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| Jerry Wheeler |
“Get him up,” Benny demanded.
The nurse behind the desk smiled bureaucratically as she patted her hair into place. “That’s not a very good idea, Mr. Hoffman,” she replied. “Mr. Santini has had a difficult night. His breathing was …”
“I don’t care how his breathing was. I want him up.”
“That’s not in the best interests of the patient, Mr. Hoffman. Besides, it’s morning shift change.”
He put the scrapbook he was carrying on the counter and folded his hands over it slowly and deliberately. He did not smile as he leaned in closer. “I am your patient’s husband, and I pay top dollar for his care here at Morningside Heights. I did not build that wing off to your left because I had no idea what to do with my money,” he continued. “I did it so I could walk in here whenever I want and see my husband – cleaned, dressed and in his wheelchair. I suggest you find an aide to accomplish that.”
The nurse sighed and picked up the phone as Benny paced, scraping his fingernails over the textured surface of his scrapbook as if brushing a snare drum. She spoke curtly into the phone and placed it back with exaggerated care in its cradle, throwing an annoyed glance at him. “I just sent Odessa down there.”
“Isn’t Carlos around?”
“No, he won’t be in for fifteen minutes or so.” “We don’t really like Odessa,” Benny said with a frown as he turned and strode toward his wing.
