(May Challenge) Walter Better (2370 wds)
Hank
by David H Fears
The young nurse dropped the empty bedpan and ran from the room.
"Call the head nurse," she yelled. "There's a man in 1214!"
"A *man*?" said the other nurse. "In *maternity*!?"
"A very old one, too--by the looks of him. Someone in ICU must've lost
a patient."
"Uh oh. Old Fussfeathers will lay an egg over this."
Head Nurse Abrams turned the corner with a bulldog stride and a face
scrunched up like a professional wrestler in a chokehold. "What's all
the hubbub?" The two nurses looked at each other and back at Abrams.
"West, you're whiter than your uniform. What the hell is it?"
"It's-just an old man in 1214, Nurse Abrams. I have no idea--."
"Another prank from those fresh pricks downstairs, eh? We'll see about
this." And she stormed off down the hall, with the two nurses
following.
Entering the room in question proved the truth of the alarm-a wispy
gray-haired man lay in a coma, where Mrs. Yelah had just been given her
newborn son. There was no sign of mother and baby.
"Dammit West! Page Doctor Samuels, STAT! And get Wilson in here, too.
This man belongs in emergency-I can barely get a pulse. AND FIND
MRS.YELAH!"
The nurses scurried out of the room and paged on the intercom for the
doctor. After a brief examination, they took the old man downstairs to
intensive care.
"What do you make of that?" Samuels asked Nurse Abrams.
"It's those idiot interns down on four-I'm sure of it. This time
they've gone too far. If they've taken that woman and her baby
somewhere, by God, I'll--."
"The poor man isn't going to make it, Abrams. I doubt they'd risk
someone's life--it's some mix up. The mother and child are probably
walking the halls somewhere. The old codger didn't have a chart, but
was wearing a gown, so he's obviously a patient here."
***
A search for the missing woman and her baby turned up nothing.
Jill West, the nurse who made the discovery, went to the intensive care
unit after her shift to ask about him.
"We have him on monitors and he's resting. He's a John Doe. No records
anywhere. Any idea how he got into maternity?" asked the ICU nurse.
"None," Jill said, "he has such a kind face, I just hope I didn't
affect his heart when I dropped the bedpan. How old do you think he
is?"
"Oh, eighty, anyway. Hard to tell, you know, but eighty, that's what we
put on his chart. Doctor Wilson says his ticker's about gone, that with
his age he probably won't make it until morning."
"Well, take good care of him, will you? Since I found him, I feel
somewhat responsible."
***
The old man's condition improved daily. When he came out of the coma,
his vital signs were strong, and he was transferred to another ward.
"No name, no history, poor man. Doesn't speak, just smiles, especially
when we feed him. Can't handle a spoon, even."
"I'd like to stop in and see him," Jill said.
"Sure. See Phyllis on three. They have him up there for observation."
The patient was propped up facing the window. He sat watching the sun
on the trees with an expression of wonder. Jill took his pulse and he
smiled up at her with questioning eyes.
"Hello. I'm Jill West, the nurse that found you upstairs. You have a
good, strong pulse. I'm glad you're doing better."
"B-better," he said.
"Oh, so you can talk? Well, now that's good progress, very good." She
took his hand and squeezed it. "Can you tell me your name?"
"Better," he said again.
"Okay. I'll just call you Walter-is that all right? It was my father's
name. Walter. Can you say Walter?"
"Better."
"You rest, Walter. I'll come by every day and see how you're doing.
Just rest-our doctors are pretty marvelous at St. Anthony's."
***
The daily visits saw Walter continue to improve. Jill would wheel him
around the hospital, and even took him up to maternity to meet the
nurses and see the babies. Walter enjoyed the visits with Nurse West,
and his speech slowly improved. Whenever he was asked his name, he
smiled and said, "Walter Better."
The doctors were amazed at Walter's rapid progress, though he still
couldn't walk. Arrangements were made at a nearby convalescent home,
and Jill helped transfer him.
The Windy Hill Convalescent Home was a cheerful place, where many older
people went to recover from heart conditions or strokes. One day Jill
got a call from the director at Windy Hill. Walter wanted her to come
visit. When she pulled up to the home, she was shocked to see Walter,
standing by the front door with his hat and coat on. He walked slowly
over to her. She hugged him, and he gave her a big kiss on the cheek,
then took her hand and walked on the path to the flower garden.
"Walter, you're walking!"
"Do I walk good?"
"You walk very good, Walter. It's a miracle you're doing so well."
"Next, I paint. Others paint. No TV." In his large, gray eyes interest
flashed that suggested an almost boyish frenzy, while at the same time
there was about him a genial air. His voice was clear now.
"You don't have TV?"
"Walter doesn't want TV-it makes the brain die."
"Well, you'll have to learn a lot to paint, then. Do you think you
can?"
"Yes. Walter can learn."
And Walter did learn. He learned to read in a few days, and even though
it was hard for him to hold a brush, he began to paint landscapes. Not
just any landscapes, but vivid scenes of strange valleys and sunsets
with multiple suns and moons.
Everyone at the home liked Walter, except when he stood behind the
other painters, touching their canvasses. He read all the books in the
home library on art, and spent hours looking at the pictures of
paintings. He stood in the hallway, staring at the landscape prints
hanging there. On sunny days, some of the residents set up easels and
painted flowers in the garden.
The home director was concerned when Walter went off by himself to
paint and disappeared. He turned up only after a long search had been
made. He did this every time they painted outdoors.
On her day off, Walter was scheduled for a follow up examination at the
hospital, so Jill decided to take Walter to the city's art museum
before his appointment. Walter was speechless and wanted to touch each
painting. He sat and stared at a Salvador Dalí painting of melted
clocks and cats and women. When Jill coaxed him to look at the rest of
the paintings, Walter told her to go ahead, that he wanted to study the
Dalí canvas.
After a half-hour of looking through the building, Jill returned to
find only Walter's hat on the seat where she'd left him. Thinking he'd
gone on to the other wing of the museum, Jill searched every room. When
she returned, Walter was sitting with a big smile on his face looking
at the same painting. He looked better than she'd ever seen him.
"Walter, where were you? I looked all over."
"I was inside this one. It's the best," he said, still looking at the
painting with wonder.
"Is this your favorite painting?" she asked, hoping he'd explain.
"Yes. It makes sense."
"It does? Walter, are you a modern art lover?"
"There's a lot of energy inside." As they turned to go, Walter looked
at the picture fondly, as if saying a reluctant goodbye to a
stimulating friend.
Jill thought the painting seemed a bit brighter than she remembered,
but assumed the lighting in the room had changed. She noticed when they
were leaving the museum that Walter had a bounce in his step that
hadn't been there before. He was standing more erect and seemed more
alert.
She drove Walter on to the hospital for his follow-up examination. The
doctors ran a battery of tests. Jill knew that Walter was changing
rapidly, not simply recovering. Something else was happening to him. So
she brought him back the next day and they ran more tests, including
extensive analysis of his blood.
The next week, Doctor Samuels met with Jill to discuss Walter's test
results.
"Nurse West, you won't believe this, but he's getting younger. His
organs...it's, well, unprecedented for a man his age. We have no idea
why, but the process is accelerating, especially when he experiences
intense mental activity. What has he been doing at that convalescent
home?"
Jill was sobered by what Walter's changes meant. "Oil painting
landscapes mostly-doctor, are you sure about this?"
"Positive. We've run every test we can think of and they all confirm
it. Walter is physically no older than forty-five or fifty right now.
We don't understand this process, but we've discovered unknown enzymes
in his blood. I don't have to tell you of the research implications of
this."
"Doctor, I'd hate to see Walter turned into a guinea pig, or some sort
of super hero for a cheap AFO challenge. He has a very kind and gentle
nature."
"I understand, which is why I called you in-you're his friend, Nurse
West. You can help. Has he said anything about events prior to the
hospital?"
"Nothing. He has no memory before waking up and seeing old Fuss-, I
mean Nurse Abrams."
The doctor laughed. "No wonder he can't remember anything." He flipped
pages on Walter's file and grew serious again. "I'd like to refer
Walter to Doctor Klass, our hospital psychiatrist, for hypnosis. If we
can discover who Walter is, and how he got here, it might help
determine the basis for these unique enzymes."
***
Jill broke the news to Walter about his condition, and explained Doctor
Samuels' desire to try hypnosis. Walter's hair looked darker and
fuller, and he ran his hand through it, with a pensive gaze.
His eyes brightened, but a hint of confusion remained. "What you're
telling me is . . . I have a full life ahead of me?"
"Yes, Walter. And a possibility of helping others who suffer from old
age."
***
Jill held Walter's hand as he lay on Doctor Klaas's couch. Doctor
Samuels and several younger doctors sat with intense interest, notepads
at the ready. Walter seemed distracted by a Jackson Pollock print that
hung over the couch. He lightly touched the painting with his
fingertips. Jill noticed his fingers were no longer the bony digits
they'd been when she first took his pulse. His fingernails were now a
bright pink.
"Do you like that print, Walter?" Doctor Klaas asked.
"Yes. I feel abundance of energy. An internal source of energy."
After some gentle instruction, Walter counted backwards from one
hundred as directed.
"What is your name?" Doctor Klaas asked.
"Walter Better."
"Do you remember waking up from a coma a few months ago?"
"Old Fussfeathers."
The young doctors restrained themselves, and Jill smirked at Doctor
Samuels.
"Do you remember anything before Old Fussfeathers?"
"The comet. Haley's comet."
The room was hushed. Only whispers of the reel-to-reel tape recorder
and pens on tablets could be heard. The young doctors leaned forward.
"Tell me about the comet."
"Mark Twain."
The reels turned.
"Mark Twain? I don't understand."
"He came with the comet. He left with the comet."
The reels kept turning, but it seemed to Jill that they slowed
perceptibly.
"Do you know who Mark Twain was?"
"Yes. I remember him well."
Doctor Samuels looked into the faces of the others. The tape recorder
kept turning. Each observer felt the sound of his own pulse. Before he
could frame another question, Walter spoke.
"Mark Twain said, 'Life would be infinitely happier if we could only be
born at the age of eighty and gradually approach eighteen.'"
"I suppose it would be," Doctor Samuels said gently, but somewhat
discomfited, "Do you know who Mrs. Yelah is, and where she took her
baby?"
"Yelah is Haley. Haley is Yelah. My mother. Walter is her baby. Mother
went inside the comet picture to start again."
"What is the comet picture?"
"Starry, starry night."
"Van Gogh?"
"Yes. And inside the Dalí picture lies sensible energy."
Jill scribbled a note and held it out to Klaas, explaining this was
Walter's favorite painting.
Doctor Klaas read the note and checked his list of questions. "How old
are you?"
Silence fell over the small gathering.
Inexplicably, each onlooker began reciting numbers back from one
hundred, barely audible, as if to themselves, yet in unison.
The voices trailed off to a whisper, then grew silent.
The reels kept turning, turning, turning.
Time passed.
***
Their eyes opened haltingly, looking around, then focusing on the
flicking lash of the loose tape end on the full take-up reel. How long
the end of the tape had occurred no one knew. Later it was discovered
to have sounds of birds and Walter and Jill laughing for twenty-one
minutes after the doctor's last question.
Walter's face was the smooth and more compact face of a young man; his
clothes comically loose on his frame. He wore an expression of
satisfaction, like he'd just had a good rest. His eyes still held an
intelligent understanding, but seemed quite ready to laugh at his
awakening audience.
The most careless eye would have seen instantly that the painting had
changed, if it was not for the even more amazing transformation of the
patient. The work of Jackson Pollock now held unworldly colors, blended
in a manner quite foreign to the artist's original style. Two suns
illuminated a more distinct, patterned background, lending a wholly new
and pleasant perspective, and creating the impression of a window
rather than a painting. The foreground of the painting revealed a group
of light gold footprints trailing into one corner. One set of
footprints was smaller than the rest.
Walter sat on the edge of the couch, and swung his legs playfully. He
pulled out a comb and pulled it through his black hair.
He winked at Jill. "I've saved my dough for a great hotrod. Channeled
and chopped '50 Merc. How's about it, babe? Want to drag Main street?"
Jeff Jewett
this was a beautiful story, and although I enjoyed the inside joke,
this particular work deserves to be taken seriously. It drew me in and
the characters were excellent. The joke was somehow humiliating to
the piece, like a hooker who performs with excellence but looks down at
you with an uncaring expression.
Hank
impulse, so judge the story with or without it. Thanks. (And,
expression is part of performance, eh?)
Jeff Jewett
I judge the story without it, I mean you can omitt it. I would.
Andrew Callahan
>Walter Better
>by David H Fears
<snip>
Hank,
I read this and enjoyed it a day or so ago. I didn't review it closely to
look for nits, but nothing jumped out at me. And, as I recall from reading
your things in the past, you usually don't have much for people to "nit
pick" on the major rules on which we all agree (e.g. subject-verb agreement,
etc.)
The reference to the AFO challenge was a wink to the reader. I have
obviously several things here that have done that, so I feel a little
hypocritical in saying, I think this hurts your story. I actually think it
is a pretty good story even outside the challenge. Obviously removing the
one phrase directly relating to AFO would be easy if you did think about
doing something else with this.
I don't read Superhero stories or comic books much (at least not for a few
decades), but this doesn't really seem to fit the Superhero thing, anyway,
more of a fantasy or "Amazing Stories" kind of thing, (also a genre I read
very little).
But, I enjoyed the story and although I had an inkling that Walter was the
"missing baby" from the very beginning, the story still worked for me
because I wasn't sure, and I wanted to finish the story to see how it all
ended. And, I think when someone WANTS to finish your story (as opposed to
thinking, "I might as well finish it . . . ") that's a good thing.
I just read Jeff Jewett's comments (after writing the above paragraphs) and
your response to him. I agree with Jeff that the joke is better deleted,
but I also understand the "impulse" to stick it in. (And, it was funny, but
that humor kind of broke the flow).
One suggestion that may or may not be worth considering, when the mother and
baby are missing and never mentioned again other than the comment that the
search turned up nothing, that seems a little odd. If perhaps Mrs. Yelah
was just finishing the check out procedure when the nurse finds her, they
might assume she took her baby and left. As the story is, it seemed (to me)
as if the mother was probably incapable of going anywhere on her own, so a
"search that turns up nothing" seems like too light of a treatment for two
missing patients who are incapable of caring for themselves. Similarly,
Mrs. Yelah could have just been brought there from another hospital or had
language issues, or something that would make it at least plausible for them
to conclude that she left and took her baby, so giving up the search isn't
as implausible as it would be for giving up a search for a woman who is only
a few minutes post-partum and an infant only a few minutes old. But that
was really the only "loose end" that I noticed that I thought could have
been tucked away early, before we learn at the end where the mother really
went.
But, I really liked it.
Best wishes,
Andrew
--
Andrew D. Callahan, Owner
Deadlines Typing Service
Anytype Dot Com Typing and Transcription Service
http://www.anytype.com