Joseph O'Neill - The Breezes

Looking uncertainly through the door-glass, Pa went in. Not wanting to wait outside with Mrs Rasmussen, I followed him.

Almost immediately I broke out into a sweat. The ward was fervid as a jungle. On the bed in front of us a fat, bright red naked body, the skin lacquered with cream, lay wrapped in transparent plastic sheeting. That was not Merv. Merv was a pale, skinny man. We had no business with this fat man. We quickly walked past to the second bed, the one behind the screen.

Pa and I looked at each other. The bed was empty.

Pa undid his collar and took off his coat. He said with a weak smile, ‘Boy, I tell you, I could grow some plants in here, that’s for sure.’

I said, pointing back towards the first bed, ‘That … That isn’t him, is it?’

Pa fanned his face with the greeting-card and looked at me anxiously.

We went back. Pa slowly approached the unconscious patient and leaned over him.

‘Well?’ I said, after a moment.

‘I … I’m not sure.’

I was. That was not Merv. Merv was spindly. This poor guy was shaped like the blow-up Michelin man, all puffy and creased. His face was round as a football and his eyes were slits, whereas Merv had a thin face and big eyes; and although it was hard to be sure, because he was lying on his bed, I saw no sign of a hump. Besides, I had an idea about what we were looking for: a man with the appearance of a physics experiment, encased in bandages and plaster, with his arms and legs suspended by weights and pulleys from the ceiling.

Then Pa said, ‘It’s Merv. He’s been burned.’

I moved forward.

Jesus. It was him, ballooned and roasted. A tube had been inserted into his mouth and pushed down his throat: a ventilator. Shit. Merv could not even breathe.

I kept sweating. My God, it was boiling.

I turned my eyes to the machine and monitors stacked like a hi-fi next to his bed. Merv was plugged into everything. One machine was fixed to a drip under his collarbone, another to a drip on the top of his foot — the only part of him not burned, it seemed — and another to three stickers attached to his chest and legs. Nothing was stuck to Merv’s arms. They were too badly injured. One of the machines bore a screen with a pattern of dense, spiky peaks: his heart, I guessed. In spite of everything, that pump still kept pushing up those electrical mountains.

Pa gestured at the instruments with his bouquet. ‘Just look at all these things,’ he said. ‘Science …You’d think it would be impossible for a man to die these days.’ He wiped his brow with his handkerchief. ‘Why is it so hot in here?’ he said in bewilderment.

We turned around. Billy had come in.

He had heard Pa’s question. ‘It’s because he’s losing a lot of heat. They have to keep him warm and humid.’ Billy touched one of the machines. ‘The CVP,’ he said expertly. ‘To keep the bodily fluids balanced. It’s very difficult with burn victims. You see, the fluid’s in the tissues, not the bloodstream,’ he said.

Pa and I stood there nodding gravely, trying to absorb this information. Billy grinned again. He pointed a thumb at his father. ‘He’d make a nice meal, wouldn’t he? Nicely basted,’ Billy said, with reference to the ointment smeared over the slick, bloated stomach. He laughed. ‘Actually, on second thoughts, he’s a bit too microwaved for my liking.’ He laughed again.

Was he out of his mind?

Pa’s bouquet crackled. He glanced uneasily at his friend, lying there in his wrapping. I looked too and noticed, with a shock, that clear yellow droplets were oozing from his skin like sap from a tree. What the hell were those droplets doing there?

Pa said, ‘How’s the swimming coming along, Billy?’ Pa looked at me. ‘Billy’s a swimming champion, John. The butterfly, that’s right, isn’t it, Billy?’

Billy said, ‘I’m too old now, Mr Breeze.’ Demonstrating, he suddenly swung his arms over his shoulders in a violent stroke, his hands taking fruitless scoops of the hot air. ‘Too slow,’ he said cheerfully.

I gave him a smile. I felt it was my turn to say something.

Billy casually approached the bed. There was recklessness in his movements which I did not like. He regarded his father with an expression of curiosity.

Pa said, ‘I think we’ll be going now.’

Billy did not move for a couple of seconds. Then, in the same briskly informative tone, he said, ‘The problem is the lungs. The danger with fire is that you inhale the smoke and the flames.’

Pa, distressed, said, ‘Are your father’s … Are his lungs …’

‘Burned,’ Billy said.

Burned lungs? That did not sound too good.

Pa said, ‘What … What happened, Billy? How did it happen?’

Billy said, ‘The other car just swerved into Dad’s lane. The driver doesn’t know why. He can’t explain it. Dad’s car just went whoosh. It was a fluke. Dad couldn’t move. He was trapped by his seatbelt. It buckled or melted or something. Funny, that, isn’t it?’

My father took out his handkerchief again and slowly dragged it across his mouth and then his eyes. Then he began wiping the condensation from his glasses.

‘This place is like a sauna, isn’t it?’ Billy said with a laugh. ‘Lose weight while you watch.’

I smiled weakly. I straightened my stance, preparing to leave.

Pa showed the flowers to Billy. ‘I’ll just put them here, shall I?’

‘Yeah,’ Billy said. ‘Just chuck them over there.’

Pa put the flowers and the card on a table. We left the room and entered the cool of the corridor.

Mrs Rasmussen was still there, waiting for us. But there was someone else with her, too.

Pa said, ‘Paddy.’

Mrs Rasmussen said, ‘Billy, this is Mr Browne.’

This man, Paddy Browne? The bloodthirsty, furtive Network Secretary? Influenced by Pa’s demonology, I had imagined him as a small carnivore of a man, a weasel, a devourer of frogs and mice and birds. I had him down as sharply dressed and long-faced, with twitching, watery eyes and a small, neatly trimmed moustache. But this fellow, tall and in his early thirties, had an open and intelligent face. He wore jeans and a thick white Aran sweater. His hair was black and uncombed and his brown brogues were comfortably battered. There was nothing slippery about him at all.

He shook hands with Billy. ‘I work with your father,’ he said to Billy. ‘I’m terribly sorry about what has happened.’

‘It’s good of you to come, Mr Browne,’ Mrs Rasmussen said.

‘Not at all,’ Paddy Browne said, ‘not at all.’

Pa, meanwhile, had put his jacket back on, the jacket with the Network insignia on its breast pocket, and I could not help comparing and contrasting him with Paddy Browne. Paddy Browne was relaxed, youthful and winning. Pa, sweating, evasive, plastic pocket protectors protruding from his bulging jacket as he stood there in his cheap grey slacks and polished shoes, looked uncomfortable, old and acquainted with defeat. He said stiffly, ‘Paddy, this is my boy, John.’ He did not meet Browne’s eye.

We acknowledged each other with a nod.

‘Amy, we’ll be heading off now,’ Pa said. He hugged her lightly. ‘We’ll be praying,’ he said. ‘If you need anything, you know where to come.’ Then he said gently, ‘He’ll be all right. These places work wonders. We’ll have him back on that tennis court in no time.’ He turned to Billy. ‘So long, Billy.’

‘Goodbye,’ I said to the Rasmussens.

Pa walked down the long corridor with unusual agitation. ‘What’s he doing here?’ he wanted to know as soon as we were out of earshot. ‘He hardly knows Merv. Who does he think he is, coming down here? The Pope?’

This uncharitable reaction was not like him. I said, ‘He’s here to see how Merv is, just like you.’