Augustus Tulare: Painful paradise

Palmyra Weston slid the tray onto the small table and looked around the hospital cafeteria before pulling out a chair. She saw none of her close acquaintances, but there were several other nurses in groups of two or three spotted at random in the large room. She took her seat at the table, sipped at the tomato juice in the small frosted glass, and picked up her fork.

As she toyed with her salad, she rested one elbow on the table, bringing her arm up and placing her fingertips on her brow. Her fingers formed a protective guile through which she could peer without being easily detected.

Her eyes searched the faces at the nearby tables as she nibbled half-heartedly at food she didn't really want. There was a restlessness in her today, and it worried her a little. She was to be in surgery this afternoon, and Dr. Grafton was operating. One sign of restlessness around him, and she would be in trouble. He was a fanatic on complete alertness at all times.

As she tried to throw off the unexplainable nervousness, her gaze halted on a group seated two tables away from her. Her pulse raced for a few beats as she studied the darkly handsome countenance of the man who was facing toward her. He was nodding at something one of the other diners at his table was saying.

She realized that it was Dr. Grafton's back which partly hid the upper torso of the man whose appearance excited her so much. If he was in Grafton's company, he must be another doctor, and probably an important one. Grafton was known for his snobbishness among the other members of his profession.

Palmyra was trying to remember where she had seen the exciting face before. Her fingers parted to give her a better view of him. Just then, he looked up while drinking from his water tumbler, and his piercing gray eyes met her gaze.

Her pulse jumped, starting an even more rapid pace than before. Her china-blue eyes flickered away from the gray orbs which had tried to lock them in place. She fumbled with the peas on her fork, and several dropped off to roll across the table. As she reached out to keep them from falling on the floor, her hand knocked over the juice glass.

As the edge of the glass hit the tabletop, it rolled, and tomato juice splashed out at her just as she jumped to her feet. It made a crimson pattern on the front of her uniform, right at the crotch. Clumsily, aware that she was being stared at by those around her, she dabbed at the puddle on the table with her tiny paper napkin.

It was definitely inadequate, and she now regretted not having used it to blot the worst off her uniform. To get more napkins, she would have to walk through the room past dozens of diners, her embarrassing stain looking for all the world as though she had been caught unaware by a sudden and generous menstrual flow.

She could feel the heat of the blood pounding at her temples, and knew she was blushing furiously. The longer she postponed the humiliating promenade to get napkins or a cleaning rag, the longer she was the target for all the eyes nearby.

Then her downcast eyes saw the neatly pressed creases in the fawn slacks, and as her gaze traveled upward, she knew even before she reached his face who it was that had come swiftly to her table.

The lean, tanned face wore a warm expression of solicitude, and his teeth gleamed in a friendly smile. He had picked up all the napkins available at his table, and now handed them to Palmyra.

"Please sit down," he said, and she wondered why his voice, though gentle enough, seemed to be issuing a command. As she took the napkins and reseated herself, he pulled out the chair across from her and sat down.

"Moisten it with a little water, first," he advised. But again, it sounded like an order, rather than a suggestion. She dipped the corner of a napkin in her water glass and reached under the table to sponge hastily at the embarrassing stain.

"I had a similar accident once," he said. His voice, she noticed now, was pleasantly modulated, even though there was a steely tone underlying the more gentle sound. "I was wearing tropical whites. It was at a sidewalk cafe in Paris. Not only was I embarrassed, but when I stood up I had the horribly strange feeling that I had been castrated. It was a hell of a psychological shock for a few moments, until I pulled myself together."

"Thank you for coming to my rescue," she told him, amazed at the casual way he discussed such sexually anatomical matters with a stranger of the opposite sex. It made her wonder if he really was a medical man, after all. Laymen usually thought nurses were immune to embarrassment at such matters.

"The memory of my own experience made me more than eager to lie of whatever help I could," he replied. "If only as moral support."

"I'm very grateful, Doctor…"

"Harshman," he supplied. "Paul Harshman. With one 'N' only. And you're…?" one almost-satanic brow arched quizzically at her.

"Pal Weston," she replied. "It's Palmyra, but only my mother uses the full name, especially when I've done something to upset her."

"Do you do that often, Pal?" he wanted to know.

"Heavens, no!" she protested. "I'm usually not clumsy at all. This is the first time I've ever spilled anything at the table since I was a kid."

"That's not what I meant, Pal," he said, chuckling softly. "I wondered if you often did things to upset your mother."

"Oh!" her laughter joined in, and their eyes met in mutual warmth for a brief moment. Then she quieted as she remembered that Grafton was only a few yards away. "I hope you won't tell Dr. Grafton how fumbled-fingered I was. I'm on his surgery team this afternoon."

"I'll be the soul of discretion," he promised, "if you'll have dinner with me this evening." He was smiling, but that steely undertone made her think that he was seriously blackmailing her.

"And if I couldn't wouldn't?" she asked, blue eyes wide as she peered into his metallic gray orbs.

"Let's not even discuss that possibility," he said. "Shall I pick you up at seven? And where do I call for you?" His relaxed confidence was disconcerting, and beneath it she detected the same tone of command. It disarmed her.

"Castle Arms Apartments. It's 2A," she said, then got to her feet, trying to keep her hands in front of her pinkly damp uniform. Harshman stood up and moved to stand between her and the exit.

"I'll stay in front of you until we get where there's less traffic," he offered. She moved along closely behind him until they were in a hall intersection.

"Thank you very much, Doctor," she said.

"You needn't thank me," he replied. "You're paying me for services rendered, you know." When her eyes widened at this, he hurried to clarify his statement. "The pleasure of your lovely company tonight… remember?" His smile melted any misgivings she had begun to feel as she wondered what kind of payment he had intended to exact.

"That's right. I hadn't forgotten, really. Just a little confused after my silly accident. Seven o'clock, then."

"Seven," he repeated, then turned and moved down the hall toward the elevators. Pal gazed after him over her shoulder as she moved in the opposite direction. When she almost collided with a cart from the diet kitchen, she pulled her mind back to her duties, and rushed to get her uniform changed before she reported to surgery.

Luckily, Thaddeus Grafton had a minor emergency with an outpatient and was several minutes late, so he didn't discover Pal's tardiness. She had just finished getting into sterile garb and was adjusting her mask as he came plunging through the door of the scrub-room.

Later, during those short respites between stages of the operation, she felt him studying her. Twice, she managed to catch him looking directly at her, but he shifted his gaze to the patient both times. Yet, she had noticed his studious regard, and the quizzical arch of his brows before he looked away. She wondered if someone else had seen her nervous clumsiness in the cafeteria, and had mentioned it to the difficult old surgeon.