Ask for Me Tomorrow

“Thank you, George,” Ethel said, wishing they hadn’t picked such an incompetent boob to introduce her, “for the long long long introduction.”

It was too late now for her to read the pages of blank verse she’d written as a tribute to the Holy Sabbathians and their evenings of cleansing and healing. It would have been a shame to omit any of it, so she decided to save it for next time. Sin and sickness were very dependable: there would always be a next time.

Ethel’s outfit had been purchased for the occasion at a thrift shop. The ivory-colored chiffon dress looked gauzy and spiritual and floated around her like ectoplasm.

“Thank you also, sisters and brothers, for giving me this opportunity.” To match her dress she wore her best voice, so delicate it seemed to emanate from another world.

“Speak up, I can’t hear you,” Violet Smith said from the back row.

“I came here this evening not for myself but for the sake of a very ill and helpless man. He is at the mercy of a merciless woman. I have known her for many years and I repeat, she is without mercy. I beg the Lord to intercede on his behalf.”

“Wh-wh-what is the p-p-p-problem, sister?”

“I wish you wouldn’t interrupt me any further, George. I am about to state the problem. This woman I referred to has engaged a man to find her first husband. If and when he is found, I have reason to believe that the second husband, the sick man, will be — I hesitate to say such a word, to think such a thought, but even the most devout Christian must sometimes entertain unchristian thoughts.”

“Entertain” seemed exactly the right word. The audience stirred in anticipation. Ethel’s previous confessions had been dull and her illnesses commonplace: eating red meat, loss of temper, sinusitis and impacted wisdom teeth.

“What I’m afraid of,” Ethel said, “is that this poor old man will be murdered.”

She went on speaking. Every now and then she raised her arms, and from her angel-wing sleeves would come the scent of gardenias to sweeten the poisoned air.

“Violet Smith is late getting home tonight,” Gilly said. “It must be a very interesting meeting.”

Fourteen

It was almost midnight when Aragon’s call to his wife in San Francisco was finally put through. Once the connection to the hospital was made, he had to hang on the line for another five minutes while Laurie was tracked down and brought to a phone.

She sounded breathless. “Hello, Tom?”

“How did you know it was me?”

“The operator told me. She recognized your voice. She thinks it’s cute.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“What do you think?”

“You roll your r’s a bit too much.”

“Rrrrreally?”

“I don’t mind. I roll mine, too, being Scottish.”

“Let’s roll our r’s together.”

“That sounds dirty,” Laurie said. “I’m sure you didn’t mean it that way.”

“Are you?”

“Well, sort of sure. Tom, have you been drinking?”

“Just enough to ease the pain of reporting in to Gilly, the Dragon Lady.”

“Is she that bad?”

“I don’t know. And the more I talk to her, the more I don’t know.”

“You have been drinking. In fact, it sounds as if you’re at a party. Are you?”

“I may be the only person in Rio Seco who isn’t,” Aragon said. “This is when all the natives start whooping it up. Men, women, children, dogs, donkeys, anything that can move is out moving.”

“Would you like to be whooping it up with them?”

“No. I prefer to sit and talk to my beautiful wife who rolls her r’s.”

“I think you’re a dirty young man.”

“You should know, lassie.”

“That’s the first time you’ve ever called me lassie,” she said. “You sound sort of funny, Tom. What’s the matter?”

“It’s a long story, involving someone I liked... I have a medical question to ask you. Can you spare a minute?”

“Ten or so. I’m on my break, in the interns’ lounge.”

“What do you know about hallucinogenic drugs?”

“More than I want to, in one way. Not enough, in another. We’ve had kids brought in here so stoned we thought they were hopeless mental cases until the stuff wore off. Sometimes it didn’t. Last month an eight-year-old boy died of respiratory failure after an overdose of mescaline. He was never able to tell us how much he took or where he got it. His parents are both users, involved in some kind of consciousness-raising meditation, but neither of them would admit anything. In fact, they threatened to sue the hospital... Exactly what do you want me to tell you?”

“Just keep talking.”

“The trouble is that so many new hallucinogens are available now in addition to old stand-bys like hashish and LSD. Their street names are often enticing — Cherry Velvet, Angel Dust, China Dolls. The lethal doses vary tremendously and there is no real antidote. If the victims are in a state of great excitement, we calm them down with tranquilizers or barbituric acid derivatives, or pump their stomachs if there’s a chance some of the drug hasn’t been absorbed into the system. Ordinarily, though, we simply provide custodial care until the effects wear off. Does this sound like a lecture?”

“I asked for it. Go on.”