hundred and fifty quintillion short tons and youcanhaveit brother and if we are to believe the theory of Malthus you'd better talk fast YOU'D BETTER TALK FAST!

"Name?" The name didn't matter, but something else did.
Hum phayin humpty-dumpty Hum phvantwythird. HUMPHREY VAN TWYNE Thir sure, sure you are and I'm Henry the Eighth I'm Mr. God and this is my oldest boy Jesus now let's be reasonable, sergeant, I'm really if I can make a telephone call
.

"Name?" It was hot and he had to do something.

Nownownow NOW GET WISE HUMPY BOY. You want to hang onto your machinery, what there is left of it? Well, you'd better start popping off, then, and I'm crapping you negative. You want to leave with

Balls?

Still sore aren't they? That little bitch.

BALLS?

Remember them, all right, don't you? And why not? Ha, ha. How could you forget?

Miss Baker's small body was limp. The fever was gone from her eyes, and her breathing was regular. The sheets were bound tight, terribly tight. Tired but happy, she turned away from the table; stooped to remove the doorstop. And then it happened.

"Balls!" shrieked Humphrey Van Twyne III. "Balls, balls,
BALLS!
"

Miss Baker jumped, bumping her head against the edge of the door. She whirled, panic-stricken, and took a few steps toward the table. She ran toward the door again. What-how
could
he? He was mean, nasty and they'd get her and she hadn't done a thing, only tried to-.

He shrieked and kept shrieking, that one terrible word. Shrieked, deafeningly, as though he would never stop.

She snatched up the doorstop, squeezed through the slowly closing door, and ran madly down the hall. She was barely inside her own room, when Doctor Murphy and Rufus, the former in the lead, came pounding up the stairs. She leaned, fearfully, against her door, listening, listening to the sudden starting and stopping of the shrieks, as the door to Room Four was opened and closed.

They'd know, she thought, terrified.
He'd
know. That room was soundproof. He'd know that she'd been in there.

But maybe… she'd have to try… maybe he wouldn't think of that.
Oh, God, don't let him think of it!

Minutes passed.
Were they talking about her, deciding what should be done with her?
Then, she heard the door of Room Four open, and she opened her own and stepped firmly out into the hallway.

Rufus bobbed his head as he passed her, carrying a white-enamel hypodermic tray. Doctor Murphy sauntered along behind him, still wearing his bathing trunks.

He smiled at her engagingly. "Some fun, eh?"

"I'm awfully thorry to be late, Doctor, but you thee my alarm didn't go off…"

"No harm done," shrugged the doctor. "Wasn't that some yelling, though? Funny. I'd have sworn he didn't have so much as a whisper in him."

"Yeth," said Miss Baker. "It ith odd, ithn't it?"

"Funny that we could hear him, too. Perhaps the noise leaked out through the ventilating system. Never known it to do it before, but- -do you suppose it did, Miss Baker?"

"Well, I thuppoth it-"

"Oh, I forgot. You probably looked in on him for a moment. Didn't you, Miss Baker?"

"Well, I did feel"-
no, no, no
!-"Oh, no thir! I-" The doctor snapped his fingers. "Of course, not. You were still in bed."

"Well, I, uh-I wasn't in bed, egthackly. I was getting dressed, and-"

Doctor Murphy picked up her right hand. He opened the finger of his left hand, and placed a small square of cambric in her palm, folding her hand around that.