Читать книгу The Long Shadows - Andrew Boone's Erlich - Страница 4

Hotel Dieu Hospital - May, 1952

'Round my Indiana homestead wave the cornfields,

In the distance loom the woodlands clear and cool,

Oftentimes my thoughts revert to scenes of childhood,

Where I first received my lessons - nature's school.

Our polar-opposite voices, mine a brawny baritone and hers a sweet soprano, blended together. The melody filled the old hospital ward with whispered music. The young nurse gently put her hand on my forearm. It felt good. Then we both closed our eyes and continued to harmonize.

But one thing there is missing in the picture,

Without her face it seems so incomplete,

I long to see my mother in the doorway,

As she stood there years ago, her boy to greet.

Oh, the moonlight's fair tonight along the Wabash….

“What’s going on in here?”

We abruptly stopped singing, opened our eyes and looked to the doorway. The angry face of Sister Mary Katherine, the nun in charge of the night shift, peered back at us out of the darkened hallway. Liz sank into a wooden chair next to my bed and clutched her hands tightly in her lap, like a school girl in the principal’s office for the first time. We both knew the old nun was by the book. She was infamous for not putting up with nonsense from patients and for firing young nurses at the drop of a hat. Word around the ward was that she wasn’t always that way. When Sister Mary Katherine was young, just starting her work in hospitals, she was tolerant and kind like Liz. But after the Spanish Flu Epidemic of 1918 and all she had to deal with, they say she hardened. God knows all the struggles I’ve been through have changed me. I wondered what, if anything, about me had not changed.

“Good evening, Sister,” I answered. “Nurse Reardon suggested we sing to cheer me up. It was such a wonderful idea. You see, I have been feeling kind of blue,” I answered.

Liz looked down and didn’t say a word.

“Humph,” the old nun replied, suspiciously looking over the spectacles that were propped on the end of her nose. “Just keep it down. There are sick people in this place.” She shook her head.

“Yes, ma’am, I promise.” As she walked away we could hear her long, black robes brush against the linoleum and the gold chain and crucifix she wore around her neck jangling on the front of her habit. When the nun was safely out of earshot, the young nurse stood up and walked over to the huge bed my parents had loaned Hotel Dieu for me to sleep in because their hospital beds would never have fit me.

“Thank you for bailing me out, Mr. Erlich. I don’t think Sister Mary Katherine would have taken too keenly to the fact that you were trying to cheer me up. If she ever got wind that I told a patient about how homesick I’ve been—if you’ll excuse the expression—there would be hell to pay.”

“It was nothing.” I noticed that my nurse looked troubled; more troubled than I’d ever seen her look before. She had been working the graveyard shift for just a few months. What with my frequent hospitalizations for all the damned transfusions I needed, my awful insomnia, and things being mostly quiet on the ward during the late hours she worked, we had become acquainted. Her name was Elizabeth Reardon. I called her Liz.

That night I wasn’t sure if Liz was bothered by the run-in we’d just had with her boss or if something else was on her mind. She sat down again and leaned forward. Liz wore a starched nurse’s uniform complete with a white apron and cap, bobby pinned to her curly brown hair. The cap had a thin, navy blue stripe across the front that indicated her neophyte status among the nurses at Hotel Dieu Hospital. Liz Reardon was the youngest and kindest of the many nurses who tended to me. That may explain why I’d grown so fond of her. She had understanding brown eyes, the color of the rich, black coffee they serve in the pie car on the circus train and a sweet voice, well suited for someone who works tending the sick. The fact that she only stood five feet tall and must have weighed no more than a hundred pounds dripping wet originally made me skeptical she could care for someone my size. Liz was polite and proper to a fault with Midwestern sensibilities. She always smelled clean and fresh; the way mesquite trees in the Upper Valley did after a July monsoon.

“You look worried, Liz,” I said.

“I’m the one that’s supposed to do the nursing here,” she replied.

“Come on, what’s the matter?” I asked.

Liz glanced away. It wasn’t at all like her to avoid my eyes.

“I shouldn’t be talking with you about my personal business, Mr. Erlich.”

“Liz, I’ve told you before, please call me Jake. Maybe I can help.”

“I don’t think anybody can help.”

“Why don’t you try me?”

Liz hesitated for a minute. “Mr. Erlich . . . I mean Jake, I honestly don’t think you can relate.” She smiled. I looked at her but didn’t say a word. After a minute of uncomfortable silence she finally spoke. “I . . . I really need this job. I can’t risk losing it. At first, I didn’t even want to take it, but I had to. I’m an only child. Since my dad died, my mom depends on the money I send every month.”

“There was a time when I had to help my folks out, too. And I do know what it’s like to be forced to do something you really don’t want to do,” I said haltingly.

“You do?” Liz sounded surprised.

I was stunned at my openness. I guess her honesty elicited the same in me. Up until that moment, our conversations had been cordial, playful, and even interesting, but never personal.

“This job is my first post out of nursing school. It might not seem like a big deal to someone like you who has traveled all over, but to me west Texas is a world apart from Indiana.” Liz walked away from me toward the one window in my room and glanced out of it into the darkness. Then she turned around. “I’m a shy person and I’m having trouble making friends,” she said quietly. “As hard as I’ve tried, I just don’t feel like I fit in here.”

I know what that’s like, I thought. The look of worry on her face began to dissipate a bit. She seemed a little lighter, as if each word she shared with me had a weight of its own that she no longer had to bear alone.

“I’ve lived most of my life on the road. I never really got used to it,” I replied, feeling I needed to help her but not sure how. I paused and looked directly into the young nurse’s dark eyes. “Liz, are you lonely?” I asked quietly, reaching out and taking her tiny hand in mine. She pulled away and sat back down in the chair. I felt I’d overstepped my bounds. I was intruding. How would I answer that same question if she asked me? I wondered. Not waiting for that possibility to unfold and uncomfortable with the silence, I continued to speak. I was surprised by the words that impulsively flew out of my mouth. “I know what it’s like to be lonely.”

She didn’t respond but looked at me quizzically.

“Jake, I look forward to our nightly chats. I really do. And I don’t want to offend you.” I nodded uncomfortably wondering where she was headed with this. “Tonight is the first time you have shared anything with me about yourself but still . . . ” She paused mid-sentence.

The young nurse had no way of knowing that for most of my life I’d been a very private person. Outside of my family, I don’t think I’d ever opened up to anyone.

“What’s on your mind, Liz?” I asked, pressing her.

She hesitated. “I understand you’re seriously ill and all, but how can someone like you . . . ? ” She spoke in an insistent, irritated tone I had not heard her use before. I realized that there must be much more to this young nurse than the sweetness and youth that met the eye.

Up until that instant, spending time with her had been easy and uncomplicated. I would just listen and occasionally make a sage suggestion about how she might handle some minor situation. But I guess it was really a one-way relationship. Now, suddenly, I had an awful intuition that I was going to be compelled to do something I didn’t want to do. I did not like that feeling at all.

“What do you mean, someone like me?” I responded with my own irritation.

She hesitated. “Well, you are a rich movie star and a world-famous circus celebrity. With all due respect, how can you possibly know what it’s like to be lonely?”

“Do you really want to know?” I asked pushing back. Liz nodded. “It’s not such a happy tale. I don’t want to offend or upset you. I don’t think you realize what you are getting yourself into.”

I was certain that if I really unburdened myself on this young nurse and told her even a fraction of what I’d been through, it would drive her away. Maybe that was why I had never really shared my story with anyone else. And then there were all the contradictions, ironies, and inconsistencies in my life. How could I possibly explain them to someone else when I didn’t understand them myself? What would another person think if I told them how often I worried that I’d never truly lived, yet I also frequently felt so bad I just wanted to die; or that I craved liberty, yet for most of my life, I was terrified of the unknown?

When your worst fears come true and you’re actually dying, I always thought you’d experience a certain freedom to say and do whatever you want. But now that I was dying, I didn’t feel free. I still wanted to hold back.

“I’m waiting,” Liz said, challenging me to explain myself.

What have I gotten myself into? I wondered. Sure, I could just send her away, change the subject, or buy more time in some other manner, but I knew that would torpedo our friendship. I looked forward to my nightly discussions with Liz and didn’t want to jeopardize them by not answering her. I hated the prospect of lying awake alone and pondering how many days, nights, and minutes of life I had left. It seemed there was no way out. I hesitated.

“If . . . if . . . if what I say bothers you, please tell me and I’ll stop,” I said, more anxious than I thought I would ever be speaking to someone half my age. I couldn’t believe what was happening. For the first time, I was actually going to tell someone my story. Perhaps there was something in my story she needed to hear?

“Don’t worry about me,” she insisted.

“One more thing; even though I’ve lived a mostly public life, I’m really a very private person. I’d appreciate it if what I say stays between us.”

“You have my word on that, Jake,” she answered. At that instant I was so uneasy that if I could have, I would have jumped out of bed and run out of that hospital to avoid talking about myself.

“Liz, do you still want to listen to this?” I asked, trying to give her and me one final chance to avoid what I knew would be very unpleasant.

“Yes, sir. I do.” The young nurse nodded.

“If you could just help me sit up a bit . . . ” I grabbed Liz’s forearm and inched my enormous torso up the back of the bed. Then she bunched half a dozen pillows behind me. I sighed. “Thanks, that’s much better,” I said. I questioned how sharing my secrets and stirring up all those awful memories could possibly help anyone, least ways me. But it was too late. Liz looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to begin.

“Well, here goes.” I took a deep breath. “I think as good a place to start as any, is at the beginning of the end of the story. It was 1936, just around this time of year. The circus was in New York for our month-long opening run at Madison Square Garden. Things were going bad for me—really bad. I had a lot on my mind—too much. You might say I’d reached the end of my rope. As I often did, I had been walking in the darkened menagerie to clear my head before I left the circus. I couldn’t put off the decision any longer. I clutched the sideshow contract in my right hand, unsure what to do about it. That night, I particularly needed some peace and quiet. That’s not what I got.”