Thirteen West (22 page)

They were the only two in the lounge. "You heard how Jay-Jay is?" David asked.

"Dr. Jacobs said he was improving but has a lot of brain damage. We're not getting him back."

"Tough."

"You all right?" Connie asked.

"Yeah—why?"

"You don't act like yourself."

David stared into his coffee without answering.

Connie reached over and touched his arm. "I'm still your friend."

He managed a half-smile. "Thanks, Con." After a moment he added, "She say anything to you?"

"Who?"

"Sally."

"Say anything about what?"

David set his coffee cup aside. "I bombed out with her, you know."

Connie shrugged. "I saw you talking together a lot, that's all."

"Couldn't make it with her. My fault, not hers."

"Maybe you're not bisexual—so what? Neither am I."

"Yeah, only you're happy like you are. My life is shit."

"I love Ramon, otherwise I wouldn't be happy with him," Connie pointed out. "If you're not happy, it could be the person you live with, not the way you live. Have you thought about that?"

"Lots of times. But he—I don't know—seems like I can't break away. Like I'm on a string. He's not so bad—I act like a real shit sometimes."

Connie sighed. Yes, she loved Ramon and would never leave him. But she knew he'd never change, either. The children would grow up and find their own lives but she was Ramon's life, though he wasn't hers.

She smiled a bit sadly at David. "You're okay; I'm okay. What's that make us?"

"Sane, I guess." He managed a grin.

"You better be sure or we got the wrong ones locked up in here."

Alma
came into the lounge, followed by Dr. Jacobs. Connie and David glanced at one another and both rose.

"Don't let us drive you out,"
Alma
said.

"We've taken our break," Connie replied. "I did want to tell you that Mrs. Cobb is—well, I can't say exactly, but something about her bothers me."

"I've had that feeling about patients—I know what you mean,"
Alma
said. "I'll check on her."

Barry waited until the techs left before saying, "Do you realize it'll be Tuesday night before I see you at the beach again?"

Alma
frowned. "Maybe not then either. I'll let you know."

Barry stared at her a moment before muttering, "Forget it."

"Okay, I will," she said equably as she poured two cups of coffee. Handing one to him, she asked, "What about Mrs. Cobb—she going to be a problem?"

"Cobb?"

"The new admit—the schiz."

"Oh, her. Who knows? You tell me."

"Her chart says she was committed at the request of her husband."

Barry nodded. "You can't blame him—he kept waking up at night to find her standing over him with a knife. I sometimes think men and women weren't designed to live together."

"Why, Doctor, and you a psychiatrist!"
Alma
grinned at him.

"Not yet. And I'm not so sure I should be trying to play God when my own life is a mess."

She shrugged. "Nobody's God—except maybe Dr. Fredericks."

Barry laughed harshly. Luba wasn't speaking to him and her silence irritated him even more than her tirades. Now he was being told he couldn't have
Alma
for consolation. Not until—when? Damned if he'd ask her.

The phone rang and
Alma
left to answer it.

"It's the evening supervisor, Ms Dauser," she called to Barry. "An accident on C West."

"Tell her I'm on my way," he said, coming into the nurses' station. "See you."

She waved her hand.

Alma
knew he was bent out of shape—men always got that way after a refusal. Barry was nice, really nice, but their thing was only sex. They both knew that. After having Charlie around the whole weekend she wouldn't want to see Barry for a while. Maybe not at all if she and Charlie came to an agreement. No need for Barry to get uptight about it, not with someone waiting for him at home.

So did she tonight. Would it ever be time to go? Frank wasn't on but then neither was Willie so that canceled out. Hassle free. She picked up Naomi Cobb's chart with a sigh. Probably should give her whatever PRN med she had ordered, just to be on the safe side. No doubt the poor woman felt threatened by her new environment.

* * *

"I really like Sally," David said to Connie as they stood in the day room. "We're a lot alike, you know."

"She's a sweet girl."

"I thought maybe it was enough—to like her."

"Maybe you pushed too fast."

"She'll be gone in another week or so."

"She won't drop off the face of the earth, will she?"

David sighed. "I'll never see her again after she leaves."

Connie thought that was probably the truth. "If you want to you will," she said.

He shook his head. "I'm a loser."

Connie took his arm. "That's no way to talk. You're just depressed right now."

Janet, passing by the door, smirked and wagged her finger at them.

"Old bitch," David muttered.

Connie dropped her hand and stepped back. "She'll be telling everyone we're having an affair."

David smiled. "I don't mind if you don't."

Connie surprised both of them by blushing.

"...I am the talk of those who sit in the gate, and the drunkards make songs about me..." The Preacher intoned from his seat in front of the TV.

"What's he doing still up?" David asked. "Who has him tonight?"

"Must be Grace because Janet had the other admission. I'll take him to his room."

David helped her urge the Preacher to his feet and together they walked him along the corridor.

"...rescue me from sinking in the mire..."

"Oh, come on, Simpson, sign off, it's time for bed," David told him as they led him into his room.

"That's funny," David said, glancing from one bed to the other, "Jacko's not—"

"Oh, thank God, thank God," Grace gasped. "Help me, please get him away."

David and Connie stared into the far corner of the room where Grace was pressed up against the wall with Jacko between her and the door, though not touching her.

Connie reached her first, while David put a choke hold on Jacko, pulling him away from Grace.

"He was—he was—" Grace cried, clutching at Connie.

"It's all right," Connie soothed. "David's got him, you're all right." She led Grace past the two men and out of the room.

"Right in front of me," Grace gabbled. "He made me look. I couldn't help it. He made me look at him, at—at it."

"Jacko wouldn't hurt you," Connie said, "All you had to do was walk away."

"No, no, you don't understand. He was doing it at me."

David came up behind them. "He went to bed like a lamb," he said. "What was the trouble?"

Grace began to cry. "I can't stand it," she sobbed. "He—I—it touched me—contaminated—ruined..."

"What?" David asked Connie, raising his eyebrows.

Connie, looking at Grace's uniform, suddenly understood. She pointed.

"Oh, shit," David said, staring at Grace. "You mean you let him come all over you?"

* * *

Sally crawled out of bed Sunday morning to see tendrils of fog drifting by her windows. She made a face. If it didn't burn off, there went her plans for the beach. She'd planned to take a bus into town and catch a Greyhound over to the coast.

The first thing she was going to do when she finished training and made some money was get a car. She'd been trapped here on the hospital grounds all month. Only a week and a couple days to go. More psych training than she needed or wanted. Why hadn't she protested when the instructor laid it on her? Over six weeks when the rest of her class only had to stay here a month.

She was going to learn to be more assertive. Enough of this being afraid to speak up. God knows, she didn't want to be like her mother—a complete doormat.

Not for the first time, she wondered what her father had been like. He'd been killed in an accident shortly after she was born and so she didn't have any memory of him. In fact, she had only blanks where memories of her early years should be.

Shaking off the uneasiness that always arose when she thought about her early childhood, she decided she'd go into town anyway, even if the beach was out. Look around, find something to read and maybe use a pay phone to see if she couldn't locate the Duchess' friend.

Richard Ardith Szold. Margaret hadn't wanted to tell her the name, not really and didn't have any idea Sally had planned to try and contact him.
L.A.
was the most likely area and she could call information there for free. If nothing came of it she wouldn't tell the Duchess what she'd tried to do.

* * *

Frank stared morosely into a cup of coffee. All that alcohol last night with no effect except making him sick. He'd certainly puked up every last trace of it—maybe if he downed a couple Dalmane now he could grab a few hours sleep. Seemed like forever since he'd slept.

He dropped his head into his hands. It felt like one of those red Mexican pots you put plants in—one little tunk and blooie. Had to go back to work Monday. Somehow.

Stupid to let her get to him. Been doing okay without anyone. Work. Eat. Sleep. Exercise. Take classes. Safe routine shot to hell now.

Why couldn't she be friendlier? He wasn't repulsive. He'd ignored plenty of come-ons, not one of which had interested him. She was so damn defensive. Afraid to let him touch her. And yet she'd offered herself to David. Why? Because she knew there wasn't a chance? J. Bates hadn't taken it lightly—worked David over but good.

He raised his head to look at the curtain of fog outside the kitchen window. Pop a couple Dalmane. Go to bed. Forget Sally.

* * *

In his studio apartment, Willie lay in bed, hands behind his head. Day looked like a bummer, why bother to get up? The fog had gathered after midnight and he'd had to creep along that fucking two lane beach road. But he'd found out where Momma A lived by following her home.

She wouldn't always be cozying up to that dude with the UCLA sticker on his MG. Sucker ought to be heading back today sometime if he went to school there.

Check her out again tonight maybe. Wouldn't she be surprised? Willie grinned. The transfer papers were made out, old Nellie had greased the way in a hurry, wanted to be shot of him fast. Momma A'd get her little thrill and little ole Willie'd be long gone. Even if she did have a contact with Cousin Roach, nobody gonna find Willie way up north. Better'n
L.A.
Fuck
L.A.
What'd he ever get there but shit?

* * *

Sitting up, Luba stared down at Barry, sprawled across the double bed, forcing her to the extreme edge. Selfish, even asleep, that was Barry. If he couldn't stand her, why didn't he use the couch? She wasn't going to, just like she wasn't moving out of this apartment. Let him make arrangements to move.

She rubbed a hand tentatively over her lower abdomen. When would she feel something inside, feel life? Barry's books said a primipara, a first pregnancy, usually didn't until the fifth month. She was practically there.