Читать книгу Visting Nurse - Alice Brennan - Страница 7

AS ALWAYS, the dirt, litter and abject misery of the Luigui apartment hit Arleen like a blow across the face.

She found Anna Luigui lying down, clad in a not too clean nightgown, her bare, dirty feet trailing over the side of the cot.

At the table, Rose Luigui was spreading peanut butter on bread for the Luigui children crowded around her. The youngest member of the Luigui clan reposed on a pillow on the table, beside the peanut butter jar. She was crying in fierce, heartbreaking wails.

Rose, unaware of anyone else in the room but the waiting, clutching children and the crying baby, said, an edge of hysteria in her voice, “Shut up! Shut up, will you? If you keep up that yelling I’ll. . . I’ll brain you!”

And then, as Arleen watched, she let the knife drop into the peanut butter jar while she reached down with fierce tenderness and picked up Carmella.

“I didn’t mean that. Rose didn’t mean that. . . .” Suddenly, feeling the strange presence in the room, she lifted her head and stared, flushed and sullen-eyed, at Arleen.

“What do you think you’re looking at?” she flung at her, as she let the baby drop back gently onto the pillow, making no further effort to quiet its cries.

She retrieved the knife and once again began spreading peanut butter on the bread, to the accompanying unmelodic wails of Carmella.

“Welcome to breakfast, Miss Anderson,” she told Arleen, in the familiar mocking voice. “Besides the peanut butter sandwiches the menu always has powdered milk to drink. Oh, it’s warm and it’s gaggy to taste, but it’s very good for you. Ask Miss Gibbons! She drinks it herself . . . to hear her tell it!”

Arleen walked over and picked up Carmella. “Perhaps she’ll stop crying if she’s held,” she said.

She was surprised to find that the baby was not only dry, but bathed and clean. Arleen felt quite certain Anna had had nothing to do with it.

She looked at Rose. “Has the baby had her formula?”

Rose nodded, without looking up. “Next one’s due at twelve o’clock.” She finished with the sandwiches and began pouring the powdered skim milk into an assorted array of cracked glasses and handleless cups.

Arleen said awkwardly, “I brought the children a little treat of candy. You can hand it out to them.”

Rose said, in a hard voice, “Hand it out yourself, nurse lady. You’re the one who brought it.”

Arleen flushed. She waited until the children had finished the milk, and then she carefully divided the candy among them. Their greedy, clutching hunger still appalled her.

Rose pushed the glasses and dirty cutlery to one side, not bothering to wash them. “We’re going to use them again,” she told Arleen lightly. “Why bother washing them?”

She watched the younger children devouring the candy. She’d scorned any for herself. “That’s your lunch, kids,” she told them. “After a big treat like that, who needs lunch?”

Arleen didn’t dare look at the girl, or speak, knowing that if she did, the anger would show not only in her face but in her voice.

She had never come up against such open antagonism in her life before. Ignoring Rose, she found a basin, filled it with cold water, and sponged off Carmella. The infant stopped its restless crying and was asleep in Arleen’s arms as she finished drying her.

She tried to find a cool place in the room in which to put the baby, but there was no cool spot in the entire apartment.

When she straightened from putting the infant in her basket, she wiped at the perspiration gathering on her forehead. She caught Rose’s eye. “What you need here,” Arleen said, “is a fan.”

The young girl’s arched brows went up a shade higher. “Oh?” she said. “Is it uncomfortable for you, nurse? I’m so sorry, but our air conditioner is out of order. The butler’s having it fixed. Maybe next time you come. . . .”

Arleen said levelly, “Rose, do you think hating me is going to change things?”

Rose shrugged, and said airily, “It keeps me occupied.”

Anna Luigui, engrossed in reading one of her inevitable comic books, had barely glanced up when Arleen entered the room. The baby’s crying had not seemed to affect her at all.

“Mrs. Luigui. . . .” Arleen moved toward her purposefully, but suddenly Pietro strained himself into her view. She frowned, and glanced at Rose. “That eruption on his skin could be ringworm or impetigo. It should be washed and looked at. Do you suppose he would let me near enough to him to take a look?”

Rose shrugged. “Search me. Pietro just don’t like people, especially women.” She gave a bitter glance at her mother. “Not that he hasn’t got reasons!”

Anna heard. She lifted her head and said sullenly, “Don’t go talking about your mama. I try to keep you decent. You just tell the nurse what time you come in this morning! Huh? Four o’clock in the morning she come in. What kind of time is that for a decent girl to come home, huh? Where she was? She don’t tell me. Ain’t none of my business, she tells me! Her own mama! None of my business!”

Arleen tried to sidestep the argument. She said sternly, “I’m sure Pietro wouldn’t be afraid, Rose, if you’d tell him that all I want to do is to wash his face and look at the breaking out on his skin.”

Rose merely shrugged, and Arleen said coldly, “Both impetigo and ringworm are contagious. If Pietro does have either of those, he could give it to the entire family.”

Rose said carefully, “Is dirt contagious, too, nurse lady? I know the answer to that one. It sure is.” She pointed to Anna’s feet hanging over the side of the cot. “Ma’s given her dirt to everybody else in the family. You got something to cure dirt, nurse lady? If you ain’t, you might just as well quit talking!”

Anna howled in indignation. “Listen to her. Listen to her! And me having to lay here and take that kind of talk from her. Too sick to get up on my feet and go at her!”

Arleen said quietly, “You don’t have to stay in bed, Mrs. Luigui. In fact, the doctor wants you up on your feet, doing your usual work. Women recover their strength much faster that way.”

Anna frowned and said belligerently, “That doctor ever have a baby? You ever have a baby? Well, then, don’t you go telling me what it’s like!” She moved her big bulk on the narrow cot.

Arleen said, “Would you like me to give you a sponge bath? You’ll feel much better.”

Anna shook her head. “I want a bath, I’ll take one myself!”

Arlene sighed. You tried and you tried, and you got exactly nowhere. She closed her bag. “I’ll weigh Carmella next time I come. It would be a shame to disturb her when she’s asleep. Is she taking her formula all right?”

Anna shrugged. “Ask Rose. I been too sick to pay attention to that squalling kid. Rose does what’s got to be done . . . when she ain’t out running in the streets all night!”

Arleen turned to look, but Rose had vanished. She let her gaze wander to the Luigui children, sprawled about the room in various stages of undress.

She knew there was a Mr. Luigui, but evidently he kept his distance whenever Arleen showed up. She said, “Is your husband working, Mrs. Luigui?”

It was the wrong question, Arleen knew, the moment she’d asked it. Mrs. Luigui’s broad face reddened and the small eyes, in their layers of fat, narrowed.

“You come here spying for Welfare?” she said. “That it?”

Arleen shook her head. She said calmly, “Of course not. I have nothing whatever to do with Welfare. I was just wondering about your husband.”

Anna said sullenly, “My Tony works when h& gets work. He don’t get work. Whata you think of that?”

Arleen was glad to escape Anna’s sullen viciousness, and the smell of the tiny apartment, composed of heat and dirt and too many unwashed bodies.

Outside, she stood for a moment on the cracked side-walk in front of the building. She closed her eyes briefly, having no wish to paint the picture of the street in her mind. It was already much too vivid, so that sometimes when she awoke at night she could see it.

Across the street, lounging in front of a poolhall with a torn awning, were three boys. In spite of the heat they each wore identical black leather jackets with a rooster garishly painted on the back.

Feeling their gaze on her, Arleen deliberately directed a blank, impersonal stare in their direction. One of them, a short, thin boy with his blond hair arranged in an extravagant way, gave back her stare from heavy-lidded, mean eyes. Turning to his companions, he gave a high, shrill laugh.

A tremor of fear found its way along Arleen’s spine. In the nearly seven weeks she had worked as visiting nurse in the area, she had had no sign of trouble. It was said that nurses and doctors could travel more or less freely in most of the trouble spots.

Still. . . . Arleen wet her lips and determined not to show fear. She walked with quick, resolute steps toward her car.

Out of the corner of an eye, she watched one of the boys detach himself from the other two, flip a cigarette butt with utmost contempt toward the gutter, hook his thumbs in the belt of his low-slung jeans and saunter across the street toward Arleen. Behind him there were loud snickers of laughter.

It required valiant effort for Arleen, almost at the car, to force herself to look at the boy crossing the street. But she did it.

He was taller than the others, and although he was thin, Arleen could sense the wiry strength that was in him. Dark, curly hair gave him a boyish look which his mocking, scornful eyes and bitter mouth belied.

Her fingers touched the door handle. She opened it, and forced herself to climb without haste behind the wheel. Equally without haste, as if she were not aware of the boy walking toward her, Arleen turned the key in the switch.

She thought, “How in the world can I act unafraid, when I’m scared to death?”

The dark-haired boy’s voice was a drawl of harshness. “You going somewhere, lady?”

Arleen made herself look up at him. He was perhaps eighteen . . . nineteen. It was hard to tell, she thought. He was one of the old-young. She’d seen far too many of them in the seven weeks she’d worked in the Leland Street slum area.

“Yes,” she said, “I’m going back to the county health department; I work out of there. Then this afternoon I’m going to make more calls on sick and convalescent people who can’t afford a regular nurse.”

She was surprised to find how steady and calm her voice came out.

The boy looked undecided. He frowned, scrubbed the toe of his shoe against the side of the curb and said harshly, “They shouldn’t send women around places like this by themselves.”

Arleen said quietly, “I’m a nurse. Nurses have to go where they’re needed.”

The boy scowled at her, kicked at the gutter, then turned away. “You’d better get out of here,” he flung at her over his shoulder. “Get that heap of yours going and get out of here!”

The switch key was on, but the motor hadn’t started. Arleen’s foot trembled as she pressed it down on the starter. The motor began purring smoothly. Across the street, Arleen decided an argument was going on, and she had the uncomfortable feeling that she was the cause of it.

She shifted into low and was ready to take off when Mark Wynter’s low, pleasant voice greeted her.

“You’re gunning the motor, Miss Anderson—Arleen for short—and that’s no way to drive. Hasn’t anyone ever told you the facts about cars?”

Arleen thought she had never in her whole life heard anything more wonderful than the sound of Mark Wynter’s voice at that particular moment.

She turned to look at him, and the trembling she’d kept from her voice until now was evident as she asked, “Do you always show up at the right moment?”

His gray eyes scanned her face. “I try,” he said.

Although he did not turn his head, Arleen knew that he was aware of the three across the street. “Trouble?” he asked, his voice quiet.

Arleen still felt shaky. She said, her voice unsteady, “I was afraid there was going to be. This . . . this dark-haired boy came over to the car, but all he did was to tell me I shouldn’t be around here by myself, and I should take my car and get away from here. I don’t think the others liked his just walking away from me like that.”

Mark said slowly, “Probably not. But they’ll listen to him. Peter—that’s the boy—Peter Rossi is the leader of the Roosters, and so long as he’s their leader, they’ll do what he says.”

His voice softened. “The Roosters aren’t women attackers,” he said. “Probably what they had in mind was a little excitement for a hot, dull day. If Peter had got you scared—riled up—crying—why, it would have given them a couple of laughs.”

Arleen stared at him, shocked. “What dreadful minds they must have!”

Mark Wynter shrugged and said slowly, “What dreadful lives they have to live.”

Arleen, looking beyond the car, saw Rose Luigui swing out of the doorway of the apartment building and stroll, hips swinging in the tight skirt, across the street toward the poolhall. Immediately there was a chorus of whistles as the boys turned their full attention on her.

Arleen shook her head. “Her mother said Rose didn’t come in until four this morning. I don’t know if. . . .”

Mark cut in savagely, “It’s probably not the first time, and it won’t be the last. Rose is intelligent. She’s got it in her to make something of herself, if she had the chance. But she won’t get the chance, and she’ll go down and down.”

He straightened his shoulders; sighed. “Peter Rossi is intelligent, too,” he said. “He wanted to go to high school, but he couldn’t make it. Now he doesn’t care—about anything or anybody. His father is a drunkard. When Peter was small he’d beat him until he was senseless. He’s afraid to beat Peter now, and he doesn’t beat Peter’s mother if Peter’s around. It’s left its mark on the boy. He’s never been in court yet, but that’s only because he’s never been caught. Some day he will be, and that’ll be the beginning.”

He sounded savage and angry and bitter. Arleen said, curiously, “Why didn’t he do what the others wanted him to? Why did he just walk away from me? Perhaps, deep inside of him, he doesn’t want to do any of these things, Mark.”

Mark shrugged. “That’s probably very true. But Peter will do them, because he has to show the world that he doesn’t care.” His eyes were warm on Arleen’s face. “Something about you got through to Peter,” he told her. He looked away from her quickly, as if there were something in his face he did not want her to see.

There was a lump in Arleen’s throat. She said, past it, “Why, Mark? Why do people have to live like this? Poor Neelie Ryan up there in that stifling room, bedridden, with a weak, drunken husband; the Luiguis . . . poor Rose . . . this Peter Rossi?”

Mark Wynter said tightly, “Ah, now, there’s a question. If you find the answer, my dear Miss Anderson, please give it to me. I’m curious. A lot of people are curious about the whys and the wherefores of this particular kind of misery.”

He opened the car door and told Arleen to slide over. “I don’t have my car,” he said, “so I’ll drive yours. We’ll have a cup of coffee at Barney’s.”

Arleen knew she shouldn’t take the time, but she also knew she was going to. She said lightly, “Hot coffee on a day like this?”

He said firmly, “A hot drink is good for you on a hot day.”

Arleen laughed. “You’re the doctor,” she said.

Across the street, Rose Luigui was strutting along, with the three boys following her.