The lobby of the North Miami General Hospital glowed with a glitter of glass and a gleam of tile, muted with soothing earth tones. Mocha and Flan. A cozy gift shop lent a friendly sparkle to the total ambience. Sharing a sofa with Pirate Jenny, McEwan wryly concluded that the upholstery and carpeting had the same color scheme as a Whitman's Sampler box. He figured the lobby was doing its part to create a mood of optimism, as if it wanted to be the lobby of a small resort motel on nearby Biscayne Boulevard.
Double doors occluded contact with the hospital's true reality. Beyond them ran a hall down to ER and its blood and horror. Another hall led to the elevators. Death lurked in upstairs rooms. Doctor Benjamin Singer pushed through the doors and strode straight to where McEwan and Pirate Jenny were sitting. His face was grim.
Since McEwan took on Doctor Singer ten years ago, the physician had lost most of his wavy brown hair and gained some bearded jowels. Same golf course tan and watery blue eyes. Same Brooklyn accent. He always began with I'll be frank with you. This time he simply glared at McEwan.
McEwan shuddered. "How bad?"
"It's not a strain we commonly see. Pneumocystis carinii. It crops up when the immune system is drastically down."
"Immune system? Does that mean--?"
"We 're running tests right now."
"Oh, God."
"We need to test you for HIV. I'll be frank with you. Bernice has admitted that the both of you have been sexually active with diverse partners. So permit me to asky you a few tough questions."
*
"Good morning, Bernice."
It was Doctor Singer in a Deep South seersucker suit. Crisp, not wrinkled yet. It was his country club favorite. She was not a morning person. Her room faced the East. The diurnal sun cast cruel lances of blinding light. Galaxies of dust motes whirled and collided. God, she was fragged! "Just making my rounds," Doctor Singer continued, smiling kindly. "Brought you a book."
He handed her a new copy of "When Bad Things Happen To Good People."
"Please, no," she croaked.
"Take it. Rabbi Kushner re-examines Job. Now there's a great story. As you might guess, I'm of the school that views it as literature. The lesson in it is helpful to us all. Even existentialists."
"Thanks."
She had read Jung's treatise on Job. Didn't care to discuss it. Didn't care to discuss anything.
"I understand you don't believe in God."
"Voltaire said if God did not exist than we would have to create Him."
I'm so fucking tired. Have to be nice. Have to be nice. Oh God--
"A wise man, Doctor Singer replied warmly. "I think he was quite correct. I'll leave you now."
*
A mountainous big-busted old nurse came in to carry out Doctor Singer's instructions. With her came a diminuitive flat-chested aide to check vitals, change the linen, and give Bernice a bath. She was olive-skinned and Hispanic. Beads of sweat appeared in her faint moustache as she lifted and sponged Bernice. The extra careful and fearful way the aide handled Bernice made it clear that she knew Bernice was an AIDS patient.
As the sponge glided over her breasts and into the hollow of her belly, Bernice wept.
"Please don't cry, Senora," the aide whispered. She could not avert her eyes from the bracelet on the patient's wrist. Who, she wondered, permitted this?
It was obviously home-crafted of gold and ebony and coral. Its uniqueness was significant. It meant that Yoruba magic was at work protecting this woman.
"Your bracelet, Senora. It is the gift of a santero, si?"
Bernice nodded, then closed her eyes.
Moving into Bernice's vagina and anus, the aide, "I must wipe you here."
With her mind focused upon tactile sensations, Bernice engaged her imagination, hoping to gain pleasure from the bath. She remembered a hot tub party with Maurice and Mac. What a threesome! Each man took a turn at licking her clitoris. The two cocks were huge, stiff and slick in her hand, and she rewarded them with her tongue. The men sponged her, kissed her, and fucked her. But instead of becoming erotic, the memory of it all merely depressed her now.
*
"Bern?"
It was Pirate Jenny. In the doorway. Sad-faced, yet resolute.
"Jen! Come in. Love God, it's good to see you!"
Oddly Chaplinesque, Pirate Jenny shuffled into the room. Her baggy khaki uniform swished noisily in the dead air. Filling the room. Her tanned weather-beaten had developed more crow's feet, and a smile line. She resembled her daddy the Skipper, a saltwater Florida Cracker with eyes that changed color to match the color of the sea. He would be placid or stormy, depending upon the mood of the water, wind and sky. His biological barometer sang the same song as did the atmospherical barometer that was nailed to his dockside tackle shed.
She took Bernice's hand and squeezed it gently and fondly. "Hello, old chum."
"Read any good books lately?" Still croaking.
"Nietzsche. How does it go. If it doesn't kill you then it will make you stronger."
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