boy from laughing. “Wolf, you gave Mr. Jenkins your harmonica.”
“I’ve got several.” He walked on. “I need to make a stop before we go.”
“Where to? I’m tired.”
“McVain.”
“Wolf, do you have to befriend every patient who arrives here?”
“He pushed me in the mud.”
She laughed.
“And he’s missing fingers,” Wolfgang said. “I’m curious is all.”
“You just can’t stand it when someone doesn’t like you.”
“Who’s McVain?” Abel asked.
“A mute,” Wolfgang said.
Abel chuckled. “What’s a mute?”
“Same thing as a McVain.”
“What’s a McVain?”
“You’ll see,” said Susannah.
Wolfgang whispered to Susannah. “You’re not completely correct, by the way. I can stand it as long as that someone has a reason for not liking me.”
“So as soon as you have a reason, you’ll leave him alone?”
“Of course.”
They took the nearest stairwell to the fourth-floor solarium and quietly passed the beds lining the porch. Some patients slept. An old man with very little hair waved. A middle-aged man stared out the windows, oblivious to everything around him. Wolfgang found Mr. Weaver asleep on the porch, snoring in a much deeper octave than the man two floors below. Even so, Abel thought it funny and stifled his laughter with his own hands this time. Susannah gently placed her hands on his shoulders and he continued to lick his lollipop. Wolfgang looked inside the room and found McVain on his bed in the far corner, still in civilian clothes. He’d seen it many times before, patients thinking if they dressed the part, somehow they would remain healthy. A subtle denial. Wolfgang inched closer. It was dark, but he could still make out McVain’s hands.
Abel and Susannah stepped closer. “Where’d his fingers go?” Abel whispered.
Susannah put her finger to Abel’s sticky lips.
Wolfgang watched McVain. “I’ll be damned…” McVain’s eyes were closed. His hands were raised above the covers, slightly bent at the wrists. His fingers, long and arched, moved side to side, up and down—precisely, gracefully, with authority. Even the nubs from his three missing fingers moved ever so slightly from muscle memory. It was as if he were playing a piano.
Wolfgang backed away with his mouth open.
“What is it?” asked Susannah.
Wolfgang tiptoed from the room and they followed.
Abel looked over his shoulder toward McVain’s room. “Is he a monster?”
“No,” Susannah said in a hushed voice, although it had a twinge of humor in it. “He’s not a monster.”
“My Lord, did you see that, Susannah? He was playing the piano.”
“Yes, I saw it.”
“Now we should have something to talk about.”
“And what if he continues to ignore you?” Susannah had taken off her nurse’s cap. Her hair had lost some of the morning’s curl, but it was still enough to get Wolfgang’s attention.
“Look,” he said. “I have a plan for tomorrow night.” As he leaned closer and whispered in her ear, a tinny sound floated up from a floor below.
Mr. Jenkins had begun to play his new harmonica.
Chapter 7
Walking with Susannah back through the woods had become a nightly ritual. At first they had seemed to meet accidentally, leaving at the same time only occasionally, for many times Susannah left with the other nurses—especially during Wolfgang’s early days at Waverly Hills, when he and Susannah first met. However, both had somehow settled on the same unspoken schedule each evening. The fresh, untainted air of the wilderness, mixed with the crickets and the wind, seemed to ease the tensions of the solarium behind them. They’d discuss the new patients, the children, or the funny incidents; any talk of death on this walk home was taboo.
But tonight Wolfgang walked with a quicker pace, his eyes on alert. They’d dropped Abel off at the children’s pavilion, where several of the kids were already asleep on their little screened porch. Susannah had walked him
“I’ve got several.” He walked on. “I need to make a stop before we go.”
“Where to? I’m tired.”
“McVain.”
“Wolf, do you have to befriend every patient who arrives here?”
“He pushed me in the mud.”
She laughed.
“And he’s missing fingers,” Wolfgang said. “I’m curious is all.”
“You just can’t stand it when someone doesn’t like you.”
“Who’s McVain?” Abel asked.
“A mute,” Wolfgang said.
Abel chuckled. “What’s a mute?”
“Same thing as a McVain.”
“What’s a McVain?”
“You’ll see,” said Susannah.
Wolfgang whispered to Susannah. “You’re not completely correct, by the way. I can stand it as long as that someone has a reason for not liking me.”
“So as soon as you have a reason, you’ll leave him alone?”
“Of course.”
They took the nearest stairwell to the fourth-floor solarium and quietly passed the beds lining the porch. Some patients slept. An old man with very little hair waved. A middle-aged man stared out the windows, oblivious to everything around him. Wolfgang found Mr. Weaver asleep on the porch, snoring in a much deeper octave than the man two floors below. Even so, Abel thought it funny and stifled his laughter with his own hands this time. Susannah gently placed her hands on his shoulders and he continued to lick his lollipop. Wolfgang looked inside the room and found McVain on his bed in the far corner, still in civilian clothes. He’d seen it many times before, patients thinking if they dressed the part, somehow they would remain healthy. A subtle denial. Wolfgang inched closer. It was dark, but he could still make out McVain’s hands.
Abel and Susannah stepped closer. “Where’d his fingers go?” Abel whispered.
Susannah put her finger to Abel’s sticky lips.
Wolfgang watched McVain. “I’ll be damned…” McVain’s eyes were closed. His hands were raised above the covers, slightly bent at the wrists. His fingers, long and arched, moved side to side, up and down—precisely, gracefully, with authority. Even the nubs from his three missing fingers moved ever so slightly from muscle memory. It was as if he were playing a piano.
Wolfgang backed away with his mouth open.
“What is it?” asked Susannah.
Wolfgang tiptoed from the room and they followed.
Abel looked over his shoulder toward McVain’s room. “Is he a monster?”
“No,” Susannah said in a hushed voice, although it had a twinge of humor in it. “He’s not a monster.”
“My Lord, did you see that, Susannah? He was playing the piano.”
“Yes, I saw it.”
“Now we should have something to talk about.”
“And what if he continues to ignore you?” Susannah had taken off her nurse’s cap. Her hair had lost some of the morning’s curl, but it was still enough to get Wolfgang’s attention.
“Look,” he said. “I have a plan for tomorrow night.” As he leaned closer and whispered in her ear, a tinny sound floated up from a floor below.
Mr. Jenkins had begun to play his new harmonica.
Chapter 7
Walking with Susannah back through the woods had become a nightly ritual. At first they had seemed to meet accidentally, leaving at the same time only occasionally, for many times Susannah left with the other nurses—especially during Wolfgang’s early days at Waverly Hills, when he and Susannah first met. However, both had somehow settled on the same unspoken schedule each evening. The fresh, untainted air of the wilderness, mixed with the crickets and the wind, seemed to ease the tensions of the solarium behind them. They’d discuss the new patients, the children, or the funny incidents; any talk of death on this walk home was taboo.
But tonight Wolfgang walked with a quicker pace, his eyes on alert. They’d dropped Abel off at the children’s pavilion, where several of the kids were already asleep on their little screened porch. Susannah had walked him
Similar Books
