Louse (8 page)

When I enter Poppy's chambers he is doubled over, coughing deep from within his chest. “Mr. Louse,” he says between coughs, “please uncap my bottle of NeHi.”

I obey his command. I walk to the eastern night table and uncap the bottle of grape NeHi with my opener and replace the beverage on the night table. When his coughing subsides, Poppy picks it up and drinks. He cranes his neck so that I can see the wedged ashen rings under his eyes. He replaces the bottle on the night table as he breathes a shallow breath.

“I'm ready, Mr. Louse.”

“Yes, sir.”

Eighteen feet beyond the TV is a closet. I open the door and remove Poppy's gurney, on top of which is a sterile sheet, a freshly laundered hospital gown, a mask, and a pair of latex gloves—all sealed together in a plastic bag. I wheel the gurney over the papers and the Kleenex so that it is a few feet from the edge of the bed. I remove the gown, mask, and gloves from the bag and dress myself in all these garments. Once dressed I remove the sterile sheet from the bag, place the bag in the pocket of my hospital gown, and spread
the sheet over the gurney. I then turn to Poppy and prepare to lift him. He closes his eyes as I dig my arms under his upper thighs and upper back and—feeling acutely aware of his brittle hips, shoulders, and neck—I lift his body in one clean jerk. He growls a little. He continues growling as I quickly turn around and delicately lower and arrange his body so that it is straight and flat on the gurney.

“All right,” he says, pointing ahead.

“Yes, sir,” I say.

I look ahead, over his body, as I push him forward. He is silent during our trip. All I can hear are his toe nails and finger nails clattering against each other as I slightly jostle the cart with each step.

I'm unsure of what to make of what's happening. There has no doubt been a breach of contract. On whose shoulders this rests seems impossible to say. However, if this schism didn't involve Poppy and if the stakes weren't so high, it would seem like any other night in G. There are always arrests, interrogations, rumors about so-and-so who did this or that. A few details are divulged and the consequences are reported. In the past, no one seems to have been above these proceedings, other than Poppy, Dr. Barnum, and Mr. Sherwood. Mr. Kreslin, for instance, the man who was replaced by Mr. Bender, was arrested, viewed, and disposed of to one of the higher floors in a position no one has knowledge of. But to have Poppy being accused by Dr. Barnum and Mr. Sherwood is highly irregular. And to have Poppy reprimanding and manipulating Dr. Barnum and Mr. Sherwood is equally irregular; as a rule they have always reprimanded and manipulated other offenders together.

I roll Poppy's gurney onto the tiled floor and pull up to the toilet. Poppy begins humming the third movement of Mozart's
“Requiem” to himself and slowly rocks his head back and forth to the brooding tempo. Putting one hand behind his fragile head and one hand on his back, I lift him. He manages to hold himself up on his own as I swing his legs around and grab his feet before they can drop to the floor. He continues humming as I undress him of his diaper. I stand facing him and lift him with one hand under his legs and the other on his lower back. I bend forward, then lift him with his waist securely over my shoulder. I approach the toilet with my head pointing into the ring of water reflecting the old man's bottom, and I rest him comfortably on his throne.

I stand in the southwest corner of the bathroom as Poppy watches EKG Production
H.A. 13-3
. The lights are lowered. A green glow emanates from Jane's holographic image on the medicine cabinet. Flashes of black and white illuminate and shade Poppy's naked body, his corrugated ribs and chest, his stick-thin arms and scabrous feet, planted on the tiles like broken urns. He dips forward on his arm rests, barely able to hold himself up, and stares mercifully at the screen as Monte (played by the young Ronald Sherwood) and Roy Ruteledge (played by a vibrant young Poppy), brothers and fellow Oxford students, prepare for battle. They don ascots, goggles, and leather flight jackets embossed with Royal Flying Corps patches on the breasts and arms. They are running through cobblestone streets to the outskirts of the city.

The year is 1914.

The camera cuts to Karl Arnstedt. The Kaiser has just sent a zeppelin to bomb London. On board is Karl, a former Oxford student who is friendly with both Monte and Roy. He has only recently left Britain out of duty to fight for his fatherland even
though his heart belongs to the green pastures of England and the hallowed halls of his college.

The immense airship silently glides through the night and comes to a stop over a low-lying London fog. As the zeppelin hovers in miniature against the dark starry sky, the maniacal and monocled commander of the ship fastens Karl to a harness attached to a steel cable and lowers him out the zeppelin's belly. When he descends below the clouds, Karl realizes he is the only one who could possibly know the outcome of the bombing. Acting out of desperate uncertainty, he sends a premature communication to his commander, which results in all the bombs landing harmlessly in the Thames. The commander, convinced that he has just obliterated Trafalgar Square, delightedly orders the zeppelin to return home.

However, the commander's countenance quickly changes when four British fighter planes—two of which are piloted by the Ruteledge brothers—rise out of the fog bank. Suddenly desperate to make a fast retreat, the commander disengages the cable from which Karl is hanging, sending him to his death. He orders all equipment thrown overboard, and then orders half his crew overboard as well. One after the other the airmen, “Fur Kaiser und Vaterland,” do as ordered. A short battle ensues, during which three of the British planes—including the Ruteledge brothers'—are damaged and must break formation to return to base. The remaining pilot, however, sacrifices his life by crashing into the zeppelin, causing it to burst into flames.

Poppy narcotically nods at this with pleasure.

I have seen this film a dozen times as of tonight. I find myself unable to concentrate on its presence as I watch the zeppelin burn. I think of Karl Arnstedt plummeting to his death. His arms stretch
out like those of an angel as he careens head first toward the docks. Each movement and line of his body precipitates my mind to wander through the patterns of the story. My thoughts reel forward to the French canteens and the barracks where images of Roy and Monte's laughing faces, Poppy and Mr. Sherwood's faces, mock the jeopardy they are about to put themselves in. I imagine the British General addressing the pilots, explaining that the Allied attack cannot be successful unless the German munitions depot is destroyed. Poppy and Mr. Sherwood silently ride a train through the mountains to an airfield where they board a captured German Gotha. Before they can get to the Gotha in my mind, I flash back onto the train and see the blur of the passing landscape from Monte's point of view. I can hear the
tuh-tuh-tuh tuh-tuh-tuh
rotation of the wheels, and suddenly can see myself in the window again. The image alternates between myself and Mr. Sherwood. The melody I hummed in the study momentarily returns to my mind. I don't hum it. I just listen to it, trying to fit it into the scheme of the film, wondering if this is where it comes from, if it is a melody I have simply forgotten, if this is possible. And then the image of the window is no longer the window of the train; it has been elevated to the height of a mountain and shows me the same scene I remember seeing in my mind in Poppy's study. I can see the image of myself reflected in the window, the dark figure behind me and a new, unrecognizable figure behind that. And then they are there and gone, and I am gone, and all I can see now are images from the rest of the movie.

The German Gotha flies into enemy territory where Monte and Roy successfully annihilate the target. The battle music rises to a crescendo of bassoons, French horns, and flutes, until the
Ruteledge brothers begin their return trip, at which time the bassoons and French horns are joined with accents of contemplative oboe, and the triumph descends into doom as the score drones into the sounds of propellers cutting the wind. The bombing has been observed by Baron Manfred von Richthofen whose theme is ominously rich with pounding timpani that, even in memory, rumbles my chest, and transports my thoughts to the Allied planes engaging in fierce dogfights with the Germans. The music rises to a new crescendo with strings and volleys of machine gun fire all the way up to the point that the Gotha is shot down. And then the sound track goes silent. All we can hear is the rush of wind on the wings and the drone, not of propellers this time, but of plummeting descent.

The rest is drama. The music fades into the back of my thoughts and I can't hear anything. When captured, the brothers are tortured as they are questioned about the expected Allied push. Monte, unable to endure Baron von Kranz's brutality any longer, agrees to tell what he knows in order to save his life. Poppy also agrees, but it's a trick; in exchange for the battle plans, Poppy asks for and is given a pistol with a single bullet in order to cleanse his shame. Instead he shoots his brother, who when breathing his last breath says, “Don't cry, it was the only thing you could do!” Moments later, Poppy stands before of a firing squad and cries, “I'll be with you in just a moment, Monte!” As the last bit of smoke rises from the German gun barrels, the mist rises from the trenches along the devastated landscape of the Western Front. All of a sudden, with cheers and wails, long lines of soldiers emerge from their holes and forge their way onto the enemy's line.

My eyes feel so heavy and I can't place this melody that runs through my head. Maybe it has to do with the fact that I haven't
slept in such a very long time now, so long I don't remember the last time. The time I did sleep, it couldn't have been for more than a few hours, and that time I remember I didn't even really fall asleep. I was so nervous, nervous Poppy would call and I wouldn't hear him. I closed my eyes in anticipation of hearing his voice come over the intercom in my room calling, “Herman Q. Louse!” Over and over, in my mind, I could see him watching me sleep as he called. Even seeing how exhausted I was he still called, not giving up, not calling any other attendant, but me. “Herman Q. Louse!” is all I heard that night as I drifted through auditory phantoms. Hours passed with my eyes closed as my mind traced shadows onto darkness. I counted thousands forward and back, thinking many thoughts at once. His voice swelled and infected the room. I could even smell him.

I must think quick thoughts now, little jabs, like needles he supplies me with.

…three inches long to stick in my palms at the base of each finger, to keep me from sleeping, keep me aware.
No stimulants
…pure attendants only…
needles to be kept in shirt pockets to stick in palms of hand
…

…
if boredom reigns and brings on sleep, induce pain
…

Take my pins to hand now, in order to save myself from further humiliation…from sleep…here, standing beside him…face the television…

It's unheard of, this…

…planes fighting over Western Front…men throwing themselves onto grenades…

…try to see the movie from another perspective…

…all blurs together…

…afraid I'm done for…

…already see his eyes before me…

…Mr. Louse…

…Mr. Louse…

…Mr. Louse…

…Mr. Louse…

…Mr. Louse…

…Mr. Louse…

“Yes,” I say, shaken to complete and total awareness.

I am no longer standing. Mr. Slodsky, Poppy's second ward, is standing over me, upside down. We are in motion. His bald head bobs to and fro. A rather skinny man with a pockmarked face, Mr. Slodsky incessantly stoops his shoulders. He has a nervous twitch in his left cheek that mostly twitches when he stutters, but occasionally twitches when he steps down onto his right foot at a particular angle. Other than the stooped shoulders, the pockmarks, and the twitch, he is a handsome man. He has a square jaw, which is nicely proportioned with his nose and brow. His gray eyes complement our blue ties. He has large arms and legs and perfect teeth. Mr. Slodsky's fresh scent of ammonia wafts deep into my lungs.

“G-G-Good evening, Mr. Louse,” Mr. Slodsky stutters. His facial tic spasms just above the left corner of his mouth. The dragging motion slightly slurs his speech.

“Good evening, Mr. Slodsky. Where am I?”

“You f-f-fainted.”

“Fainted?” I ask. I feel particularly nauseated and my head feels heavy.

“Yes, f-f-fainted.”

“Where am I?”

“On Mr. Blackwell's gurney. North wing. Twenty-first floor.”

“Where are we going?”

“To Lounge Eighteen SR-Five.”

“I don't understand.”

“I have exp-p-press instructions from M-M-M-Mr. Blackwell that you b-b-be treated.”

“Oh?”

“S-s-s-see for yourself.”

Mr. Slodsky reaches into his inside jacket pocket and removes a manila envelope.

He hands it to me.

I open it.