Part 33 (2/2)
”Don't the orderlies do that?”
”They should, but they don't. And I like him to look decent. It seems like the least I can do.” She took a supermarket carrier bag out of the green metal cabinet. It held men's toiletries. Shaving gel, a half-used pack of disposable razors, soap, a washcloth. Reacher found a bathroom across the hall and stepped back and forth with the wet cloth, soaping the guy's face, rinsing it, wetting it again. He smoothed blue gel over the guy's chin and cheeks and lathered it with his fingertips and then set about using the razor. It was difficult. A completely instinctive sequence of actions when applied to himself became awkward on a third party. Especially on a third party who had a breathing tube in his mouth and a large part of his skull missing.
While he worked with the razor, Vaughan cleaned the room. She had a second supermarket bag in the cabinet that held cloths and sprays and a dustpan and brush. She stretched high and bent low and went through the whole twelve-foot cube very thoroughly. Her husband stared on at a point miles beyond the ceiling and the respirator hissed and blew. Reacher finished up and Vaughan stopped a minute later and stood back and looked.
”Good work,” she said.
”You too. Although you shouldn't have to do that yourself.”
”I know.”
They repacked the supermarket bags and put them away in the cabinet. Reacher asked, ”How often do you come?”
”Not very often,” Vaughan said. ”It's a Zen thing, really. If I visit and he doesn't know I've visited, have I really visited at all? It's self-indulgent to come here just to make myself feel like a good wife. So I prefer to visit him in my memory. He's much more real there.”
”How long were you married?”
”We're still married.”
”I'm sorry. How long?”
”Twelve years. Eight together, then he spent two in Iraq, and the last two have been like this.”
”How old is he?”
”Thirty-four. He could live another sixty years. Me too.”
”Were you happy?”
”Yes and no, like everyone.”
”What are you going to do?”
”Now?”
”Long term.”
”I don't know. People say I should move on. And maybe I should. Maybe I should accept destiny, like Zeno. Like a true Stoic. I feel like that, sometimes. But then I panic and get defensive. I feel, first they do this to him, and now I should divorce him? But he wouldn't know anyway. So it's back to the Zen thing. What do you think I should do?”
”I think you should take a walk,” Reacher said. ”Right now. Alone. Walking by yourself is always good. Get some fresh air. See some trees. I'll bring the car and pick you up before you hit the four-lane.”
”What are you going to do?”
”I'll find some way to pa.s.s the time.”
51
Vaughan said goodbye to her husband and she and Reacher walked back along the dirty corridors and through the dismal lounge to the entrance hall. The guy in the gray sweats.h.i.+rt said, ”Goodbye, Mrs. Vaughan.” They walked out to the carriage circle and headed for the car. Reacher leaned against its flank and Vaughan kept on going. He waited until she was small in the distance and then he pushed off the car and headed back to the entrance. Up the steps, in the door. He crossed to the hutch and asked, ”Who's in charge here?”
The guy in the gray sweats.h.i.+rt said, ”I am, I guess. I'm the s.h.i.+ft supervisor.”
Reacher asked, ”How many patients here?”
”Seventeen,” the guy said.
”Who are they?”
”Just patients, man. Whatever they send us.”
”You run this place according to a manual?”
”Sure. It's a bureaucracy, like everywhere.”
”You got a copy of the manual available?”
”Somewhere.”
”You want to show me the part where it says it's OK to keep the rooms dirty and have mouse s.h.i.+t in the corridors?”
The guy blinked and swallowed and said, ”There's no pointcleaning, man. They wouldn't man. They wouldn'tknow. How could they? This is the vegetable patch.” How could they? This is the vegetable patch.”
”Is that what you call it?”
”It's what itis, man.” man.”
”Wrong answer,” Reacher said. ”This is not the vegetable patch. This is a veterans' clinic. And you're a piece of s.h.i.+t.”
”Hey, lighten up, dude. What's it to you?”
”David Robert Vaughan is my brother.”
”Really?”
”All veterans are my brothers.”
”He's brain dead, man.”
”Are you?”
”No.”
”Then listen up. And listen very carefully. A person less fortunate than yourself deserves the best you can give. Because of duty, and honor, and service. You understand those words? You should do your job right, and you should do it well, simply because you can, without looking for notice or reward. The people here deserve your best, and I'm d.a.m.n sure their relatives deserve it.”
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