Excerpt
Poodie stood on the sidewalk outside the hospital thinking of his
mother. His last sight of her, so long ago, was in an influenza ward.
She rose out of her delirium and stretched her arms toward him.
He tried to go to her. The doctor held him by his shoulders in the
doorway. The smell of illness and disinfectant came through the
gauze covering his nose and mouth. Nurses carried towels, bed
pans, trays of medicines. A man mopping the floor stopped as a
woman leaned over the edge of her bed and threw up. He watched
until she was through, gave one sad turn of his head and reached
for the pan and broom on his cart. Maude James’s eyes, huge in
their dark sockets, implored the doctor. From the end of the room,
Poodie could see her saying his name over and over before she collapsed
back onto her pillow. A nurse hurried to her. The doctor
turned Poodie and guided him down the hallway. He had not been
in a hospital since. He looked up at the building, wondering
whether he would be able to stand the smell, the whiteness, the
walls closing in, wondering whether the panic and fear would
return. At the reception desk, he pushed his notebook toward a
woman with a blank face under a nurse’s cap. She read his note,
said, “Room 223, second floor, visiting hours end in twenty minutes”
and pointed at an elevator.
Engine Fred lay in casts, his left leg suspended by a rope and
pulley. He was asleep. A gray haired woman turned in her chair
beside the bed and watched Poodie enter. She smiled and said,
“You are Poodie. Come. Say hello.” He stood beside her. She
offered her hand.
“I’m Elsa Clarkson. Fred has told me all about his special friend,
Poodie James. I am so happy to meet you.”
Poodie pointed at himself and nodded. He gestured toward
Engine Fred, placed both hands over his heart and gave her a smile.
