“He made an obscene gesture to me!” Scapelli bursts out. “Showed me his middle finger!”
“I will see that you never work in the nursing profession again,” he says, looking into the depths of his briefcase as she half-swoons onto the sofa. His initials are monogrammed on the side of the case. In gold, of course. He drives a new BMW, and that haircut probably cost fifty dollars. Maybe more. He’s an overbearing, domineering boss, and now he’s threatening to ruin her life over one small mistake. One small error in judgment.
She wouldn’t mind if the floor opened up and swallowed her, but her vision is perversely clear. She seems to see every filament on the feather poking out of his hatband, every scarlet thread in his bloodshot eyes, every ugly gray speck of stubble on his cheeks and chin. His hair would be that same rat fur color, she thinks, if he didn’t dye it.
“I . . .” Tears begin to come—hot tears running down her cold cheeks. “I . . . please, Dr. Babineau.” She doesn’t know how he knows, and it doesn’t matter. The fact is, he does. “I’ll never do it again. Please. Please.”
Dr. Babineau doesn’t bother to answer.
15
Selma Valdez, one of four nurses who work the three-to-eleven shift in the Bucket, gives a perfunctory rap on the door of 217—perfunctory because the resident never answers—and steps in. Brady is sitting in his chair by the window, looking out into the dark. His bedside lamp is on, showing the golden highlights in his hair. He is still wearing his button reading I WAS SHAVED BY NURSE BARBARA!
She starts to ask if he’s ready for a little help in getting ready for bed (he can’t unbutton his shirt or pants, but he is capable of shuffling out of them once that’s accomplished), but then rethinks the idea. Dr. Babineau has added a note to Hartsfield’s chart, one written in imperative red ink: “Patient is not to be disturbed when in a semiconscious state. During these periods, his brain may actually be ‘rebooting’ itself in small but appreciable increments. Come back and check at half-hour intervals. Do not ignore this directive.”
Selma doesn’t think Hartsfield is rebooting jack shit, he’s just off in gorkland, but like all the nurses who work in the Bucket, she’s a bit afraid of Babineau, and knows he has a habit of showing up at any time, even in the small hours of the morning, and right now it’s just gone eight PM.
At some point since she last checked him, Hartsfield has managed to get up and take the three steps to his bedside table where his game gadget is kept. He doesn’t have the manual dexterity needed to play any of the pre-loaded games, but he can turn it on. He enjoys holding it in his lap and looking at the demo screens. Sometimes he’ll do it for an hour or more, bent over like a man studying for an important exam. His favorite is the Fishin’ Hole demo, and he’s looking at it now. A little tune that she remembers from her childhood is playing: By the sea, by the sea, by the beautiful sea . . .
She approaches, thinks of saying You really like that one, don’t you, but remembers Do not ignore this directive, underlined, and looks down at the small five inches-by-three screen instead. She gets why he likes it; there’s something beautiful and fascinating in the way the exotic fish appear, pause, and then zip away with a single flip of their tails. Some are red . . . some are blue . . . some are yellow . . . oh, and there’s a pretty pink one—
“Stop looking.”
Brady’s voice grates like the hinges on a seldom-opened door, and while there is an appreciable space between the words, they are perfectly clear. Nothing at all like his usual mushy mumble. Selma jumps as if he goosed her instead of just speaking to her. On the Zappit screen there’s a momentary flash of blue light that obliterates the fish, but then they’re back. Selma glances down at the watch pinned upside-down to her smock and sees it’s now eight twenty. Jesus, has she really been standing here for almost twenty minutes?
“Go.”
Brady is still looking down at the screen where the fish swim back and forth, back and forth. Selma drags her eyes away, but it’s an effort.
“Come back later.” Pause. “When I’m done.” Pause. “Looking.”
Selma does as she’s told, and once she’s back in the hall, she feels like herself again. He spoke to her, big whoop. And if he enjoys watching the Fishin’ Hole demo the way some guys enjoy watching girls in bikinis play volleyball? Again, big whoop. The real question is why they let kids have those consoles. They can’t be good for their immature brains, can they? On the other hand, kids play computer games all the time, so maybe they’re immune. In the meantime, she has plenty to do. Let Hartsfield sit in his chair and look at his gizmo.
After all, he’s not hurting anybody.
16