The Complete Collection. William WhartonЧитать онлайн книгу.
and roll out till we read ‘BROWNVILLE FIVE MILES’. I swing hard right and start that way.
It’s a high-crown, narrow road, and the white line’s almost invisible. I ride the crown; if anybody comes speeding along without headlights, we’ve had it.
We cruise into town looking out of blurry windows for a motel sign. I’m hoping the cops or sheriffs or whatever they use for law here are inside. They’d never appreciate this Lincoln with no wipers nosing blind up and down the main street. We’re about to give up when we spot a sign, ‘HOTEL’, at the other edge of town. God, I hope there’s a room; spending the night wrapped in a wet blanket for two doesn’t exactly turn me on.
This place is brick with a colonial porch. There are coach lamps with yellow bulbs on both sides of the door. Dad jumps out and dashes through the rain. He can’t get any wetter than he is, but people run hunched over in the rain as a natural thing. I know if they have a room he’ll take it even at fifty dollars a night.
In about five minutes he comes out; he opens the door and smiles in.
‘I’ve got us a great room. The manager’s convinced I’m a bank robber just off the job and we’ve got the trunk filled with gold bullion, so let’s live up the part; at least put your shoes on.’
He’s hyped again. Maybe he’s only glad to be alive, with a warm bath and dryness waiting inside. I give him the keys. He opens the trunk and struggles out his suitcase with my duffel bag. He hauls our bags onto the porch while I back the car into a parking area behind.
I walk slowly through that warm rain. I’m smiling as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to walk through teeming rain in the night. There are hydrangea bushes off the edge of the porch and I lean over to sniff the flowers, no smell. Dad’s rocking back and forth squishing in his shoes. But he’s laughing.
‘Come on, Bill, you don’t have to overdo it. I’m sure this pussy’s already alerted the sheriffs in three counties.’
We sashay into the lobby, dripping genuine Indiana or Ohio rain-water all over maroon rugs. We carry our own bags up to the room and it looks beautiful, two gigantic double beds.
We take turns wringing clothes and taking showers. I’m completely out of dry things, so I borrow a shirt and trousers from Dad. I even borrow a pair of his jockey shorts and tennis shoes. Going down we look halfway presentable; I’m loose in his clothes and my feet are cramped in his size 8 sneakers, but we’re clean.
Would you believe it, the manager comes over and casually introduces a gentleman who’s wearing a half-Stetson white hat. It really is, it’s the marshal for the town. He must have jumped up from dinner to come see the masked bandits without their masks. He starts polite conversation about where we’re coming from and where we’re going to; and, of course, about the car. Even if we’d gotten out of that car clean-shaven and in tuxes, this hotel manager would’ve called his friend the marshal.
Dad looks him in the eye and asks if there’s a Colonel Sanders in town. A sheer stroke of genius. The marshal shakes his head, all sorry about that. Just for the hell of it I ask if there’s a Taco Bell, another mob franchise. He shakes his head and smiles again. He could be half catching on.
‘But there’s a Pizza Hut, fellas; just on the other side of town, toward 80.’
He nods and smiles. He leads us onto the porch and points the only direction the place could be; it’s dark every other way. Just gives an idea how hard that rain was coming down when we went past a Pizza Hut without stopping.
We bow and bend, thanking the marshal as he tips his hat to us; Spade Cooley saluting his horse.
We board the Philadelphia Express and float our way blind to the Pizza Hut. It’s like coming home. We order a giant cheese pizza and a pitcher of beer each. We’re going all out. The pitchers are glass with curved glass handles like gigantic mugs, only with spouts. We drink our beer straight from the pitchers as if they’re beer steins. We wipe out the pizzas and an Italian salad. I can’t say I ever enjoyed food more in my life.
There are two cute waitresses having a ball watching us drink from pitchers. If I were with any other guy except my father, I’m sure we could talk them into coming to the hotel with us; give that manager something to worry about.
Next day the strike hits. All RNs and doctors are put on full time, two shifts. Everything’s on emergency basis. The hospital accepts no new patients and they’re discharging or shipping patients to other hospitals.
The RNs are forced to do all the bedside and dirty work normally done by LVNs. I volunteer to help wherever I can; there’s no way they’re going to move Dad out.
I’m concerned he’ll be neglected with all the confusion, so I move in and sleep next to him. Over half the beds in intensive are empty anyhow. A little redhead nurse shows me what to look for with Dad and I change his sheets, his Pampers; give general bedside service. Except for renewing bottles on the IV, there’s not much medical involved. Chad’s cleared things for me to stay, so I’m having no trouble there.
When I tell Mother about the strike, she wants to shift Dad to another hospital. Joan and I talk her out of that. Perpetual knows his condition and Dr Chad seems to care. The move alone could kill him.
Mother’s at home. Billy’s sleeping in the back garden room to keep an eye on her. He’s being great about it.
It’s strange living in a hospital when you aren’t sick, especially sleeping in an intensive care unit. Most of the patients still here are desperately ill, too far gone to move, so the line between the well and ill is even more exaggerated than usual.
After I’ve been around several days and haven’t bitten anyone’s head off, the nurses are more reasonable. Several times they use me as an extra hand, holding a patient still for an IV insertion or lifting and holding or shifting while they make a bed. I also help with the feeding of other patients.
Early in the morning of the fifth night, I wake to the usual jingling of glass and metal, the main sound in a hospital. There’s a pale gray light coming through the window and I listen to the early going-to-work traffic. It’s the time when I usually have my most depressed thoughts. I’m lying in bed, half thinking, half in suspended animation.
I glance over at Dad. His eyes are open and he’s looking at me! I mean he’s looking at me, not past me, or through me or around me! He’s looking into my eyes!
I slide out of bed on his side and approach carefully. At first, I think maybe he died in the night, but his eyes are live, they follow me, keeping me in focus. I come to the edge of his bed. His mouth opens twice, dry pale lips, paper-frail. But he gets out a sound, a thin, high voice almost falsetto.
‘Where am I, Johnny?’
I can’t believe it! He’s still looking into my eyes, waiting for an answer.
‘You’re in the hospital, Dad, you’ve been sick.’
He nods his head slowly. He looks down the length of his bed and smiles.
‘I think I could’ve guessed that one, Johnny. But what are you doing here? Are you sick, too?’
God, there’s something so clear, so young-sounding! I reach out and put my hand on his head.
‘Just take it easy, now, Dad; don’t force yourself. You’re doing fine.’
He lifts one arm, his right, discolored with IV punctures and tape marks. It’s so thin the muscles are like ropes over bones just under the skin.
‘I don’t look so hot to me, Johnny. What’s happened anyway; was there an earthquake or a car crash or something?’
I don’t know what to say, how much to try explaining. Just then, the morning nurse comes in. It’s the redhead