Fingers Pointing Somewhere Else by Daniela Fischerova, Neil Bermel Page B

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    â€œSo why didn’t she tell me it was all arranged?” she banged her fist on the corner of the tub. “Why did I have to go to that silly MalÅ¡ov?”
    â€œWell, you know …” her brother shrugged from a distance, “when you’re old you need to feel that you’re deciding things foryourself. You want to have the impression that you can still manage. As soon as you start to feel written off, then you won’t let yourself be talked into things.”
    It was so frightfully simple that regret and compassion caught sharply in her throat. She remembered her father waking up. He stood in the doorway like a sleepy child. Like a large, flaccid bear full of fear.
    â€œOK, you’re right,” she admitted, abashed, and her tears dripped into the cooling bath. A molting bear filled with anxiety.
    Yes, he was afraid they were making decisions about him while he was asleep. That his daughter would get up and fling the bitter truth in his face: that he wasn’t up to MalÅ¡ov anymore. That he’d never live to tear down the roof. To plaster or skim the walls. That he’d never even pick up the garbage can again.
    â€œI’m not going to meddle anymore. I won’t try to talk him into anything.”
    She hated herself for not having realized this on her own. For one wild second she hated virtue and truth.
    â€œDad’s got to feel he’s important.”
    â€œYeah,” her brother said, a bit taken aback, “but I wasn’t talking about Dad. I was talking about Mother.”

Dhum
    â€œDon’t have any illusions,” the durga said maliciously. “Don’t have any illusions at all!”
    It was as if his final day were punishing him for daring to leave.
    â€œWhat specifically do you mean?” he asked as calmly as possible.
    â€œLike don’t think you’ll find me here when you get back. I’ll be gone as soon as you’re through that door.”
    â€œI’m not worried. Dr. Hartl will keep an eye on you.”
    â€œHartl? The fearless phallus who was hanging around yesterday? Hey, that might be fun. He’ll shake things up around here!”
    Fearless phallus? Inwardly he shook his head at this expression. All durgas have caustic tongues.
    â€œWhat a unique vocabulary you have. Do you have an expression for me too?” he asked, aware of the risk. Maybe it really was his final day.
    She looked at him from beneath half-closed eyelids.
    â€œYou?” she said with contempt, shoving a bony finger against his breastbone. “You’re a bearded fifth-grader.”

    The phallus was waiting for him. It sat in front of the one-way mirror as if it were a video. Nothing scandalous was happening in the waiting room — a patient was vacuuming — but Hartl was watching with an unpleasantly amused expression.
    â€œGood peep-show.”
    He let it go. Hartl was not the person he would have wanted, but there was no one else to be had. His colleagues had not exactly jumped at the chance to run number seventeen (Pavilion 17, A&T: alcoholism and toxicomania, women’s inpatient division) for a full three months.
    â€œHere, I’ve written out the point system for you, but the nurses know it by heart. I would ask that you adhere to it strictly.”
    â€œYeah, I’ve heard of it. Your system is legendary.”
    With a decided lack of interest, Hartl stuck the paper in his pocket.
    â€œI can’t say it’s my sort of thing. I’m more into Gestalt and, I mean, imagination interests me. I won’t trust old Makarenko twice.”
    â€œI’m afraid you’ll have to adapt to the traditions of number seventeen,” he interrupted Hartl a bit more peremptorily than he had wanted to. “I especially insist on the point system.”
    He was painfully aware he was wasting his breath. Hartl will shake things up, the durga had said. With the same sexually charged