The Alcoholics (4 page)

"Must have dropped that," he said, "when you were there-last night."

He grinned at her, started down the stairs. "See me right after breakfast, eh, Miss Baker?"

"Yeth, thir," said Lucretia Baker, her voice a thin whisper. "R-right-right after breakfast, Doctor Murphy."

All his impulses had inclined him to shove Nurse Baker into her room, shake her until her teeth rattled, paddle her little round butt until she couldn't sit down, herd her out of the house and hurl her clothes after her. That was what he had wanted to do, and a man less strong-willed-a man lacking the perfect self-control which he had so definitely demonstrated-would have done
that
. Which, of course, would have been the worst thing he could do.

She was a sick woman: reason had told him that as it cried down the rage that prompted him to smack her. So for once-oh, hell, not just once; he didn't blow up very often-he held onto his temper in the face of genuine outrage. He had done exactly the right thing.

She was sick. The sick should be cured, not punished. He had taken the first step toward that cure. He had shown the damned nasty little stinker-this sick woman-that he was wise to her goddam-that he was aware of her ailment and yet was not angry with her. He had edged the matter out of the shadowed and secret recesses of her mind. Another such nudge or two, and it would be out in the open. If she didn't fly into a defensive rage.

Doctor Murphy carelessly knotted a tie around the neck of his short-sleeved sport shirt, raked his fingers through his hair until it assumed some semblance of order and stuffed a couple of clean handkerchiefs into his pockets. He let his grin fade, deliberately, and stared pugnaciously at himself in the mirror.

Washed up? Who you talking about, bud?

Well? You got fifteen grand in your keister? Anything to keep the bank from tossing you out of here with a few days' grace period?

Now, look. I don't have time to argue with you. I've got work to do, see? I've got to be thinking out something on this sick woman- -or is she just a degenerate? I've got all these alcoholics-

Oh, sure, sure. And what the hell's all that going to get you?

What'll it-who the hell said it would get me anything?

Listen, you stupid jerk! Face the facts. Do you want to keep this place going or not? Damned if I know why you would, but do-

You know the answer to that.

Then there's just one thing for you to do. Start thinking about a nice round sum from the Van Twyne farm-

You think I'd do that, just because the family's fed up-afraid to give him the thirty-seventy chance the operation entitles him to? You think I'd keep a man buried here alive, a hopeless imbecile, just because his family is willing to pay for it?

I said I wasn't going to think about it, now, and by God I'm not!

Doctor Murphy gave his image a stern conclusive nod. He turned toward the door. A young man stood there, leaning against the casing, grinning at him.

"Sorry to walk in on you, Doc," he said. "Guess you didn't hear me knock."

"I see," said Doctor Murphy. "And did it occur to you to wait until I did hear you?"

He was, appearances to the contrary, something of a stickler for formality. He liked good manners; except when they were sodden, he usually found those good manners practiced by alcoholics. And this man was very far from sodden. It was unlikely that his system still retained any of the alcohol which had been in it upon his arrival the day before.

The young man chuckled, brushing aside the rebuke. "You've got to fix me up, Doc. Boy, if I don't get a drink fast I'm going to fall apart."

The doctor nodded slowly. He suddenly appeared to be charmed and intrigued by his visitor. "Had quite a bender, eh? Well, I guess when you advertising men hang one on, you really hang it on."

The young man said they did. And how!

"Don't have to worry about your job, eh? If they don't like it at that place, there's plenty of other places that will?"

"Well, I don't want to brag, Doc, but I can tell you this. Drunk
or
sober, I can still do a hell of a lot better than…"

He proceeded to brag, while the doctor casually pushed up the sleeve of his hospital bathrobe and took his pulse. He had no doubt that the young man's boasts were true, or almost true. Alcoholics
had
to be good. They lost time from their jobs. They were guilty of disgusting and atrocious acts. Thus, if they were to survive in their professions or jobs, to be tolerated by the world they so frequently outraged, they had to work and think harder than normal people.

So this man probably was very good at his work now. He probably was very much in demand. Five or ten years from now… well, that would be another matter. A man's ability availed him nothing if he could not stop drinking long enough to use it. All his talents were worthless if people were afraid to hire him.

"First trip to a sanitarium, Mr.-uh-Sloan?"

"Make it Jeff, Doc… Yep, first trip. Usually, you know, I don't want any more after the second or third day. I'm not sick at my stomach exactly; just feel like I've had enough. But this time, I-"

"Uh-huh. I think I understand, Jeff. So I'll tell you what you'll have to do. Get sobered up completely; rest for a couple days until your nerves are straightened out. Then get back to your job, and never take another drink as long as you live."

Jeff Sloan laughed. "You're kidding, Doc. I can handle it. Didn't I tell you this was the first time I-"

"You'll never be able to handle it again. And this won't be the last time."

"But I've
got
to drink. It's part of my job. I have to meet a lot of people and-"

Doc Murphy couldn't decide whether he was angry or sad. A little of both, he guessed. His nose wrinkled, sniffing the air suspiciously.

"Well, I suppose if you must have a drink…"

"A big one, Doc!"

"I'll give you an ounce, now. If you want more later, you can have it."

Followed by the young man, he walked down the mezzanine until he came to the padlocked door of a one-time linen closet. He unlocked it and stepped inside. He emerged with a shot-glass full of one hundred-proof bourbon. Jeff Sloan gulped it eagerly. Doc handed him a small ivory-colored pill.

"No," he said, answering the suspicious question in the other's eyes. "It won't make you sick at your stomach. It won't put you to sleep."

Sloan tossed the pill into his mouth. He expressed effusive thanks for the drink, and headed down the hall toward his room. A few steps away, he turned grinning and brushed his hand across his forehead in a gesture of exaggerated dismay.

"Say, that's the real stuff, Doc! What brand is it? Think I'll lay in a few bottles when I get home."

"I'll write it down for you," said Doctor Murphy smoothly.

He re-locked the door of the closet, carefully testing the lock afterwards. He went down the stairs, started to enter the dining room, then turned abruptly in the opposite direction. He had almost forgotten about the General. The old boy had, or had had, a constitution like iron but it was being seriously strained.

The General was lying on a table in a small examination room. Doc took his blood pressure, then, since he had no stethoscope with him, he laid his ear against the old soldier's chest and listened to his heart.

He straightened again, frowning indecisively.

"Well, Doctor. Would you say I was alive?"

"Oh, nothing as bad as that," said the doctor. "I was just wondering what to embalm you with."

"Mmm." The General pursed his lips thoughtfully. "If I might make a suggestion, I believe that one of the time-tested fluids is-"

Doc laughed, tapered the laugh into a severe frown. He was going to have to stop clowning with the patients, dammit. What the hell was he running, a circus or a sanitarium? It was all right to joke a little, but this incessant gabbing and horsing around was going out the window. As of right now!

He rang the bell for Rufus, stepping out into the hall when he heard the attendant approach.

"The General is pretty run-down," he said, dropping his voice. "How's our plasma holding up?"

"Well-uh-uh-" Rufus started to scratch his head, then quickly dropped his hand as doc's eye caught his. "Why'n't we sock him with insoolim, Doctuh? 'At start 'im to eatin' good."

"Don't think he can take an insulin shock," said the doctor, nodding appreciation for the suggestion. Rufus had plenty on the ball, if he'd only use it. All that had got him sore with Rufus was the latter's bollixing around with that correspondence school crap instead of using his very good common sense. "Guess we'd better make it plasma."

"How about goo-clothes? We 'travenize him, huh, Doctuh? Give him nice goo-clothes brek'fuss-"

"Glucose!" snapped Doctor Murphy. "Can't you remember anything at all? Not goo-clothes, for Christ's sake! Glucose! G-l-u-c-o- -"

"Yes, suh," said Rufus, quickly. "I go get it right away."

"You will not! And stop telling me what to do, dammit! His system won't burn up a good load of glucose, so… Oh." he said tiredly. "No plasma? They didn't-wouldn't fill our order?"

"Yes, suh. Sure would stop tradin' with that outfit, if I was you, Doctuh. Ain't a bit dependable no more."

"Yeah. Well…"

"Doctuh… Maybe-well, me'n General's same type, an'-an' if he wouldn't mind takin' blood from-"

Doc Murphy let out a happy roar. "Mind? Why in hell should he? Why-"

"Why, indeed?" called a reedy voice from the examination chamber. "He would, on the contrary, be delighted, grateful and-uh- flattered."

Rufus beamed. Doctor Murphy clapped him on the back.

"Go on and get breakfast over with-General, you lie there and rest; we'll see you in thirty minutes or so-and… Miss Baker down yet?"

"No, suh. She havin' some coffee in her room."

"Good! I mean-uh-well, good."

They walked down the hall together, the doctor apologizing-very handsomely, he felt-for his tirade of the day before. The trouble with Rufus, he declared, was that Rufus couldn't take a joke. Not that Rufus hadn't deserved an A-1 ass-eating, understand, but-but hell!

"Murph!"

"Oh, oh." Doc paused in front of a partly opened door. "Put my breakfast on the table, Rufus. I'll-"

"Murph! Come in here at once, you hideous beast!"

Rufus went on.

Doctor Murphy went in.

He sat down on the edge of the woman's bed, listened to a throaty, tearful and seemingly interminable denunciation of himself, his employees, his hospital, the motion picture industry, the income-tax bureau, the Republicans, the Democrats, the-everything that manic depressive, alcoholic Susan Kenfield could think of-all delivered with beautiful if occasionally inappropriate gestures.

Her hair was snow-white, but her great brown eyes, her face and her body (a considerable area of which was exposed) were those of a woman in her early thirties. At least, one would have to look at her long and closely to suspect that they were not. Just how old she was, Doc could only guess. Probably around forty, he believed, since she had been playing character parts for more than twenty years.

The throaty, perfectly enunciated flood of words began to ebb. Doc patted her affectionately on the bottom.

"Feel better now? Anything else on your mind?"

"Well-well, that perfectly beastly Judson, Murph! I lay here losing my mind for want of sleep, and all I asked for was one teeny nembutal-"

"He couldn't give it to you, Suzy. You were loaded already."

"Well… And you, you heartless beast! You didn't even kiss me goodnight!"

"Well, that," said Doctor Murphy, "will never do."

He smacked her soundly on one firm alabaster cheek. He drew away firmly as her arms sought to circle his shoulders.

"Now, I've got to beat it, Suzy. You-"

"Murph…"

"Yeah?"

"Murph, lover, you
are
going to help me, aren't you? Oh, darling, I knew I could count on-"

"Jesus Christ!" snarled Doc. "How hammy can you get?"

"Hammy! Are you accusing me… You must help me, dearest. I warn you! I'll kill myself! I'll…!"

"With what? There's nothing on the market that would kill an old bag like you. If there was, I'd make you a present of it."

"A b-bag!" Miss Kenfield rolled her great eyes, imploring the heavens to witness this heresy. "This so-called man of mercy calls me a- -a-" She choked on the terrible word. Doctor Murphy spoke it for her.

"A bag. Why, goddam you, Suzy, if you weren't so damned heavy I'd toss your tail right out that window!"

"H-heavy," Miss Kenfield wept. "
Heavy!
Oh, y-you fiend! Y-you-"

"Did I get you drunk? Hell, no! I couldn't get you drunk if I wanted to. You were never by God more sober than-"

"You cad! Beast!"

"Did I get you pregnant? No, again. All I've ever got out of you is a big fat headache-yes, all, by God! Your goddamned fees haven't been enough to pay for my aspirin. And yet you've got the guts to come to me and ask for an abortion! You know what you can do, Suzy? Go --yourself!"