Esquire (February 1937)
I
‘Let — go — that — Oh-h-h! Please, now, will you? Don’t
start drinking again! Come on — give me the bottle. I told you I’d stay awake
givin’ it to you. Come on. If you do like that a-way — then what are you going
to be like when you go home. Come on — leave it with me — I’ll leave half in
the bottle. Pul-lease. You know what Dr Carter says — I’ll stay awake and give
it to you, or else fix some of it in the bottle — come on — like I told you,
I’m too tired to be fightin’ you all night. . . . All right, drink your fool
self to death.’
‘Would you like some beer?’ he asked.
‘No, I don’t want any beer. Oh, to think that I have to look at
you drunk again. My God!’
‘Then I’ll drink the Coca Cola.’
The girl sat down panting on the bed.
‘Don’t you believe in anything?’ she demanded.
‘Nothing you believe in — please — it’ll spill.’
She had no business there, she thought, no business trying to help
him. Again they struggled, but after this time he sat with his head in his
hands awhile, before he turned around once more.
‘Once more you try to get it I’ll throw it down,’ she said
quickly. ‘I will — on the tiles in the bathroom.’
‘Then I’ll step on the broken glass — or you’ll step on it.’
‘Then let go — oh you promised — ’
Suddenly she dropped it like a torpedo, sliding underneath her
hand and slithering with a flash of red and black and the words: SIR GALAHAD,
DISTILLED LOUISVILLE GIN. He took it by the neck and tossed it through the open
door to the bathroom.
It was on the floor in pieces and everything was silent for a
while and she read Gone With the Wind about things so lovely that had
happened long ago. She began to worry that he would have to go into the
bathroom and might cut his feet, and looked up from time to time to see if he
would go in. She was very sleepy — the last time she looked up he was crying
and he looked like an old Jewish man she had nursed once in California; he had
had to go to the bathroom many times. On this case she was unhappy all the time
but she thought:
‘I guess if I hadn’t liked him I wouldn’t have stayed on the
case.’
With a sudden resurgence of conscience she got up and put a chair
in front of the bathroom door. She had wanted to sleep because he had got her
up early that morning to get a paper with the story of the Yale-Dartmouth game
in it and she hadn’t been home all day. That afternoon a relative of his had
come to see him and she had waited outside in the hall where there was a
draught with no sweater to put over her uniform.
As well as she could she arranged him for sleeping, put a robe
over his shoulders as he sat slumped over his writing table, and one on his
knees. She sat down in the rocker but she was no longer sleepy; there was
plenty to enter on the chart and treading lightly about she found a pencil and
put it down:
Pulse 120
Respiration 25
Temp. 98 — 98.4 — 98.2
Remarks —
— She could make so many:
Tried to get bottle of gin. Threw it away and broke it.
She corrected it to read:
In the struggle it dropped and was broken. Patient was generally
difficult.
She started to add as part of her report: I never want to go on
an alcoholic case again, but that wasn’t in the picture. She knew she could
wake herself at seven and clean up everything before his niece awakened. It was
all part of the game. But when she sat down in the chair she looked at his
face, white and exhausted, and counted his breathing again, wondering why it
had all happened. He had been so nice today, drawn her a whole strip of his
cartoon just for fun and given it to her. She was going to have it framed and
hang it in her room. She felt again his thin wrists wrestling against her wrist
and remembered the awful things he had said, and she thought too of what the
doctor had said to him yesterday:
‘You’re too good a man to do this to yourself.’
She was tired and didn’t want to clean up the glass on the
bathroom floor, because as soon as he breathed evenly she wanted to get him
over to the bed. But she decided finally to clean up the glass first; on her
knees, searching a last piece of it, she thought:
— This isn’t what I ought to be doing. And this isn’t what he
ought to be doing.
Resentfully she stood up and regarded him. Through the thin
delicate profile of his nose came a light snore, sighing, remote, inconsolable.
The doctor had shaken his head in a certain way, and she knew that really it
was a case that was beyond her. Besides, on her card at the agency was written,
on the advice of her elders, ‘No Alcoholics’.
She had done her whole duty, but all she could think of was that
when she was struggling about the room with him with that gin bottle there had
been a pause when he asked her if she had hurt her elbow against a door and
that she had answered: ‘You don’t know how people talk about you, no matter how
you think of yourself — ’ when she knew he had a long time ceased to care about
such things.
The glass was all collected — as she got out a broom to make sure,
she realized that the glass, in its fragments, was less than a window through
which they had seen each other for a moment. He did not know about her sister,
and Bill Markoe whom she had almost married, and she did not know what had
brought him to this pitch, when there was a picture on his bureau of his young
wife and his two sons and him, all trim and handsome as he must have been five
years ago. It was so utterly senseless — as she put a bandage on her finger
where she had cut it while picking up the glass she made up her mind she would
never take an alcoholic case again.
II
It was early the next evening. Some Halloween jokester had split
the side windows of the bus and she shifted back to the Negro section in the
rear for fear the glass might fall out. She had her patient’s cheque but no way
to cash it at this hour; there was a quarter and a penny in her purse.
Two nurses she knew were waiting in the hall of Mrs Hixson’s
Agency.
‘What kind of case have you been on?’
‘Alcoholic,’ she said.
‘Oh, yes — Gretta Hawks told me about it — you were on with that
cartoonist who lives at the Forest Park Inn.’
‘Yes, I was.’
‘I hear he’s pretty fresh.’
‘He’s never done anything to bother me,’ she lied. ‘You can’t treat
them as if they were committed — ’
‘Oh, don’t get bothered — I just heard that around town — oh, you
know — they want you to play around with them — ’
‘Oh, be quiet,’ she said, surprised at her own rising resentment.
In a moment Mrs Hixson came out and, asking the other two to wait,
signalled her into the office.
‘I don’t like to put young girls on such cases,’ she began. ‘I got
your call from the hotel.’
‘Oh, it wasn’t bad, Mrs Hixson. He didn’t know what he was doing
and he didn’t hurt me in any way. I was thinking much more of my reputation
with you. He was really nice all day yesterday. He drew me — ’
‘I didn’t want to send you on that case.’ Mrs Hixson thumbed
through the registration cards. ‘You take T.B. cases, don’t you? Yes, I see you
do. Now here’s one — ’
The phone rang in a continuous chime. The nurse listened as Mrs
Hixson’s voice said precisely:
‘I will do what I can — that is simply up to the doctor . . . That
is beyond my jurisdiction . . . Oh, hello, Hattie, no, I can’t now. Look, have
you got any nurse that’s good with alcoholics? There’s somebody up at the
Forest Park Inn who needs somebody. Call back will you?’
She put down the receiver. ‘Suppose you wait outside. What sort of
man is this, anyhow? Did he act indecently?’
‘He held my hand away,’ she said, ‘so I couldn’t give him an
injection.’
‘Oh, an invalid he-man,’ Mrs Hixson grumbled. ‘They belong in
sanatoria. I’ve got a case coming along in two minutes that you can get a
little rest on. It’s an old woman — ’
The phone rang again. ‘Oh, hello, Hattie. . . . Well, how about
that big Svensen girl? She ought to be able to take care of any alcoholic. . .
. How about Josephine Markham? Doesn’t she live in your apartment house? . . .
Get her to the phone.’ Then after a moment, ‘Joe, would you care to take the
case of a well-known cartoonist, or artist, whatever they call themselves, at
Forest Park Inn? . . . No, I don’t know, but Dr Carter is in charge and will be
around about ten o’clock.’
There was a long pause; from time to time Mrs Hixson spoke:
‘I see . . . Of course, I understand your point of view. Yes, but
this isn’t supposed to be dangerous — just a little difficult. I never like to
send girls to a hotel because I know what riff-raff you’re liable to run into.
. . . No, I’ll find somebody. Even at this hour. Never mind and thanks. Tell
Hattie I hope that the hat matches the négligé. . . . ’
Mrs Hixson hung up the receiver and made notations on the pad
before her. She was a very efficient woman. She had been a nurse and had gone
through the worst of it, had been a proud, idealistic, overworked probationer,
suffered the abuse of smart internees and the insolence of her first patients,
who thought that she was something to be taken into camp immediately for
premature commitment to the service of old age. She swung around suddenly from
the desk.
‘What kind of cases do you want? I told you I have a nice old
woman — ’
The nurse’s brown eyes were alight with a mixture of thoughts —
the movie she had just seen about Pasteur and the book they had all read about
Florence Nightingale when they were student nurses. And their pride, swinging
across the streets in the cold weather at Philadelphia General, as proud of
their new capes as débutantes in their furs going into balls at the hotels.
‘I— I think I would like to try the case again,’ she said amid a
cacophony of telephone bells. ‘I’d just as soon go back if you can’t find
anybody else.’
‘But one minute you say you’ll never go on an alcoholic case again
and the next minute you say you want to go back to one.’
‘I think I overestimated how difficult it was. Really, I think I
could help him.’
‘That’s up to you. But if he tried to grab your wrists.’
‘But he couldn’t,’ the nurse said. ‘Look at my wrists: I played
basketball at Waynesboro High for two years. I’m quite able to take care of
him.’
Mrs Hixson looked at her for a long minute. ‘Well, all right,’ she
said. ‘But just remember that nothing they say when they’re drunk is what they
mean when they’re sober — I’ve been all through that; arrange with one of the
servants that you can call on him, because you never can tell — some alcoholics
are pleasant and some of them are not, but all of them can be rotten.’
‘I’ll remember,’ the nurse said.
It was an oddly clear night when she went out, with slanting particles
of thin sleet making white of a blue-black sky. The bus was the same that had
taken her into town, but there seemed to be more windows broken now and the bus
driver was irritated and talked about what terrible things he would do if he
caught any kids. She knew he was just talking about the annoyance in general,
just as she had been thinking about the annoyance of an alcoholic. When she
came up to the suite and found him all helpless and distraught she would
despise him and be sorry for him.
Getting off the bus, she went down the long steps to the hotel,
feeling a little exalted by the chill in the air. She was going to take care of
him because nobody else would, and because the best people of her profession
had been interested in taking care of the cases that nobody else wanted.
She knocked at his study door, knowing just what she was going to
say.
He answered it himself. He was in dinner clothes even to a derby
hat — but minus his studs and tie.
‘Oh, hello,’ he said casually. ‘Glad you’re back. I woke up a
while ago and decided I’d go out. Did you get a night nurse?’
‘I’m the night nurse too,’ she said. ‘I decided to stay on
twenty-four-hour duty.’
He broke into a genial, indifferent smile.
‘I saw you were gone, but something told me you’d come back. Please
find my studs. They ought to be either in a little tortoiseshell box or — ’
He shook himself a little more into his clothes, and hoisted the
cuffs up inside his coat sleeves.
‘I thought you had quit me,’ he said casually.
‘I thought I had, too.’
‘If you look on that table,’ he said, ‘you’ll find a whole strip
of cartoons that I drew you.’
‘Who are you going to see?’ she asked.
‘It’s the President’s secretary,’ he said. ‘I had an awful time
trying to get ready. I was about to give up when you came in. Will you order me
some sherry?’
‘One glass,’ she agreed wearily.
From the bathroom he called presently:
‘Oh, Nurse, Nurse, Light of my Life, where is another stud?’
‘I’ll put it in.’
In the bathroom she saw the pallor and the fever on his face and
smelled the mixed peppermint and gin on his breath.
‘You’ll come up soon?’ she asked. ‘Dr Carter’s coming at ten.’
‘What nonsense! You’re coming down with me.’
‘Me?’ she exclaimed. ‘In a sweater and skirt? Imagine!’
‘Then I won’t go.’
‘All right then, go to bed. That’s where you belong anyhow. Can’t
you see these people tomorrow?’
‘No, of course not!’
She went behind him and reaching over his shoulder tied his tie —
his shirt was already thumbed out of press where he had put in the studs, and
she suggested:
‘Won’t you put on another one, if you’ve got to meet some people
you like?’
‘All right, but I want to do it myself.’
‘Why can’t you let me help you?’ she demanded in exasperation.
‘Why can’t you let me help you with your clothes? What’s a nurse for — what
good am I doing?’
He sat down suddenly on the toilet seat.
‘All right — go on.’
‘Now don’t grab my wrist,’ she said, and then, ‘Excuse me.’
‘Don’t worry. It didn’t hurt. You’ll see in a minute.’
She had the coat, vest, and stiff shirt off him but before she
could pull his undershirt over his head he dragged at his cigarette, delaying
her.
‘Now watch this,’ he said. ‘One — two — three.’
She pulled up the undershirt; simultaneously he thrust the
crimson-grey point of the cigarette like a dagger against his heart. It crushed
out against a copper plate on his left rib about the size of a silver dollar,
and he said ‘Ouch!’as a stray spark fluttered down against his stomach.
Now was the time to be hard-boiled, she thought. She knew there
were three medals from the war in his jewel box, but she had risked many things
herself: tuberculosis among them and one time something worse, though she had
not known it and had never quite forgiven the doctor for not telling her.
‘You’ve had a hard time with that, I guess,’ she said lightly as
she sponged him. ‘Won’t it ever heal?’
‘Never. That’s a copper plate.’
‘Well, it’s no excuse for what you’re doing to yourself.’
He bent his great brown eyes on her, shrewd — aloof, confused. He
signalled to her, in one second, his Will to Die, and for all her training and
experience she knew she could never do anything constructive with him. He stood
up, steadying himself on the wash-basin and fixing his eyes on some place just
ahead.
‘Now, if I’m going to stay here you’re not going to get at that liquor,’
she said.
Suddenly she knew he wasn’t looking for that. He was looking at
the corner where he had thrown the bottle the night before. She stared at his
handsome face, weak and defiant — afraid to turn even half-way because she knew
that death was in that corner where he was looking. She knew death — she had
heard it, smelt its unmistakable odour, but she had never seen it before it
entered into anyone, and she knew this man saw it in the corner of his
bathroom; that it was standing there looking at him while he spat from a feeble
cough and rubbed the result into the braid of his trousers. It shone there
crackling for a moment as evidence of the last gesture he ever made.
She tried to express it next day to Mrs Hixson:
‘It’s not like anything you can beat — no matter how hard you try.
This one could have twisted my wrists until he strained them and that wouldn’t
matter so much to me. It’s just that you can’t really help them and it’s so
discouraging— it’s all for nothing.’