Russell Banks - Trailerpark

When Carol was first led into Harold Dame’s room on the fourth floor of the Concord Hospital, she knew immediately that he could not see her, and she was relieved. Doctor Wickshaw had met her at the bus station downtown, and he had stared at her whenever he thought she wasn’t looking, and at the hospital the receptionists, nurses and orderlies, even the elevator operator, had noticeably marked her presence as a foreign presence, and she had started to worry about her clothing, her shoes, her handbag — they were wrong, loud, shabby, large. Of course, she knew what the real problem was, and she knew too that it was not a problem as such, the way loud or shabby clothing was a problem, that is, as something that could be solved. No, this was a fact, a condition. She had not seen a human face that was not gray or pink or peach-colored since the moment she had boarded the bus in Park Square in Boston. All right, then. It was a condition, a working condition, and she would endure it. She had known it would be this way. She was no fool, and she knew her geography; she also knew herself and knew that to live and work wholly among white people would continually embarrass her, which in turn would anger her. Beyond that, she knew her anger would end up defeating her true purposes here, and, therefore, to avoid being angry, she would have to accept being embarrassed.

The nearly dead man in the hospital bed relieved her of her embarrassment, however, and for a moment she forgot the portly, red-faced doctor with the ostentatiously pointed beard, and the blond, square-faced head nurse who had imperiously demanded to know her business with the patient, requiring the doctor to explain elaborately that she was being considered for a position as Mr. Dame’s private nurse. The shrunken, ash-gray man lay inertly beneath the sheet, a short, narrow mound encircled by tubes and chrome-plated armatures. His wrinkled lids closed over bulbous eyes like onion skins, and his small, open, toothless mouth was sharp-edged and dark, like a hole punched in dry ground.

“He’s sleeping,” Doctor Wickshaw mumbled, as he flipped open Harold Dame’s file, perused it momentarily, and then passed it on to Carol. “His heart and lungs are strong,” he said smiling. “So unless he catches pneumonia, he could last six or seven months. Of course, he may go tomorrow, too. The surgeon’s report is right there,” he said, pointing over her shoulder to a faded, photocopied sheet with scribbling across it.

Carol read the file slowly, page by page — notes by the attending physician, Doctor Samuel F. Wickshaw, notes from the half-dozen laboratories consulted, notes from the surgeon who had done the exploratory, notes from the anesthesiologist, remarks and observations from the nutritionist, instructions from Doctor Wickshaw to the square-faced head nurse, and on down the line — so that, by the time she had finished reading, she had imagined a body for this man lying in front of her, an old, diseased, misused but still somehow stubbornly sturdy body. Yes, she decided, she could administer to that body the few services it would require until it expired. They weren’t technically difficult to administer, and the man would not interfere much, she knew, for he would be conscious only intermittently, and less so with each passing week. And the pay — they had discussed it on the telephone, she and the Doctor, and had agreed on a figure that was almost the same as she would have received in Boston — was satisfactory. She asked a few questions about the son and daughter-in-law, learned that they were working people who would be living in the house but in a separate wing of the house, that in fact they would be away much of the time and would most definitely not interfere with her whatsoever, and agreed to take the job.

“Excellent!” Doctor Wickshaw exclaimed. He moved closer, his cheeks reddening with pleasure. “I’m sure you’re going to enjoy it up here.”

“I am?” She took a backward step toward the man in the bed.

“Yes, the fall! It’s beautiful in the fall! The leaves! Look!” he said, pointing out the window.

Carol turned and looked out the large window to the hospital grounds below, and then beyond the grounds to the rippling, tree-covered hills spreading away to the west, a thick carpet of orange, yellow and red all the way to the horizon. It was late afternoon, and the sunlight touched the treetops and brought the colors forward as if on an outstretched hand.

“People drive hundreds of miles just to see these colors,” he said in a reverent voice. “And all we have to do is look out our windows. Isn’t it something? ”

“Yes. Yes, it is something.”

He took a step back. “Well, now, let’s get ol’ Harold out of here and back in Catamount where he belongs, eh? The Dame place is lovely,” he assured her. “Up high, a lovely view of the lake, that’s Skitter Lake, and even a view of the White Mountains on clear days. You’re going to love it!” he promised.

For the first two days and nights at the house it rained, a cold, raw, wind-blown rain, and when it cleared, most of the leaves had been driven from the trees and lay wetly on the ground, heavy and faded to dull shades of brown and yellow. The trees were now skeletal, black and boney and nervous-looking. That first afternoon, Carol had met Harold Dame’s son and daughter-in-law, and they had approved of her, but she hadn’t seen them since, though several times during those first days she heard them come and go, returning from the office in downtown Catamount for food and sleep. They did not check in on the old man, she knew, for her room connected to his through a bathroom and she slept with both doors open.

Doctor Wickshaw telephoned several times a day and once again every evening. “To see how the patient’s doing,” he said cheerfully. When she reported no change, he said, “Fine, fine,” and then went on to ask her how she liked it up here in God’s country.

“It’s very pretty,” she said.

“Yes, well, you’ve only seen a corner of it so far. I’ll have to give you the guided tour some afternoon soon. No reason why you can’t take off a few hours and have a look at some of our natural wonders, the lake, the Catamount River, the old Indian fishing weirs. The town is quite pretty, too,” he told her. “The mill pond and the falls, several interesting old historical buildings, the park. A big difference from the city life,” he told her.

“Yes.”

“Safe! People leave their doors unlocked up here. ’Course, you better stay out of the woods in hunting season,” he joked.

“Really? When’s that?” From where she stood in her bedroom, she could see through the bathroom to Harold Dame’s room. He was awake, blinking slowly, like a turtle. Near his chin his emaciated hands clutched the top sheet, as if he were trying to protect himself with it or were ashamed of what lay beneath and were trying to hide it from the rest of the world. Slowly he turned his face toward her, seeking the source of her voice.

“I’m sorry, Doctor,” she interrupted, “but Mr. Dame’s awake.”

“Fine, fine, of course. Good girl,” he said cheerfully. “And say, call me Sam, will you? Everyone in town does. Save that ‘Doctor’ business for the stuffed shirts down south. Okay?”

“Okay.” She said good-bye and hung up, then walked quickly to her patient. Drawing up her chair, she sat next to the old man and gave him some water.

Taking care with his trembling mouth to use the plastic straw correctly, he studied the woman’s large face for a few seconds, then seemed confused and withdrew his gaze, leaving her alone again.

Gently, she stroked his narrow forehead and pushed his lank, white hair back. His eyes, watery and pale blue, closed, and then he was asleep.