Dr. Rigsby’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “That’s an interesting idea. But I suppose now you would rather live. Well, we’ll see what we can do about that. I’ll give you some vitamin shots, sedatives—”
Morgan interrupted with a shake of his head. “Vitamin shots, yes, but not sedatives. I’d rather fight this out on my own.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m serious. All I need is rest, vitamins and food.” He looked in Carl’s direction and said, “Bring me another shot of whisky in an hour, another in two hours, another in three and so on until I’m off completely. Don’t leave a bottle in here and each time you leave the room lock the door.” His eyes swung back to the doctor’s astonished expression. “I’ve done it this way before, Doc. Maybe I like to torture myself. Maybe I like to pay myself back for being such a jackass. Whatever it is, this is the way I prefer doing it.”
“But you can’t do it, man. You must have sedatives. You’re not too far from delirium tremens right now.”
“I know. I’ll sweat it out.”
“But with the help of a mild sedative—”
Morgan lost his patience and shouted, “Look, I know more about myself than you do! Do it my way, or get the hell out of here!”
The doctor shrugged. He gave Morgan two vitamin shots, then wrote out a prescription for Carl and a diet list for the next few days. “Not that he’ll be able to hold much of it down,” he said, “but some of it will stay with him. Give him a few days and he can tackle solid foods. Meanwhile, occasional vitamin shots will be his greatest help.”
He walked out to the hallway with Irene Wilson, closed the door and stood there for a moment lost in thought. At last he sighed and said, “That’s quite an unusual man in there. The first demand of any alcoholic is a sedative to slow him down and quiet his nerves. But this man prefers doing it the hard way.”
“Do you think he can manage to sweat it out, as he says?”
“Well, if he does he’s the damnedest alcoholic I’ve ever run into. Sweating it out will take almost fantastic will power, which poses a peculiar question. If he has will that strong, why is he an alcoholic? Or maybe we have another question to face. Is he really an alcoholic?”
“He claims he is.”
“Well, time will tell just what he is, if anything. But there’s one statement I can make right now. I have never been in agreement with your urge to help alcoholics. All you are doing is feeding fuel to the fires of your own guilt complex. It isn’t good for you and you really do little or no good for the drunks. But this one time I think is an exception. I have a hunch that that man is worth all the help you can give him.”
She turned and looked at the closed door and the odd resentment that had been in her eyes gave way to curiosity. During the ten long years she had been helping occasional drunks, she had never thought of any one of them as a human being. But this man had impressed her at first sight, which, she now realized, was why she had been reluctant to help him. Now, because of the doctor’s words, he had also acquired human stature and even a personality. A slight, rueful smile tugged at her lips. She didn’t even know his name.
The doctor left, saying as he went, “Give me a ring when the d.t.’s hit him. Regardless of what he thinks of his own powers, he’ll need my help.”
Morgan came down with delirium tremens late that afternoon, sooner than he had expected. It started with a chill, was followed by fever and an itching, prickling sensation and then by one feeling that he was covered with slime. An hour later he could feel thousands of caterpillars and centipedes squirming and wriggling all over his body. He began to scream. The violence of his delirium became so great that the butler was forced to tie him to the bed to prevent him from digging his nails into his own flesh.
The doctor returned that night and grimly prepared a sedative. Morgan fought wildly against the needle, cursing the doctor with every breath with the most loathesome expressions he could find, but the doctor jabbed him with the needle, anyway. Morgan subsided.
Later he dreamed of the great books he was going to write and the great murals he was going to paint and the giant statues he was going to carve from cold marble. He dreamed of women, their nude bodies pressing upon him, hundreds of women of every shape and color, and he could smell their perfumes and scents and could feel the softness of their flesh. He dreamed of cities floating in the clouds and of roaring jets and ships at sea and then he dreamed of dank, dark alleys and garbage cans and rotting humanity and of snakes and weird animals and of sewer rats chewing on his knuckles and he awoke screaming, the sheets soaked, his body bathed with perspiration and spume at his lips.
For two days and three nights he fought the damage that had been visited upon his mind and wasted body, and eventually the poison wore off. The twice-daily injections of vitamins took hold and the soups and Jello and gruel that Carl spooned between his lips began to stay down. The bindings were removed from his wrists and ankles and for the first time he slept the deep sleep of exhaustion.
He awoke in midafternoon and lay quietly on his back staring up at the paneled ceiling. After a long while he realized where he was and disgust was deep in his bloodshot eyes. So he had done it again. An intelligent man, even talented, once more a beggar and an object of charity. And this time it had been a woman who had helped him. A damned eunuch, he thought. Reduced finally to a eunuch.
He turned his head and saw her seated alongside the couch. She had been reading a book, but she lowered it to her lap and watched him. Dr. Rigsby had told her the night before that their patient would probably snap out of it that day, so she was not surprised by the look of reason in his eyes. She handed him a glass of milk from a table at her elbow. He sat up weakly and drank it, savoring every drop of the delicious coolness as it trickled down his throat. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his shoulders hunched forward and his head bent, but tilted to one side so that he could watch her from the corners of his eyes.
“Thanks,” he said weakly. “You’ve been very kind.”
She said primly, “I feel that people in my position have a duty—”
He interrupted with a grunt and said sourly, “Oh, stuff it, for God’s sake. Duty is always a cover-up for something else. People like you appall me. They’re always asking to be shot or stabbed by less friendly souls.”
“Are you the less friendly type?”
“Not exactly. I haven’t shot anyone yet.”
She caught her breath sharply, color ebbed from her face and her lips thinned out. Morgan wondered what he had said that had inspired such a reaction in her. Before he could ask, her expression was again coolly passive. She touched a lighter to two cigarettes and handed one to him. He inhaled deeply, feeling a little dizzy as he blew out the smoke.
He asked her curiously, “Do you make a practice of taking in drunken bums this way?”
“You don’t impress me as—as—”
“A bum?” He smiled. “We come in all shapes and sizes. Bums don’t go around any more in cast-off clothes and patched pockets. There’s my kind, you see. When we’re in the chips we patronize the most exclusive shops, live in apartments built around kidney-shaped swimming pools, drive foreign sports cars, lunch at Romanoff’s and dine at the Beverly-Hilton. But we’re still bums. Because there’s always that black day of reckoning when a check doesn’t arrive when you think it should and your credit runs out and you try to ignore it all and hide in a bottle and you always wind up in the same place, the drunk tank. That’s when the tramp that is always in our nature comes out and I find myself precisely right here.”
Irene Wilson looked at him with interest. “You’re unusually frank about your level in life. But are you sure you aren’t ribbing me about yourself?”