G-2

G-2 / Christopher Mcllroy // A NY CALAMmES?" Supervisor Barbara Henley asked. Ix. "No." Ross finished his last entry in Ward G-2's daily notes, slid the brown notebook across to her, and lit a cigarette. Henley began copying into the master log. "Divinity epidemic," she read aloud, and gave one of her rare laughs. "Dispute between Viggiano, C. and Loftus, T., each claiming to be God. "Znodek, H. agitated, punching the air. Described seeing the 'bad, green-haired Michael Jackson kicking the crap out of the Michael Jackson with the normal hair/ Conditionally assume patient hallucinating ." Henley nodded. "That's right," she said, "leave the tough diagnoses to the supervisors. Well." She smiled wanly. "The moving finger writes, and having writ, moves on." Tucking the log under her arm, she walked past him toward the women's unit. Ross stared at a gray fog forming on the windows. He was thinking about a drink, and then bed, though as always by the end of the shift he wasn't sure he could move. The clouded window panes meant the temperature had dropped sharply since he'd come on that afternoon. Autumn was beginning. "Nigh agh," said the regular insomniac, an old man with a speech impediment. Ross looked over his shoulder, but Henley was gone. She did have a nice ass, incongruously enough, he thought. Tonight she wore tight, mustard-colored slacks. Her hair, clipped short, was gray at the tips. Though she was only in her late thirties, he guessed, there was something faded and sexless about her. According to hospital rumors she was gay. All Ross knew about her personally was that she lived alone with two Labradors. He would rather she didn't make the big production about the notes. He wrote them for himself. The observations were precise because they were important to the job. The jokes were for his own entertainment. He liked fooling with hospital jargon the same as he had toyed with legalese at the law clinic before he was fired. The first time he'd noticed the similarity in language he'd rammed the penpoint halfway through the notebook. When Henley made her rounds that night he considered blaming the damage on an unknown patient, but he said, "Oh, I did that." He was entitled to his oddnesses, he supposed. His cigarette had burned to ash on the tray. He lit another. The ward 220 · The Missouri Review was dim, only the desk lamp illuminating the white, cement-block walls. Ross held his hands under the light, inspecting the cuffs for stains or fraying. A large young man with pink cheeks and untidy hair, he'd dressed expensively in dark slacks and bright, solid-color shirts since being hired a few months before. His presenting an exemplary image made the patients feel better, he believed. Afternoons he might spend twenty minutes choosing exactly the right shirt. On the other hand, he once brought in his flute to play jazz, though he yielded when the patients demanded "Danny Boy" and "Santa Lucia." His exaggerated reluctance made them laugh. The phone rang. "We need a man on F-2, right away," Henley said, out of breath. "Whoops," Ross said to the insomniac. "Probably the windowbreaker again." He jogged down the corridor to the glass-and-wiremesh door separating G-2 and F-2 and opened it with one of the skeleton keys in his pocket. Henley stood at the entrance to the dormitory wing, opening and closing her hands. Her fingers splayed out at curious angles, like the toes of an injured bird. "Pat Croswell's stuck in the toilet stall, and I sure as hell can't pull her out," she said. "Jesus, I guess not. I'm not sure both of us together can." Pat Croswell was listed at 5-10 and 265 pounds. Her favorite shirt was a football jersey from a batch donated by the New England Patriots. None of the other patients could wear them; the rest had been made into seat covers. When Ross and Henley stepped into the bathroom, one stall was filled with the woman's huge, pale buttocks. Standing over her, Ross could see...