Title: Greta's Apotheosis, -or- The Memoirs of a
Nurse for a Cigarette Smoking Man.
Author:  Winson Paine
Spoilers: Requiem
Catagory:  Requiem post ep.  I thought the nurse got
left hanging, so I decided to see what she did.  It
turns out to be kind of interesting.
Archive: Go ahead.  Like I could stop you.  Just drop
me a note.
Rating:  Ahhh, this is PG.
Disclaimer:  "Woe to him who seeks to please rather
than to appal! Woe to him whose good name is more to
him than goodness! Woe to him who, in this world,
courts not dishonor! Woe to him who would not be true,
even though to be false were salvation!"
-Herman Melville, _Moby_Dick_
 

Greta's Apotheosis
-or-
The Memoirs of the Nurse of a Cigarette Smoking Man
by Winson Paine

"I'm not even supposed to be here today!"
-Dante, "Clerks"

I’ve been awake for nearly 48 hours now; the only
severance package I got came from his liquor cabinet.

I knew this assignment was trouble.

I knew it as soon as I  got the call from the home
nursing agency about a job with  “special”
circumstances.  “Greta,” they lied, “he’s a harmless
old man who’s recovering from brain surgery and an
emergency tracheotomy.”  Ugh.  Creeps me out just
thinking about it.   Not  the trach, those I’m used
to.  But smoking out of that hole creeped me out when
I saw it in “Dead Again” and it creeps me out now.

It took me three hours to sew the death shroud on an
old Singer sewing machine I found in the bottom of the
linen closet.  I was never any good with a machine,
and it was a half hour alone before I got the bobbin
threaded.  By that time the tears had dried on the
first wave of Valium-induced calm.  I nearly sewed my
damn hands together.

After a week of dealing with Spender, I figured he was
an old retired Mafioso or something.  Shady characters
coming in all the time, day or night.   Every now and
again I’d catch a glimpse of a weapon or a disk or a
fat wad of cash changing hands under his supervision.
Every one who came had a greasy feel to them; vultures
gathered around that old man, waiting for him to die.
They acted like I was furniture, and he was meat.

The worst of that lot, before that prick with the
prosthetic, was that blond bitch.  Marita, I think her
name was.  She always looked at me like I was a bug in
a jar.  It was nothing compared to the looks she gave
him as he got worse.  At first I figured the smug
young thing was a daughter waiting for an inheritance
or something, but after a quick search of her
briefcase (for medical reasons, I had my patient’s
best interests at heart.  Of course.), it was pretty
clear she was some kind of lieutenant or something.  I
don’t know, and I don’t care.  If I never see her
again it’ll be too soon.

After the fifth hour of digging the hole in the
backyard shed, I threw up for the last time.  I’m
usually all right with death, a tour in Vietnam and
nearly twenty years as an ER nurse notwithstanding,
but this was different.  It felt wrong.  Like
something was broken at a primal level.  It hurt.
There was something about him that compelled; drew you
to him like a magnet.  That was why they kept coming,
like pilgrims to their god.

Two months of being that man’s nurse and he still
wouldn’t let me call him by his first name.  He said
it was a family tradition, and would chuckle
cryptically every time he said it.  Not that he had
any family that I ever saw, except for that kid,
Gibson.  I think he might have been a grandchild or
great nephew.  Never saw his folks though.  Cute
little guy.  Always looked at me like… well, it was
just odd.  Spooked me sometimes.

It only took me an hour to finish the shroud job with
trash bags and duct tape.  I figure that’ll keep the
bugs and the water out for a while.  No reason to
disrespect the body any more than I had to.  That was
probably the most attention anyone has shown this poor
old bastard in a long time.  His mantle has a couple
pictures of a distinguished older woman on it.  From
the way he acted I’m guessing his wife died within the
year.

Time to think about my own future.

I had thought about calling the police at first.  Then
I realized that with the way this guy behaved, there’d
be too many questions.  Plus the fact that it might be
pretty clear to a sharp detective that he’d been
murdered, and with the eclectic collection of
valuables around the house I figured I’d be the prime
suspect.  Somehow I don’t think telling them, “It
wasn’t me, it was the one-armed man!” would cut much
ice.

Here’s what really sealed it for me, though.   I’m not
sure if I could find any proof of who or what he was
in the house.  Nothing.  Not a birth certificate or a
Social Security card.  I couldn’t even find a phone
bill.  Part of the Mafia thing, I guess.  Nobody knew
he existed, and now nobody cares that he’s dead.
He’ll at least get a good funeral out of me, or a
burial with a few words at the very least.

Carrying the body down was the easiest part, actually.
 After years of moving patients, Spender was no big
deal.  He was mostly skin and bones anyway.  I watched
him lose so much weight over the last few months.
Never saw a doctor, either.  Nobody I could spot for a
doctor, anyway, and I can usually tell.  Every week
the UPS man would drop off a package of
various drugs and equipment, with instructions for me
to hook up the IV or whatever.

I hated this job a lot.  I think I mentioned it
before, but it bears repeating.

The liquor cabinet was as good a place as any for my
break room while I was digging.  His selection of
bourbon was impressive.  I say was, because most of it
is gone now.  Post-mortem excavations are thirsty
work.

The hole was a good seven feet deep when I’d finished
it.  I had to use a ladder and a bucket on a rope to
haul the dirt out.  I’m nearly fifty now, but the work
felt good.  It was the cleanest thing I think I’ve
done in a long time.  It was like a ritual of
purification, sweating off the stink of that horrid
cabal that came to the house every day.

It was late afternoon  when I finished.  I had worked
though the night without noticing the time.

The body would have to wait to be moved out until it
was good and dark.  So I came in and decided I
deserved a shower and a nap.  The shower was
wonderful; after the hours of grave digging the hot
water on my back was a balm from the gods.  I had a
couple of changes of clothes in the place; he’d gotten
real bad a couple weeks back and I had set up shop in
one of the disused guest rooms.

I could only lie awake and stare at the ceiling.
Whenever I closed my eyes I’d see the man called
Krycek throwing Spender down the stairs.  Someone
throws one of my invalid patients down a flight of
steps and I can’t muster more of a protest than, “What
are you doing?”

Christ.  I’m glad this job is almost over.

After midnight, I moved the body from where I’d left
it on the kitchen table and ended up dropping it into
the hole a bit more roughly than I might have liked.
Filling the pit back up was easier than I’d expected,
more small blessings.  I couldn’t find a bible, but
the old man had an impressive collection of spiritual
texts in his library.  I picked one more or less at
random and read a passage.  I can’t even remember now
what it was.

The next few hours were spent arranging the house and
getting my things.  Ever since Frank and I went on a
cruise to Greece for our anniversary, I’d kept my
passport.  After my Frank passed away two years ago, I
had it in my purse more as a souvenir of that vacation
than anything else, but now with the help of one of
those Internet travel agencies, I find myself in
Dulles International.  I’m hoping to God that the
creepy couple doesn’t miss the carry-on full of cash I
took.  After the way they left I don’t think they’ll
care much.

Did I mentioned his collection of valuables?  There
was currency of almost every conceivable country
secreted about the house.  Odd jewelry of strange
metals, old weapons, strange artifacts, you name it.
Some of it seemed almost unearthly.

Most of it got left behind.  Cash American and
diamonds are harder coin where I’m going.

Besides, I don’t think he’ll be as big a Spender when
he gets  where he’s bound.
 
 
 

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