Thirteen West (17 page)

"Not that I know of," Joe said.

Sal positioned the stool, climbed up and removed the cover. He twisted the bulbs and the room flooded with light. Replacing the cover, he climbed down.

"Both bulbs were loose. What gives here?"

"I don't—" Joe broke off and turned to Zenda. "Did you find W.W.?" he asked.

"He was in the men's john. Wouldn't go back to his room, but I persuaded him into the day room."

"What's this guy have to do with the loose light bulbs?" Sal asked.

"Nothing," Joe said. "Not W.W. He's the ward queen and wouldn't dream of soiling his hands with any menial task. I just happened to remember he wasn't in his bed."

"How about this Simpson?"

"He was fourpointed, last I knew and pretty well zonked. Don't know how he could've got loose."

Sal stared at the step stool. "This should be kept locked up."

"It is," Joe said.

Bending over Laura Jean, Sal gave her a cursory exam. "Don't believe she fell out of bed or off the stool—no visible injury. Seems to be catatonic, besides. That usual?"

Zenda shook her head and Joe said, "Not to my knowledge."

Sal read her name off the door sticker. "Laura Jean McRead. McRead—isn't that the patient days did vaginal swabs on?"

"She's been having nightmares about sex."

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

Joe swallowed. "She dreams about a man fucking her at night."

Sal raised his eyebrows. "I remember. Does some man?"

"Shit no!" Joe exclaimed. "What do I want with a flaked out piece. Besides, the swabs were negative for sperm."

"How about your male tech?"

Zenda's eyes shifted from one man to the other, her mouth tightly closed.

"Willie?" Joe said. "Naw."

Sal focused on Zenda. "Do you know anything about this?"

She shook her head slowly from side to side.

"A classic case of not-me here, that right?" Sal asked. "Are you asking me to believe that this catatonic girl removed the step stool from a locked closet, climbed up to loosen both light bulbs, then stripped off her pants and laid on the floor? I think we'd better ask Willie."

"He's in with Jay-Jay yet," Joe said. "I'd better get the Luminal."

"You take over for Willie," Sal told Zenda. "Tell him to see me at the nurses' station."

Confronted by Sal, Willie launched into a heated protest. "Hey, man, what you think I am? You think I can't get no better cunt than a fucked-up loonie?"

"Did you take the stool in there to loosen those bulbs so the room would be dark?" Sal asked

"No way. Like I told Joe, I crapped out in the lounge. I know it's against the rules and all, but..." He shrugged. "No way for me to tell the Preacher was gonna break loose from the fourpoint and do all that stuff. Beats me where the stool came from. Evenings must have left it out somewhere—I never saw it."

"You calling the doctor about Laura Jean?" Joe asked coming into the station.

Sal shook his head. "Not much use with Greenie on. But I'll be writing up an incident report." He glanced from Joe to Willie. "Don't forget a copy of every one of those goes to Dr. Fredericks and I've heard tell he does read each and every one of them. How's the epileptic?"

"Twitching," Joe said. "Respirations labored. I wish the doctor had ordered him transferred to A East."

"Have Zenda or Willie stay with him till days takes over. They'll probably get the ward doctor to move him out. Lock up the stool and do your room checks more often. The state doesn't pay the night shift to sleep on duty. Before I leave, I'll take a look at the Preacher."

Once the supervisor was off-ward, Joe lit into Willie. "Keep it clean, man. We're going to have them bird-dogging as soon as that report gets to Old Nellie. Watch it, I'm warning you. Between your ass and mine, yours gets whipped— understand? I don't want to hear any more shit about sleeping when you should've been awake, either. Whatever you were up to—don't do it again. That's an order."

"Wasn't doing—"

"No more shit! Just cut it out from now on."

Willie shrugged. "Yeah, sure, whatever you say."

"There'll be so many spot checks in the next few weeks you won't be able to turn around without someone looking over your shoulder. Even Nellie himself. You haven't seen it happen but I have."

"I hear you talking."

"So listen. Now go take care of that damn stool. I left it in the hall."

Can't prove a fucking thing, Willie told himself as he stowed the stool back into the mop closet. Preacher's the only dude caught me in there and he don't know from diddley-squat. Willie grinned to himself. Could say it was part of this "milieu therapy" Old Nellie lectures about. Tell him that's what I thought he meant—he might even believe me. Joe'll have my ass though, he catches me messing with her again. Hell, she wasn't all that great anyhow.

* * *

The next evening,
Alma
checked Dolph on her first rounds, noting that, though he was sleeping, he hadn't curled back into fetal position. Days said he'd been lethargic but easily roused. Dolph had the room to himself since they'd moved Tate in with W.W. after Dr. Jacobs transferred Jay-Jay to A East, the acute ward.

Sounded like nights had had one wild time.
Alma
frowned, thinking of the incident report on Laura Jean. She decided to recheck her.

"She just lays there," Sally told
Alma
. "I've been talking to her but I don't think she's receiving. Before, she didn't always answer but I was pretty sure she always heard me. What could have happened to make her like this?"

"She's catatonic. You know what that means."

"Staying in a fixed position, not responding, refusal to move or talk. But what made her catatonic?"

"Sally, you know she has a diagnosis of schizophrenia. Catatonic withdrawal is common with schizy patients."

"It's because of what happened last night, isn't it? The Preacher being in her room and all."

"They went over him carefully and there's no evidence he molested her. Think about it—Laura Jean's been having these nightmares. What if she roused to find Mr. Jones in the room with her and panicked?"

"But wasn't it dark? She couldn't've seen him. And it's hard for me to believe he could've climbed up on a stool and unscrewed light bulbs. That seems so planned, so unlike the Preacher."

"Being mentally ill doesn't mean you lose the ability to think. Except for Susie Q our patients aren't mentally retarded. They may slip in and out of reality but at times they're quite capable of planning ahead."

Sally sighed. "It hurts me to look at Laura Jean."

Alma
glanced at Sally instead, noting the purple shadows under her eyes. "You have other patients assigned to you. Don't distress yourself by hovering over Laura Jean all evening. Actually, you can't because we're short-handed with David off ill and Connie home with a sick child. You'd better see to it that all your little old ladies are dry and comfortable."

The ward seemed unusually quiet without the Preacher chanting. Like Dolph, he slept soundly, having to be roused for supper.
Alma
finished rounds and went in to pour the evening meds.

No good will come of speculating about Willie Rhone, she told herself firmly. He'd have to be crazy to do such a thing and he isn't crazy—just piss mean and selfish.

* * *

Sally went into Margaret Flower's room.

"There you are, dear," the Duchess said. "It's always such a pleasure to see you. But you do look tired tonight. Like I am."

With an effort, Sally smiled at her. "I didn't get much sleep."

"Oh, neither did I. Tell me, how is that man they call the Preacher? He was tied down last night and was so unhappy. How is he?"

"All right. He's been sleeping a lot."

"Is he—did they have to tie him hand and foot again?"

"I don't think so—maybe a Posey vest. You seem quite concerned."

"I am. I think it's criminal to restrain a person in such a barbaric manner."

"Sometimes it's necessary to prevent them from hurting themselves or others," Sally explained.

"I've been tied myself, on the other ward, with one of those vests you call a Posey. A humiliating experience. Frightening."

"You're so much better now, though."

The Duchess drew herself up. "I was all right then— merely unsteady on my feet from the pills. Unable to think clearly. But they wouldn't listen, just kept poking more pills at me every day."

"Do you want some help?" Janet Young said, coming into the room. "I've finished and can give you a hand."

"Thanks," Sally told her. "I haven't done the women's four bed room yet."

"I'll start in there and you can come in and work with me when you're through in here," Janet said. "Okay?"

Sally nodded.

"I wouldn't trust her," the Duchess said in a conspiratorial tone when Janet had left the room. "I've seen her watching you and I'm afraid she's one of those."

"One of those?"

The Duchess primmed her mouth. "In my day no lady mentioned the word out loud."

Sally flushed, turning away. Em had been one thing, but that would never happen again. Whatever the Duchess might think, or Janet for that matter, she didn't consider herself "one of those."

* * *

 
"You think I'm stupid, don't you? Some kind of drecky schmuck?" Luba's voice twanged shrilly in Barry's head.

"Damn it!" he exclaimed. "It's after one in the morning and I've got a records committee meeting at seven-thirty. What the hell use do you see in going on like this?"

"What do you expect me to do? Ruminate like a—a cow?" Luba burst into tears.

Barry snorted.

She flipped her hair from her face and turned on him. "I'm not even showing yet and you—you're fucking someone else." Choking back sobs, she wiped at her eyes. "Oh, yes, you are—don't lie. You never even t-touch me anymore. I disgust you—I've seen how you look at me. I'm carrying your child and you don't even..."

"Must you be so goddamned dramatic? How do you know what I feel? Didn't I offer to marry you?"

Luba flung her arms wide. "The great martyr! You made it sound like it was an invitation to a funeral. How could I possibly marry someone who looks at me as though I'm a sack of garbage? No thanks!"

"Then go and see Lee about an abortion. You're practically over the safe period as it is. I'll call him and—"

"No! I won't, I won't."

Barry held in his rage with effort. "Look," he said in measured tones. "I offered to marry you, you rejected that. I offer you an abortion, you reject that. I don't want the damn baby—you do. Have you stopped to consider the problems you'll face as a single parent?"

"Don't you come on to me with your phony concern, Barry Jacobs. I can take care of myself. There's a women's group in town that does pregnancy counseling, they have a woman obstetrician—"

"Just who will pay for all this?"

"I will. Half. And you'll pay the other half."

Barry clenched his fists. "You are not going to saddle me with a kid, make me support a kid I don't want and who better not carry my name." He spit each word out.

"Shit on your fair name."

He raised his hand and she ducked away from him, her feet slipping out from under her so she fell sprawling onto the floor, where she lay sobbing.

Horrified at his intention—would he really have hit her?—Barry fled, finding himself in his car, heading onto the beach road without conscious thought.