light fanning through the half-open bathroom door had changed, grown brighter. It looked like noonlight. He wished the clock would chime and tell him just how close to right he was, but the clock was obstinately silent.
She stayed away fifty hours before.
So she did. And she might stay away eighty this time. Or you might hear that Cherokee pulling in five seconds from now. In case you didn’t know it, friend, the Weather Bureau can post tornado warnings, but when it comes to telling exactly when and where they’ll touch down, they don’t know fuck-all.
“True enough,” he said, and rolled the wheelchair down to the bathroom. Looking in, he saw an austere room floored with hexagonal white tiles. A bathtub with rusty fans spreading below the faucets stood on clawed feet. Beside it was a linen closet. Across from the tub was a sink. Over the sink was a medicine cabinet.
The floor-bucket was in the tub—he could see its plastic top.
The hall was wide enough for him to swing the chair around and face the door, but now his arms were trembling with exhaustion. He had been a puny kid and so he had tried to take reasonably good care of himself as an adult, but his muscles were now the muscles of an invalid and the puny kid was back, as if all that time spent doing laps and jogging and working out on the Nautilus machine had only been a dream.
At least this doorway was wider—not much, but enough to make his passage less hair-raising. Paul bumped over the lintel, and then the chair’s hard rubber wheels rolled smoothly over the tiles. He smelled something sour that he automatically associated with hospitals—Lysol, maybe. There was no toilet in here, but he had already suspected that—the only flushing sounds came from upstairs, and now that he thought of it, one of those upstairs flushes always followed his use of the bedpan. Here there was only the tub, the basin, and the linen closet with its door standing open.
He gazed briefly at the neat piles of blue towels and washcloths—he was familiar with both from the sponge-baths she had given him—and then turned his attention to the medicine cabinet over the washstand.
It was out of reach.
No matter how much he strained, it was a good nine inches above the tips of his fingers. He could see this but reached anyway, unable to believe Fate or God or Whoever could be so cruel. He looked like an outfielder reaching desperately for a home-run ball he had absolutely no chance of catching.
Paul made a wounded, baffled noise, lowered his hand, and then leaned back, panting. The gray cloud lowered. He willed it away and looked around for something he could use to open the medicine cabinet’s door and saw an O-Cedar mop leaning stiffly in the comer on a long blue pole.
You going to use that? Really? Well, I guess you could. Pry open the medicine cabinet door and then just knock a bunch of stuff out into the basin. But the bottles will break and even if there are no bottles, fat chance, everyone has at least a bottle of Listerine or Scope or something in their medicine cabinet, you have no way of putting back what you knock down. So when she comes back and sees the mess, what then?
“I’ll tell her it was Misery,” he croaked. “I’ll tell her she dropped by looking for a tonic to bring her back from the dead.”
Then he burst into tears ... but even through the tears his eyes were conning the room, looking for something, anything, inspiration, a break, just a fucking br—
He was looking into the linen closet again, and his rapid breath suddenly stopped. His eyes widened.
His first cursory glance had taken in the shelves with their stacks of folded sheets and pillow-cases and washcloths and towels. Now he looked at the floor and on the floor were a number of square cardboard cartons. Some were labelled UPJOHN. Some were labelled LILLY. Some were labelled CAM PHARMACEUTICALS.
He turned the wheelchair roughly, hurting himself, not caring.
Please God don’t let it be her cache of extra shampoo or her tampons or pictures of her dear old sainted mother or—
He fumbled for one of the boxes, dragged it out, and opened the flaps. No shampoo, no Avon samples. Far from it. There was a wild jumble of drugs in the carton, most of them in small boxes marked SAMPLES. At the bottom a