The Alcoholics (8 page)

With the exception of Susan Kenfield, and, of course, Humphrey Van Twyne, they were all at the table today; even the General was there, very erect and urbane and so shaky that he could hardly get a spoonful of soup to his mouth. Doc Murphy studied him from the corner of his eye. He slipped something into Rufus' hand, and whispered to him. A minute later the General's coffee cup was removed, and another set before him. He drank, and his tremblings quieted, and he began to eat.

Doc sighed, silently. It was all wrong; it was murder. But you had to choose: slow murder or quick starvation. When a man had only one thing to live for, bad though it might be, how could you strip him of it completely?

He dropped the problem and moved on to another, ever-present and always hateful. Money. Mentally, and detesting himself for doing it, he began to add and subtract, divide and multiply, to figure over and over, always arriving at the same hopeless result.

The General? Nothing, next to nothing. No more than enough to take care of his medicines.

Bernie Edmonds? Nothing.

Susan Kenfield? Not now. Suzy was always broke and abysmally in debt after a binge. Not now, and now was all that counted.

The Holcombs? Yes. Right on the dot. They would even be good for a generous loan-which, of course, he couldn't ask for or accept. You couldn't be in debt to an alcoholic whom you had to treat. Inevitably, the debt would influence the treatment.

Jeff Sloane? Yes.

Van Twyne…?

Doctor Murphy's calculations ceased abruptly. He caught Rufus' attention, and whispered to him again. Rufus, who had been hovering about Jeff Sloan with a mixture of curiosity and relief, looked aghast.

"Me, Doctuh? You mean you want
me
to feed 'at-"

"Yes," said Doctor Murphy. "What's the matter? You were anxious enough to fool around up there yesterday."

"Yes, suh, but I wasn't foolin' around his
mouth
."

Doc grimaced. "Go on, now. He's the same as a child- perfectly harmless. How many times do I have to tell you that?"

"Yes, suh. You tell me that, but do you tell
him?
"

Miss Baker started to rise from her chair. "I can do it, Doctor. I'm all-"

"Rufus can do it. I've got some case reports I want you to type up."

"But I can do that, and-"

"Rufus!" snapped Doctor Murphy. "Move!"

"Yes, suh. Right away after a while, suh, Jus' soon as I take care all you-"

"Josephine can do anything that's left to do. Now, get moving."

Rufus moved, his great shoulders slumped in dejection. Miss Baker murmured an inaudible word of apology, and left the table. Frowning, Doc watched her enter the areaway to his office.

He hadn't acted very subtly in the matter, but he'd had to head her off. At any rate, there wasn't much sense in being circuitous now when he was going to have to go straight to the mark this afternoon.

He lighted a cigarette and picked up his coffee cup; glanced casually around the table as he smoked and sipped.

The Holcombs had eaten almost nothing. Which must mean that they were out of whiskey and were retaining their inner glow as long as possible by refraining from eating. Bernie had eaten most of his soup and part of a sandwich. Which must mean, since the Holcombs had been his source of whiskey, that he was resigned to sobering up and getting the agony over with. He was trying to face up to his problem.

Doc was rather pleased with Bernie. Bernie could have remained alcoholically eased for several hours yet, but he had chosen to square away with reality now. Necessity, of course, had helped to dictate the choice; what he would do, if he got hold of more whiskey, was another matter.

But he would get no more. The Holcombs would get no more.

Jeff Sloan…

Sloan had taken a few spoonfuls of soup, then sat back and begun smoking. He was sweating and his face was flushed, but otherwise he seemed at ease. There was a sureness about his movements, a kind of arrogant geniality in his manner, which was strangely incompatible in a man who had mixed whiskey with the most violent of alcohol allergy compounds. Strange. Incredible. But alcoholic behavior had a way of being incredible. Sloan was a superegoist; he'd keep going as long as he was able to stand up. Which couldn't, of course, be much longer.

Certainly, he couldn't have had any more whiskey. Regardless of his will-to-resist, a very little more and he'd be dead or as near death as a man could be without dying. How he'd managed to get away with what he had, with every sip turning into poison, how he could have made the attempt to move in on the Holcombs (Miss Baker had reported Bernie's brush-off), how a man could fight and beg for something that was killing him-!

Doc put down his coffee cup, and turned slightly in his chair.

"How are you feeling, Sloan?" he said.

"I'm feeling all right," said Jeff. "How are
you
feeling, Murphy?"

The Holcombs turned, as a unit, and stared at him. Bernie frowned, and the General looked a little shocked.

"What's the matter?" Jeff's voice rang loud through the room. "He didn't call me mister, did he? Didn't say how're ya Jeff, did he?"

"That's right," said Doc quickly. "I'm sorry. You're sure you're feeling all right, Jeff? Don't you think you'd better make a stab at your lunch?"

"No," said Jeff.

"Well"-Doc laid his napkin on the table-"If you gentlemen will excuse me…"

"Wait a minute," said Jeff. "I want to talk to you."

"Uh-huh. Well, I'm afraid-"

"I don't want any whiskey. That's all you think about, isn't it? All you think I think about. This is business. Want to talk a little business."

"I see. In that case we'd better go into my office, hadn't we?"

"Not necessary. Just want to know what you'll take for this place. Cash on the barrel-head."

Doctor Murphy forced a laugh. "Got a buyer for me? Well, thanks, but I'm afraid I couldn't sell it. After all, what would I do if I didn't have a place for you gentlemen to visit me?"

"You mean," said Jeff, "what would you do for another gravy train?"

He looked around the table, grinning, pleased with his shrewdness, and gradually the grin stiffened and disappeared.

"Just a statement of fact," he said surlily. "Manner of speaking. Couldn't swing it if it wasn't a good deal." He waited. He went on again, stubbornly, sullenly. "Well, it is. Couldn't help but be. Figure it out yourselves. Not kicking. Glad it is that way. Can't make money where there isn't any to make. Doc can get you guys-guys like us-to shell out fifty bucks a day instead o' thirty, I'm all for it. It's got to be an A-1 racket or I couldn't-"

"That's right," said Doctor Murphy. "Bernie, will you see the General back to his room. I want him to lie down a while."

"Now, wait a minute!" said Jeff. "I'm talk-"

"Yes," said Bernie, "let's wait and see what else Mr. Sloan has to say. Go right ahead, Mr. Sloan, you're doing me a lot of good. A little more of your babble, and I'll be about ready to go on the wagon."

"B-but"-Jeff kicked back his chair, his face suddenly livid. "Think I'm drunk, do you? Well, let me-"

"I hope you are," said Bernie. "I don't see how you could be, but I hope so. I'd hate to think that you were so goddam imbecilic as to believe that-dammit, tell him, Doc!" Bernie's voice choked up with disgust. "How many of us do you ever get any dough out of? How long has it been since I paid you anything?"

"Bernie!" snapped Doc, icily. "You have no right to-"

"Then, I'll tell him. I-"

But Jeff Sloan was not there to tell. He had left the table. He was leaving the room, sick, sober with shame. Hating himself. Hating and despising them as they must hate and despise him.

Why had they let him go on? Why hadn't they shut him up before-?

He had to hate them, to move the smothering shroud of hatred from himself to them.

He closed the door of his room behind him, and almost snatched the drink from under the bed. God! He'd have to get out of here some way. Get to a bar-get back to the apartment with a fifth! If he could just get out of here, he'd show 'em a-.

The door crashed open. The drink sailed from his hand, and Doctor Murphy was gripping him by the shoulders, shaking him, yelling at him.

"
How much? How much have you had?"

"N-not v-very m-" Jeff couldn't get the words out, not with his teeth rattling like castanets.

Doc released his shoulders, and grabbed his left arm. He jerked up the sleeve, and pressed a thumb against his pulse. "Don't get excited, now! Take it easy. Just tell me how much-how-.

"Why, damn you, Sloan!" he breathed. "I've been half off my rocker worrying about you. You've had me going around in circles, wondering how in the hell you were doing it! You took five years off my life, just now and-by God!" he roared. "I ought to murder you, Sloan!"

And then he dropped down on the bed, his head buried in his hands, and rocked and whooped with laughter.

"Got a cigarette on you?" he said.

Jeff Sloan gave him one. Hastily he struck a match and held it.

"Thanks." Doc puffed out a cloud of smoke. "You know I'd have sworn you took that pill. I was sure the boys hadn't given you anything to drink."

"Well"-Jeff hesitated. More than anything else he wanted to play square with Doc-to do nothing that would endanger this wonderful friendliness that had reached down to pull him from outer darkness.

But it would sound so funny, saying he'd found the whiskey in the sink. And he couldn't be positive that the boys hadn't.

"Well, let it go," said Doc. "Sit down… How are you feeling, by now? Like to have a good big shot?" "Gosh, you mean I"-Jeff sat down-"I-uh-guess not." "Sure you would," said Doc. "You feel like you made a horrible horse's ass of yourself-which you did, of course-and you want a drink to forget it. Well, that's all right. Want it. Just don't take it… Incidentally, what's your attitude toward the booze now? Still think you can handle it?"

"Well, I-it certainly hit me hard this time. The little bit I had this morning. Why, Doc, I can-I've polished off a couple of pints in an- "

"You'll never be able to do it again," said Doctor Murphy. "Or maybe I should say you'd better not do it unless you're prepared to face much worse situations than you created a while ago. You've crossed the line, as we say in alcoholic circles. You've lost your license to drink. From now on, every drink you take will affect you a little worse than the last one. I tell you that. Bernie or the Holcombs or the General or any other alcoholic will tell you the same thing."

"Why do they drink then?" said Jeff.

"That I don't know. I can point to certain things which are factors in their drinking, but I can't answer the basic questions. I can tell you this: It's ten times harder for a man Bernie's age to stop drinking than it would be for you… Tell me, why do you want to drink anyway?"

Why? Jeff shook his head. "I don't know, exactly, never thought much about it. There's a lot of drinking in my line of work, and well, you get all keyed up and can't let down-or you need a little lift when-"

"No," said Doc. "Those are excuses. They're not the reason. There's only one reason any alcoholic ever drinks. Because he's afraid. I know-I seem to be contradicting myself there. I do know why Bernie and the others keep on drinking, but I don't know the why of that why. What makes them afraid, that is. Why they keep on trying to bolster their courage with whiskey when it does nothing for them any more and does so much against them."

"I don't know, Doc," said Jeff carefully. "Not bragging, but I'm considered a-"

"I know. But whatever you're considered-iron-nerved, a pinch-hitter, a guy who knocks 'em cold and wraps 'em up-it isn't enough for you. You're afraid. You've got to keep showing people. The more you show 'em the more you have to. And when you can't…"

"Well, maybe…"

"No maybe, Jeff. You're that way. What you have to do is accept the fact-and accept yourself as you are. Right now your fears are illusory; they have no actual basis for existence. But if you keep on drinking, you'll have very real cause for fear. You'll be afraid to meet people, afraid they'll snub you or talk about you. Your work will start slipping, and the more it slips the greater the tendency for it to keep slipping. In short, you'll not only think you're a bum but you'll be one. And with all respect to my patients, I'm not using the word too loosely."

Jeff grinned half-heartedly. "I don't doubt you at all, Doc. I know I certainly acted pretty stupid. But-"

"Yes?"

"Well, it's… I don't mean that I'm any stronger or better than these other fellows, but-well, I don't think my own case is quite the-"