Training Mission - Cancelled by Brenda G. Howard

TRAINING MISSION-CANCELLED

"Ernest. Ernest come here," I call down the hall in my loudest whisper.

Ernest ignores me. I come around the nursing station and chase the baggy pajamas as they make their way down the corridor. My rubber soles are silent on the tile floor. I catch up with the shuffling old man and his flashlight as he heads for the bright red exit sign.

Still whispering, I walk beside him, "Ernest, what are you doing? It's midnight--you're supposed to be sleeping."

"Ma'am, I must caution you--it isn't safe to be on the tracks," he says, reaching the exit door. He pushes the metal bar and confirms that it's locked.

"Good. All is in order here," he says, as he turns around and makes his way back up the dark corridor.

I shake my head and start after him. "Ernest we've already checked all the doors."

Ernest shuffles along, his flashlight beam swinging in time with his movements. "That's why we have the midnight check. We've got the safest record of all the railroads combined."

I walk with Ernest as he makes his way past the nursing station and down each of the eight corridors that extend from it like the spokes of a bicycle tire.

He stops at every red exit sign and checks all of the doors. The whole process takes approximately thirty minutes.

"The first train arrives at 7:10 sharp. Gotta get some shut eye." Says Ernest to the empty nursing station. He turns off his flashlight and returns to his room.

I watched him take off his brown slippers and crawl into bed. Amused but a little puzzled, I make a mental note to mark his chart and ask his family about why our newest patient wants to check all the exit doors.

The nursing home comes back to life at 6:00 a.m. Smells of coffee and biscuits fresh from the oven fill the air. Sounds of stirring patients float down the corridors. The day nurse arrives.

"How'd it go last night?" she asks as she hangs up her coat and drapes a stethoscope around her neck.

"Fairly quiet," I yawn. "Ernest checked all of the exit doors at midnight."

"He used to work for the railroad checking all the switching stations. His daughter said he might walk around with his flashlight at night," she says.

"That explains it," I stretch. "At least we'll know the doors are secure with him around."

After two peaceful days off, I arrive back at the nursing home Wednesday for the 3-11 shift. Miss Anderson was sitting out on the verandah wringing her hands in her lap. Mr. Thompson was sitting beside her whispering conspiratorially in her ear.

"He's doing it again," she says, her voice agitated.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Anderson--and Mr. Thompson," I say politely. "What is Mr. Thompson up to now?"

Miss Anderson shifts uncomfortably in her chair, adjusting her floral dress around her knees, "He says that the enemy has injected poison into the milk cartons and we're all going to die." One of her rolled stockings fell around her ankle.

I look at Mr. Thompson. His plaid shirt is buttoned wrong and his collar askew. Rebuttoning his shirt, I explain for the thousandth time, "Mr. Thompson, the enemy cannot possibly find you here. You're in the witness protection program. . . remember?"

He wrinkles his forehead as he contemplates this thought. "The Director of the FBI placed you here himself," I say. "He knows that this is the safest place for retired agents. . . like yourself."

I look over at Ms. Anderson, who is trying, discreetly, to reposition her fallen stocking. "You have to help me out here," I say patiently. "When Mr. Thompson gets frightened, just remind him about the witness protection program."

Mr. Thompson leans over the arm of his chair, "I'm in the witness protection program, you know. The Director placed me here himself."

Miss Anderson looks at Mr. Thompson in disgust. "He's as crazy as a loon. I wish he wouldn't sit by me."

"He sits by you because you're a beautiful woman and he likes your perfume," I say gently.

"She smells so good," chimes in Mr. Thompson. A smile spreading across his face--the poisoned milk forgotten.

"I've been told I'm a looker," said Miss Anderson, her small hand fluttering to her cheek. "He can sit by me if he wants to."

I watched both of them in amazement. Chatting like old friends when moments before they were each so distraught.

It's been a long time since I worked in that nursing home. I've joined the Army, attended college and worked as a paralegal since then. Sometimes I wonder what I'll be like when I'm old and in a nursing home. I can just picture it.

One nurse looks at the other one. "I'll flip a coin. I call heads." The coin rolls on the counter top. "Tails. . . it's your turn."

The losing nurse walks outside. "Ms. Howard, come down off the roof. It isn't safe up there. You could get hurt."

"Don't worry about me. . . I used to be in the Army, you know." I make my way across the flat roof top. "I'm rappelling today. . . but I can't find the rope."

"That's because rappelling was canceled," says the losing nurse patiently.

"That's ridiculous," I shout, my hands on my hips. "How are we supposed to be prepared for combat if the training missions keep getting canceled?"

"I'll talk to the Commander about it," says the losing nurse, as she helps me down the gardening ladder.

The losing nurse makes a mental note to have the gardening shed locked at all times as she escorts me back into the nursing home.