When she had finished feeding him, he stirred and attempted to leave the bed.
“I’m going,” he muttered. “Got to get dressed.”
She brought out his clothes on a hanger. There was a cellophane bag attached, which contained his wallet and cash.
“We’re honest here,” she said, reading his mind.
He fumbled with his clothes.
“Let me help,” she said. “I won’t look, I promise.”
She reached for his underpants, bent down, and helped put his legs through the openings. She turned away, but he flushed with embarrassment. Using her shoulder for support, he managed to pull up his underpants with one hand. She maneuvered him through the process.
“Have you alerted someone to pick you up?”
He nodded in the affirmative, but she apparently detected something tentative in his mimed answer.
“Are you sure?”
“I have made arrangements,” he said, conscious of her probing look.
Again, they exchanged glances.
“To meet you in the lobby, I hope.”
“Yes,” he nodded. “I arranged for that.”
She helped him get into his slacks, which barely managed to slide over his leg cast. The shirt and light windbreaker were another challenge since he did not have an arm handy to put through the sleeve.
For a brief moment, their eyes met again, and his stomach tightened and an uncommon wave of panic crashed over him. It was disconcerting. What he was experiencing had never happened to him before. Again, Dimitrov’s cautionary remarks assailed him. When he was fully dressed, she brought him a pair of crutches and showed him how to use them. He found it awkward and painful.
“I’ll get a wheelchair,” she said. “Hospital orders. We roll you to the door. Once you’re checked out, you’re on your own.”
He could not take his eyes off her as she moved out of the room, noting the sweep of her hips and the grace of her movements. She disappeared for a few moments, then came back with the wheelchair and helped him into it.
“I’ll wheel you down, and you can be discharged and meet whoever is going to take you home.”
He nodded his thanks and felt himself being pushed along the corridors, the crutches on his lap. She moved the chair to the discharge office and helped him through the process. He paid the bill with the cash. Happily cash was cash. Not like a check. It left no trace.
“I appreciate everything you’ve done,” he said, as she moved him into the lobby near the main entrance of the hospital.
He was determined to act naturally, observing the expected amenities, aborting any undue curiosity on her part. He knew he had to disengage.
“You said you were being met,” she said, suspicious now.
“Perhaps they haven’t come yet.”
He knew he was caught in a dilemma and was running out of options.
“Maybe they’re not coming,” he muttered.
It soon became apparent that he had to confront his situation.
“I’m staying at the YMCA. It’s not too far. If you can get me a cab, I’ll be fine.”
Without questioning him further, she moved him outside, in front of the hospital entrance, and hailed a cab. She helped him inside, handed him the crutches. To his astonishment, she got in beside him. He had briefly protested but she was adamant and gave the cabdriver instructions.
“This is beyond the call of duty,” he told her, baffled by his unwillingness to resist.
“I know,” she said, as the cab drove off.
“I’ll help you upstairs,” she said, when the cab, after a short ride, pulled up in front of the Y.
He maneuvered himself into the lobby with the crutches and her guidance.
“No women allowed upstairs,” said the officious clerk at the desk.
“I’m not just a woman,” she said. “I’m a nurse.”
But the man at the front desk was insistent.
“I have eyes,” he said. His face was pale and thin, pimply, and he had a snotty attitude. “No women, nurse or not.”
“I’ll be right down, I promise.”
“I can lose my job,” the man said. “There is a housing shortage. You’ll get me in trouble.”
“Just this once,” Nurse Brown said.
“It’s all right,” Miller said. “I can manage.”
She was adamant.
“I am a nurse. I am caring for an injured man.”
“No women upstairs. That’s the rule.”
Miller kept his temper. It wasn’t easy. He wanted to grab the man and crush his windpipe as he had done with others many times before. He wished she would desist, but he didn’t want to cause a scene. Again, he remembered Dimitrov’s warning.
“Okay, once,” the man agreed, retreating.
After she had gotten him into his room, he thanked her again.
“You’ve done enough, Nurse Brown,” he said. The effort of getting from the hospital to his room had tired him.
She stared at him silently for a long moment and shook her head. Then he watched her observe the small room with disapproval.
“You have no one in town? No one to help?”
“They probably didn’t get the message,” he lied.
“What is it with you?” she rebuked.
“I’ll be fine.”
“How will you eat?” She looked around the room. “Is there a phone?”
He shrugged, shook his head in the negative, and forced a smile.
“I’m not your responsibility, for crying out loud. I’ll get by. You’re probably being missed at the hospital.”
“Probably,” she said.
“Do you treat all of your patients like this?”
“Only the needy ones.”
“I’m not needy,” he protested lamely. “I’m okay now. You’ve done enough. Hell, it’s only broken bones. I’ll manage.”
She reached out with one hand and touched his forehead. Her hand felt cool, gentle, refreshing. Beware, he warned himself.
“You’re sweating. It takes an effort to move around. And the casts don’t help.”
“Stop mothering me, nurse.”
“Stephanie.”
“Stephanie.”
“I’m not mothering you….” She paused. “…Frank.”
He sensed the pull between them.
“I think I better leave, before they throw you out for breaking the rules. That man downstairs seems like a stickler.”
“I appreciate this,” he said, hesitantly. “Let’s leave it at that. You don’t owe me this. I can take care of myself.”
He hoped he was being firm enough. He toyed with the idea of insulting her. She was paying him too much attention. Perhaps she worked for them, a plant like him. Which them? The Americans? The Brits? The Soviets? In this business, it helped to be slightly paranoid.
“Okay then,” she said.
Inexplicably she held back, observing him. They exchanged furtive glances. But when their eyes met, he was the first to turn away.
“You… you’re an enigma, Miller.”
She sighed, turned away, and let herself out. Relieved at first, he was soon baffled by his reaction. He hadn’t wanted her to leave. He dismissed such a sensation as weakness.
So far in his life, he had avoided any emotional attachment to a female, except as an object of sexual pleasure. When he felt the need, he had simply taken, by force if necessary. Physically, he knew he was the Hitlerian ideaclass="underline" tall, blond, and well built. He knew he was attractive to women. So far, it had been a one-way street.
As an SS officer, he had enjoyed being displayed and lionized in his well-tailored, immaculate uniform. Mostly, he had reveled in the mystical rituals, the pomp, the parades, the camaraderie, the sense of mission. He had especially enjoyed the combat, the thrill of conscious heroism, exhibiting bravery, and the personal glory he felt in killing the enemies of the Third Reich. He had been happy doing his duty, showing no mercy, pity, or compassion for the enemy, owing allegiance to his Führer and the higher purpose of creating the dominance of the master race, of which he was a prime example. Such a sense of duty had been his pride. These things were now in the dust heap of old memories, and he avoided recalling them.