The Alcoholics Part 6

"Not always, Bernie."

"It seems like always. No, thanks very much, Holcombs, but no thanks . . . Now, if you can give me a job-and I don't mean any old job; the kind that doesn't matter whether you screw up or not, and you know it doesn't matter, so . . . Jesus! "-he ploughed his fingers through his gray-white head-"how long it's been since there was anything to do I cared about doing! Since I could feel important. Since I was any place where I didn't feel watched, where even the janitor felt he had the right to smell my breath."

He gulped the rest of his drink, shuddered and hastily lighted a cigarette. He inhaled deeply, exhaled, laughed. "Next week," he said, "East Lynne."

"As I was about to say, Bernie," said John, "brother and I would like very much to have you with us, but it's the agency's policy-and no one regretted more than we the necessity to establish it-it's our policy never to employ alcoholics. Never, no matter who they are."

"Wonderful!" chuckled Bernie Edmonds.

"It's not," said Gerald seriously. "It's simply one of those circ.u.mstances, such as you mentioned a moment ago, which is a certain way, regardless of whether it should be. Look at it this way. We hire an alcoholic for a responsible position, and he works out fine. We hire a half a dozen and they work out fine. But the seventh one-the seventh does not. In one day he loses us more-and this is no exaggeration, it's happened-more than we can make in a quarter. He loses us more than the other six have earned for us. And we never know when one of the other six, or all of 'em, will pull the same stunt. We just can't take the chance. Brother and I, ourselves, never go near the office when we're drinking."

"Never," John nodded. "That's one reason . . . well, you see our position, Bernie. If we can't trust ourselves-a point concerning which there is not the slightest doubt-how can we trust another alcoholic?"

"Sure," said Bernie. "I was only kidding about the job. I don't know what in h.e.l.l I'd do around an agency."

"Wait a minute, Bernie!" Gerald stood up. "Brother and I feel very badly about this. Isn't there something we-?"

"Can't think of a thing," said Bernie.

"Why don't you try another book? I'm sure if you can give us something to show around, ten thousand words, say, and an outline, we can get you an interesting advance." Bernie paused. Several seconds pa.s.sed, while the brothers watched him anxiously, and then he shook his head.

"What would I write about? I don't do fiction. I'm completely out of touch with the world scene-anyone or any thing that could be built into a book . . . No, I'm afraid not."

"Think it over," urged John. "Don't be in too big a hurry to say no. There must be some way-"

"Is there some way," said Bernie, "to turn the clock back to about 1944? See you at lunch, gentlemen."

He winked at them, and, shoulders thrown back, carpet shoes slip-slapping jauntily, left the room.

10.

Jeff Sloan had had a very bad morning. It might not have seemed so to others, but that has nothing to do with the case. Only the person affected has the right to judge the goodness or badness of his situation. Jeff would have described his as pretty d.a.m.ned lousy.

He'd had one vitamin shot last night-a vitamin shot and something to make him sleep. That was all, and . . . well it was their place to see that he did take the antabuse, wasn't it? It was their place to keep him from drinking. That was why he was paying thirty bucks a day. If he had to do it himself, why give them anything?

He had come here to get squared away, and they weren't doing a d.a.m.ned thing for him. Just keeping him here. Letting him louse around in a crummy old bathrobe.

He couldn't understand why this place had been recommended so highly, why his employers had insisted on sending him here. By G.o.d, he couldn't understand it! It wasn't as if there weren't any other sanitariums for alcoholics. (And he wasn't a real alcoholic, of course; always 'd been able to handle the stuff.) There were plenty of 'em-places that guaranteed to cure you of drinking. And they didn't charge any thirty bucks a day either!

He pulled a chair back into an alcove, for a brisk breeze was sweeping in from the ocean. His robe drawn tightly around him, he hunched down in the chair, his normally good-humored countenance almost laughably peevish.

He would have liked very much to obtain his clothes and check out of El Healtho, but to do so was impractical if not impossible. His employers would doubtless be phoning to inquire about his condition, and if he wasn't here-if he was sufficiently recovered to leave here-they'd expect him back on the job. He wasn't quite up to that yet. Moreover, Doctor Murphy quite likely would refuse to release him.

He pondered this last probability, phrasing it mentally as a situation in which they locked you up in jail and charged you for staying there . . . Could they get away with it? Maybe. Maybe not legally. But you weren't in a very good position to kick up a fuss. Certainly, insisting on his release should not be done except in an extremity.

The whiskey was dying in him. Black doubts-a fearful sense of insecurity he had never known before-edged into his mind. Was he really as good at his job as he'd boasted? Was he any good at all? Or were they just keeping him on out of pity?

He laughed impatiently, irritably. Oh, h.e.l.l. Everyone knew what Jeff Sloan could do. Ask anyone in the trade, and-But could he keep on doing it? What would he do if he couldn't? He'd never done anything else. He wasn't a copywriter or an artist or an accountant or anything like that. All he knew was how to get his teeth into an idea, and give it the old push-to throw it into 'em and make 'em like it. And-.

And he sure hadn't gone over very big around here. First the Doc had brushed him off, and then Bernie and the Holcombs. And that could have been a brush-off from the Kenfield dame. She could have heard him coming, and pulled the sick act to duck him. She and the General, both. Something might have been said like, well, watch out for that Sloan character. He'll bore you in spades.

Jeff mopped his forehead with the sleeve of his robe. This was crazy. He was just feeling low. He was making a lot out of nothing. The thing to do was-was-.

Well, why not? What he'd thought about this morning? Murphy acted like one of those don't-give-a-d.a.m.n guys, like he didn't care whether school kept or not. And a man like that was a good man to talk deal to. If he could just pin him down long enough to make a proposition, get him to set a figure, and then do a little talking and phoning around as soon as he got out of here . . . Well, that would show 'em. It would show Murphy.

If-.

But-.

The alcoholic's depressed mood pulls him two ways. While it insists that great deeds must be done by way of proving himself, it insidiously resists his doing them. It tells him simultaneously that he must-and can't. That he is certain to fail-but must succeed.

It is a maddening sensation. Jeff, to whom it was new, and who was undergoing a relatively light form of it, was almost at the point of yelling when Rufus came upon him.

Rufus had observed him from a small staircase window, noting with satisfaction that the alcove in which Jeff was sitting would prevent his being seen from almost every other point in the house. Such opportunities seldom came Rufus' way, and he promptly took advantage of this one.

"Mr. Sloan, I believe," he said, with such crispness as he was capable of. "How are you feeling, suh?"

"Why-uh-" Jeff looked at him uncertainly, and halfrose from his chair. "Why, all right, I guess."

"Sit still please. And kin'ly lean back."

Rufus pulled the stethoscope from his pocket, adjusted the ear-pieces and slid the detector inside Jeff's pajamas. He listened gravely, his eyes professionally serious as they stared into Jeff's. He stood back at last and returned the stethoscope to his pocket, his pursed lips and drawntogether brows obviously indicative of disconcerting knowledge.

"Well?" Jeff laughed nervously.

"Your heart always been like that?" said Rufus.

"Like-like what? There's never been anything wrong with my heart that I know of."

Rufus shook his head, searching for some safe but authentic temporization. "Well, now, o' course it could be simple-sympathetic. A reaction to some other condition. Kin'ly open your mouth, suh."

Jeff opened his mouth.

He was a little puzzled. He had thought Rufus only a flunky about the place, a waiter and man of all work, yet here he was a.s.suming the functions of a doctor . . . Would they have an interne around such a place?

Everything about this place was c.o.c.keyed. If this guy didn't seem to act quite right-and Jeff couldn't say why he didn't seem to-well, it was only natural.

Rufus looked down at him, frowning, stroking his chin with one hand.

"'Magine you're pretty constipated, aren't you, suh?" he said hopefully.

"Not so you could notice it," said Jeff.

"'Magine your head aches pretty bad, don't it?"

"Well, yes. But, look now-uh-" Jeff hesitated. For a doctor this bird was a little rough in the English department, but- "Stand up, please."

"But-if you don't mind, I'd-"

"Up!" said Rufus firmly.

Jeff Sloan stood up. Rufus placed a hamlike hand against each side of his head, and began to move them in a gentle push-pull motion.

"Feels better, don't it, suh? Makes it feel kinda nice an' easy."

Jeff, his head wobbling from side to side, backward and forward, agreed that it did feel better.

Rufus' hands pressed tighter. Their motion grew faster. "Jus' relax," he said. "Jus' let it go an' I give you a . . . 'justment!"

He gave a sudden quick jerk. There was a loud pop from the immediate vicinity of Jeff Sloan's neck. He yelled, pulled violently out of Rufus' grasp, and fell back against the house.

"G.o.d Almighty," he gasped, his head bent over and slightly to the front of his left shoulder. "Y-you've broken my neck!"

"No, s-suh. No, I ain't, suh." A premonition of impending disaster set Rufus' insides a-tremble. "You jus' ain't let me finish the 'justment, suh, 'at's all. I give it one more teeny-weensie twist, an'-"

"Jesus," he grunted, "how stupid can a guy get! I'm G.o.ddam lucky I got a head on my neck at all!"

Jeff glared at him. His head poised at a ludicrous angle, he stamped off the terrace and into the house. Boy, he'd had it! All he needed now was to have some of these jokers give him the horse laugh.

Fortunately-for the physical welfare of anyone who might have encountered him, as well as his pride-he arrived at his room un.o.bserved. He closed the door, placed a chair against it (it had no lock) and sank down on the bed. He started to lie back, and a sharp twinge brought him suddenly upright.

He tried again, on his side. He tried it on the other side. He tried it on his stomach. Groaning, a little desperate, he sat up again.

He managed to light a cigarette, and smoked, moodily, moving the cigarette back and forth to his lips with a wide sweeping motion. He flung it to the floor, cursing, pushed himself up off the bed, and went into the bathroom.

G.o.d, he groaned, staring at his lopsidedness in the bathroom mirror, why couldn't he have seen that the guy was a screwball? He knew he was only a flunky, knew he must be, and yet, by G.o.d, he'd gone right ahead and.

He started to turn on the water, then saw that a hand towel was lying in the sink. He picked it up and-.

"Huh!" he gasped, and his head snapped up in surprise. His neck popped again, and he grunted out an "Ouch!" and then he was looking into the mirror again, moving his head to and fro, laughing in sheer delight. It was all right. The d.a.m.ned thing had slipped back into place. That little jump he'd given, when he'd seen what was in the sink . . .

"What do you know," he said, tenderly, and lifted it up. "Baby, you are a life saver!"

He sniffed it. He sipped, cautiously. He drank and said, "Whuff!" and "Wow!"

A hundred proof, by gosh. A full tumbler-better than half a pint-of hundred proof whiskey.

He drank again, the why of the miracle brushed aside in the urgent need to enjoy it. To h.e.l.l with why. Who cared about why? It wasn't some kind of c.r.a.ppy trick; it wasn't doped up. It was real honest-to-Hannah whiskey, drinkin' whiskey, and he could feel the old lead flowing back into his pencil already.

"A life saver," murmured Jeff, and he meant it literally.

He sipped at the whiskey until the gla.s.s was approximately two-thirds full. Then, he dripped water into it until the level reached the top again. He took another sip, held it in his mouth a moment, savoring it judiciously. He nodded with satisfaction . . . Very shrewd, he thought, congratulating himself on the "discovery"; unaware that the trick was the oldest in the alcoholic's repertoire. You could get that high-proof taste in your mouth, then cut your drink back to its original size; and it was almost impossible to tell that it had been cut. Within reasonable limits, you could have your whiskey and drink it, too.

He carried the gla.s.s into the bedroom, pushed the chair more tightly against the door and sat down on the bed again. He sipped and smoked, self-confidence and optimism surging through his body in a nerve-warming, lilting tide. That was one thing about going without a drink for a while. When you did get one, it really did you some good.

He grinned, unconsciously, out of sheer high spirits. Boy, he thought, was I moaning low. And not a reason in the world for it, either. No one had tried to brush him off. Bernie and those other guys were all right. They must have put this whiskey over here for him. Maybe he ought to step over there, and-.

But suppose they hadn't done it? Suppose he should thank them, and . . . well, aside from the fact that he didn't have enough to share, that he d.a.m.ned well wasn't going to share, it would be kind of embarra.s.sing-they might think he was needling them about the way they'd acted-if they hadn't given it to him.

Come to think of it, hadn't Bernie mentioned the brand the Holcombs had? . . . He had! And that brand wasn't hundred proof.

This stuff now, this must, if he knew anything at all about whiskey, be some of the sanitarium's stuff.

He hesitated, letting his fingers loosen a little on the gla.s.s. And, faintly, from the dining room came the tinkle of the luncheon chimes. He relaxed his grip a little more, and the gla.s.s slipped slightly, and abruptly he tightened his fingers again, and jerked the whiskey up to his mouth and took a generous guip.

There was one good drink left, a little less than a third of a gla.s.s. Jeff put it under the bed, against the inside of one of the legs. He jerked the chair away from the door, staggered and righted himself and went out.

11.

Doctor Murphy always ate with his patients, those of them, at least, who were able to get to the dining room. It was often a nuisance to do so-nerve-wracking and time-consuming. But he felt that it was necessary, and worth the effort. Much could be discovered about the condition of a patient by his appet.i.te or lack of it, and his manner of eating. Also, by eating with them, he could still any alcoholic suspicions that he looked down on them or was enjoying better food than they.

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, everpresent 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."