Seated at another table in the refectory was Bruce Whitaker. He had carefully selected this table because it was adjacent to the table where two specific doctors were eating lunch. These doctors were select because they were conducting a study among the hospital patients. A study in which Whitaker was intensely interested.
A very recent addition to Whitaker’s table was Ethel Laidlaw. This to Whitaker was the source of both positive and negative vectors. He was, of course, happy to see and be with Ethel. At the same time, it was most important that he be able to pay close attention to what these doctors were talking about. And of course Ethel would want to talk. Whitaker did not command the language to tell Ethel to be quiet. All in all, he felt, it was going to be a challenge to listen to both the doctors and Ethel.
“I’ve been thinking,” Ethel began, “about your offer to help with my problem . . . you know, with Sister Eileen. I don’t really think you have to go out of your way to help with this. I mean, there are other ways.”
Ethel was holding a cup of very hot coffee near her mouth, absently blowing over its surface, attempting to cool it. But she was paying little attention to it. The cup had tipped over so slightly and the coffee began dripping ever so slowly into Ethel’s lap. The old water torture with caffeine overtones.
“I think I may have a plan that would surprise you,” Ethel continued. “It’s just kind of hard to talk about it, especially with you. I don’t understand it all that well myself. It’s something that’s going on in my head. Like maybe there are two persons there. One of them is the usual bonehead me. The other one seems much more clever. I guess I just don’t know how to explain it very well . . . do you know what I’m talking about, Bruce?”
“What?”
Ethel began, again, to explain her conundrum, trying to find clearer language. All the while, Whitaker tried to catch the doctors’ conversation.
“Are there really that many people in here with pneumonia, do you think?” said one doctor.
“Oh, yeah,” said the other. “At least enough for the study. Don’t need that many.”
“What’re you using?”
“One group gets penicillin, the other tobrimycin.”
“What are the protocol numbers?”
“Ouch!” Ethel cried.
“Not now!” Whitaker warned.
“Whaddya mean, ‘not now’?” Ethel almost shouted. “I burned myself with coffee. It’s scalding. Look! It’s been dripping in my lap. It hurts! Whaddya mean, ‘not now’!”
“Sorry, Ethel.” Whitaker strained to hear the doctors. Fortunately, the doctor who was to respond with the protocol numbers had taken a bite of food and was chewing. And fortunately, his social code did not countenance talking with a full mouth.
Thus, Ethel was well done complaining about the burn, the stain, and Whitaker’s failure to offer solace when the doctor replied.
“Odds and evens. Odds get tobrimycin. Evens get penicillin.”
“Sounds good to me. Got your ass well covered?”
“God, I hope so. We’ve checked out the stickers as carefully as possible.”
“Check out the crew, too?”
“Yeah. Pretty good, at least for this place. There shouldn’t be any slipups.”
“’samatter, you don’t believe in Murphy’s Law?”
“Oh, yeah, I believe in it like hell. I just think we’re gonna get through this study in one piece.”
“Well, good luck. Lemme know how it goes.”
“Sure. Right.”
The two doctors picked up their trays with the used crockery, deposited them, and left the cafeteria.
Whitaker hoped against hope that he could remember what he had just overheard. He would have a difficult enough time carrying out his plan even if he had all this information accurately recorded. It would be doomed if but one detail were incorrect.
But he would get it right this time and he would confound his colleagues back at Van’s Can. They thought he couldn’t do it. But with the help of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, by God, he would!
The most crucial bit of information he had just learned was the protocol numbers. As it happened, it was the easiest to forget. He would jot the numbers on his paper napkin. And, he was pleased to submit, for this very necessity he had planned ahead. He removed a number two pencil from his breast pocket and pressed the point to the napkin. The point broke.
“Quick, Ethel, do you have a pen or a pencil?”
“What is this with a pen when I’ve been burned half to death?”
“Please, Ethel, I’ve got to write something down. It’s an emergency.”
“Oh, all right already.” She offered him her pen. It was a fountain pen. One seldom saw such an instrument in these days of throwaway plastic ball-points.
Frequently fountain pens tend to leak. Ethel’s did.
When Whitaker finished, the figures were barely legible. The rest of the napkin was saturated with blue ink.
Ethel had watched the process with interest. “Here,” she said, offering her napkin. “Wipe your fingers.”
He accepted her napkin and wiped vigorously. It didn’t do much good. It never did, not since his days in parochial school, when, over the months, ink had gradually become the finish for his desk and chair.
“What’s with that?” Ethel asked. “‘Odd tobrimycin, even penicillin’ . . . what does that mean?”
“It’s just a project I’ve got to do. It’s not important.”
“But you said it was an emergency.”
Whitaker despaired of ever getting his hands clean with a paper napkin. He crushed it into a ball and dropped it on the table. Whence Ethel retrieved it and began dabbing at her coffee-stained white skirt, thus dying it a light blue. The blue ink dabs, together with the brown coffee stains, gave her uniform the appearance of a painful bruise.
“What was it you were saying, Ethel?”
“You should listen more careful, Bruce. It isn’t like you not to listen.”
“I’m sorry. I really am. But I just had to hear what those doctors were talking about.”
“Whyever for?”
“It’s just this project I’ve got. Now, please: What were you telling me?”
“Well, I was just telling you not to feel bad if you can’t help me.”
“If I can’t help you!” Whitaker sounded offended.
“I mean with my job here and my problem with Sister Eileen.”
“Oh, but Ethel, I
“Bruce . . .” Ethel’s brow was furrowed. “I don’t understand you. I really don’t.”
“Ethel, you said that if Sister Eileen were gone from here, your job would be secure, didn’t you?”
“Well, yes. It’s Sister Eileen who’s threatening me. If she weren’t here, there’d be no one to fire me . . . far as I can see.”
“Well, that’s it. Just trust me and I’ll get you through this.”
“Gee, Bruce, I’ve never had anyone take care of me like you do. Not even my parents. It’s a funny feeling . . . but I kind of like it.”
It was a bit of a magic moment for them. They leaned closer across the table, both spilling their coffee. Fortunately, by now there was very little left to spill.
Ethel’s nose wrinkled. “Bruce what is that smell?” She glanced under the table. “Did something die?”
Whitaker sniffed. He did not detect any particular odor. But then the sensory perception of smell does tend to neutralize itself over a period of time. “I don’t get any smell, Ethel.”
“Oh, yes, Bruce. If you don’t mind me saying so, it seems to be you.”
“Me?”
“You.”
Whitaker sniffed again, more intently.
“I believe you may be right, Ethel.” Gradually, he was remembering. He reached into his trouser pocket. It was there, all right. It blended into his hand and fingers the way the handle of a good golf club should. Very
