XX

That Shine should visit a hospital when he felt almost perfectly well meant that some decided difference had come about in him. The scramble which had delivered him from grave injury had had no more serious visible effect than to abrade his hands and forehead against the cement, but it marked a conscious internal change which first came to light when he followed Linda into the house. Shine, the disciple of hardness, would not in any imaginable situation have been guilty of a surrender like that. Now again the change appeared when he decided that maybe he’d better go on ’round to the man’s clinic and let one them doctors look him over⁠—might even be some bones broke, who could tell?

He sat at one end of a white metal pew, an article of hospital furniture as uncomfortable in fact as it is in suggestion, and awaited his turn. Funny kid, Linda. Come runnin’ out there yesterday, scared clean white, then didn’ do a damn thing but turn around and go back. But “Honey⁠—?” Yea. He fell for that. And when he went in the house for water⁠—huh⁠—she was like as if nothing had happened. Showed him the sink and let him wash his head and gave him a towel⁠—but not another word. Honey. Yea. When he had stalled around as long as he could, he too said, “Well, honey⁠—” And all she answered⁠—didn’t need to be so tight about it, either⁠—was, “You better go see a doctor and make sure you’re all right.” Damned if he would. But here he was⁠—a whole day late, but here.

Since Harlem Hospital was in a state of transition, it happened that, of the two interns on the service, one was white with brown angora goat-hair and the other brown with black sheep’s wool. A blank white door opened, a patient was ejected and the white intern beckoned summarily to Shine.

Shine looked at him a moment then said: “I’ll wait for th’ other doctor.”

He settled back in his pew. Sweet kid, though, no lie. All women are funny, but you can overlook that⁠—if they’re good-looking enough. And Lindy was sure good to gaze on. Skin like honey⁠—honey with red cherries in it. Clear like thin wax with light behind it. You could almost see through it⁠—you could see through it⁠—you could see red flowers behind it; and when she got excited over anything it seemed that somebody waved the flowers back and forth. Like in the Casino that night, or that Sunday on the corner of Court Avenue. Gee⁠—! Eyes, too. Talk about eyes! Looking into her eyes was like looking into the sky at night⁠—looking from the bottom of an airshaft: deep, soft, and awfully black, with bright little stars twinkling away off⁠—That night on the Drive⁠—Judas Priest!

“Next!” called the brown intern cheerfully from a different blank white door, and Shine found himself in a clinical dressing room with tables and screens about and a little bed on wheels in one corner. There were mysterious varicolored bottles and jars and wickedly gleaming instruments everywhere, and the odor of phenol and iodoform took all the humor out of the air.

Not, however, for the intern nor the dressing-nurse who assisted him, a little round, stiffly starched brown doll-baby who should have been in a toyshop window.

“Yes, sir,” said the intern to the nurse, watching as she soaped and dried Shine’s forehead. “Best looking girl that’s been in this place since the man said, ‘Let’s have Harlem.’ Came in last night late. Ward VII. I sure mean to see her again.”

“Ward VII⁠—oh Doctor⁠—not Ward VII!”

“What difference does it make? She can be cured.”

“Find out her name?”

“I didn’t miss. Young. Linda Young. And as soon as dressing clinic’s over, the doctor⁠—ahem!⁠—is going to take Miss Linda’s history. This fellow’s my last case. Oh boy⁠—how I love to take histories: Did you ever have measles, chickenpox, whooping cough, mumps, scarlet fever? How many children? Oh no⁠—of course not⁠—I meant brothers and sisters? How many nights a week do you have to yourself, and how? When were you last out with the boyfriend? And now you have a pain in the bottom of your stomach⁠—?”

The intern dabbed iodin on the denuded area of Shine’s forehead. An abrasion, baring the most sensitive nerve-ends, is nothing to dab iodin on without due consideration. But Shine might have been anesthetized for all the pain he felt. Linda in this hospital? Linda?⁠—What the⁠—? Linda?

The intern finished his dressing after a fashion and bustled the dazed Shine out, hurrying on past him. The intern was on the way to more pleasant duties.

Shine, numbly incredulous, followed slowly in the same direction. The white uniform was soon lost in a tangle of other white uniforms. Shine wandered on. Ward VII. Oh yes, you want the G.Y.N. service? Down that way, turn left then right⁠—Looking for some place, mister? Ward VII? Second floor north. Ward VII? Right around the corner⁠—yes, you’ll see the sign⁠—if you look⁠—

Ward VII. Yes, this is Ward VII. Whom do you wish to see? Linda Young⁠—yes, she’s a new patient⁠—Have you a card? She’s a ward case you know, and visiting hours are over. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to go back and get a card.

He went back to get a card. Miss Linda Young on Ward VII. Was it a relative? No. Just a friend? Sorry. Couldn’t be issuing cards all day. Come at visiting hour tomorrow⁠—two to three p.m. Very sorry, but it was really against the rules. Find out how she is for you, if you like. Click⁠ ⁠… G.Y.N.?⁠ ⁠… How is Linda Young?⁠ ⁠… Yes. Resting comfortably?⁠ ⁠… Click. Resting comfortably.

Scarcely able to sense direction, Shine wandered away through a labyrinth of hallways. Linda resting comfortably⁠—what kind of a joke, for Pete’s sake⁠—He was completely lost when, after a long time, he met a familiar figure, the intern who had dressed his wound and gone off to consult Linda Young. He caught the intern by the arm⁠—had a crazy impulse to laugh at the way in which the intern shrank from that apparent attack. The intern had quite forgotten him.

“Listen, doc⁠—Linda Young⁠—Ward VII⁠—I want to know about her.”

“You want to know about her? Know what?”

“Is it really her?”

“Really her? What the⁠—Do you know her?”

“She⁠—yea⁠—I know her well.”

“Oh⁠—so you’re the guy?” There was untold scorn in the intern’s voice.

“Me? What guy? Is she hurt?”

The intern looked him over cynically. “You ought to know.”

“Know? Know what, doc? I didn’ even know she was sick. I saw her yesterday. She was all right yesterday.”

“What time yesterday did you see her?”

“Early afternoon.”

“Early afternoon. Oh. Well⁠—she came in late last night. You didn’t see her last night?”

“No. Why? What’s wrong with her?”

“Nothing much. Only some guy ought to get his block knocked off.”

“What you talkin’ ’bout, doc?”

“Tell me⁠—is this your girl?”

“She ain’t nobody else’s?”

“Well then, you ought to know this. Some guy found her alone last night where she works, see, and tried to⁠—show her a deep point. He couldn’t make her listen to reason, so he tried caveman stuff. There was quite a scuffle. The girl got loose and out of the house, but she keeled over on the sidewalk before she got two blocks away. Scared dumb. She was brought in with a diagnosis of assault with intent⁠—”

The change that distorted Shine’s face told the intern he had gone far enough. The features writhed, the bronze skin seemed to have suddenly been dusted with ashes, and there was unquestionable intent to kill in his eyes and the whole attitude of his body. The intern, too late as he now realized, tried to mitigate his story:

“It’s all right of course⁠—he didn’t succeed. She’s just got a sprained ankle and a little shock⁠—”

But Shine brushed past and moved away in huge, infuriate strides. Even far down the corridor he looked the size of ten men.

The intern watched him swing out of sight, then shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “I wonder,” he asked himself, “when I’ll learn some sense?”