easily.”
He wasn’t making her more comfortable. He decided to stop talking. Then he noticed that she was holding an envelope in her hand with his name on it. The envelope was big and square and pink and hard to miss. The candy striper was fanning her face with it. They weren’t called candy stripers anymore. Archie didn’t know what they were called.
“That’s for me,” Archie said.
She wasn’t a teenager. College, maybe. She shot Archie a reflexive smile. “I have to deliver it to the ward,” she said. “Before I can go to lunch.”
The elevator doors opened and they both stepped out into the psych ward’s minuscule lobby. The girl was hesitant.
“You’ve never been up here before,” Archie said.
“Are there psychos?” she whispered.
“Tons,” Archie said. He pressed the call buzzer. “It’s Archie Sheridan,” he said.
“Just a minute, Mr. Sheridan,” a nurse’s voice responded.
The girl looked down at the name on the card. “I guess you are you,” she said.
“I’m pretty sure I still am,” Archie said. He noticed her nails then. French pink with bloodred tips. Women liked it when you complimented them. Archie didn’t know much about women, but he knew that. “I like your nails,” he said.
Her cheeks dimpled and she inspected a fluttering hand. “It’s called a ‘Beauty Killer,’ ” she said. “My manicurist says all the celebrities are doing it.”
Archie nearly choked. A Beauty Killer manicure? Everyone had lost their minds.
“Are you okay?” the girl asked.
Muffled hollering echoed from behind the door. Archie recognized the bellicose ranting of his roommate, Frank.
The girl drew a sharp breath.
“He’s harmless,” Archie assured her.
The girl tapped a foot and bit her bottom lip. “What’s taking them so long?”
“They’re distracted,” Archie said. It took a few minutes and several staff members to subdue one of Frank’s tantrums. He gave the girl what he hoped was a sane smile. From inside the ward, Frank howled something about devils. The girl stiffened. “Why don’t you just give me the card?” Archie suggested.
She considered it for a split second, then pushed the card into Archie’s hand.
“Okay,” she said, hitting the elevator button. The doors opened immediately and she leaped inside. “Nice angel,” she said as the doors slid closed.
Archie set the angel down on the table of Al-Anon brochures and examined the envelope.
There was no postmark, which meant that it hadn’t come through the mail—someone had dropped it off at the hospital. The return address was 397 North Fargo. No name. The body had been found on Fargo. The address wasn’t in Gretchen’s handwriting, but it would not have been hard for her to find someone else to write it. Archie worked his finger under the flap and along the glue line, and pulled out the card.
The card was old-fashioned, the paper
He wasn’t making her more comfortable. He decided to stop talking. Then he noticed that she was holding an envelope in her hand with his name on it. The envelope was big and square and pink and hard to miss. The candy striper was fanning her face with it. They weren’t called candy stripers anymore. Archie didn’t know what they were called.
“That’s for me,” Archie said.
She wasn’t a teenager. College, maybe. She shot Archie a reflexive smile. “I have to deliver it to the ward,” she said. “Before I can go to lunch.”
The elevator doors opened and they both stepped out into the psych ward’s minuscule lobby. The girl was hesitant.
“You’ve never been up here before,” Archie said.
“Are there psychos?” she whispered.
“Tons,” Archie said. He pressed the call buzzer. “It’s Archie Sheridan,” he said.
“Just a minute, Mr. Sheridan,” a nurse’s voice responded.
The girl looked down at the name on the card. “I guess you are you,” she said.
“I’m pretty sure I still am,” Archie said. He noticed her nails then. French pink with bloodred tips. Women liked it when you complimented them. Archie didn’t know much about women, but he knew that. “I like your nails,” he said.
Her cheeks dimpled and she inspected a fluttering hand. “It’s called a ‘Beauty Killer,’ ” she said. “My manicurist says all the celebrities are doing it.”
Archie nearly choked. A Beauty Killer manicure? Everyone had lost their minds.
“Are you okay?” the girl asked.
Muffled hollering echoed from behind the door. Archie recognized the bellicose ranting of his roommate, Frank.
The girl drew a sharp breath.
“He’s harmless,” Archie assured her.
The girl tapped a foot and bit her bottom lip. “What’s taking them so long?”
“They’re distracted,” Archie said. It took a few minutes and several staff members to subdue one of Frank’s tantrums. He gave the girl what he hoped was a sane smile. From inside the ward, Frank howled something about devils. The girl stiffened. “Why don’t you just give me the card?” Archie suggested.
She considered it for a split second, then pushed the card into Archie’s hand.
“Okay,” she said, hitting the elevator button. The doors opened immediately and she leaped inside. “Nice angel,” she said as the doors slid closed.
Archie set the angel down on the table of Al-Anon brochures and examined the envelope.
There was no postmark, which meant that it hadn’t come through the mail—someone had dropped it off at the hospital. The return address was 397 North Fargo. No name. The body had been found on Fargo. The address wasn’t in Gretchen’s handwriting, but it would not have been hard for her to find someone else to write it. Archie worked his finger under the flap and along the glue line, and pulled out the card.
The card was old-fashioned, the paper
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