Authors: Irving Wallace
When Harriet graduated from Bellevue as a registered nurse, she took away with her besides her round, ruffled, starched Van Rensselaer cap, a devotion to her new career, an unfailing good nature, and a practical but resigned knowledge of the attitude men would always have toward her (until, poor bruised dream, the one in a million came along).
She obtained her first employment in a Nashville infirmary, her next at better money in a Seattle clinic, and finally, six months before, she had been hired by this huge San Francisco hospital. In Nashville and Seattle she had dwelt in a manless world. The Mask terrified all, and her reputation had not preceded her. In San Francisco, almost immediately, her social life had taken a turn for the better.
She had been late at night on a complex emergency cardiac case, and when she left surgery, exhausted, the young anesthetist, also exhausted, left beside her. After they had washed and dressed, he had suggested coffee. Both needed it, but, at the late hour, no small cafes were open. They were near her apartment, and she invited the anesthetist to her room for the coffee. As they drank it, and relaxed, she heard out the gawky, introverted young man’s life—parents lost early, horrible relative guardians, scratching years of working through schools, an immature marriage that produced a mentally defective child and a wife who ran off with her employer. San Francisco was a new beginning for him, as it was for her, and her heart went out to the shy young man. She would not let him go home so tired, so late, and there was but one bed, the day cot, and they shared it.
The experience of that evening revealed to him a world he had not known existed. After two more such experiences, he realized that he was not for Harriet and she was not for him. He was one of those who mistrusted good fortune, and he worried that he did not deserve such carnal delights. Furthermore, her ability gave him not confidence but a sense of inadequacy, and he brooded secretly over it. Nevertheless, he might have gone on—the weekly treat was irresistible and almost overwhelmed introspection—had not he seen an opportunity to use Harriet to further his security, which was after all, the important thing.
As a newcomer to the hospital, the anesthetist needed physicians who wanted him, and would hire him for their most profitable patients. He had met Dr. Walter Zegner, but so far had not been recommended by him. If Zegner would begin to speak of him, he reasoned that his future at the hospital was made. What had brought Zegner to his mind was not only Zegner’s reputation as a physician, but also his reputation as a ladies’ man. Thus, the young man bided his time, and when the moment came, he casually pointed out Harriet going by in her crisp white uniform, and told what he was able to articulate of her talents. During the recital, Zegner’s eyes had followed Harriet’s homely person with a doubtful frown and he had not reacted otherwise to the provocateur’s tale.
One week later, the anesthetist got the first in a series of well-paying cases, the result of Dr. Zegner’s recommendation. It was then that he knew he had scored, and Zegner had scored. The anesthetist did not bother to visit Harriet again.
Harriet had learned much of this from Walter Zegner himself, one night late, as both of them lay depleted on her living room bed. Somehow, she had not minded at all. It was fair trade for all parties, and now she was on to her best hope yet.
During an afternoon, ten weeks before, Harriet had been having coffee and toasted muffins in the staff’s cafeteria of the hospital. The stools on either side of her were vacant. Suddenly, one was filled, and the worshipful figure who occupied it was that of Dr. Zegner. Conversation came easily. He was interested, even charming. And he was childishly pleased when, in discussing his research in geriatrics, she was sufficiently well read in the subject to pose intelligent questions. He had to rush off, he said, but he was eager to continue their conversation. When was she free? Was she free that night? Almost tongue-tied, she said that she was. He agreed to wait for her in the physicians’ parking lot.
When she appeared, trembling with excitement, he helped her into his Cadillac. He drove her to dinner at a Bohemian restaurant outside the city. They drank, ate lightly, talked and talked, and then drank more. When he took her to her apartment, she was too embarrassed by its shabbiness to invite him up. He invited himself, pleading the need of a nightcap. Once in her room, and both of them drinking, his conversation became less academic, more personal, more teasingly sex-centered. When at last he moved to kiss her good night, she felt that she was being kissed by Dr. Martin Arrowsmith or Dr. Philip Carey, the god images of her fantasies, and she melted into him, unable to release him. He did not want to go, it turned out, and he remained the night with her, on the unmade day bed. In all her unions with men, she had never abandoned herself so entirely, and from his choked utterances and indistinct, extravagant whisperings, she knew that he had never before in his life been so totally satisfied.
When he left at dawn, she guessed that he would be back, and she was not wrong. Three and four and five times a week he called for her, and they went to their obscure places, drinking, eating, dancing, and always returning to her room to revel in each other for hours. She was thrilled and she was proud. At the hospital, she wanted to shout her conquest to every nurse and every physician, and to every patient, too. But she kept her wonderful secret to herself. His standing must not be threatened. What agitated her the most was to overhear the nurses and interns include, when gossiping about the doctors, tales of Walter’s peccadillos with society women and heiresses and all the high and the mighty of Nob Hill. Always, listening, she wanted to cry out: you fools, those idiotic false rumors, do you know where he is all those nights? With me! Yes, with me, unclothed with me, caressing me, loving me as I love him, yes me, Harriet Bleaska.
All the while, remembering old painful burns, she refused to entertain the one-in-a-million hope. That is, she had refused to entertain it until yesterday noon. Then, for the first time, she felt that her hold on Walter had gone beyond the possibility of betrayal. For the first time, a man had peered behind The Mask and understood her beauty whole.
What had occurred yesterday noon had followed, by three hours, the stunning announcement that Dr. Walter Zegner had been appointed the head of the hospital medical staff. Her head spun, as she listened to the buzzing talk. The Fleischer family influence, the old dowager, the youngest daughter, and so on and on. But the fact was a fact. Walter was an executive of the hospital and, overnight, officially proclaimed one of the most important physicians in the West. She would not allow herself to think of what this meant to their relationship. This was a test, and she waited.
At noon, she had her answer. He had arrived, was in the corridor, surrounded, accepting congratulations. She passed, pretending an errand, and she heard his voice. “Nurse—Miss Bleaska—aren’t you going to congratulate me? I’m your new boss.” Her heart leaped. Solemnly, before the others, she took his hand, and pumped it, the words caught in her throat. Then, he had her arm. “Now to business—I want to ask you about the patient in room—” He had guided her away from the others, and then had smiled and whispered, “Do we still have the date for tomorrow night?” She had nodded dumbly. He had said, “Good, I want to celebrate. We’ll eat, and go on the town, and—well, see you later—here comes Dr. Delgado.”
That was yesterday noon, her finest hour, and here it was tonight at three minutes to eight, and in one hundred and eighty seconds she would be in Walter’s arms. The thought, the possibilities of the future, made her giddy.
She realized, with a start, that she was no longer pacing and smoking, but seated on the arm of her one big chair, seated uncomfortably so that the small of her back was stiff. She stood up, stretched, patted her cocktail dress here and there, and then decided to make two double Scotches on the rocks, one to steady herself and one to have ready for Walter (to show what a good wife she would make, what a wonderful, wonderful wife).
She took down two old-fashioned glasses, freed several ice cubes from the tray in her tiny refrigerator, then poured the Scotch slowly, generously over the ice in the glasses. After placing Walter’s drink on the end table beside the big chair, she stood drinking and enjoying her own whiskey.
At one minute to eight, the rapping came on the door, and she went gayly to it to admit Walter.
When she flung open the door, she was startled to find that the caller was not Walter at all. The male figure in the doorway, Latin, medium height, wiry, she recognized as that of Dr. Herb Delgado, an internist friend of Walter’s who often substituted for him when he went off night calls. Harriet’s first reaction, after bewilderment, was distaste. The nurses at the hospital did not like Dr. Delgado. He was disdainful of them, disrespectful, as if they were members of a lower caste.
“Good evening, Miss Bleaska,” he was saying, as easily as if he had been expected. “Are you surprised?”
“I—I thought it was Wal—Dr. Zegner—”
“Yes, I know. But as they used to say at the doors of speakeasies—Walter sent me.”
“He sent you?”
“That’s right. May I come in a moment?” He did not wait for her invitation, but strode past her, into the room, unbuttoning his topcoat.
She closed the door, puzzled. “Where is he? He was supposed to be here at—”
“He no can do,” said Delgado lightly. ” ‘Unavoidably detained’ is the expression.” He smiled, and added, “He got tied up at the last minute, and wanted me to come over and tell you—”
“He could have telephoned.”
“—and sort of stand in for him, for the evening.”
“Oh.” Harriet was still confused, but somehow felt that this was thoughtful of Walter. “Will he meet us somewhere later?”
“I’m afraid not, Harriet.” She wondered how Miss Bleaska had become Harriet and when Harriet would become Nurse. Dr. Delgado pursed his lips, and went on. “The Fleischers decided to throw an impromptu celebration—last-minute sort of thing—and Walter had to go—”
“Had to go?”
“They’re his sponsors.”
“Yes. I heard.”
“Of course, you have. So you understand.” He noticed the drink on the end table. “Is that for me?”
“It’s for Walter.”
“Well, I’m his proxy.” He lifted the drink, held it toward her. “Cheers.”
He swallowed the whiskey, but she did not bring her drink to her lips. “I don’t think I’d better go out tonight,” she said.
“Of course, you’ve got to go out. Doctor’s orders.”
“It’s kind of Walter, and of you, but I prefer not. When Walter’s free he’ll cull me himself.”
Dr. Delgado studied her seriously. “Look, baby, I wouldn’t exactly count on that any more. I’m leveling with you, as a member of the club. I wouldn’t count on that.”
For the first time, what had been the faintest apprehension took the form of inner pain. She felt the nameless fear clutch her stomach, and she winced. l Tm not counting on anything,” she said weakly. l i know he’s busy, and has new obligations. I also know how he feels about us. Yesterday noon—”
“Yesterday noon was the Dark Ages,” said Delgado almost brutally. “Today’s another era in his life. He’s moved ahead, maybe even ahead of me, too. Anyway, his situation is different. He can’t play around any more.”
“Play around?” she echoed, wildly offended inside. “What kind of language is that? What do you mean by that?”
“Aw, cut it out,” said Delgado, impatiently. She observed that he had at last made the transition from Harriet to Baby to Nurse. He had not even the pity of a bedside manner. “Look,” he was saying, “he’s told me all about you.”
“What does that mean?” She tried to control her voice.
“It means I’m his close friend and he tells me everything.”
“I don’t like the implication in your voice. You make it sound like something—something dirty’s been—”
“Baby, you said that, I didn’t. I meant no such thing. Walter is fond of you, and to get me out on a night like this, he had to tell me why. On the contrary, I’m quite impressed by you. Anyway, I know Walter’s been seeing a good deal of you. That’s all I was saying when I said he can’t play around any more. Tonight, he’s being welcomed at the Fleischers, in their home, not as a doctor but as a social equal. Also, I happen to know, one of their daughters has planted a flag on him, or intends to, and she’s damn pretty.”
Harriet felt the unintentional stab of his words, and then she felt something else. The .Mask, recently discarded, had slipped into place.
“Did—did he send you to say all this?” she found herself asking.
“He told me to play it by ear. The language is mine. The sentiments are his own.”
“I—I can’t believe it,” she said. “I le—only yesterday, he—” Her voice broke, and she could not continue.
Dr. Delgado was beside her instantly, an arm paternally about her, comforting her. “Look, baby, I’m sorry, I really am. It didn’t occur to me you’d—what I mean is—I can’t imagine what you had in mind. Men like Walter—”
“Men like men,” she said almost to herself.
“You know, baby, if you’ll put on your thinking cap, you’ll remember a basic little test they used to run off in Psychology One. They’d take a male rat and starve him two ways—keep him from food and keep him from sex. Then they’d let him loose in a box with food on one end and a female on the other. The question was—would he go for food, which is self-preservation, or would he go for sex and love. You know the answer. Sell preservation wins every time.”
“What arc you saying?” She had only half heard him.
“I’m saying it’s won again.”
“Goddammit, no—no—” She felt faint and groped for the arm of the chair.
Dr. Delgado kept her from collapsing. “Hey now, hey, don’t take it so big, It’s not the end of the world.” He helped case her into the chair, and handed her what was left of his drink. “Finish this. You look like you need it. I’ll make a fresh one for myself.”
She accepted the glass. Delgado removed his topcoat, and disappeared behind her. She heard him preparing his drink, and she heard, in the house of her mind, a distant wail. It had come from Mary Shelley, as she sat upstairs in Casa Magni, staring up at Trelawny, who had just returned from the beach near Viareggio where he had identified the body. Trelawny had stood in the eloquent silence of grief and bad tidings, and Mary Shelley had cried out, “Is there no hope?” and known there was none.