The Little Friend

“Who is thet child in there?” he asked, in his friendliest voice.

“Harriet’s her name. Belongs to some people named Dufresnes.”

“Ah.” The name rang a bell; he wasn’t sure why. He looked past the nurse, into the room. “Aint she got nobody with her?”

“I haven’t seen the parents, only the grandmother.” The nurse turned, with an air of finality.

“Pore little thing,” said Eugene, reluctant to let the conversation go, putting his head in the door. “What’s the matter with her?”

Before she said a word, Eugene knew from the look on her face that he’d gone too far. “I’m sorry. I’m not allowed to give out that information.”

Eugene smiled, engagingly he hoped. “You know,” he said, “I know this mark on my face aint very handsome. But it don’t make me a bad person.”

Women tended to cave in a little when Eugene referred to his infirmity, but the nurse only looked at him as if he’d said something in Spanish.

“Just asking,” said Eugene, amiably, holding up a hand. “Sorry to bother you. Maam,” he said, stepping after her. But the nurse was busy with the sheets. He thought of offering to help, but the set of her back warned him that he’d better not push his luck.

Eugene drifted back towards the candy machine. Dufresnes. Why did he know that name? Farish was the person to ask about this sort of thing; Farish knew who was who in town; Farish remembered addresses, family connections, scandals, everything. But Farish was downstairs lying in a coma and not expected to live the night.

Across from the elevator, Eugene stopped at the nurse’s station: nobody there. He leaned for a while on the counter and—pretending to inspect a photo collage, a spider plant in a gift basket—he waited. Dufresnes. Even before his word with the nurse, the episode in the hallway (and particularly the old lady, whose crispness reeked money and Baptist position) had convinced him that the child wasn’t one of Odum’s—and this was too bad, because if the girl belonged to Odum, it would have fit neatly with certain of his suspicions. Odum had good reason to get back at Farish and

Danny.

Presently, the nurse emerged from the child’s room—and when she did, she gave Eugene a look. She was a pretty girl but all reddened up with lipstick and paint like the horse’s ass. Eugene turned—casually, with a casual wave—and then sauntered off back down the hall and down the stairs, past the night nurse (desk light shining spookily up into her face), down to the windowless waiting room for Intensive Care, where the shaded lamps glowed round-the-clock with a muted glow, where Gum and Curtis slept on the couch. There was no point in hanging around upstairs and calling attention to himself. He would go back upstairs once that painted-up whore went off shift.

————

Allison, at home in bed, lay on her side staring out the window at the moon. She was scarcely conscious of Harriet’s empty bed—stripped nude, vomity sheets piled in a heap on the floor. In her mind, she was singing to herself—not so much a song as an impromptu series of low-pitched notes that repeated, with variations, up and down monotonously and on and on like the song of some mournful, unknown night bird. Whether Harriet was there or not hardly made a difference to her; but presently, encouraged by the stillness on the other side of the room, she began to hum aloud, random tones and phrases that spiraled on in the darkness.

She was having a hard time falling asleep, though she didn’t know why. Sleep was Allison’s refuge; it welcomed her with open arms the moment she lay down. But now, she lay on her side, open-eyed and untroubled, humming to herself in the darkness; and sleep was a shadowy forgetful distance, a curling like smoke in abandoned attics and a singing like the sea in a pearly shell.

————

Edie, on her cot by Harriet’s bed, was awakened by the light in her face. It was late: 8:15, by her wristwatch, and she had an appointment with the accountant at nine. She got up and went into the bathroom, and her wan, drained reflection in the mirror stopped her for a moment: it was mostly the fluorescent light, but still.

She brushed her teeth, and gamely set to work on her face: pencilling her eyebrows, drawing in her lips. Edie did not trust doctors. In her experience they didn’t listen, preferring instead to strut around pretending that they had all the answers. They jumped to conclusions; they ignored what didn’t fit with their theories. And this doctor was a foreigner, on top of everything. The instant he’d heard the word seizure, this Dr. Dagoo or whatever his name was, the child’s other symptoms faded into insignificance; they were “questionable.” Questionable, thought Edie, exiting the bathroom and examining her sleeping granddaughter (with intent curiosity, as if Harriet were a diseased shrub, or mysteriously sickened house plant) because epilepsy aint what’s wrong with her.