Backstage Nurse (16 page)

Shirley felt some hope. "Yes," she said eagerly. "That would give him something to sustain him after the show is over. I've been frightened that he might give up when the play ends."

Dr. Trask smiled. "You have become involved with your patient, haven't you?"

"He's such a wonderful old man, I don't think anyone could help it. If he feels he's playing a part in research, that the treatments you will be giving him will have value for others in the future, I'm sure he will accept what happens with the same courage he has shown in finishing this play."

"A reason for living. He's always had one. We won't rob him of that now," Dr. Trask assured her.

Shirley felt better after their conversation. She had promised Oliver Craft to stay on with him when the play ended, and she didn't want the old star to end his days in hopelessness. Now there seemed a chance to give meaning to his ordeal.

Several times during the week before the opening, she had lunch at the Algonquin with Hugh. Oliver Craft ate very little now and had his food sent to his suite. But he insisted that she take some of her meals down in the dining room. "Get out and have a little fun," he told her. "And bring some of it back to me."

Hugh made a joke of the Algonquin prices. Actually they were not high for the excellent food and surroundings, but they were a bit out of line for the everyday patronage of an average-paid actor. Shirley tried to persuade him to eat at the Seymour, or one of the other modestly priced restaurants, but he refused.

"These lunches with you are occasions," Hugh smilingly informed her across the table. "They demand a rich atmosphere. And we have it here."

After they had ordered, she asked, "Have you found another play?"

"Not yet. I have an offer to do a documentary film that I'll probably take. After that, I'll worry. I understand our Joy has a bid for a leading TV series."

Shirley was genuinely surprised. "You don't mean it? Doing what?"

Hugh shook his head. "I can't imagine. She's being very mysterious about it. But she and Charles Victor have the same agent. I heard them talking this morning."

"I wish her luck." Shirley gave a despairing smile. "If talent is a necessity, she really needs it."

"In this business, it's all luck," Hugh assured her. "What are your plans?"

"I'm staying on with Oliver."

"I'm glad," he said. "While you're still in this town, why don't you have another try at show business?"

"Not this gal!" She laughed. "If and when Oliver no longer needs me, I'm heading back to sedate Boston and the Eastern Memorial."

His eyes were serious as they met hers. "That will mean we won't see each other again."

She wanted to keep it light. "Oh, you'll play a tryout in Beantown some September, and I'll come and applaud and applaud."

"That could be a long, long time from now."

"I still promise to be there."

He studied his plate. "I'm not sure that's enough for me."

"That doesn't sound like the Hugh I know," she teased. "You told me you didn't care for anything."

"I didn't used to," he said, lifting his eyes to meet hers again.

Their lunch arrived, and Shirley quickly changed the subject to the problems of the opening night. "Will they do reviews again?" she asked him.

"Sort of a follow-up coverage," Hugh said. "Likely refer to the original performance and compare it with the show now. I know one thing —they'll like Dennis better than Jeffrey Sayre."

Shirley nodded. "I agree."

Hugh left immediately after lunch as he had an appointment about the movie job he had been promised. When Shirley went upstairs, she found Oliver Craft sitting up in bed reading "Variety", the weekly theatrical paper. He put it down and smiled at her.

"How was lunch?" he asked.

"Liver and bacon. Excellent," she told him, and began mixing his midday medicine.

"Roger called from Philadelphia while you were out," he said. "He's coming in for the show Monday night."

"Fine." Shirley smiled, and hoped the old man wouldn't notice that she was blushing.

He took the glass with his medicine and eyed her with interest. "You like my grandson?"

"I'd say he was one of the nicest boys I've ever known."

"That all?"

She hesitated, and then, going back to the medicine tray to hide her confusion, she added, "And he's also the grandson of one of my favorite people."

"Indeed!" Oliver Craft chuckled. "Turn around, young woman. Don't try any of those theatrical tricks on me. I know them all."

She faced the old man with polite defiance. "Anything to please my patient."

He waved an impatient hand. "Let's forget about our patient-nurse relationship and stick to Roger. Did the young scamp ask you to marry him?"

She gave a sigh of despair. "Well, there's no keeping secrets from you. Yes, he did."

"Be a fool if he hadn't. And what was your answer?"

"I didn't give him any."

"Oh?" Oliver Craft raised his eyebrows.

"I hadn't made up my own mind."

"Have you now?"

"I think so." It was true. All at once, Shirley knew how she would answer Roger's question when he brought it up again. Funny, how mixed up she had been until a few minutes ago. Now it seemed very clear.

"Well," Oliver Craft lay back on his pillows and studied her, "I'm glad you have. I don't like young people who can't arrive at decisions. Too many of them to make along the way of life to shy from them."

She smiled. "I suppose you want to know my answer?"

"No. I'll surprise you," Oliver Craft said. "Anyway, it's none of my business. Just be sure it's the right one. Marriage is too important to make mistakes."

Shirley stepped forward with her thermometer. "And now that we've settled all that, I'd like to take your temperature."

Craft gave a quiet laugh. "I'll bet yours would be more interesting."

The opening performance at the Belasco played to a full house and the play had never been better received. There was a more responsive reaction to the subtleties of the play than Shirley had ever noticed before. The curtain fell on a triumph.

When Roger had arrived at the theater with Oliver Craft and Shirley, Hugh had been standing in the corridor talking to Malcolm Dennis. She had seen the expression on the young ex-doctor's face become cold and remote in an instant. After a curt greeting to them, Hugh had hurried away. All during the rest of the evening, he avoided her; and after the show, he left the theater almost at once.

Shirley went back to the Algonquin with Oliver Craft, and after giving him his evening medication and seeing him to bed, she went back downstairs to the lounge where Roger was waiting for her. The place was filled with after-theater diners, and Roger had to make his way across to the elevator.

"How about some quieter spot for dancing?" he suggested.

"Sounds like fun. Though I daren't stay too long." Shirley smiled.

He led her out to the street and raised his arm for a taxi. "We'll try Peacock Alley at the Waldorf. The music is good and they have no floor show so the place isn't usually crowded."

Roger's prediction proved correct. The headwaiter led them through the quiet elegance of Peacock Alley to an intimate corner table. After Roger had ordered and they had enjoyed a pleasant dance to the beat of the excellent band, they faced each other across the table.

"The show ends the week before Christmas," Roger said. "How about your filling in your personal date in Philadelphia then?"

"I've promised your grandfather I'd stay on with him as long as he needs me."

Roger's serious young face registered frustration. "But surely you can come down for a weekend?"

Shirley smiled. "That depends on my patient's condition."

"I don't think you want to come."

"Is it so terribly important?"

"It is to me," Roger said quickly. "And for reasons that you know. I don't think this is the time or place. But I haven't had an answer yet to a certain question I asked you back in Cleveland."

"That seems an age ago," Shirley mused.

"When do I get my answer, Shirley?" He leaned closer to her.

She spoke softly. "I can give it to you now."

He looked at her without speaking for a moment. "I'm not certain that I'll like hearing it."

She reached across and touched her hand to his. "I don't like telling you this, Roger, but I can't marry you. Not now, and probably not ever."

"Why?" His tone was pleading.

"That's the odd part of it. There's no real why. I like you and I'm lucky to have someone like you ask me to marry him. But just liking you isn't enough. Not for marriage, Roger."

"We'd be happy. I'm sure we would. If you'd just come down and meet Mother—"

"That's another thing. Your background is so different from mine," Shirley reasoned. "That alone could make it difficult for us. I don't think I'd be happy in your kind of life. I'm not the type of person to enjoy idleness. And you wouldn't want me to go on nursing, I know."

He looked miserable. "But there are all kinds of club work. And you could do charity work at the hospital. It's a matter of adapting yourself."

"That's what worries me," Shirley said. "Could I? Or to be plainer than I like being, do I care enough to want to?"

They talked for a long time and had another dance. Then Roger settled their check and they returned to the Algonquin. He saw her up to the door of the suite.

"I'll come to New York to see Grandfather," he told her, "but I won't bring this up again unless you do."

She looked at him. And all at once, he seemed so young and unhappy, she found her eyes filling with tears. She did like him. And it was hateful to have to hurt him this way. But it would be more hateful to lead him on thinking that she felt more deeply than she did.

"You've always been wonderful to me, Roger," she said softly.

"I have an idea you'll change your mind," he said. "And I'm not going to give up hoping." He bent and kissed her lightly on the lips and, without another word, walked away.

As she let herself into the suite, the tears that had brimmed in her eyes ran down her cheeks.

Roger kept his word. During the month's run of
The Cardinal
at the Belasco, he came in to New York every week to visit with his grandfather. On a couple of the visits, he and Shirley had lunch together, but although his manner to her was unchanged, he didn't mention anything about her reconsidering his offer of marriage.

Shirley had been busy even though the weeks involved no traveling. Almost every afternoon, Oliver Craft played host in his room to several of his friends in the theater. At these intimate gatherings, she acted as part-nurse and part-hostess. And since the old man's strength seemed to drain a bit each day and the tranquillizers he took before the performances were becoming less effective, she had to insist that his callers keep their visits to an hour at most.

The star smiled up at her one afternoon after she had politely given a hint that had sent his visitors on their way. "Is this how old men end their days?" he asked. "Sleeping away the hours that are left to them?"

She patted the pillow behind his head and placed it to better advantage. "Yes. If they persist in staying up most of the night, as you do."

He chuckled. "You're very good for me, my dear. You make my days almost bearable. What is the word on Dr. Trask?"

"He's coming down for a meeting on Wednesday. And he's going to stay the rest of the week. Until you begin your treatments at Memorial next Monday."

"That will mean I'll enter the hospital as soon as the play ends," Craft said. "We'll have to notify the hotel and get them to give you a single room."

She looked at him. "You're sure you want me to stay on? They'll have plenty of nurses at Memorial."

The gaunt old face became determined. "This is my luxury. If I'm going to be a guinea pig for those fellows, I intend to enjoy it."

In a way, Shirley was glad the old man wanted her. She had become very much attached to him during the weeks she had been on the case. And although she knew that he must die, she wanted to help him as much as she could. When Dr. Trask came on Wednesday, he briefed her in his dry New England drawl.

"I'll want him to go up to the hospital right after the show on Saturday night," he told Shirley, as they sat together in the downstairs lounge of the Algonquin Hotel.

"Just what treatment are you planning to give him?"

"New variation on nitrogen-mustard. They've used it already on several terminal cases in which operations were out of the question. That's the situation we face with Oliver now."

"Has it really helped?"

"The men at Memorial haven't had time or enough patients to make a sure statement yet. But they seem to think it's the most hopeful drug available. And at this point, we have nothing left to resort to but medication."

Shirley nodded. "I understand that. Do you expect any side effects?"

Dr. Trask pursed his lips. "Quite likely. That's why I didn't begin the treatment while he's doing the play. There could be some nausea, a rise in temperature, even a possible period of coma."

"I hope it's worth while." She sighed. "He's been so brave."

"He understands." The doctor rubbed his forehead. "He knows that in doing this he is primarily helping others who may get the benefit of the treatment before their cases become as serious as his. And he's satisfied to go ahead with it."

Things went on normally until the Friday before the play closed. Roger Craft was coming into the city for the final show on Saturday night. All the members of the cast except the star had a party arranged in Malcolm Dennis's room at the Royalton Hotel. Hugh had invited Shirley as his special guest. And since Oliver Craft would be going directly to Memorial Hospital after the performance, she had accepted. She was glad she was staying on in New York for a time. She wouldn't lose touch with the people in the company who had become her friends. And even if she didn't want to admit it, the most important one was Hugh. She so hoped that things would go well for the cynical young man in the future.