This Transylvanian-looking nun-nurse made us sign our names in a book and gave us a couple of passes so everyone at the hospital would know we had permission to be there and were not a couple of ghouls raiding the morgue. I hate to go to hospitals because you never know when you get in one of the elevators if the guy next to you has the galloping bubonic plague.
You should have seen Lorraine carrying eleven gladiolas. She looked like a Mongolian peasant hawking flowers in a flea market. We took them from three different graves in the cemetery and couldn’t find a twelfth gladiola anywhere. But who counts a dozen gladiolas when you get them? We still pretended we were John and Lorraine Pignati because only members of the immediate family were allowed to visit.
“Your son and daughter are here,” this fat, huge nurse said, opening the door to Room 304. And there was the Pigman, propped up on his high pillow with the bed raised. It was a semiprivate room, and I’d better not tell you about the other patient in there that made it semiprivate because he looked like he wasn’t long for this world. They had a guy with some kind of oxygen-tent thing nearby that looked like a malaria net.
“Hi!” Mr. Pignati said, with a great big grin on his face. You’d have thought he was a guest in a hotel the way he looked, with this breakfast tray right in front of him on a weird-looking bed table.
“Look at the lovely flowers they brought,” the fat, huge nurse said. “I’ll put them in some water.” She flashed a gigantic smile herself and then beat it.
“We had to make believe we were your kids,” I explained, and you should have seen him smile.
“Are you all right?” Lorraine asked.
“Of course I’m all right.” He laughed. “I’m getting out of here in a few days. There’s nothing wrong with me. The doctor even said so.”
There was a lot of small talk after that, and Lorraine never took her eyes off the guy in the other bed, who looked like he was 193 years old. Then the fat, huge nurse came back in with the gladiolas in this crummy glass vase that looked like they had just dug it up in the backyard. “Aren’t they pretty?” she said and then beat it again.
“Is the house all right?” Mr. Pignati asked.
“We locked it up last night after the cops left,” I said.
Lorraine fumbled in her pocketbook. “We brought you the keys,” she said, holding them out to him.
“You keep them,” he said. “Maybe you’ll want to watch some television or have some more chocolate ants.” He laughed as usual.
“I don’t think so—”
“Maybe we will,” I said, taking the keys right out of her hand. “We can leave them in the mailbox, in case we don’t cut school tomorrow.”
“I don’t think we—”
I flashed Lorraine a dirty look, and she never finished her sentence.
“You’re looking good,” I commented.
“I’m sorry if I was any trouble yesterday.”
“Are you kidding? Lorraine and I thrive on excitement.” And then the three of us giggled.
“What did you have for breakfast?” Lorraine inquired, which was a little uncalled-for since all you had to do was look at the tray, and you could tell it was the usual rubbery eggs you always get in a hospital.
“You didn’t eat your toast,” she further observed.
“Do you think you could stop by and see Bobo for me?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Tell him I miss him.”
Just then the guy in the other bed took a choking fit, and the three of us just looked very uncomfortable until that was over. The fat nurse came running in and did something to him to make him stop. It looked like she strangled him actually.
“Get him the peanuts in the yellow package—not the red package. He likes the dry-roasted ones better.”
“Sure.”
“And half a hot dog. Don’t give him the whole hot dog because he never eats all of it.”
“How are you all doing?” the nurse said, bounding in and exhibiting her ivories again. “Your father’s a very
You should have seen Lorraine carrying eleven gladiolas. She looked like a Mongolian peasant hawking flowers in a flea market. We took them from three different graves in the cemetery and couldn’t find a twelfth gladiola anywhere. But who counts a dozen gladiolas when you get them? We still pretended we were John and Lorraine Pignati because only members of the immediate family were allowed to visit.
“Your son and daughter are here,” this fat, huge nurse said, opening the door to Room 304. And there was the Pigman, propped up on his high pillow with the bed raised. It was a semiprivate room, and I’d better not tell you about the other patient in there that made it semiprivate because he looked like he wasn’t long for this world. They had a guy with some kind of oxygen-tent thing nearby that looked like a malaria net.
“Hi!” Mr. Pignati said, with a great big grin on his face. You’d have thought he was a guest in a hotel the way he looked, with this breakfast tray right in front of him on a weird-looking bed table.
“Look at the lovely flowers they brought,” the fat, huge nurse said. “I’ll put them in some water.” She flashed a gigantic smile herself and then beat it.
“We had to make believe we were your kids,” I explained, and you should have seen him smile.
“Are you all right?” Lorraine asked.
“Of course I’m all right.” He laughed. “I’m getting out of here in a few days. There’s nothing wrong with me. The doctor even said so.”
There was a lot of small talk after that, and Lorraine never took her eyes off the guy in the other bed, who looked like he was 193 years old. Then the fat, huge nurse came back in with the gladiolas in this crummy glass vase that looked like they had just dug it up in the backyard. “Aren’t they pretty?” she said and then beat it again.
“Is the house all right?” Mr. Pignati asked.
“We locked it up last night after the cops left,” I said.
Lorraine fumbled in her pocketbook. “We brought you the keys,” she said, holding them out to him.
“You keep them,” he said. “Maybe you’ll want to watch some television or have some more chocolate ants.” He laughed as usual.
“I don’t think so—”
“Maybe we will,” I said, taking the keys right out of her hand. “We can leave them in the mailbox, in case we don’t cut school tomorrow.”
“I don’t think we—”
I flashed Lorraine a dirty look, and she never finished her sentence.
“You’re looking good,” I commented.
“I’m sorry if I was any trouble yesterday.”
“Are you kidding? Lorraine and I thrive on excitement.” And then the three of us giggled.
“What did you have for breakfast?” Lorraine inquired, which was a little uncalled-for since all you had to do was look at the tray, and you could tell it was the usual rubbery eggs you always get in a hospital.
“You didn’t eat your toast,” she further observed.
“Do you think you could stop by and see Bobo for me?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Tell him I miss him.”
Just then the guy in the other bed took a choking fit, and the three of us just looked very uncomfortable until that was over. The fat nurse came running in and did something to him to make him stop. It looked like she strangled him actually.
“Get him the peanuts in the yellow package—not the red package. He likes the dry-roasted ones better.”
“Sure.”
“And half a hot dog. Don’t give him the whole hot dog because he never eats all of it.”
“How are you all doing?” the nurse said, bounding in and exhibiting her ivories again. “Your father’s a very
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