Дэймон Найт - Orbit 11

She left him with his mouth hanging open and not yet asleep and went to the basement commissary. There she bought a Radar Shake from a machine and sat at a table with two other nurses.

“Yeah, Mae, it sure is. That’s a fact.”

“I swear, nobody comes in anymore.”

“That’s true,” Alice said. “First of the two orderlies, y’know, was telling me he don’t like the way this place treats their help. So he quit.”

“Boy’s picking me up after work, four o’clock. How about that?”

The others nodded.

“He really hot for me, dig.” The girl shook her head, showed her teeth in a smile, laughed for the sake of her friends. The grandfather clock rang with crystal all around. Alice finished her Shake and sat back, cheerful, while her friends talked. In the corridors, laundry carts rolled back and forth. The voices of attendants followed them.

“I’m gonna get me some more coffee.”

“No, Mae, wait till we go upstairs. Just a few more minutes.” The girl stretched her legs under the table. The long purple scarf wrapped all the way around and felt nice and warm. Snow was clinging to it and melting. All wind came from the direction of the hewn white mountains, whole slopes of which gleamed in the sunlight. Stretching off toward the mountains was the ski lift. Sitting on one of the seats, no skis on, there was indeed the incredible sensation of flying.

“Alice B., you look lost in thought.”

“No.”

“Yeah, dear, yeah. What’s on your mind?”

Mr. Wile was asleep; Alice only had to change his bedpan. His eyes were open when she brought the pan back. Alice had nothing to say but, “Feeling all right?” She felt sorry for him, but more than that . . .

His eyes were not the least bit clouded. He looked extremely unhappy. If he talked he would be likable; now, Alice could only try not to pity him. His face was very wrinkled and how had all the wrinkles gotten there?

Alice had very little to say to Mr. Wile, except to apologize that she was bothered that night, and confused. She knew that he forgave her for being bothered. Until Mr. Wile fell asleep again, Alice sat with him and was especially quiet.

Worse. Sitting by a window in the hot afternoon, cornfield golden crisp in her mind, Alice made a frown. Outside, her own kids were playing with their friends. They kicked a blue plastic ball up and down the sidewalk, scraping. Trudy’s pudgy black arms shook when she clapped her hands. Behind the facade of hard buildings, Alice saw only more hard buildings and years of them. The blues with strings that played on the kitchen radio made the whole thing a dance. A stumpy dance, endless.

While the children in her head, small boy and small girl, ran in the corn and turned their heads up to be dizzy at the sky. Leaves brushed their tan faces; they circled and collapsed on the ground. A smell of warm dry earth came up. The boy: falling playfully, a whole corn plant under him.

Black children through the open window were the same as ever. Two of them were Alice’s own. Alice’s sister came up behind her and touched her shoulder.

“Want to get some sleep before work tonight?” the sister said.

“No thank you, Annie. And you don’t have to stay around here.”

“All right, I’ll go for a walk. Listen, honey, you okay? Because all those things you been telling me about . . .”

“I won’t tell you about no more. I’m fine.”

The sun was going down. People sat on their front steps and in windows. Time was passing very quickly. When it was time to take the bus to work, Alice felt sad. All the way on the bus, while lone studs gave her the eye, memory of cornfields and a small freckled girl forced itself upon her. She didn’t want it; it hurt.

Dr. Teagrade was sympathetic. He explained that he would rather have her off work for a while if something was bothering her than for her to be pushed and making mistakes. Alice went in to check on the knife-wound patient who was no longer an emergency case; the stitches were holding. So were the hinges on the stamp collection.

Someone had put a bottle at Mr. Wile’s bed and a tube feeding into his arm. Veins in the one exposed arm bulged. Mr. Wile looked up and Alice returned his stare.

“I see that someone thinks you’re not eating enough, Mr. Wile. You better watch out, hear, cause they’re after you.”

No reading the eyes.

“Are you cold in here?” He had the sheet pulled up to his neck. Mr. Wile nodded. Alice turned up the thermostat. She crossed the room and reached for the bedclothes.

Mr. Wile had a long purple scarf, old and faded, wrapped around his neck. One touch, and Alice was shocked. She remembered the scarf. At once she could sense his concern. She put her hand on the scarf; he was a scared little boy, caught. And what could he say?

Please. Please. Let me stay, for I need you to hold on to. I need you.

Solid. Please. I need you.

What could she say?

Don’t stay.

A dozen graying men sat in the oak-walled chamber. Napkins and glasses of water were on the table. As he watched, two more men came in carrying briefcases. One of them, a large man with a blond mustache, walked to the head of the table and put his case down on it. There was an important stock option to discuss; already the water glasses were half empty. He tried to concentrate.

“You awake?” Her husband’s voice startled her. A car went by below.

“Yes.”

“What’s been wrong with you? You driving me crazy, you know that.”

A balding man scrawled something on his pad of paper. He looked up just as a fresh pitcher of water was brought in, and smiled.

“No, Chad, I can’t help it.”

“You know what it is I mind. Only what you been telling the children. Now listen to me, woman. You going to stop telling them stories. Else I’ll assume you’re crazy.”

“I won’t.” Had to concentrate on what the mustached man was saying. There was a decision to be made. A very important one.

“No more, Chad. No more to the kids. But I’ve got to tell somebody. Let me tell you, Chad.”

“Don’t tell me no stories, I don’t want to hear no stories.”

“Chad, they’re in my head! What do I do?”

“Don’t tell me no stories.”

The mustached man took papers from his case. And if a mistake was made, there could be disastrous consequences. Had to concentrate. Had to know. “Chad.”

Chad turned over on his stomach. Alice was shaking; she hugged him and pressed her face against his shoulder. A fresh pitcher of water was brought in. Suddenly the table rose up, the room spun, the old men started shouting. “Chad.”

Lights in the ceiling flashed brilliantly and the paneled room flushed white suds. Alice winced; tears fell from her eyes onto the pillow. When the phone rang, she waited to catch her breath before answering.

“Mrs. Costin?”

“Yes, Doctor, what is it?”

In nurse’s uniform, Alice walked to Mr. Wile’s room. The door was open. Dr. Teagrade was inside. Mr. Wile’s eyes caught Alice at the door, and his neck muscles strained. He was breathing hard, spasmodically. He followed Alice with his pleading gaze as she crossed the room.

Mr. Wile had tears; Alice had tears for Mr. Wile. He wanted her help. The briefest sign of panic touched his face. He shuddered, trying to hold on. With a rush of energy that she could feel, he sent all of himself out to her.

But what Alice saw stopped her and she was unable to respond. Unable to say anything or to accept the thoughts. What Alice saw was a young black woman, herself.

It was his picture of her. It was so unlike what she knew of herself that she could not keep the revulsion down. His angel of mercy, see what she looked like. A good black woman. And she recoiled.