The Alcoholics (2 page)

Being an occupant of Room Four (or simply, Four, as the old-timers called it), the politely anonymous term for the sanitarium's padded cell, the man required a great deal of waiting on. And much of that waiting-on was required of Rufus. And while the man appeared docile enough, Rufus was quite sure that he wasn't. He knew something of the man's history. Even without brains, a person who pursued such whims as biting folks' noses off was, in Rufus' opinion, a decided menace.

He did not show this fear, of course; at least, he hoped he didn't. For a medical man to show fear of a patient would be unseemly, and Rufus definitely was-in his own mind- a fully qualified practitioner. He held doctors' degrees from the West Coast College of Astro- Cosmicology and the Arkansas Institute of Metaphysical Science. He had also done post-graduate work in Swedish massage. In view of these honors and the fact that he
did
"practice medicine"- at every opportunity and despite the most dogged and profane protests-his lack of medical education seemed of no moment whatsoever.

Seated in the kitchen of El Healtho, with two plates of ham and eggs in him and his fourth cup of breakfast coffee before him, Rufus thought about the man in Room Four, unconsciously flexing the muscles in his large chocolate-colored hands. He could, he decided, "take care" of the man if he had to. But he sure hoped he wouldn't have to.

Physical contests with the patients were frowned upon, and Rufus, a devotee of the sciences, opposed them on principle. It was just plumb too bad, he thought ruefully, that Doctor Murphy would not let him "treat" the case.

He had almost got to the day before. All his equipment had been readied; and he had had the man's winding sheets unwrapped to the waist. And then Doctor Murphy had stalked in and asked what in the hell he had thought he was doing.

Rufus had explained-given his diagnosis. He was convinced, he said, that segments of the man's perverted brain remained in his system and were making him restless. Obviously, a series of colonic irrigations was indicated.

Doctor Murphy had kicked over the pan of warm soapy water. He had told Rufus to stick his goddam shitgun (
now wasn't that a pretty name to call a scientific instrument!
) up his own butt. And he had declared that if Rufus didn't stop his silly goddam horsing around (
a pretty way for a doctor to talk!)
he, personally, would kick his, Rufus', goddam ass all the way into Beverly Hills.

Pretty-thought Rufus, gloomily, savoring his coffee. A pretty way for one professional man to address another. Oh, very pretty… Then he became aware that Josephine, the cook, was watching him, and he exchanged his downcast manner for one of frowning studiousness. He appealed to Josephine's ever-near hysteria.

Drawing a toy stethoscope from the pocket of his white jacket, he blew through first one end, then the other, then draped them around his neck. Propping his chin up with one hand he slid the other inside his jacket, thus assuming a pose at once Napoleonic and convenient for scratching. Josephine started to giggle.

Back in the days of the roaring 'twenties, he had served as chairman of the board of a hundred-million dollar corporation.

Back in the early 'thirties, three press services and a nation-wide chain of newspapers had quoted his opinion- yes, and his firm belief-that we have but to tighten our belts, my fellow citizens, and place our trust in Almighty God, and we shall emerge from this crisis more strong and triumphant than ever…

Back in the early 'forties, the early days of World War II, he had…

As a matter of fact, he had done nothing; nothing wrong. Nothing that might not have been excused, even rewarded, at a different time. It was not so much what he had done but when he had done it: The artist, Time, had painted him into a picture of chaos, distorting the nominally normal, concealing virtue and exaggerating defect.

He had been in the public eye for years. He remained in it now, the one figure in the picture that everyone recognized. Through the refracted light of familiarity, he became a symbol for Pearl Harbor, for Bataan, for the Philippines, for the accidental shooting-down of friendly planes. Perhaps the General had extended his lines too far. Perhaps his losses had been too high for the results achieved. Perhaps, and perhaps not. It did not matter. Time spun the wheel, and the arrow stopped at the General. He was not merely culpable of one doubtful action or several, but for the whole terrifying tragedy of war.

Just as he had done nothing, nothing wrong, so nothing- nothing really wrong-had been done to him. He was not under arrest on the flight back to Washington. He was not court-martialed. There was no official demand for his resignation. True, there were official news releases to the effect that a detailed study of his conduct was being made and that "proper action would be taken at the proper time." The stories flowed into the newspapers for months-never actually accusatory; only reciting the statistics of lives lost, of men killed and wounded and captured, and stating that the General's responsibility was under study.

The tides of the war changed, and the flow of stories to the newspapers ceased. But the General's case remained "under study," and he remained under suspension, drawing no pay. He asked for a trial. He demanded one. That put him back in the newspapers for a day-in bold-face, front-page "boxes," ironic in tone; in editorial-page cartoons-a be-spurred and drooling idiot shaking a bloody fist beneath the nose of John Q. Public.

But he did not get a trial. Nothing, as has been noted, was ever done to the General.

The war ended. The powers that were turned fretful, annoyed eyes on the General's "case." Restore him to rank? Give him a clean bill of health? Impossible. The public would never accept it. The General himself had become impossible. A common drunk, my dear fellow. Actually! "And did you see the article he wrote for that shoddy magazine? Pure viciousness! Couldn't have got any real money from that outfit…" Somewhere, somehow, in his almost fifty years of military service, a small error had been made in the General's papers. It was so small and so obviously an error, a matter of a
t
struck over a
p
to form the anomalous abbreviation
term.
, that it had been dismissed by everyone, the General included. But, now, when something had to be done with him but nothing to him, the error provided a way out.

The error had occurred in the chronicling of his promotion from captain to major; thus, it affected the higher rank and all other ranks up to his present one. A little confusing? Well, it was a rather confused matter. Briefly, however, it boiled down to this. The
term
, in the papers was-by unanimous agreement-interpreted to mean
temp
. His rank was temporary in other words; all his ranks had been temporary down to the grade of captain.

Being by age subject to retirement, he was retired without prejudice and with utter propriety at his last permanent rank-upon three- quarters of a captain's monthly stipend. So the case was adjusted, honorably and even with kindness. For, as a person high in authority had pointed out, the beggar managed to stay stiff enough as it was. With more money, he would simply drink himself to death… This morning, the morning of the day annaled and mayhap analyzed here, he sat on the flagstoned patio of the sanitarium, his steamer chair drawn up close to the sea-side guard rail so that he might better watch Doc's progress up the cliff from the beach. To some, the fact that the doctor chose to scramble perilously and laboriously up the rocks instead of ascending the stairs might have seemed idiotic. But the General did not so regard it. There was very little if anything that Doctor Murphy could do which, in the General's varicosed, broken- celled mind, would be open to criticism. "A very fine man," the General murmured. "Must remember to-to-to- A very fine man." Doctor Murphy swung over the guard rail, rested a moment, then moved across the patio, mopping his bony face with a thin wiry arm. He stooped down in front of the General, gently replacing the house slippers on the chilled bare feet. Then, dragging up a hassock to sit on, he grinned shrewdly but respectfully into the old man's face.

"Short night, eh, General?"

"What?" The General blinked, uncertainly. "Oh, no. No, I slept very well, Doctor."

"Good!" said Doctor Murphy. "You're convinced, then? You've decided I was right about that letter."

"Well, uh…" The General fumbled in the pocket of his bathrobe. "I was going to ask… I wonder if you'd mind…"

Doctor Murphy extricated the letter from the robe, and carefully unfolded it. "There you are," he said, "right down in black and white. '
We have enjoyed reading your manuscript, and thank you for allowing us to consider it
.' Isn't that what it says? Isn't that what it means? How in the world can you make anything else out of it?"

"Uh… you think that isn't a mere formality? That they're only being polite?"

"Ha!" said Doctor Murphy.

"Not their way, eh?" said the General hopefully. "Pretty curt lot on the whole?"

The doctor nodded vigorously. "Any time
those
people say they enjoy something, they mean it!"

"But-uh-they didn't take it…?"

"They were
unable
to. They enjoyed it and they appreciated your sending it to 'em, but-well, you can read it for yourself. '
We are unable to use it at the present time
.' At the
present
, understand? Let 'em wait a while, General. Just hang on to the manuscript; well, perhaps you'd better give it a good working-over, put in those anecdotes you were telling me. Then, send it to 'em and see how fast they snap it up, by golly!"

The General retrieved the letter, and tucked it carefully into his pocket. "I'll do it, Doctor! By George, I'll…" His voice faded, and the faint glow in his eyes dimmed. He
would
do it, but-.

He coughed nervously, nodding to the serving table at the side of his chair. "As you can see, Doctor, I have just had a hearty breakfast-scrambled eggs, wheat cakes, mil- Confound it sir! What are you smirking about?"

"Sorry, General. You were saying?"

"I was saying, Doctor Murphy, that I had just had a hearty breakfast and that I strongly felt the need for a drink by way of anchorage."

"Now, that's what I like about you, General," said Doc. "That's the trait I like about all alcoholics, the thing that distinguishes them from the common gutter-drunk. They'll try to outwit you, but they'll almost never lie to you."

"I don't-"

"You say you
had
a hearty breakfast. You don't say you
ate
it… You didn't, did you, General? Your choice of words wasn't accidental?"

The General smiled, reluctantly. His eyes, straying to the serving table, lit up again. "You're too sharp for me, Doctor. I don't know why I keep trying to deceive you. Now, I don't want to monopolize your time, so if you'll just instruct Rufus to re-fill my cigar lighter I'll…"

"What do you intend to do with the fluid?"

"What would one do with it?"

The doctor waited. Now it was lighter fluid. He brought his hands down on his thighs with a weary slap, and stood up. "Arsenic mixes well with milk, too," he said, "and it acts a lot faster. How'll it be if I send you a shot of that?"

"It might," said the General, "be a good idea."

Doc stared down at the bowed head, his friendly concern for the old man mingling with his irritating but ever-absorbing interest in the problem which the man presented. The General's existence was outright defiance of all the known rules of medical science, his existence and that of practically every other patron of El Healtho. Everyone knew that when the alcohol in the bloodstream reached a small fraction of one percent, the person through whom that bloodstream flowed became a corpse. His heart stopped. He smothered. Everyone knew that alcohol rose up the spinal canal to the brain, pressing harder and harder against the fragile cells until they exploded and their owner became an imbecile.

Everyone knew these things. Everyone but the alcoholics.

Of course, they did die. Their brains did become damaged to the point of idiocy. But alcohol, more often than not was only one factor in those deaths and that damage. They were run over while drunk; they were beaten and kicked, with irreparable damage to the brain, in drunken brawls. Everything happened to them except the one thing which a logical science declared should happen.

Of his own personal knowledge, Doctor Murphy had known but one man who had died of alcoholism.

One might justifiably feel that violent death overtook the alcoholic before his affliction had the opportunity. But how, if that were true, could such elderly alcoholics as the General be explained? The General had drunk a full quart of whiskey in thirty minutes; the alcohol in his bloodstream had been sufficient to ignite (as Doc Murphy had proved) at the touch of a match. Yet he did not die and his health, for his age, was far better than average. His brain was "wet"- at least, important areas of it were wet to an ordinarily disabling extent. Yet he was very, very far from being an idiot. Doc wondered, and wondered, by God, why he wondered. For, as far as he could see, El Healtho was damned well washed up. He might be wrong; certainly, he intended to take another look at his financial books after breakfast. But, hell, he knew without looking. He'd been looking for months when he should have been out looking for a practice.

Van Twyne? Would his family now take the next cautious step toward the goal which Murphy stood in front of? They would. They would do it today, through the medium of their family physician.

And if El Healtho
was
washed up, if, in short, he
did
intend to tell the Van Twynes and their money to go to hell-if that was the case, why had he argued so bitterly with Judson?

Dammit, oh, dammit to hell, anyway! Skip it. Let it ride a while. Here was the General, and the General seemed in favor of a drink of arsenic.

"I'll send it right out to you," he said, "but you'll have to promise you won't vomit it up."

"Excellent," murmured the General, allowing Doc Murphy to assist him from the chair. "Oh, uh, by the way, Doctor. I'm afraid my account may be slightly in arrears…"

"Who says so?" demanded the doctor, belligerently. "You telling me how to run my business?"

And then he jumped so suddenly that the General was almost thrown over backwards. For he had heard screams before-he had heard screams that were screams. But he had never heard anything like this, the terrifying cry that could only be coming from Room Four.