Free The Collected Stories of Richard Yates by Richard Yates Page B

drive her out to the hospital, and she had to accept. And then of course Irene had to come along, and Jack too, and they all acted as if they were doing her a favor. But you had to be polite. “It certainly is nice,” Myra called, “to be riding out here in a car, instead of a— don’t Jack!”
    Jack said, “ Sh-h-h, take it easy, baby,” but she threw off his hand and twisted away. Watching them, Irene put her tongue between her teeth and giggled, and Myra felt herself blushing. It wasn’t that there was anything to be ashamed of—Irene and Marty knew all about Jack and everything; most of her friends did, and nobody blamed her (after all, wasn’t it almost like being a widow?)—it was just that Jack ought to know better. Couldn’t he at least have the decency to keep his hands to himself now, of all times?
    â€œThere,” Marty said. “Now we’ll make some time.” The truck had turned off and they were picking up speed, leaving the streetcar tracks and stores behind as the street became a road and then a highway.
    â€œCare to hear the radio, kids?” Irene called. She clicked one of the dial tabs and a voice urged everyone to enjoy television in their own homes, now, tonight. She clicked another and a voice said, “Yes, your money buys more in a Crawford store!”
    â€œTurn that son of a bitch off,” Marty said, and sounding the horn again, he pulled out into the fast lane.
    When the car entered the hospital grounds, Irene turned around in the front seat and said, “Say, this is a beautiful place. I mean it, isn’t this a beautiful place? Oh, look, they got a Christmas tree up, with lights and all.”
    â€œWell,” Marty said, “where to?”
    â€œStraight ahead,” Myra told him, “down to that big circle, where the Christmas tree is. Then you turn right, out around the Administration Building, and on out to the end of that street.” He made the turn correctly, and as they approached the long, low TB building, she said, “Here it is, Marty, this one right here.” He drew up to the curb and stopped, and she gathered together the magazines she had brought for her husband and stepped out on the thin gray snow.
    Irene hunched her shoulders and turned around, hugging herself. “Oo-oo, it’s cold out there, isn’t it? Listen, honey, what time is it you’ll be through, now? Eight o’clock, is it?”
    â€œThat’s right,” Myra said, “but listen, why don’t you people go on home? I can just as soon take the bus back, like I always do.”
    â€œWhaddya think I am, crazy?” Irene said. “You think I want to drive all the way home with Jack moping there in the backseat?” She giggled and winked. “Be hard enough just trying to keep him happy while you’re inside, let alone driving all the way home. No, listen, we’ll cruise around a little, honey, maybe have a little drink or something, and then we’ll come back here for you at eight o’clock sharp.”
    â€œWell okay, but I’d really just as soon—”
    â€œRight here,” Irene said. “We’ll see you right here in front of the building at eight o’clock sharp. Now hurry up and shut the door before we all freeze to death.”
    Myra smiled as she slammed the door, but Jack, sulking, did not look up to smile back, or wave. Then the car rolled away and she walked up the path and the steps to the TB building.
    The small waiting room smelled of steam heat and wet overshoes, and she hurried through it, past the door marked NURSES ’ OFFICE—CLEAN AREA and into the big, noisy center ward. There were thirty-six beds in the center ward, divided in half by a wide aisle and subdivided by shoulder-high partitions into open cubicles of six beds each. All the sheets and the hospital pajamas were dyed yellow, to distinguish them from uncontaminated linen in