They walked past several closed doors. Through the tinysquare window in one, she saw the nurse Molly banging on the door from theinside with her bandaged hand. She was no longer wearing her nurse garb.Instead, she had become one of the patients. Sweat stood out on her brow, andwhen she saw Clara, she let loose a barrage of profanities that kept Clara frombeing able to make eye contact with her.
"Is she going to be ok?" Clara asked.
Joan looked at her, a wan smile on her face. "We'llfind out soon enough." They walked towards another room. This room had agiant observation window, and she could see Courtney strapped to a gurney, hishead whipping from side to side, looking for something. His eyes werered-rimmed and his teeth were clenched.
Joan held her card up to a security scanner, and a lighton the door handled blinked green. She heard the bolt of the door unlock, andthen she turned the door handle. They stepped inside, and Courtney's eyes fixedon them. For a second he was quiet, and then he began thrashing furiously athis bonds. His hands wriggled and clawed at them, which would have been comicalif he didn't have the stench of uncontained violence and rage about him.
Clara took one look into Courtney's eyes, and it felt asif a rock had dropped into the pit of her stomach. She didn't know what to do.
Joan looked at her and said, "Talk to him."
Clara lifted her arm off of Joan's shoulder and hobbledover to Courtney. She looked into his once beautiful brown eyes and said,"Courtney? Can you hear me?"
His only response was a low growl. His eyes focused onher, and for a second she saw a glimmer of recognition, but it disappearedquicker than a dream, and then he was trying to get at her, straining thestraps that held him down.
"Courtney. It's me Clara. Give me some sort of signthat you can hear me." There was no sign, just more growling andstraining.
Joan put a hand on her shoulder, and reality hit home forClara. She didn't want to do it, but tears escaped from her eyes. Joan put hershoulder under Clara's arm and guided her into another room, away from thesight of the man that would have one day been her husband.
Clara made her way to the bed in the room and lay theresobbing. She didn't know how long she had cried for, but when she was done andready to leave, she discovered that Joan had gone, and the door was locked. Hersadness became rage, and as she banged on the door, she could hear the nurseMolly down the hallway echoing her sentiment.
Chapter 24: Roasted Goat
OldHan cursed the day that he had hired Dustin. He should have known better oncehe saw that ridiculous tattoo on the man's forearm. Tattoos meant poordecisions. Poor decisions meant less profits. But what else did one expect froma lazy American who could only find work slinging drinks at a bar? He had nopride. None of them did. Now he stood there in front of his bar, soaking upblood from the green carpet with a mop bucket that looked like it had neveractually been clean at any point in its existence. Who could say if it everhad? He had bought it used for 2 dollars when he had first opened the bar.
Helooked around the bar and silently cursed it. The keys on his key ring jangledas he furiously attacked the carpet, grunting and muttering under his breath.He would have to call in that other lazy American and try to fill in Dustin'sshift. The fury that flooded through his veins drove him to spit on his ownfloor.
"Stupidfucking American. Motherfuck to him. Motherfuck to all of them." With aswift whisk of the dirty mop, he wiped away all signs of his anger. The greencarpet was stained. He could live with that. What he couldn't live with was thethought of having to hire another lowlife scumbag off the street to serve beerto the people that came into his bar.
Hehad never seen such a disgusting lot of people. Oddly enough, as much as hehated them all, he would rather be cleaning the floor of The Sleazy Goat thansharing the bed with his shrew of a wife. It was her fault that they were stuckin this lazy country in the first place. If he had it all to do over again, hewould have talked her into going to France. But no, she had wanted to come toAmerica. They could be in Paris right now, drinking wine and looking at theEiffel Tower. But, no... they were in Portland, Oregon... America, land of thelazy, home of the idiotic.
Withintwo years, his wife had assimilated to the point of being unrecognizable. WithAmerica had come her freedom. No longer was she the meek little housewife hehad married in China. Instead, she was another lazy American, as evidenced bythe fact that she had gained fifty pounds since they were first married.
Whilehe built up The Sleazy Goat into a steady income, she loafed around on her ass,eating fast food and watching soap operas. The only thing she had evercontributed to their marriage was a quick spread of the legs, something whichhe increasingly cared less and less about. The hand was quicker, less messy,and didn't smell like onion rings and expensive perfumes.
Hedunked the mop into the bucket a little too vigorously, spilling blood-soakedwater all over the floor. Another round of cursing flew from his mouth. It wasthe only form of English that he was good at, and even then, he was only barelycomprehensible. He began mopping again.
Hewas wringing out the mop when the door opened and a couple of ragged-lookingpeople walked in. Their clothes were dirty, and they had a blank stare on theirface. It must have been 3:30 in the morning. Stupid Americans. He would be evenricher if the government would just allow them to drink for 24 hours. He hadheard that's how it was in Las
