had already called someone else in. Me and the boys came back here. I need some money."
Amelia's eyes seemed to survey the small group. "I didn't know you were so concerned about my husband."
The three young men were about twenty-two or three. Jamel-clones in baggy pants and huge shirts, they needed baths, deodorant, and a harsh shampoo and conditioning of their dreadlocks. At least Jamel smelled clean.
I was amused watching the young men take small steps backward until they lined up against the wall, as if trying to dissolve into the woodwork. They each stood over six feet. Even with slouching posture, they weren't effective in looking inconspicuous. One of them, the tallest one with the floppy cloth hat pulled over his eyes, took the hint and shuffled out of the room. The other two followed. I exited after them.
Once outside, I stayed close to the room, rechecking my patient's medications and straining to hear the conversation.
"Jamel," Amelia said, "you need to keep your job. I don't have extra cash to give you."
"Too late. I'm fired." Jamel challenged his mother, his words insolent.
"Why?" She sounded breathy, strained.
"It's the pig Stone's fault. I told him I had to go to work."
"I asked you to call the detective. I asked you three times. You didn't have to wait for him to find you. You should have gone to the police station like he asked and answered his questions."
"I didn't hear you."
"You said you heard me. You even repeated it."
"I don't remember."
Amelia's reply was inaudible.
Jamel spoke again, his voice louder and sharper. "What right does that pig have to talk to me? I didn't put a hit on the old man."
"They have to check out every possibility. You know that. We talked about that, too."
"Just give me some cash. I'm comin' up short.
"So am I. You'd better find another job."
"When I get time. The boys and I have something to do."
"When do you have class?"
Jamel mumbled.
"What did you say?" Amelia persisted. It sounded like familiar territory for them.
"I don't. I dropped them."
"Again?" There was a long pause. "When will you be home?" Amelia sounded exhausted.
"When I get there." I heard his voice sharpen. Emerging from the room, he folded a twenty and a five and shoved them into his pocket. He'd been successful bullying his mother. Had he done the same with his father? I wondered.
9
The next day was Tuesday. I offered to take Hutchinson, accepted report from the off-going shift, and headed down the hall. I anticipated a better day. We had plenty of help, and I'd be able to spend a lot of time in Hutchinson's room. Since he was my sickest patient, I stopped in to see him first.
Hutchinson was alone. After the scene the day before, I didn't think Jamel would be around much.
Hutchinson showed no signs of waking—his overall condition hadn't changed. The antibiotics were having an effect, and the smell from the dressings was less intense. The treatment and the ventilator kept him alive. I held his hand, feeling sorry he should have to endure such a fate and knowing I had come close to the same predicament myself.
Amelia Hutchinson showed up at three in the afternoon, late for her. I had most of my work done, so I gave her a few minutes to settle in.
"Do you have time to sit with me?" she said when I entered the room.
I smiled and nodded but went to the other side of Hutchinson's bed with the fresh dressings Central Sterile had delivered. I put them in the drawer of the bedside cabinet, checked Hutchinson's pump and ventilator settings, then pulled a chair next to her.
She looked tired. Rather than being dressed in her usual business clothes, she appeared rumpled and casual in a pair of loose fitting cotton slacks and an oversized tee shirt with a metallic appliqué of fish and palm trees. I doubted she had been selling real estate.
"What's on your mind?" I
Amelia's eyes seemed to survey the small group. "I didn't know you were so concerned about my husband."
The three young men were about twenty-two or three. Jamel-clones in baggy pants and huge shirts, they needed baths, deodorant, and a harsh shampoo and conditioning of their dreadlocks. At least Jamel smelled clean.
I was amused watching the young men take small steps backward until they lined up against the wall, as if trying to dissolve into the woodwork. They each stood over six feet. Even with slouching posture, they weren't effective in looking inconspicuous. One of them, the tallest one with the floppy cloth hat pulled over his eyes, took the hint and shuffled out of the room. The other two followed. I exited after them.
Once outside, I stayed close to the room, rechecking my patient's medications and straining to hear the conversation.
"Jamel," Amelia said, "you need to keep your job. I don't have extra cash to give you."
"Too late. I'm fired." Jamel challenged his mother, his words insolent.
"Why?" She sounded breathy, strained.
"It's the pig Stone's fault. I told him I had to go to work."
"I asked you to call the detective. I asked you three times. You didn't have to wait for him to find you. You should have gone to the police station like he asked and answered his questions."
"I didn't hear you."
"You said you heard me. You even repeated it."
"I don't remember."
Amelia's reply was inaudible.
Jamel spoke again, his voice louder and sharper. "What right does that pig have to talk to me? I didn't put a hit on the old man."
"They have to check out every possibility. You know that. We talked about that, too."
"Just give me some cash. I'm comin' up short.
"So am I. You'd better find another job."
"When I get time. The boys and I have something to do."
"When do you have class?"
Jamel mumbled.
"What did you say?" Amelia persisted. It sounded like familiar territory for them.
"I don't. I dropped them."
"Again?" There was a long pause. "When will you be home?" Amelia sounded exhausted.
"When I get there." I heard his voice sharpen. Emerging from the room, he folded a twenty and a five and shoved them into his pocket. He'd been successful bullying his mother. Had he done the same with his father? I wondered.
9
The next day was Tuesday. I offered to take Hutchinson, accepted report from the off-going shift, and headed down the hall. I anticipated a better day. We had plenty of help, and I'd be able to spend a lot of time in Hutchinson's room. Since he was my sickest patient, I stopped in to see him first.
Hutchinson was alone. After the scene the day before, I didn't think Jamel would be around much.
Hutchinson showed no signs of waking—his overall condition hadn't changed. The antibiotics were having an effect, and the smell from the dressings was less intense. The treatment and the ventilator kept him alive. I held his hand, feeling sorry he should have to endure such a fate and knowing I had come close to the same predicament myself.
Amelia Hutchinson showed up at three in the afternoon, late for her. I had most of my work done, so I gave her a few minutes to settle in.
"Do you have time to sit with me?" she said when I entered the room.
I smiled and nodded but went to the other side of Hutchinson's bed with the fresh dressings Central Sterile had delivered. I put them in the drawer of the bedside cabinet, checked Hutchinson's pump and ventilator settings, then pulled a chair next to her.
She looked tired. Rather than being dressed in her usual business clothes, she appeared rumpled and casual in a pair of loose fitting cotton slacks and an oversized tee shirt with a metallic appliqué of fish and palm trees. I doubted she had been selling real estate.
"What's on your mind?" I
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