Pew(18)

The man beside me shook his head, bore his hazy eyes into mine—
If you ask me, they shouldn’t ever put a picture of one of these durn politicians on the television. We shouldn’t know they durn names or they faces.
He sounded both angry and happy, pleased with himself and displeased with the world.
It’s what makes the whole thing a mess—they ain’t supposed to be looked at—they supposed to work. Same people that want the power want the fame, too, but I say we should never know them by sight or name—don’t you think that’d work out better? We should just know what they can do and what they’ve ever done for other people and what they believe, what they think of things.
The man laughed into a cough. His face was falling off his head in a nice way, like an old tree. But ain’t that the problem? They don’t think of nothing and they don’t do nothing. They just want everyone to know they’s in charge, that’s all. We shouldn’t be seeing any of their durn faces. They just want to be looked at. Can’t hardly tolerate it.
There was a cord running from the old man’s arm to a bag of clear liquid hanging on a metal stand next to him.
Keep to yourself, don’t you, kid? Always been just the opposite myself. Can’t keep my durn mouth shut and looks like I never will.
It is strange how two lives can work themselves up to such a moment, idle in a waiting room, just to let something invisible pass between the two.
I reckon you’ve got it right, the old man said, leaning back, resting his cane across his lap. I don’t know anything, really, never have, never will. Should have kept my mouth shut, at least half the time. He shut his eyes, seemed to fall instantly to sleep.
The television was playing a cartoon now. Something bonked something else on the head, and the bonked thing chased after the thing that had done the bonking, returning the bonk, turning to run away. The people in the room all watched it with some seriousness, even a kind of tenderness, as if they were looking delicately into the face of another.
I faintly felt an urge to speak, though I had nothing to say. I had nearly forgotten how to hold my own voice in my mouth. Someone in pale green pants and a loose shirt came up to the old man, leaned down to shout in his face.
Mr. Gladstone, we are going to have to take you back to your room again for your nap.
Without opening his eyes, Mr. Gladstone said, I’d just as soon stay where I am. I’ve got this new friend here. Don’t I now?
Well, have it your way then, the person said, and left us.
Mr. Gladstone shifted in his wheelchair, trying and failing to find a comfortable spot. His eyes were still shut.
Some days I’d like to bust out of here, but I tell you, I wouldn’t even know what to do if I did. Here, I get pushed around, they feed me this crap food—but out there, what? Nobody to push me around, nothing to be fed. I got nothing out there, nothing in here either. I reckon I’m here to the end. What a place.
I heard Hilda’s shoes clicking toward us, slowing as she came near. She took a seat across from Mr. Gladstone, who finally opened his eyes.
My beautiful daughter, he said as he held a shaking little hand up, reaching and failing to reach her.
They let you sit out here? Hilda asked.
They still let me do a thing or two, he said. Hadn’t killed me off just yet.
Hilda looked at him as if he were some impossible chore, then looked away. So you’ve met Pew.
Not much of a talker, Mr. Gladstone said.
I’m sure that suits you just fine, Hilda said.
We sat quietly a while after that, waiting. On the television someone was mowing a lawn. Eventually someone came over and wheeled Mr. Gladstone away without comment.
Bye-bye, he said, to which Hilda said nothing.
A nurse appeared—The doctor’s ready to see her if—oh, um, him?—I’m sorry, well … on the form it’s not filled out—but, anyway, the doctor is ready.
Hilda said something to the nurse in that soft, lost way of someone who had just woken up, though she had been sitting with her eyes still and open.
I’ll be out here when it’s over, Hilda said to me. Be good.
I’m Nancy, the nurse said as we walked, and you can call me Nancy, how about that?
We rounded a corner and went into a small room with a little padded table and two rolling chairs and a metal scale. I sat in one of the rolling chairs while Nancy lingered a moment in the doorframe, that little pinch in the face of someone trying to remember something. After a moment she said the doctor would be in soon, to just get comfortable for now and not to worry, that everything was going to be fine. Something in my face must have told her I didn’t think anything was fine. She shut the door. Her footsteps retreated down the hall.
I sat still for a while, then the door opened. A man stood there still for a moment, already examining me, his face blank and hanging.
I’m Dr. Winslow—he put a hand out to me—but you can call me Buddy, everyone calls me Buddy.
I left Dr. Winslow’s hand alone. He shut the door, lowered himself into the other chair.
First I would just like to tell you a few things about myself, about the work I do here, about the sorts of things I can do for you. My name’s Buddy, as I said, and I’m a physician here at the Monroe Medical and Rehabilitation Center and I specialize, in part, in dealing with victims of trauma. Mostly soldiers, battered women, mental disturbance, that kind of thing. Sort of like our friend Roger, though his focus is children, I suppose, and Roger is really—how do I say this?… Well, he’s had a lot less training than I have. I went to medical school, then did a residency up North, then I went back to school for several years, to a medical school that is just for people who study the brain. My degrees are there, you can see them.