Silence for the Dead by Simone St. James Page A

didn’t look feverish, or bleeding. What was wrong with him that he couldn’t eat supper with the others? My back hurt; my hands stung from the disinfectant we’d used to wash the main-floor lavatory. My arms were shaking with exhaustion, but I readied myself anyway, wondering whether I could defend myself. He looked well enough to come off the bed and at me.
    He breathed again—it sounded like a sigh this time. He leaned forward and unfolded his hands.
    â€œMy name is Nurse Weekes,” I said in my nervousness. “I can help you. That is—do you understand?” I bit my lip. “Can you speak?”
    He leaned farther forward. His hands now rested on his narrow thighs, on their backs, cupped loosely as if waiting to catch something. The daylight filtering through the window made everything as sharp as a pencil drawing, and I saw that his hands shook, both of them, shuddering against the fabric of his trousers, an uncontrolled tremor that moved with its own rhythmic purpose. He curled forward over them a little, as if they were injured, looking down at them. He had sandy brown hair, a gaunt face, a narrow, well-shaped nose, lips set in a determined line. Stubble lined his jaw and cheeks.
    I blew out a breath. The shaking hands must be why he had trouble eating. My mind turned the problem over. “Perhaps we could—”
    â€œI sss—” The sound came from him in a resentful growl, and I stood in silent surprise, watching him wrestle with himself. “I speak,” he said finally to his hands. “It’s just that I am tongue—that I am tongue-tied when I am around ladies.”
    Well. No one had ever mistaken me for a lady, but I let it go. “You should eat something.”
    â€œNo, I’m quite well, thank you. Are you the new nurse? Nurse R— Are you Nurse Ravell’s replacement?”
    It was a curious stutter he had, in which he sometimes backed up and ran over his words again as if in a motorcar. “Yes, I suppose I am. Was she the one with the freckles?”
    â€œYes. A curious girl. Very—very quiet.” He glanced up at me, something embarrassed in his expression. “Do you know if she’s all right?”
    â€œI don’t know, I’m afraid. I think she quit suddenly. You really should eat.”
    â€œNo, thank you. You sound—you sound like a London girl.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThat’s nice.”
    â€œLook, Mr. Childress—”
    â€œArchie. Call me Archie.”
    â€œArchie, then. You really—”
    â€œHow long have you worked here?”
    Now I realized he was parrying me. “You should eat your supper.”
    â€œNo, I’m—I’m quite well, thank you.”
    â€œBut I just think you—”
    â€œDo I
look
like I can eat my supper?”
    His face flushed red. He was still but for his shaking hands, glaring at me.
    I took a breath. I would not back up. I would not run. “You look like a man who can try.”
    â€œDo you think I haven’t tried? Do you?” Anger made his stutter disappear. “I have tried. My hands have been shaking for sixteen months. It takes an hour to cut and eat a simple piece of meat. I have to be—I have to be fed like a
child.
”
    Suddenly I was near tears, wanting to scream. “Very well.” I turned for the door. “It’s nothing to me. Good night.”
    â€œWhat are you—?”
    â€œI’m leaving,” I said, the words pouring out of me. “For God’s sake. I’m tired, my feet are throbbing, my own supper is waiting, I’m bloody starving, and I have hours of work to do before bed. I’ve no time to coddle you while you feel sorry for yourself.”
    â€œWait.”
    I paused, blinking hard, my face turned away from him.
    â€œI’ll t—” His stutter was back, and I winced. “I’ll try. You’re—you’re right. And I—I am