had something like that?”
“My husband. He needed constant attendance after surgery. On the sixth night I feel asleep and he hemorrhaged to death. I had learned how to change dressings, tubes, everything. And I fell asleep.”
He caught her hand and held it for a moment between both of his. When they started to walk again, he kept holding her hand.
“When I get well, we’ll have a vacation, won’t we? We’ll go to the shore and find pretty shells. Just us. You and me. Won’t we?”
“Yes. That would be nice.”
“Will they hurt me?”
“No. You remember. They’ll look at your throat, listen to your heart. Weigh you. Take your blood pressure. It won’t hurt.” He held the baby because he hadn’t dared leave it. They might be there all day. The baby cried very little now. It slept a lot more than it used to and when it was awake it didn’t do anything except suck its fingers and stare fixedly at whatever its gaze happened to focus on. Tillich thought he should cut down on the medicine for it, but he liked it better this way. He didn’t know what the medicine was for, if this effect was the expected one or not.
“You’ll stay with me! Promise!”
“If I can.”
“Let’s go home now.” She jumped up, smiling brightly at him.
“Sit down, Norma. We have to wait.” The waiting room held over a hundred people. More were in the corridor. In this section few of the patients were alone. Many of them looked normal, able, healthy. Almost all had someone nearby who watched closely, who made an obvious effort to remain calm, tolerant, not to excite the patients.
“I’m hungry. I feel so sick. I really feel sick. We should go now.” She stood up again. “I’ll go alone.”
He sighed, but didn’t reply. The baby stared at his shirt. He moved it. One eye had crossed that way. She went a few feet, walking sideways, through the chairs. She stopped and looked to see if he was coming.
“Don’t shriek,” he prayed silently. “Please don’t shriek.”
She took several more steps. Stopped. He could tell when the rush of panic hit her by the way she stiffened. She came back to him, terrified, her face a grey-white.
“I want to go. I want to…”
Over and over and over. Not loud, hardly more than a whisper. Until her number was called. They didn’t admit him with her. He had known they wouldn’t. She could undress and dress herself.
The trains came in from Chicago; from New York; from Atlanta. Fruit from the South. Meat from the West. Clothing from the East. A virulent strain of influenza from the Southwest. Tillich had guided it in.
“Cleanliness and rest, nature’s best protection.” The signs appeared overnight.
“If it gets worse,” the superintendent said, “well have to quarantine our people here at work.”
“But my wife is sick. And my child.”
The superintendent nodded. “Then you damn well better stay well, don’t you think?” He stomped off.
He thought of Louisa at the dispensary, in constant face-to-face contact with people. After work he was shaking by the time he reached gate ninety-six, and saw her standing there. He began to run toward her. She came forward to meet him. She looked frightened.
“Are you ill?” she asked.
“No. No. I’m all right. I got it in my head that you…” He took her face in his hands and examined her. Suddenly he pulled her to his chest and held her hard. Then he loosened his arms a bit, still without releasing her, and put his cheek on her hair, and they stayed that way for a long time, his cheek on her hair, her face against his chest, both with closed eyes.
He called the hospital about Norma. He told the recording about her shrieking fits after intercourse; about her sexuality that was as demanding as ever, about her neglect of self, of the baby. “Thank you for your cooperation. This is a recording.” He called back and told the recording to go fuck itself. It thanked him.
“You should have reported an adverse reaction
“My husband. He needed constant attendance after surgery. On the sixth night I feel asleep and he hemorrhaged to death. I had learned how to change dressings, tubes, everything. And I fell asleep.”
He caught her hand and held it for a moment between both of his. When they started to walk again, he kept holding her hand.
“When I get well, we’ll have a vacation, won’t we? We’ll go to the shore and find pretty shells. Just us. You and me. Won’t we?”
“Yes. That would be nice.”
“Will they hurt me?”
“No. You remember. They’ll look at your throat, listen to your heart. Weigh you. Take your blood pressure. It won’t hurt.” He held the baby because he hadn’t dared leave it. They might be there all day. The baby cried very little now. It slept a lot more than it used to and when it was awake it didn’t do anything except suck its fingers and stare fixedly at whatever its gaze happened to focus on. Tillich thought he should cut down on the medicine for it, but he liked it better this way. He didn’t know what the medicine was for, if this effect was the expected one or not.
“You’ll stay with me! Promise!”
“If I can.”
“Let’s go home now.” She jumped up, smiling brightly at him.
“Sit down, Norma. We have to wait.” The waiting room held over a hundred people. More were in the corridor. In this section few of the patients were alone. Many of them looked normal, able, healthy. Almost all had someone nearby who watched closely, who made an obvious effort to remain calm, tolerant, not to excite the patients.
“I’m hungry. I feel so sick. I really feel sick. We should go now.” She stood up again. “I’ll go alone.”
He sighed, but didn’t reply. The baby stared at his shirt. He moved it. One eye had crossed that way. She went a few feet, walking sideways, through the chairs. She stopped and looked to see if he was coming.
“Don’t shriek,” he prayed silently. “Please don’t shriek.”
She took several more steps. Stopped. He could tell when the rush of panic hit her by the way she stiffened. She came back to him, terrified, her face a grey-white.
“I want to go. I want to…”
Over and over and over. Not loud, hardly more than a whisper. Until her number was called. They didn’t admit him with her. He had known they wouldn’t. She could undress and dress herself.
The trains came in from Chicago; from New York; from Atlanta. Fruit from the South. Meat from the West. Clothing from the East. A virulent strain of influenza from the Southwest. Tillich had guided it in.
“Cleanliness and rest, nature’s best protection.” The signs appeared overnight.
“If it gets worse,” the superintendent said, “well have to quarantine our people here at work.”
“But my wife is sick. And my child.”
The superintendent nodded. “Then you damn well better stay well, don’t you think?” He stomped off.
He thought of Louisa at the dispensary, in constant face-to-face contact with people. After work he was shaking by the time he reached gate ninety-six, and saw her standing there. He began to run toward her. She came forward to meet him. She looked frightened.
“Are you ill?” she asked.
“No. No. I’m all right. I got it in my head that you…” He took her face in his hands and examined her. Suddenly he pulled her to his chest and held her hard. Then he loosened his arms a bit, still without releasing her, and put his cheek on her hair, and they stayed that way for a long time, his cheek on her hair, her face against his chest, both with closed eyes.
He called the hospital about Norma. He told the recording about her shrieking fits after intercourse; about her sexuality that was as demanding as ever, about her neglect of self, of the baby. “Thank you for your cooperation. This is a recording.” He called back and told the recording to go fuck itself. It thanked him.
“You should have reported an adverse reaction
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