Backstage Nurse (12 page)

It was nearly six when the star finally opened his eyes.

Shirley stood over him with a smile and waited to let him focus clearly. He stared up at her for a few seconds without complete recognition and then, frowning as awareness came more completely to him, he said, "It is still with me, my dear."

"The pain in your side is no better?" Shirley tried to hide her concern.

"It's nagging steadily. Pretty hard to bear." The old man set his lips and twisted his head to one side. "What time is it?"

"Close to six."

He opened his eyes and his expression changed to one of worry. "And you've had nothing to eat yet? Go downstairs and have something."

"I can let them send something up here," she suggested. "What would you like?"

"Nothing." He closed his eyes again and the thin patrician face on the pillow seemed too frail to be equal to the battle which she knew faced the old man.

"I think I'll call Hugh Deering," she said. "He offered to come by and stay with you if I wanted to go downstairs."

"Do that." Oliver Craft spoke without opening his eyes. "Do that."

Hugh came up right away in answer to her call. He went across the room to Oliver Craft's bedside and smiled at the old man. "What kind of a trick is this you're playing on us?"

The star opened his eyes and managed a strained smile. "An ad-lib performance, my boy, and not a very good one. The pain is about all I can think of just now."

Hugh turned to Shirley, and now he was a physician talking to a nurse. "What exactly have you given the patient?"

She told him the dose of sleeping pills that Oliver Craft had had earlier in the afternoon. Hugh nodded and then checked the various medicines she had set out on top of one of the tables.

"Let's try some Demerol," he suggested, and gave her the dosage amount.

Shirley gave the old actor an arm injection of the drug as Hugh stood by. In spite of the tragic situation, she felt some elation in the response the ex-doctor had shown. Dr. Trask had been right. In a crisis, Hugh Deering had at least tried to help.

In a few minutes, the drug began to take effect and Oliver Craft relaxed. Hugh turned to her and said, "Go downstairs and have your dinner. I'll stay with the Chief."

Deciding that it might be helpful to let him take this added responsibility for her patient, she agreed. "Thanks, Hugh. He seems to be resting a lot easier now and I won't be long."

She had just seated herself in the hotel dining room when Jeffrey Sayre came by her table. The big man seemed in a buoyant mood as he stood looking down at her. "I've had dinner and was leaving. But I wanted to hear the latest on Oliver."

"We don't really know anything yet. Dr. Trask will be here later tonight."

"It's just what I expected." Sayre seemed almost to relish the situation. "I told Rothstein in Boston that Oliver would never finish the tour. But he wouldn't listen to me. Now he has a problem."

"It may not be so bad as it seems," Shirley said weakly, wondering how Jeffrey Sayre could so let his vanity take over that he wouldn't feel pity for a dying man. All at once, she was disgusted with the florid second lead.

"I'll check with Lyon later in the evening then," Jeffrey Sayre told her. And with a cold smile, he marched out of the dining room.

Shirley felt depressed and ill. All I need now, she thought, is to have Joy Milland show up and chatter on eternally about nothing. But she was in luck; Joy didn't make an appearance. Actually, she rarely ate in the hotels, cutting down expenses by eating in the cheaper restaurants. Shirley finished dinner and hurried back up to her patient.

When she entered the room, the star was talking in a slow, drowsy tone to Hugh, who sat close to his bed. "You wouldn't remember that play, young man," he said. "It was long before your time. But it had a fine quality. It was called
The Servant in the House
."

Hugh smiled. "By Charles Rann Kennedy, wasn't it?"

The old man's eyes turned to Shirley. "This is quite a remarkable young man, my dear. He actually knows the name of the author."

"Not too difficult," Hugh said. "That play is a part of theatrical history."

Shirley sat down on the other side of the bed as the old man lay quiet for a moment. His eyes fixed on the ceiling, the thin hands slightly rustling the fold of the bed coverings, he seemed lost in thought. Hugh glanced across at her with a look of reassurance.

"Charles Rann Kennedy," the old man repeated slowly in a low voice. "I knew him very well. Big man with a mane of white hair. Stouter than Jeffrey, and taller. He and his wife taught drama in a private school somewhere in upper New York state after he retired from the stage. I can't think of her name now. Met them both at an Actor's Fund tea in New York. Was it Edith— Edith Wyne Matheson!" Craft finished with an air of satisfaction at having finally remembered.

Silence fell on the room for a moment and then he turned to Shirley. "Have you heard from Roger today?"

She leaned over and said, "Yes. He called earlier in the afternoon."

"I hope you didn't alarm him with bad news about me." Oliver Craft's voice was troubled.

"No. I told him I thought you'd tired yourself out."

"That's what it is," the star went on in his sickroom tone. "I'm a little over-tired." His eyes closed and he fell into a light sleep.

Shirley and Hugh stayed at his bedside until Lyon arrived with Dr. Trask shortly after ten o'clock. The thin, gray-haired New England surgeon had them brief him fully; he listened without expression.

Going into the bedroom, he sat down by Oliver Craft, who was now awake again. He smiled at the actor. "Bound to get me here for a little holiday, weren't you?"

The star nodded. "I'm feeling a good bit better now, Doctor. Sorry to bring you all this way."

Dr. Trask chuckled. "I'm willing to trade two dozen patients for a single one any day. This will be a rest for me. Now what about you?"

Shirley assisted the surgeon as he examined Oliver Trask thoroughly. When the examination was over, he studied the old man. "I think you should go into a hospital tonight. In the morning, we'll do some plates on you and perhaps give you some X-ray therapy."

The old man raised himself on an elbow. "I'll do whatever you say, Doctor. Just so long as I'm able to be at the theater by tomorrow night."

The surgeon stood up. "I can't promise you that."

"Just so long as I have your word that you won't stop me if I feel I'm well enough to play." Oliver Craft was a star again, not a sick old man. He seemed in full command of his faculties and willing to agree to going to the hospital, as long as he had control of the situation.

"I'll do nothing to stop you if I think you're able to go on."

Shirley and Hugh Deering stood in the background watching the drama between the two strong-willed men. Shirley knew that Dr. Trask must have suspected a serious recurrence, or he would not have mentioned X-ray therapy.

Dr. Trask turned to Shirley. "I'll have to make a few calls. Check with a colleague or two. I'll use the phone in the next room."

Lyon Phillips, who had waited in the living room, came to the door and signaled to Shirley to come across to him. Then he stepped outside.

She went out to him. "He seems a lot better. And the X-ray therapy might bring him out of it."

Lyon Phillips' face was grim. "Unless it does, we've really had it."

"Why?" She was startled by his dejection.

"We won't be able to have a show. There'll be no one to go on."

"What about Jeffrey Sayre?"

Lyon shook his head. "He's gone. Took a plane for Hollywood a half hour ago. He's been negotiating the deal for weeks, and it finally came through." He paused. "I think he did it purposely—I mean, leaving tonight. Now there's no one to take the Chiefs part."

Dr. Trask completed the arrangements for Oliver Craft's hospitalization with a minimum of time. Within a half hour, Shirley and her patient were in an ambulance on the way to a private room in the city's leading hospital. The doctor had also invited Lyon Phillips to come down to the hospital so that they might have a conference after Craft had been checked into his room.

When they arrived, Dr. Trask conferred with one of the staff physicians as to the star's care and made arrangements for other private nurses to relieve Shirley, one to take over right away. Oliver Craft, who seemed much better, took it all in stride; he even managed a good-night smile for Shirley when she left him.

Dr. Trask's conference took place in a wood-paneled doctors' lounge on the main floor. Shirley, Lyon Phillips, and Hugh Deering represented the company, and the resident physician of the hospital, with whom Dr. Trask had talked on their arrival, also joined them. He was a stout, gray-haired man with a kind face.

Strolling up and down before them as he smoked a cigarette, Dr. Trask began to brief them in his nasal twang: "We have a serious situation here. I think you all know that. On top of everything else, we're dealing with a nationally known public figure. We must handle the matter delicately. I trust I can depend on you for that, Doctor?"

The resident physician nodded. "We'll follow your instructions to the letter."

"Fine." Trask began to pace again. "Now this is our story. Oliver Craft has had an attack of food poisoning. Nothing serious. We expect him to come out of it fast. If the truth got around that he's suffering from incurable cancer, it would finish the tour—and, in a way, finish Oliver as well."

Lyon Phillips looked at the hospital doctor. "Are you sure there'll be no information leaks?"

"Reasonably so," the doctor promised.

"The papers will be after a story," Lyon went on. "You can be sure of that. If they get the truth, it's all over."

Dr. Trask held up his hand. "Let's forget that angle—the doctor has given us his assurance. I think we can count on him. First thing in the morning, I'm going to see if I can get the trouble to show on a plate. I think I know the area in which the new growth will be confined. If we can treat it with X ray, Oliver Craft might possibly go on. But the treatments will be hard on him, and from now on, there is bound to be a gradual ebbing of his strength. Everything possible must be done to make it as easy for him in the play as it can be."

"I can promise that," Phillips said. "What will I do about the show tomorrow night? We're short an actor. If the Chief isn't able to play, we'll have to refund a sold-out house, and the same thing for the rest of the week." He paused. "It's not the money, but the theater has to have time to handle the announcement and look after the refunds."

The doctor shrugged. "Take a long chance, if you like. I can only tell you it will be one. Get ready just as if you're going to give a performance. I'll let you know about Oliver the moment I find out myself."

Lyon Phillips stood. "No one could do more than that. Thanks for all you've done so far. I know the Chief will appreciate it."

Dr. Trask stayed at the hospital while Shirley, Hugh, and Phillips took a taxi to the hotel. Lyon went straight upstairs to call Rothstein in New York and inform him of the latest developments.

Hugh stopped by the door of the coffee shop. "Care for a midnight snack?"

She hesitated. "All right. But I'll have to make a phone call first. I can use one of the pay stations in the hotel lobby."

Hugh stood by as she made the long-distance call to Philadelphia. She watched his face through the glass of the booth as she waited to be put through. He was dejected in manner, staring moodily off into space.

She wondered what the evening had meant to him. For a short time, he had taken on the responsibility of a doctor again. She hoped that the strain of the situation wouldn't make him fall back on his old crutch. Even if the play went on, he would be faced with the possibility of playing Jeffrey Sayre's part.

Roger Craft's anxious voice came to her: "That you, Shirley?"

"Yes." There was warm comfort in hearing the familiar voice. "It may not be as serious as I thought. Not right away, in any case. Dr. Trask will know for sure in the morning. And your grandfather said he doesn't want you to worry."

"I'd better come right out there."

"I'd wait until we hear what the doctor says," Shirley told him. "They are hoping he may be able to do the show."

"But that's monstrous!" Roger exclaimed. "He mustn't think of it if he's that ill."

"But if he wants to—"

"Don't let him!"

"It would be hard to stop him," Shirley said. "After all, it's only his will that has carried him this far. This is what he wants to do. I don't feel we have the right to stop him."

Roger sounded weary. "This is one thing we don't see the same way, Shirley. But in a situation like this, I find myself an outsider. I suppose Grandfather will make the decision. He always has."

"I'll call your office as soon as I have word," Shirley promised.

"I'll be waiting." Roger seemed completely depressed. "And please try to talk him out of playing if you can, Shirley."

Promising that she would, Shirley hung up. When she went outside, Hugh gave her a searching look.

"What did your friend Roger have to say?" he asked.

She made no pretense that it wasn't Roger she had called. "He's very worried about his grandfather," she said.

"The old boy may surprise you all yet." Hugh opened the door of the coffee shop for her.

As they sat down at the nearest available table, Shirley asked, "Do you really feel that way?"

"I do." Hugh paused to light a cigarette. "Oliver Craft is no ordinary man; he is possessed with no ordinary determination. I won't give up hope unless the curtain doesn't go up tomorrow night."

"Dr. Trask is taking him to X ray at ten,". Shirley mused. "We should have the answer by noon."

"Roger doesn't think he should go on?"

"No." Shirley made a gesture. "He doesn't understand our world of show business. You can hardly expect him to. Tradition in the theater doesn't mean anything to him."

Hugh watched the smoke curl from his cigarette. "When I talked to that wonderful old man tonight, I felt like kneeling before him. He's a great man, Shirley. Not just as a theater personality, but as an individual. Not too many of his breed left."