The Slammer

“I want to know what I’ve been exposed to,” Maggie said without wasting any time.

“We don’t know,” Platt answered quickly and it reminded Maggie of the woman in the blue space suit. Was this USAMRIID’s mantra of the day? All the latest technology and they didn’t know. Right.

“By now you must have some idea.” She gave him another chance.

“No, not yet.”

She thought he might be convincing except that he wouldn’t meet her eyes. Instead, his eyes glanced to the side at the wall monitors, flashed over her head, swept back to the counter, like they were preoccupied but really were evasive.

“You’d make an awful poker player,” she said and this time his eyes flew back to hers. Now that she had his attention she couldn’t help thinking they were intense eyes, the kind that when focused could see deep into your soul. “Knowing can’t possibly be worse than not knowing.”

He rubbed at his jaw but his eyes stayed on her, as if now he was searching for something in her face that would guide him. Did he hope for a glimpse of courage from her or was he waiting for his own?

“I haven’t heard anything from the lab.”

“But you must have some ideas of your own.” She tried to see if he might be hiding something. He was making this harder than she expected. It had to be bad. By now they would have been able to eliminate a few of the obvious things.

“It’s pointless to guess,” he said. “Why go through that?”

“Because you’ve left me with nothing better to do.”

He nodded, an exaggerated up and down, showing okay, yes, he certainly understood. “You have cable TV.”

“Basic. No AMC. No FX. How about a computer with Internet service?”

“I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime let’s find something better for you to do.”

She thought he was patronizing her, but he looked serious.

“I spent four days quarantined in a tent,” he said, “just outside Sierra Leone. No cable. Not even basic. Not much to do. Count dead mosquitoes. Wish that you had enough gin or vodka to pass out.”

“Guess I should put in a request for breakfast to include some Scotch.” She was joking. She could tell he was not. “So what did you do to while away the hours in your tent just outside Sierra Leone?”

“Okay, don’t laugh,” he said, arching an eyebrow as though to test her. “I tried to replay The Treasure of the Sierra Madre in my head.” He paused and rubbed his eyes as if needing to take a break before he dived into a lengthy explanation. She didn’t give him a chance.

“Hmm…Treasure of the Sierra Madre, quite the heady commentary about the dark side of human nature. Not a bad movie,” she said, enjoying his surprise. “But not my favorite Humphrey Bogart.”

He stared at her, caught off guard, but only for a second or two. “Let me guess, you prefer your Bogie with Bacall.”

“No, not necessarily. If memory serves, he won the Oscar for The African Queen but I think he deserved it much more for The Caine Mutiny.”

“Crazy Queeg?” He offered her a lopsided grin then readjusted himself in the cheap, plastic chair, rolled his shoulders, stretched his legs as if satisfied with her answer and preparing to stay for a while. “So if you had to choose, who would it be, Bogart or Cary Grant?”

Without missing a beat, Maggie said, “Jimmy Stewart.”

“You’re kidding? You’d choose clumsy and gawky over debonair and charming?”

“Jimmy Stewart is charming. And I like his sense of humor.” She sat back in her own uncomfortable plastic chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “So how ’bout you? Bacall or Grace Kelly?”

“Katharine Hepburn,” he answered just as quickly with the raised eyebrow again, only this time it seemed to be telling her he could play this game.

She nodded her approval. “Did you ever watch The Twilight Zone?”

“Yes, but my mom didn’t like me watching it. She said it’d give me nightmares.”

“My mom didn’t care what I watched as long as it didn’t interrupt her drunken stupors.” As soon as Maggie said it, she was sorry. She saw a subtle change in his face and wished she hadn’t revealed so much. What was she thinking? Now he was quiet, watching her. He’d say something like, “I’m sorry,” which never made sense to Maggie. Why did people say they were sorry when it clearly had nothing to do with them?

“Do you remember the episode with the woman in the hospital and her face is all bandaged?” he asked

He surprised her. It wasn’t at all what Maggie had expected.

He continued, “She’s waiting to have the bandages removed and she’s worried that she’ll be horribly scarred and disfigured.”

“And the medical staff is all standing around the bed,” Maggie joined in. “But the camera focuses only on her. Sometimes you see the backs of the staff, but that’s it.”

“The bandages come off and they all gasp and turn away in disappointment and horror.”

“But she looks normal.” Maggie said. “Then you see that everyone else’s face is warped and deformed with pig snouts and bulging eyes.”

“Sometimes normal is simply what you’re used to,” he said. Then he waited for her to catch up with him. His way of telling her he understood. Maybe his way of telling her that no matter how dysfunctional her childhood experiences were they didn’t make her some sort of freak.

The door behind him opened into his room and a woman in a lab coat interrupted. Maggie couldn’t hear her over Platt’s receiver and the glass was soundproof. He nodded and the woman left.

To Maggie he said, “Gotta go.” He stood to leave.

She wanted to go with him. Did they finally know something? Maybe he saw a glimpse of panic in her face, in her eyes, because he hesitated.

“So Lieutenant Commander Queeg mistakenly directs the Caine over its own towline. Start there,” he said with another lopsided grin. “I should be back before you get to Queeg’s search for the pilfered strawberries.”

He waited for her smile. Then he hung up the receiver and left. Suddenly her small, isolated room seemed even quieter than it was before.