A Midnight Clear

For days Mrs. Gordon beseeched her stepson, Freddy, to drive her up to the state hospital in Granite Falls. Every Christmas she put together a fruit basket for her third cousin Eustace. His principal relatives had carried out the annual deliveries over the years, but winter had struck early in northern Illinois, and struck with a vengeance, dumping one record snowstorm after another. The storms were followed by fierce winds and two weeks of bitter cold. Christmas spirit notwithstanding, no one in the Gordon family wanted to venture outside, especially for a fruit basket mission to the mental hospital. So Mrs. Gordon worked on Freddy, who had been bragging recently about the virtues of his Swedish Saab, a car undaunted even by polar climes.

"If this car is as good as you say, 20 miles on a four-lane highway will be a cruise. Are you the right man for the job? Am I talking to the right fella?"

At last Freddy said, "The car is an ace. I'll do it."

Mrs. Gordon had never been to a state mental hospital. For her it conjured up images of gothic horror. In a small way, this was part of the visit's appeal. Also, reports of Eustace's recent stroke made his future seem pretty iffy. One more blood clot and he could be out. Mrs. Gordon knew she could not live with herself if she did not make a last-minute appeal for this poor soul's heavenly salvation. Because Freddy was a doctor, she figured he would know what to do if things got out of hand. As an emergency room physician, he wrangled with crazed drug addicts, autistics and demon-inspired assault-prone schizophrenics on a daily basis.

Freddy showed up at four in the afternoon, three hours late. Although he was dressed in a jacket and tie, he did not look presentable. The hair on the back of his head had rooster-tailed and he needed a shave. His eyes looked like two balls of fire. In spite of being late, Freddy demanded caffeine. Mrs. Gordon wanted to kill him. Instead she convinced him to clean up while she made a pot of Starbucks. Freddy was blowing his nose when she barged into the bathroom with a plastic traveler's cup of coffee. "Let's get this show on the road," she said.

The sun sat low in the winter sky and they weren't even out of the driveway yet. Freddy complained that the coffee was too hot and got out of the car to break off a hunk of snow to cool it down. By now Mrs. Gordon was having second thoughts. She had spent most of the morning putting on makeup and getting dressed. Then she'd paced about the house like a madwoman, exhausting herself thinking of the barbarous scenes that might transpire at the hospital.

Freddy started the car and flipped on the soundtrack from the film Crumb. Concentrating on his coffee, he drove the Saab through the west side of town and then caught the highway to Granite Falls. Crumb's syncopated ragtime rhythms were like theme music, by turns festive, exuberant and depressing. Except for roadwork vehicles and the intrepid Saab, very few cars were out. The road was ghostly.

Highway 31 ran parallel to the Fox River and when the Saab wasn't chugging through heavy snow, it faced winding curves slick with ice. Freddy braked for a van, the car spun and Mrs. Gordon slapped her hand against the dash. Freddy smiled. "You don't trust my driving skills."

"The road conditions are utterly harrowing, and you're driving one-handed. I got up at nine, I've been drinking coffee all day and I'm a nervous wreck," she said. "Absolutely shot."

Freddy laughed. "You said I look bad? You look worse. Haggard. A bag lady."

"I'm hagged," Mrs. Gordon said, letting out a sigh. She studied the old estates lining the river. Such scenes normally gave her pleasure, but now all she could think of was the upkeep and the heating bills. The owners would have to be millionaires, literally, with money to burn. She turned to Freddy and said, "What if someone attacks us? Crazy people have the strength of 30. They're like Samson. Even the little ones."

"That's why they lock them up," Freddy said. "Given enough time the mentally ill--an M.I.--will pull some crazy-ass shit. Most are tame, but murder and mayhem have a way of unfolding in their presence. We could be killed at the hands of some violent monster. More likely I'll roll the car and we'll drown in the river. I'm not Mario Andretti. I can't believe I agreed to do this in such shit weather, with a hangover yet."

"You're driving like a maniac!" Mrs. Gordon said. "I need ... Dramamine or something. One more wild curve and I'll die. I can't take any more."

Freddy raised his voice over the music. "I can't take it either. I'm just trying to get this whole thing over with and get my ass back home and into bed. This was all your big idea. Eustace won't even remember us. He's not there, never was."

Mrs. Gordon bristled. "He's got an immortal soul," she said, "and this is Christmas."

Freddy shook his head with finality. "He won't be judged. He's defective."

"His dad took him to whores!" Mrs. Gordon said. "That's sin of the worst sort."

"What did you say?" Freddy cranked down the stereo. "He took him to a whorehouse? I thought they were big Christians."

Mrs. Gordon corrected her posture. Looking straight ahead she said, "When he came of age, Eustace sort of got out of control. His doctor had the name of some woman. It wasn't a whorehouse."

Freddy scratched the stubble on his neck. "Geez. I never figured that Eustace got laid. Just that he fell 95 feet off the water tower. Somehow I never imagined anything sexual happened with him."

"Once a week," Mrs. Gordon said, "something sexual happened."

Freddy turned off the stereo. "I have to fight to hear you. What did this woman look like?"

"She must have been a bird," Mrs. Gordon said. "To be able to put up with that. But, then, it was probably over quick--"

"And it calmed him? It did the trick?"

"As far as I know. But you just can't say he won't be judged."

The Saab hit a straightaway by the Campana factory and Freddy turned to his stepmother. "Eustace is an imbecile! You want to bring him to your house and take care of him in the true Christian spirit? Change diapers and stuff? No! I didn't think so. You think a fruit basket is going to help? The glue factory. That's where we're going. I'm not a Nazi. I'm just sayin'."

The Saab's radar detector began to blink as they approached the city limits of Granite Falls. The state hospital was situated on the east side of the highway, across from the river. It consisted of 22 Victorian-era buildings, only half of which were still operational. The hospital had been built on spacious grounds at a time when land and labor were cheap. It sat amid a grove of oak, elm and maple trees, their branches laden with dripping daggers of clear ice. Snow swirled in drifts over a deeper layer of packed snow, white, untrampled, except for animal tracks. Mrs. Gordon clapped on a pair of sunglasses and studied the frigid landscape. A formidable wrought iron fence, interspersed with brick pillars, surrounded the grounds. There was no chain-link or razor wire, but the fence was tall and artistically deceptive. It was there for security. Freddy wheeled through the main gate and parked in the visitors' lot. "Here we are at last, my dear, the bughouse. The snake pit. Vermin and reptiles abounding."

Mrs. Gordon's throat was dry. "I don't know if I can go through with it."

"Well, you simply must, dear heart. And let me say that this is yet another fine mess you've gotten us into!" Freddy grabbed the fruit basket from Mrs. Gordon's lap. "One more." As he opened the door, a bitter crosswind hit him like a slap in the face. He pulled up the collar on his overcoat and cursed himself for not wearing a hat. Mrs. Gordon put her head down against the wind and followed, vainly attempting to preserve her hairdo.

"Slow down," she said. "I'm wearing heels. I can't keep up with you."

"Flash frozen," Freddy said. "Antarctica. It's like liquid nitrogen."

A patient in a stocking cap and a Navy peacoat stopped Freddy to cadge a cigarette. Freddy shook off his gloves and pulled a pack of Kools from his pocket. He gave them to the man and said, "Keep them, buddy. I quit as of now. My New Year's resolution."

At this, a very short man wearing an overcoat and a dark homburg came around from the side of a beige Electra. His mustache was white with frost yet he seemed oblivious to the cold. The Buick had a flat and the two men were attempting to replace it with a mini spare. Now that he had been engaged, Freddy felt compelled to help them. He pulled on his gloves and replaced the lug nuts on the wheel. The man in the peacoat tightened them with the lug wrench while Mrs. Gordon held her ears and winced.

"Va-boom!" the short fellow said. His voice was deep and powerful. "Done. Ah-ho-yeah!" But as he let the jack down and the full weight of the car came to bear, the mini spare went flat. "Oh brother!" he said. "What's this country coming to? Why can't they give you a real tire for a spare? I knew this was going to happen. I'm calling a tow truck, Norman. This is intolerable!"

(continued on page 140)Midnight clear(continued from page 80)

Freddy asked where Ward Six was located and the short man pointed at the hospital clock tower. "The gray building behind the clock tower," he said. "Jarrad Hall. There's a plaque on the door. If you get to the water tower, you've gone too far. Those two chimneys from the power plant beyond...see there? It's the last outpost of civilization. Chinese Turkistan, Outer Mongolia, man. You will never make it back alive."

Freddy nodded his head at the two men. "Gotcha! Good day, gentlemen."

"Come on," Mrs. Gordon said as she plodded on ahead. "If we stand here another minute, I'll die."

"The guy is right, those little tires are ridiculous. I mean, who thought of that? It's not exactly what you call a grand inspiration."

"They were thinking in terms of space saving," Mrs. Gordon said. "Cargo space. If you want to transport dope, a dead body or something, there's more room."

"Yes, of course, but what stupid, fucking goddamn assholes they are just the same. The empire is in terminal decline."

"You have the foulest mouth of anyone alive," Mrs. Gordon said.

Freddy looked at her sharply. "I traverse hell on a daily basis. I'm known for my poignant effusions. To imagine that any human escapade could turn out well seems unthinkable to me, but this trip, Iona? Oh, do forgive me! You know I have a perception of things very few can endure. I will abstain from burrowing any further into my fourth dimension of despair except to say that this very planet has gangrene."

"The earth has gangrene," she said. "It's not paradise. Not by a long shot."

The pair followed the walkway around the clock tower and reached a gray building with locked doors. Freddy bolted ahead until he came upon the water tower. He turned around and ran back to his stepmother. "We're lost. I don't know what to do. I haven't even got a plan." He pulled off his coat and put it over his head like a blanket. They stood together shivering for a moment until a maintenance worker driving a snowplow stopped and gave them a lift back. He pulled a key ring from his belt, unlocked the door and let them inside.

The lobby was dark and empty, but it was warm. Freddy kicked off his loafers and began to rub his feet in a savage fashion. "Son of a bitch, it's cold!"

Mrs. Gordon blew on her hands and rubbed her face. "Oh God!" she said. "That was absolute hell!"

"Changing that tire. Shit! Goddamn motherfucker! Why was I born?"

"You were born because your dad screwed a bimbo," Mrs. Gordon said. "And now that you're here, you just have to make the best of it, like all the rest. Don't think of the philosophical implications."

Mrs. Gordon sat on a narrow bench next to Freddy and had begun to rub her own feet when a voice rattled over the intercom. "Please step forward and state your business."

Freddy spotted a small TV camera just above the intercom speaker. He moved before it and said, "Dr. Frederick Blaine here to see Eustace Elliot Eckstrom."

Freddy heard someone giggling in the background. The same voice pitched an octave lower said, "Eckstrom, Eustace, joost von moment. Ees he yah patient, doc-taw?"

"He's my relative!"

Mrs. Gordon clutched her body under her coat. "I'm frozen down to the core level," she said. "How do penguins take it?"

"I don't know. They have antifreeze in their blood. Maybe they hate their lives." Freddy peered through the metal mesh gate that bisected the lobby. "I'm not kidding, if I could push a button and never have been born, I'd push. The deal is this: We are in hell. It's just that they call it earth. If they just called it hell, it would make more sense."

"People could take it better if the right information were put out," Mrs. Gordon said. "I agree with that. Calling it earth is propaganda. Chinese Communist bullshit."

The intercom crackled. "Dot's Ward Six, duke-tor. I wan' you an' the little lady to prozeed down zee 'all to elevator C and take her to d' t'oid floor. How's zat sound to y'all?"

"That's peachy, sir," Freddy said. "That's dandy! We're coming. We're on our way. So look out."

A buzzer sounded and the iron gate slid open. Assaulted by a variety of indefinable but powerful odors, they followed the buffed terrazzo hall to elevator C.

The entrance to Ward Six was an oversize steel door painted with shiny white enamel but covered with greasy handprints, dried blood, snot, scuff marks and indentations that made it look like a guardrail at the Indy 500. Freddy pointed them out. "Look at that! The Incredible Hulk. After his TV series bombed, they sent him here."

"He's in there with green skin and a bad temper," Mrs. Gordon said. "We were fools to come."

Freddy smiled. "Think hell and it will all approximate fun."

Mrs. Gordon checked her lipstick in a cosmetic mirror, "H-E double hockey sticks."

Freddy rang the buzzer, then cupped his hands to peer through the thick yellow Plexiglas window of the door. A lanky orderly in a white uniform was seated at the charge desk reading a paperback copy of The Sea Wolf, by Jack London. He had a short black beard and long hair and his reading glasses were attached around his neck by a lanyard. Freddy watched him take off his glasses, set the book down and remove a large brass key from his belt. The man wore a name tag that read stephens. He opened the door and said, "Evening visiting hours are over at 5:30."

Freddy flashed his hospital identification and Stephens waved the couple inside. Stephens went back to his desk and returned to his book. Freddy asked where Cousin Eustace could be located and, without looking up, Stephens adjusted his glasses and pointed to the back of the ward.

A group of patients watching TV turned toward the door to see what was going on. They did not look nearly as crazy as Mrs. Gordon had imagined. In fact, they looked pretty normal. In a moment they turned back to the television, where Christopher Walken was doing a song and dance routine with elves and a snowman. Suddenly the biggest woman Mrs. Gordon had ever seen got up from a large chair and began to bear down on her.

Orderly Stephens jumped up from the desk, pointing a finger at the woman. In an even tone he said, "Stop it right there, Maria! I'm in no mood for fucking bullshit today. So just cool your jets!" Stephens sat down and bent back the spine of his paperback, waiting for Maria to comply.

Mrs. Gordon smiled nervously, hiding behind Stephens and Freddy. Not only was Maria tall, everything about her was large. She had enormous shoulders, huge hands and big legs. She had coarse facial features. Her teeth were large, but they were regular. Her hair was black and cut at shoulder length. She wore a plain black dress (continued on page 195)Midnight clear(continued from page 140) that looked homemade, a pearl choker and black penny loafers. She waited behind a grizzly, middle-aged man in a blue-striped cotton robe and pajamas who was smoking a cigarette and playing a game of solitaire. When Stephens had beaten the spine of his book into submission, he made a flicking motion with his hand, as if he were shooing a fly. "Eckstrom's way back thataway."

The ward was hot, and the air heavy and stale. Freddy unbuttoned his coat and loosened his tie, looking around. He had never been to Granite Falls before, but he had been in more than a few psychiatric facilities. For a state hospital, Granite Falls was not a bad place. The dayroom was L-shaped with a high ceiling, a blond-stained oak floor and four large alcoves of leaded glass windows that were obscured by thick mesh screens. It was a capacious room, and though there was much evidence of hard wear, it retained a kind of bygone elegance. Apart from a set of old mahogany dining tables, the furniture in Ward Six was a hodgepodge of Salvation Army couches and lounge chairs. In the center of the room, next to the television, was a nine-foot Christmas tree that was festooned with tiny blinking lights, tinsel and at least a dozen paper angels. Pine wreaths, brightened with glossy red holly berries and more homemade angels, hung from the mesh window security screens.

As the pair continued to linger, Stephens beat his book cover against the edge of his desk and said, "Go on, get out of here. I'm sick of looking at you."

Freddy smiled, put on his I'm-in-hell-it-doesn't-matter voice and said, "Thank you for your patience and consideration, Mr. Stephens."

As Freddy pulled Mrs. Gordon away from the charge desk, a man wearing a crucifix and a black cloak sidled up to the visitors. He had thick curly red hair, bushy red eyebrows and a face full of freckles. His pale green eyes were ringed with gold flecks that made Freddy wonder if he suffered from Wilson's disease, a syndrome that is marked by the inability to metabolize copper. The man said, "Good afternoon. Mr. Eckstrom is in the back attending to matters of the highest importance. I'm Charlie White. Allow me to present my dear friend, Maria Hollingsbury."

"You look like Jacqueline Onassis," Marla said. She had a deep voice and a theatrical manner. "Are you her?" She reached out and took Mrs. Gordon's hand.

"Well, people tell me that," Mrs. Gordon said. "I think it's because of the way I do my hair. I mean, I don't try to cultivate the look." She tried to withdraw her hand but Maria continued to pump it vigorously.

Freddy was getting a kick out of this. He smiled at the man in black. "If your name is Charles White, how come you wear all that black? You wearin' a whole lotta black."

"I'm a man of Dostoyevskian complexity," Mr. White said.

"I thought maybe you were like Zorro or something," Freddy said.

Marla continued to pump Mrs. Gordon's hand with such vigor that Iona inadvertently stepped out of her left shoe. "Charlie has seizures," Marla said.

"That's true," White said. "But otherwise I'm in perfect health."

"Take it easy, Marla, you're hurting me," Mrs. Gordon said. "Let go of my hand!"

Marla began to laugh hysterically. "I'm really nervous."

Charles White grabbed Marla's wrist, which seemed as thick as a railroad tie, and loosened her grip. "Marla's excited. She doesn't meet many celebrities in this place."

"But I'm not a celebrity. My name is Iona Gordon."

"We know that you aren't the former first lady," Charlie told her. "She's been dead for some time now! Three years, seven months, four days and 21 hours, 16 minutes."

Marla continued to giggle. "Charlie and I are Jackie's Granite Falls fan club. I'm sorry, Iona. You're such a lovely woman. You do look like her. And your friend looks like John Cassavetes."

Mrs. Gordon was appalled at Marla's tongue. It was black and seemed to be a yard long. Freddy picked up his stepmother's shoe and began to usher her away. She stopped to slip it on. The back of the ward was dark and they moved in that direction with trepidation.

"What's with her tongue?" Mrs. Gordon whispered.

"Pepto-Bismol. The bismuth does that," Freddy said. "Stomach upsets. Either that or she's a chow dog."

Cousin Eustace was on his knees at the back of the dayroom, carefully laying a bead of ketchup along the oak baseboard. "Hey-ya," Freddy said. "What's going on, bro?"

Eustace Eckstrom was in his middle 50s, but he looked much older. He had gone entirely bald since Freddy had last seen him. The left side of his face was sagging. His mouth was set askew. His right eyelid twitched. Eustace wore a pair of loose khaki pants, shower shoes and a dingy cotton singlet. He had the sort of beard that made him look badly in need of a shave, even after a shave. This effect was accentuated by his skin's deathly pallor. Eustace's shoulders were slumped and his countenance was downcast. He took in the presence of his cousins and said, "Those motherfuckers are at it again--pumping gas in here."

"Oh yeah?" Freddy said.

"Yeah!" Eustace said. "I can hear them talking when I take my urine. I can't see them. Just hear tinkle voices."

"In your piss?" Freddy said.

"Yeah, my urine."

"That can happen," Freddy said with a mischievous smile. "I wouldn't worry about it. Hey, look who came here to see you."

Cousin Eustace worked the ketchup container like a caulking gun, edging the nozzle along the baseboard. "It's Aunt Iona," Cousin Eustace said. "I already saw her. She sends me the same thing every year and I never eat it. Trying to poison me and collect on insurance, that's all."

"You could do with some vitamin C, Eu," Freddy said.

"Soda crackers. That's all I eat. Saltines."

Mrs. Gordon said, "You're working awfully hard, Eustace. Would you like to have a little visit with us? Go out for a ride, maybe? I'll get you a present you really want. What do you say?"

Eustace got up and laid a bead of ketchup along the base of a window. "Smell the gas?"

Freddy shook his head and said, "Brother, it smells like you got a load in your pants."

"There's a war in heaven," Cousin Eustace said. "That's what the piss voices say. I'm on the punishment brigade. You better just leave me alone from now on."

Freddy wriggled a finger in his ear and said, "Aunt Iona brought some really boring family pictures she thought you might want to see."

"I'm busy here," Eustace said.

"OK," Freddy said. "I'd like to ask you a question. What's this I hear about you having sex on weekends back in the days of your youth?"

Eustace's features brightened. "Did you talk to Vera?"

"Is that her name? What did she look like?" Freddy said.

"Vera Simpson?" Mrs. Gordon said. "Ho, boy! I remember her."

"She sent me a Christmas card, Aunt Iona. From Oklahoma. Drive me there! OK?"

"To Oklahoma?" Mrs. Gordon said. "I don't know. That's pretty far."

Cousin Eustace thought this over for a moment and a dark look came over his face. He said, "You offered me a present and then you chink out! Go fuck!"

Mrs. Gordon followed Freddy back to Stephens' desk. It was obvious that everyone in the ward had listened to their conversation. Iona Gordon felt so conspicuous she hardly knew how to walk.

Eustace called after them. "I'm not a woman, Fred. I have an Adam's apple."

A patient in a knit hat looked up from the TV and cried out, "That's right! And you are one snoring-ass motherfucker. Know what else, asshole? Romeo and Juliet? If they don't commit suicide, they get sick of each other. Put them in a hotel room for six weeks! Six dick-fucking weeks and they'll be singing a whole different tune."

Stephens looked up from his book and yelled, "Can it, Edwall!"

At the charge desk Stephens told Freddy he would need an OK from a staff physician to review Cousin Eustace's records. "Today that would be Dr. Bangladesh," the orderly said, picking up the phone. "I'll page him. He might still be around."

Freddy looked at the patients watching television. Others were sleeping on couches, even on the floor. Various isolatos sat or stood, preoccupied with their thoughts and seemingly oblivious to their environment.

Charles White twisted the crucifix hanging from his neck. He said, "We are held in lower regard than barnyard animals. This is a warehouse for the damned."

"I've been told there's a war raging in heaven," Freddy said.

Charlie fluffed his curly fringe of red hair and Freddy saw large yellow flecks of dandruff spring into the air. "More than war, it's a reckoning," White said. "From your flippant tone I can tell you aren't picking up on this. I'm here. I'm on the inside. Michael and his angels fought against the dragon; and the dragon fought, and his angels, and prevailed not. And the great dragon was cast out, that old serpent, called the devil, and Satan, which deceiveth the whole world. He was cast out into the earth, and his angels were cast out with him."

"So that's what's wrong with the world?" Freddy said. The tumbler on the steel door's lock rattled and the short man Freddy had encountered in the parking lot walked in. His black mustache had thawed and, while it was thick, joining his lip to his hawklike nose, it was no wider than a postage stamp. He wore a pair of half-frame glasses that were steamed from the weather. Freddy watched as he reached up and hung his homburg and overcoat on a wall hook in the meds station. Although his face was ruddy, he did not seem to have suffered especially from the cold. If anything, he seemed invigorated. He slipped on a white lab coat and clipped a beeper to his belt. When he spotted Freddy through the office window, his eyes twinkled and he walked back into the ward. "Va-boom!" he said. "Ah-ho-yeah! So we meet again. I'm Oscar Bangladesh. How can I help you?"

"I'm Freddy Blaine from the city hospital. And this is my stepmother, Iona Gordon, wife of the late Dr. William Blaine. I wondered if I could take a look at Mr. Eckstrom's records. He's a relative. My cousin."

Dr. Bangladesh escorted the visitors back into the office and dropped the Venetian blinds over the window. Freddy, who was 6'1", towered over the psychiatrist. "New shoes?" Freddy said. "Two-tones. Very snazzy."

The doctor wore a pair of white-and-brown Bostonian shoes with smooth toe caps. "Hah! Correct. Christmas present," Dr. Bangladesh said. "Special order from Massachusetts. It's expensive as hell being a little person."

"I never considered that," Mrs. Gordon said. "But it must be true. All the stuff in your house must be different. Your furniture, I mean."

"So true. I live in a gingerbread house," Dr. Bangladesh said. "It requires constant attention."

From the ward Charlie White called, "It gets green mold on it. Or he gets hungry and eats it."

"Isn't that amazing?" Dr. Bangladesh whispered. "The most incredible sense of hearing I've ever encountered. And he can calculate numbers like a wizard. Baseball stats are his thing."

"I am a genius," Charles said. "You are a house eater."

"Yes, Charles, periodically I become ravenous and devour an entire house. Of course! In fact, I could eat a skyscraper right now! The Empire State Building--an appetizer. Hah! Va-boom!"

Mrs. Gordon realized she was staring at the little man. Apart from his new shoes, Dr. Bangladesh wore a brown three-piece gabardine suit that was beginning to shine with age and a dirty yellow tie festooned with miniature golfers driving off from tees. He stood before Freddy and Mrs. Gordon with a square hand tucked into his vest, Napoléon style.

Freddy said, "Eustace doesn't look so hot. There's motor impairment on the whole left side of his body, slurred speech, his eye--"

Dr. Bangladesh smoothed his bushy eyebrows, then steepled his blunt fingers and took on an air of doctorly concern. "Yes, Mr. Eckstrom. A stroke, but there was all the previous physical impairment from a fall he suffered. He hasn't done well here. Twelve years now and nothing but trouble. Few have sufficient ego strength to withstand the rigors of long-term confinement. Have a seat, both of you, please."

"No, thanks. I'm going back out there," Mrs. Gordon said. "I can't breathe." She brushed past Freddy and stepped out into the ward.

Dr. Bangladesh snapped on a floor fan. "Does it really smell in here? People say it does. I've been here so long, I can't tell anymore." He pulled a manila-backed chart from a battered gray filing cabinet, glancing at it before passing it to Freddy. "Mr. Eckstrom suffered a series of small strokes, was sent to the city hospital, and when he stabilized, he was returned to the ward. He's been on heparin and there's been bruising. We didn't know he had family. Is there anyone who might--"

"Take him in? I don't think so," Freddy said. "Not possible."

Dr. Bangladesh's hand clung to the top drawer of the filing cabinet. He hung his head and looked down at the floor. "Well, I'm afraid he can't last much longer."

Freddy poked his head out into the ward and took a look at the back of the room. Eustace was again on his knees with the ketchup container. "He told me someone is pumping gas into the ward."

"Someone is pumping gas in here," Charles White said from a dining table chair. Freddy watched him scratch his fringe of red hair.

Dr. Bangladesh stepped into the ward, hiking up his slacks. He placed his hands on his hips, large hips for such a small man. "I've already explained this to you, Charles. Our ventilation system is old. It's inadequate."

"Bullcrap! They've been making buildings for thousands of years." White slammed his fist on the table. "We've got windows! Why can't we open those windows? There's gas in this suckhole."

Dr. Bangladesh looked at the floor and shook his head wearily. "And what sort of gas would that be, Mr. White?"

A woman who was sitting alone in a dark corner crying wiped tears from her eyes with the sleeves of her pajamas and sat up defiantly. She had a British accent. "It's vaguely ... buttholish. We could do with some fresh air, Doctor. Everyone is turning yellow."

From the back of the ward a faraway voice cried, "This motherfucker smells like a ripe ass."

A thin man in his 70s pulled off his plaid snap-billed cap and slapped it against his thigh. "Smells like cat pee," he said.

Stephens clapped his hands and pointed a finger at the old man. "Hen Pierce, you calm down, mister! I'll have you in an isolation cell so fast you won't know what hit you."

"Are you talking to me?" Pierce said. "What I said was mild. People are throwing the F word around again."

Charles White turned to Freddy. "Zyklon B, Dr. Blaine. You're in it with him. They must have sent you over here from Germany with a new supply."

Freddy said, "You're a fraud, Mr. White. All I'm hearing from you is clichéd nuthouse ideation. I think they should give you a bottle of Dilantin and discharge you. Get a job! Hack it out there in the real world."

Dr. Bangladesh pulled a roll of winter-green Life Savers from his pocket and peeled off the foil top. He put four of the candies in his mouth. "Think of it like this, Charles. If the staff were pumping gas in, would we not also be asphyxiating ourselves?"

"Selective infusions. You're never here for them, Oscar," Charles White said. "Once in a blue moon you pass through the joint and that's it. All you do is play golf."

"Don't attack me. Your argument just doesn't hold up and you know it. Who plays golf when it's 20 below?" Dr. Bangladesh removed his half frames and wiped them with his sleeve. There were beads of perspiration on his forehead. He looked at Freddy. "It's hot in here, I'll give him that."

Charles White said, "Two things: hot and no oxygen."

"Bring it up in group on Tuesday. In the meantime, kindly subdue yourself! I'm tired too."

"You are tired," Charlie said. "Very tired, Oscar. Not good at all."

Stephens set The Sea Wolf on the charge desk. "Knock it off, Charlie, or I'll come over there! Those isolation cells are ready, willing and able. I'm counting to three!"

Mr. White turned away and plopped down in a chair before the TV set. He draped his arms along the sides of the chair and sulked. Freddy watched him for a moment. His head and right hand twitched every few seconds. Suddenly he got up and changed channels. Another patient snapped out of a hypnotic daze to protest, and the two started arguing. They could barely be heard over the high volume of the TV.

Dr. Bangladesh waved Freddy back into the office and shut the door. He lowered his voice and said, "Being in the presence of a manic personality is exhausting for me. They suck up all the energy in the room and leave you drained. Every time I walk in the door, there he is, ready to assail me with the most unimaginable kind of stupid crap you could ever think of. A 45-minute rap over nothing."

Freddy studied the doctor's face. "He's right, though. You don't look very well. Your left pupil is a pinpoint and the right is dilated."

Dr. Bangladesh took a step back, alarmed. "Really? What does that mean, medically? I'm not a doctor, I'm a psychiatrist. Is that some cardinal signal?"

"Probably it means nothing," Freddy said. "Just tired, that's all."

"No, there's more," Dr. Bangladesh said. "I feel sicker than a dog. Everything is swirly. An attack of hypoglycemia?" Dr. Bangladesh braced himself against the wall. "Damn! I feel actively sick. I'm dizzy as shit. You don't think I might have an aneurysm or something, do you?"

"Get something to eat," Freddy said. "You haven't got an aneurysm. You're tired."

Dr. Bangladesh held his head in his hands. "Alas, the carcass makes itself known again; I can't think. Ugh! It has to be hypoglycemia. I have a very rapid metabolism. I need to eat. Feel free to sit in here. You will be more comfortable. Excuse me, I have to go eat a little bite and lie down for a minute in the staff lounge."

The doctor's two-tone shoes squeaked as he walked across the oak floor. Freddy watched him reach up to open the heavy steel door and then disappear. As the door slammed shut, Freddy shook his head. Either the job was getting to the man or he had never been quite right in the first place. He closed the door of the office, sat down and began to page through the Eustace Eckstrom chart. What was there was much as he had expected. Eustace had dangerously high blood pressure readings, but there were no recorded vascular studies or MRIs. He was being treated with beta-blockers and diuretics that were adequate but not exactly state of the art. He was receiving stupendous doses of the blood thinner heparin, also Haldol for auditory hallucinations, and large doses of a standard antidepressant drug--a tricyclic that was too much, really, for a person with a tricky circulatory system and funny heart rhythms. On top of that, they were giving Eustace valproate for seizures. Cousin Eustace had a stated IQ of 82. Freddy flipped his tie over his shoulder as a nurse with small breasts, a pitted face and a low-slung ass came into the office. "Are you Dr. Blaine?"

Freddy set the chart down and said, "Yes. What's wrong?"

"It's Dr. Bangladesh. Please, come with me," she said. "He's out."

Freddy and the nurse ran down two flights of stairs to the staff lounge, a small room with a table and chairs, a refrigerator, microwave oven and a coffeepot. Dr. Bangladesh was lying on a Naugahyde couch, bathed in sweat. One of his new shoes was lying on the floor.

"What's going on here?" Freddy said.

"I don't know," the nurse said. "He was all right one minute and then he just started acting like he was...out of it. I couldn't make any sense out of him. He said something about being gassed."

Freddy laughed. "Gassed, huh?"

"Yes. He was sweating furiously and then he passed out."

Freddy unbuttoned the little man's jacket, vest and shirt. "Any known health problems? Heart disease? Diabetes?"

The nurse thought for a moment. "He guzzles water and goes to the bathroom constantly."

"Where's the house physician?" Freddy said as he removed the doctor's lab coat, jacket and tie. "I don't even work here."

The nurse lowered her voice and said, "The house doctor, Zarkov? We don't want him. He's a bungler."

Freddy took the nurse's stethoscope and began to listen to Oscar's heart. "Meningitis in this place?"

"No," the nurse said.

"Get me a glucose meter and a glucagon kit," Freddy said. He expertly moved the stethoscope about the doctor's chest and then began to poke his abdomen.

When the nurse returned, Freddy said, "I can hear a squeak in his lungs. His pulse is 170. His organs feel normal. Run a check on his sugar. Have they got tuberculosis?"

"No." The nurse pricked the doctor's finger with a spring-loaded lancet. She cocked the device and did it again, looking up at them in frustration. "I can't get any blood," she said. "His hands are freezing."

Freddy took the lancet from her, recocked it and popped Dr. Bangladesh in the earlobe. He squeezed a drop of blood onto the test strip. "Never fails," Freddy said. "Ready? Here we go: countdown!" The glucose meter flashed 45, and second by second the numbers began to run backward as pulses of red light flashed through the test strip. "How does one acquire a name like Oscar Bangladesh?" Freddy said.

"It's not his real name," the nurse said. "His parents are very high up in India, I think. Maharajas or something. Did he lay that 500-watt smile on you?"

"Yeah. 'Va-boom! Ah-ho-yeah!'"

The nurse laughed. "His parents were pissed that he didn't marry a traditional woman. What they don't know is that he's gay. At least that's the rumor. It must be true--he listens to Broadway show tunes. And here's the clincher--he has three Burmese cats!"

"Three? That cinches it. He's a flamer."

The glucose meter beeped and the nurse handed it to Freddy. "He's down to 28."

"That's pretty low. Saw a guy walk in with a seven once, and he was...walking! Look." He held up one of Dr. Bangladesh's tiny hands. "The tips of these three fingers look like pin cushions. That's why you couldn't get any blood--he's got calluses from self-testing. And look here," he said, pulling up the doctor's shirt. "See these bruises all over his abdomen? Injection sites. He's a diabetic, overweight." Freddy removed the syringe from the emergency kit and squirted the diluting solution into the bottle of powdered glucagon. He shook it for a second, drew the mixed solution back into the syringe and injected it into the doctor's thigh. "What's the date on the package?"

The nurse picked up the box and peered; "It's 15 months old. It expired three months ago."

Freddy said, "It should work fine. Essentially there's a thousand times more, or so, than he needs, and he's a little guy."

The nurse said, "You really are a pretty cool customer, Doctor. Where do you practice?"

"At City. Trauma surgery. In the eye of the storm. Only then am I calm. I cannot say why that is so."

The nurse preened her hair. "Would you like to go out for a drink sometime?"

"I'm pretty busy," Freddy said. "I work. It's about all I do. But thanks just the same."

"You aren't gay are you?"

"I don't have any Burmese cats," Freddy said. He lifted up Oscar's bare foot, pointing at his little toe. "This little piggy has bunionettes," he said.

The nurse laughed. "You mean he's too small to get actual bunions?"

"Bunionettes, a.k.a. tailor's bunions, commonly occur with bunions. He's going to end up with a hammertoe."

The nurse laughed. "A hammertoe!"

"Check out the proximal interphalangeal joint on his middle toe. It's swollen. He's got a corn on it. It's a hammertoe fucking waiting to happen."

"It's just bent a little," the nurse said.

"The hammertoe is the converse of the mallet toe, but his metatarsal phalangeal joint is contracted as well. Let me revise my opinion. I predict a claw toe, which is the super-whompo-jumbo combo--hammer and mallet. Bad shoes don't cause claw toes." He kicked the brown shoe on the floor. "No one knows really what does. It can be something systemic like diabetes. Probablyjust that. When I eyed his foot in the beginning, I was thinking in terms of Charcot's joint. Abreakdown of the ligaments and tendons--joint dislocation. This is a very strange foot, nurse."

"Nancy. My name is Nancy. What's yours?"

"Frederick. See here, he has no hair on his foot or toes. He's got shit for peripheral circulation. The nails are thick with fungus. Fissures, dry skin. Ought to try some Sporanox for those nails. It works. The metatarsal head of the big toe is pushed medially and the phalanx is pointing toward the second toe, see?"

"Yes. So what?"

"It's no big deal," Freddy said, "in the cosmic sense. But take an interest in medicine. It's your job. Don't you like it? Aren't you fascinated by it?"

"I hate this place. And I'm beginning to hate you."

The color returned to Dr. Bangladesh's face and he opened his eyes. Freddy said, "Welcome back to the very strange world of rock and roll, Doctor."

Dr. Bangladesh looked at him without comprehension. "Where am I? What happened? It felt like I was drowning. Some horrible Godzilla-like reptilian monster was strangling me."

Freddy said, "You just had an insulin reaction, my friend."

"That's not possible!" Dr. Bangladesh sat up. "I vehemently deny that scabrous accusation. I have an extremely rapid metabolism. I eat 9000 calories a day. I vaguely have hypoglycemia. I'm overworked. Hell, they work me like a goddamn hound. Where are my glasses?"

The nurse picked up his glasses from the floor and handed them to him. As soon as he put them on he looked at Freddy. "The work of 40 Sabine slaves and 17 horses and never so much as a thank you!"

"It's not against the law to be a diabetic," Freddy said.

"I'm not!" Dr. Bangladesh said.

"Hey, brother, I'm just sayin', you know." Freddy reached over and picked up the doctor's shoe. A lace was broken.

Dr. Bangladesh snatched the shoe from Freddy's hand. "I demand confidentiality on this, from both of you."

Freddy said, "You had a severe insulin reaction. I just want to make sure you know what you are doing. Get a second opinion. You're just feeling rowdy from the incident. I'm not going to say fucking shit to anyone, but I'm right and you've been told."

The little doctor snarled, "Swear."

Freddy held his palm up and backed out of the room. "I don't know nothin'."

Freddy took the stairs back to Ward Six. In a moment the nurse, Nancy, caught up with him and pressed a card with her number on it into his hand. Her cheeks were flushed. She said, "Call me."

Freddy pocketed the card and said, "See that Dr. Bangladesh gets something to eat. Tell him if he doesn't educate himself about diabetes, he's a goner."

The nurse stood before Freddy with her hands on her hips. She said, "You won't call, will you? Well, you can just go to hell!"

Freddy buzzed back into the ward and waited for Stephens to open the office. As he was returning Cousin Eustace's file, he spotted a medical bag lying open on the floor. Inside it was a glucose meter and two portable insulin syringe cases. Also two bottles of Dexedrine. He wondered why Dr. Bangladesh would be taking speed. Probably for kicks. He closed the bag and stepped back out into the ward.

His stepmother was in the middle of the dayroom working Maria's hair over with a brush and a can of hair spray. An array of cosmetics had been laid out on a table. She shifted her weight back on one heel and studied Marla's face. After examining Dr. Bangladesh, Freddy found it hard to factor a giantess into his consciousness. Marla was huge. Mrs. Gordon was saying, "Your hair is very dark. I think we could go with some more rouge."

"We have recreation in the gym," Marla said. "The men let me play basketball with them. They always choose me. I'm good at Softball too. You know, I was watching a rerun of Cheers the other day and the bartender, Sam--the one who was supposed to be a baseball player--came out from behind the bar and was walking around, bending over and stuff, and I was shocked to see how skinny his legs were. Toothpicks. I don't think it's realistic for the audience to believe that he used to be a professional ballplayer with those thin legs. From the top up, maybe. But not after you get a load of those legs. I used to enjoy the program until I made that observation. I can't get into it anymore. Sam should lift leg weights or something. That guy Woody has a pretty nice body, but too many of the characters on that show are bald. Count 'em. Count baldies next time you check it out. Plus, nobody can be as stupid as Woody. With a chick he would never get to first base."

"I think they're both cute," Mrs. Gordon said.

Marla said, "Frasier is a cue ball. Sam has cotton candy for hair, blow-drier hair. The post office guy is another baldy and he makes me depressed. The fat guy has hair but he's so fat! And it's that wiry kind of hair. Imagine a ton of that all over your pillows or in your bathroom sink. Ecchh! It springs! I can clog dance. I mean...I'm learning how."

Freddy plopped down in a chair next to Marla and said, "What's going on here, some kind of total makeover?" Without waiting for an answer he said, "Christ! I'm having a nicotine fit and I gave away my cigarettes."

Marla said, "Mr. Stephens smokes. Bum a coffin nail offa him."

"He's gone," Freddy said. "Where in fuck, I don't know."

Mrs. Gordon gave Freddy a reproving look. "Stop swearing so much. We're just having a little girl fun. Calm down and check this out. You're going to like it."

She placed her sunglasses on Marla's face. "Perfect, no?" She handed Marla a little hand mirror so she could see herself.

Marla said, "I want a man with a head full of hair, not some cue ball."

Mrs. Gordon snorted.

"Some damn cue ball with a hatchet face," Marla said. "It wrecks the entertainment value of the show, which sometimes has good lines."

Mrs. Gordon shuddered with laughter. Marla pounded her fist against her knee, threw back her head and roared.

"Christ, have you two been smoking a joint, or what?" Freddy said.

"We took a hit off a doobie, so what?" Mrs. Gordon said. "Don't be such a tightass."

"What, you can smoke dope here?"

"Not officially," Marla said.

There was a clamor in the hallway. In a moment the steel door swung open as Charlie White and Stephens struggled to push three aluminum food carts into the ward. Freddy gave them a hand setting up the carts as patients began to line up, selecting trays and utensils.

Once the carts were in place, Charlie White slipped on an apron. "Christmas dinner, folks! And not a bad one for a change. Hot turkey and dressing, the vegetable medley, spice cake with raisins. Mira, turn off the TV! You, Hen P, quit that grab-assing. There's plenty for everyone. And you two, over there laughing. Cut it out. I mean it."

Marla mimicked a scene from Cheers. "'Can I get you another beer, Norm?' 'Yeah, sure, sticklaig. 'Cause those ain't legs, them are laigs.'"

Before Charlie White began to ladle out food, he cleared his throat. "Dear Lord, thanks for the food, leftovers though they may be, and the roof over our heads. Thanks for the crappy weather since it canceled the VA Christmas entertainment. That was a blessing. Amen."

Marla and Mrs. Gordon joined the line, picking up serving trays while Freddy helped Stephens pull a case of milk out of the refrigerator and set it next to the serving table. When Stephens gave Freddy a cigarette and a light, Freddy said, "The devil has left the premises!"

Charlie White said, "He's gone. Through the power of dynamic prayer, I can make the sick well. Hemophiliacs, I can cure by the dozen. Or when inclined, I lay a spell on you."

"You better be careful there, Mr. White," Mrs. Gordon said, her eyebrows raised. "They call him Shootin' Bill."

Charlie looked at Freddy. "Who? Him?"

"That's right," Freddy said, taking a big drag on the cigarette. "I'm Shootin' Bill. And I'll shoot ya."

Charlie's face dissolved into a warm smile. "Oh yeah?"

"Take heed. I'm deadly," Freddy said. "So look out!"

"Or you'll be in big trouble, Charlie White," Marla said.

"It's true, I'm a malefactor," Freddy said. "Check it out. The Christmas program got canceled, but two mysterious strangers arrive on the scene. Angels? Possibly. Watch this." Freddy moved away from the serving cart and went to the tables, performing a magic trick he often used to great effect with the children in the city hospital ER. "The disappearing hankie. Where did it go? Why, nobody knows."

"What else can you do?" Hen Pierce said. "Is that it?"

Freddy picked up four saltshakers and began to juggle, mugging to the audience. The slower patients responded with peals of laughter. "I can't always make the sick well, and I cannot turn water into wine," he said, enlarging the arc of the spinning saltshakers. He would pretend to let one fall, only to kick it back into the configuration with the side of his shoe. The patients waited for him to drop one, but Freddy was adept and well practiced. He edged over to a table and fed two pepper shakers into the arc. His cigarette was pursed in the middle of his mouth and he squinted his eyes against the smoke. "What I can do--I can patty-patty-bop-bop-wop-bop-a-shoo-bop."

Mrs. Gordon said, "You're getting salt all over everything."

Hen Pierce said, "He reminds me of that ice-skater, what's-his-face."

"Brian Boitano," Maria said.

"No," Hen Pierce said. "Scott or Kent or somebody. A fairy."

"Already told ya. They call me Shootin' Bill," Freddy said. "If I had my six-gun I would demonstrate my dead-eye aim, but firearms are prohibited in this ward." He caught the saltshakers, set them on the table and dusted himself off.

"Shootin' bull is more like it," Hen Pierce said.

The steel door banged open and Dr. Bangladesh stepped into the ward. His eyes sparkled and his entire condition seemed much improved. "I'm as hungry as a bear," he said. His shoes squeaked as he walked over to the food carts.

Maria set down her food tray, fluffed out her dress and said, "I'm really feeling happy today. I will dance for you. Guys? C'mon!" Maria stepped away from the table and began to dance and sing, "Have a holly jolly Christmas, it's the best time of the year...." She danced like a marionette on strings. Her massive shoulders became liquid and she let her dangling elbows and wrists jackknife akimbo. Her shoe leather slapped against the hard oak floor.

Charlie White said, "All right then, enjoy yourself. Just remember, it all comes to nothing. Our trials and tribulations on this earth are lamentable."

"So does everything come to nothing," Dr. Bangladesh said, taking a bite of turkey. "Please, Charles, no more of your negativity. I've been through absolute hell today--"

"And you think I haven't?" Charlie White said. He handed Eustace a carton of milk and a green plastic bowl filled with cellophane packets of saltine crackers. "OK, Doc, though I've been grazed by every form of failure in the world, I'm not just your plain ordinary loser, and I resent the way you imply that I am."

Dr. Bangladesh set down his fork and picked up a carton of milk. "Have you been taking your meds, Charles?"

"Don't you give me your evil eye, Oscar, the one you learned in Gypsy camps in Afghanistan. I've been taking my meds--taking my meds, taking my meds! There! I've told you three times: Yes!"

"The man takes his meds," Freddy said.

"For God's sake, Charlie, chill!" Stephens said.

Dr. Bangladesh looked over the top of his half frames. "We all like the highs, but the lows aren't so good, Charles. I'm going to have to review your chart. I really hope you don't start in with your multiple personality shenanigans. I will not tolerate it!"

An orderly from another ward buzzed to be let in. He said, "I've been looking all over for you, Dr. Bangladesh. There's a guy on his way in a tow truck. Who's on the damn phones, anyhow? I've called up here a million times."

"I'm serving dinner," Stephens said. "Marla, knock off with the dancing and sit down."

"Triple A? Is on its way?" Dr. Bangladesh said, walking rapidly to the window. "Send him up when he gets here. The Wienermobile has a flat." He raised up on his tiptoes and looked through the mesh wire. "I can't see anything. You can never get a cab to come out here, and I don't want to be stranded all night." Dr. Bangladesh removed an Allen wrench from his key ring, unlocked the protective mesh guard and cupped his hands on the steamy window. "I can't see anything! When in the hell is the last time anyone cleaned these windows?"

"Never," Charlie White said. "Since never."

The psychiatrist wiped his small hands on his white lab coat. "Yech! Nicotine," he said. "It's terrible. A rotten dirty mess. Somebody get me some window cleaner. Stephens! Call down for some window cleaner and some terrycloth towels. For crying out loud."

Stephens walked over to the call desk and picked up the phone. Dr. Bangladesh returned to his meal. Without bothering to sit down, he began shoving turkey and dressing into his mouth. He looked over at Freddy and said, "I make no apologies, I like to eat. What the hell. I won the pie-eating contest at the Fourth of July picnic. No one can outeat me. Ate a huckleberry pie, a raisin pie, apple, cherry, pumpkin, peach, apricot, blueberry. These were good pies. The secret to a good pie is the crust. And the secret to the crust is lard. When I was done, my little belly stuck out like a bowling ball. Mr. Stephens, what sort of scrumptious goodies do we have for dessert?"

"The spice cake," Charles White said. "Or chocolate-flavored tapioca."

"Give me three of each and call an ambulance," Dr. Bangladesh said. "Hah!"

"You can't get Freddy to eat anything," Mrs. Gordon said. "He's skinny beyond belief."

Dr. Bangladesh took off his half frames, wiping the lenses on his coat. "You are anorexic, Dr. Blaine."

"I got sick in Africa," Freddy said.

"Whereabouts? I spent seven years in Zaire," Dr. Bangladesh said. "Before the virus."

"I was there," Freddy said, "after the virus."

A staff custodian came into the ward with an armful of towels and three spray bottles. Dr. Bangladesh said, "Bring that stuff over here. I want to show you something. Come here. This ward is a mess. Look at the lights, for instance. Half the bulbs need to be replaced."

The custodian looked up at the ceiling. "Hey! This isn't my area. I don't even work in this building. I just brought up this stuff. They told me you wanted it. I'm supposed to be on my lunch break."

Dr. Bangladesh took a towel and a bottle of window cleaner and went over to the first alcove. He said, "Some people, professional cleaners, use squeegees and a bucket of ammonia water. Some use vinegar. That's fine if you're on a skyscraper 100 stories high, where every moment is a peril. Ah! What adventure! Well, for small jobs like this, nothing beats a commercial product like Windex or Glass Plus and a good absorbent towel." He squirted some glass cleaner on a section of the window, stopped to fine tune the spray nozzle and began rubbing the window with a towel. "Start from the top and work down. I'm too short actually and there's no ladder. Fie!"

Marla got up and went over to the doctor. He handed her a spray bottle and a towel. "You fold the towel in quarters, Marla, spray the glass, and work from the top down."

"I know what to do," Marla said. With her long arms, she was able to cover the entire top of the window in a few swaths. When she was through she looked at the towel. "It's filthy."

"Turn the towel to a clean surface and hit it again," the doctor said.

"This is the most rotten dirty window I've ever seen in my life," Maria said.

After the second try, Dr. Bangladesh handed her a clean towel. "Hit it again. Repeat the whole process."

Marla sprayed the window, and when she began to wipe it down the glass squeaked. "Hear that?" Dr. Bangladesh tucked his right hand in his vest and bounced on his toes. "It's squeaking. You're finally getting it clean. Ho-yeah!"

Marla said, "I need another towel. I haven't got it all off yet."

The patients at dinner fell silent and listened to the squeaking of the glass.

Charlie said, "He's never here. We never see him, and now he comes in like this just to show off, bossing everyone around."

"Look! Guys!" Marla said. "You can see the river. You can see the city lights. Cars going by. Cool!"

Cousin Eustace moved next to Marla and took in the view. He said, "Cars pass by the window."

"The nighttime is the right time to clean a window, any window," Dr. Bangladesh said. "The sun's glare will fool you. The nighttime is the right time! Heh-heh." Dr. Bangladesh polished a section of glass and then handed Cousin Eustace a towel. "Wipe down the mesh with this wet one. I don't think these windows have been cleaned in 50 years."

"I want to do another one," Marla said. "At last we can see."

Dr. Bangladesh unlocked the wire mesh guards on the next set of windows and Maria immediately set to work.

A few patients got up from their tables and came over to look out the window. "Whoa!" Hen Pierce said. "There's ice-cycles on them trees. Staglatites!"

"Stalactites," Charles White said. "Those are stalactites."

"There are so many of them," Pierce said.

At this, everyone got up and went to the windows.

"Don't just stand there gawking, all you lazybones," Dr. Bangladesh said. "Pick up a towel and get to work. I'll open the rest of the screens."

"This is great," Marla said.

"It's fun," Cousin Eustace said. "I like it. Goddamn it! Look at that! A shooting star! Right through the trees."

"I saw it," Marla said.

"Where?" Hen Pierce said.

"God! Look! There goes another one!" Marla said.

"Shit, yes," Hen said. "It lasted too."

Dr. Bangladesh said, "It was no hallucination." He handed Marla another towel. "Who did your hair, girl? You look, like, great."

"She looks terrific," Charlie said. "I've been saying that all along."

Mrs. Gordon removed her blazer and draped it on the back of her chair. "What are you doing?" Freddy said.

"I'm going to pitch in too," she said.

Freddy said, "Wait until tomorrow: the three-day pot hangover."

Mrs. Gordon said, "It's like Tom Sawyer whitewashing a fence. That thing. It's infectious."

"Little Oscar isn't doing diddle," Charlie said. "All he's doing is just handing out towels."

"Charlie!" Stephens said. "Quit your fucking goddamn bitching all the time!"

Mrs. Gordon began to clean the windowsills. "I wish I had windows like this," she said. "They have to be worth a fortune."

"I'd jump," Charlie said. "But it's not high enough for suicide."

"Make a note, Stephens," Dr. Bangladesh said. "Mr. White has been tonguing his meds. That's why he's so grumpy. Heh-heh. Come on, get with it, Charlie. We are all having a good time over here. It's very simple, you know. Human beings need to have purpose, we need meaning. It always comes down to just exacdy that."

Charlie laughed. "You're the man who said it all comes to nothing, that you went through hell today."

"That was before I ate. All my troubles are gone. I feel great. Ah-ho-yeah! It's a beautiful night. The windows are clean. We've got a clear view. The majestic oaks and maples are covered with a profusion of genuine ice-crystal stalactites. It's a wonderful life. It's just going to get better and better and better, on and on, forever and forever. Come on, take a look, Mr. White. On a midnight clear, you can see forever."

"You're the one who needs lithium," White said. "What's with all this big-time cheer?"

"I feel good, man!" Dr. Bangladesh said. "Hey, Dr. Blaine, eat your cake--it will make you feel better."

"You say it with such conviction." Freddy looked at the cake before him. It looked dry and nasty.

"Trust me," Dr. Bangladesh said.

"He's right, Freddy," Iona said. "You have to eat. I don't know what you think you're doing."

Cousin Eustace said, "Go on, Fred. Eat something."

Freddy bent forward and took a whiff of the cake. It had been hard to single out any one particular odor since he walked into the hospital. All the odors seemed to meld. "A scrumptious goody," he said.

"Eat the goddamn thing before I stuff it down your throat," Stephens said.

Cousin Eustace snagged a piece of the cake with his thumb and shoved it in his mouth. "Look!"

"Now I'm really not going to eat it," Freddy said.

"Eustace ate cake," Charlie said. "He actually ate something new. Hurrah!"

Cousin Eustace said, "The war in heaven is over."

Stephens popped over to the table and set a fresh piece of cake before Freddy.

Marla said, "It's happy cake."

Freddy said, "I hate cake."

Cousin Eustace brought the fruit basket up from the back of the ward and peeled away the cellophane gift wrapping. Freddy selected a red apple and took a bite.

"Yeah." Cousin Eustace rubbed his hands together with enthusiasm. "Charlie told the old devil to get lost."

"Good going, Charlie. I knew you had it in you," Dr. Bangladesh said. "Tra-la-la! It came upon a midnight clear."

"It's about time I got a little credit," Charlie said petulantly. He reached into the fruit basket and selected a Bartlett pear. "Come on, everybody. There's fresh fruit."

The patients took fruit from the basket but then gravitated back to the windows, dragging their chairs with them so they could sit and look outside. Only the first alcove had been done properly. The second had been abandoned and dirty towels lay all about the floor. Hen Pierce bit into a peeled orange and had to jump back from the spray. "I hope there's more shooting stars. I like them long-lasting dudes."

Outside, headlights from the cars passing the state hospital reflected off the crystal daggers of ice hanging from the trees, causing them to shimmer. The night air was clear and the star show profuse. A hush fell over the patients of Ward Six until Charles White broke the silence. "It's a magnificent sight. A good omen portending the remission of evil. It's Christmas."

Freddy said, "The Christmas spirit has been eluding me this year."

Dr. Bangladesh said, "One of those stars belongs to you alone, Doctor."

Freddy shrugged. "If one of those stars belongs to me," he said, "I presume it to be a dim and unlucky one. A celestial dud. I will cling to it nonetheless and nevermore will I complain."

"Look! Another one," Oscar shouted. "A real shooter. Va-boom!"

Hen Pierce nudged closer to the windows, licking orange juice from his fingers. "Those are the biggest, the best and the most. Never in all my life have I seen such beautiful staglamites."

The entrance to Ward Six was an oversized steel door covered with greasy handprints and dried blood.