Porter doesn’t have to be so mean about it. Emma looked at the tray. The green Jell-O cube was untouched. So was the chicken and the mashed potatoes. She peeked through the crack in the door. Inside, an old man was sitting up in bed. He was thin with a shock of white hair that stuck up in every direction. His face was a map of deep wrinkles, and his eyes were a fierce, sharp blue.
He looked like an angry eagle. He turned his head and saw her. Emma froze. “What do you want?” he snapped. His voice was like gravel. Emma’s mind went blank. All her mother’s rules flew out the window. I I was just This isn’t a zoo, he growled. Get out. Don’t need kids staring at me. Go on, scat. Emma Scat.
She ran back to the supply closet, her heart hammering. That night, she told her mother what happened. “That’s Mr. Porter,” Mary sighed, rubbing her temples. “The nurses call him Hank the crank. He’s our most difficult patient. He yells at everyone.” “Don’t go near that room again, Emma. I mean it.” But Emma couldn’t forget the tray, the untouched food.
The next day, she took the bus to the hospital. In her backpack, she hadher math book, her spelling list, and a small wax paper bag. Inside the bag were two oatmeal raisin cookies from her own lunch. Her mother always packed her one, but she had saved yesterday’s. She went to her closet. She waited. At 3:30, she knew nurse Jacobs was on her break.
She slipped out of the closet. She walked down the hall. Her legs felt like jelly. She was breaking the biggest rule. She stopped at room 214. The door was open a crack just like yesterday. She listened. She heard the low murmur of the television.
She pushed the door open just an inch more. Mr. Hank was in his chair facing the window.
His back was to her. He seemed to be asleep. She tiptoed in. The room smelled like old newspapers and rubbing alcohol. She held her breath. She reached his bedside table. It was covered in medicine cups and tissues. She quickly, quietly placed one oatmeal raisin cookie on a clean napkin, and she ran.
She made it back to the supply closet, her heart pounding. She felt like a bank robber. She waited all afternoon, expecting her mother to show up, dragging her by the ear. She expected nurse Jacobs to call security. Nothing happened. The next day, she was consumed by curiosity. She waited until 3:30 again. She went back to room 214.
She peakedked in. The cookie was gone. The napkin was still there, but the cookie was gone. A small thrill went through her. She crept into the room. Mr. Hank was in his bed, his eyes closed. She wasn’t sure if he was asleep or pretending. She pulled the second cookie from her bag. She placed it on the napkin.
As she turned to leave, his eyes snapped open. “You’re the cookie ghost,” he grumbled. Emma froze. She was caught. “I I’m sorry, sir.” He stared at her. His blue eyes were piercing. “Oatmeal raisin.” My wife liked oatmeal raisin. “I’m a chocolate chip man.” “Oh,” Emma said, disappointed. “I’m sorry. I only have oatmeal. H. He reached a shaky spotted hand toward the table.
His fingers were swollen at the knuckles. He fumbled with the cookie, his fingers seeming stiff and clumsy. He finally got it to his mouth and took a bite. He chewed for a long time. Emma stood by the door, unsure if she should run or stay. “It’s dry,” he said. My mom says you’re not supposed to dunk them, but I think they’re better if you dunk them in milk, Emma offered.
Milk is for calves, he muttered. But he took another bite. He ate the entire cookie. Well, he said, brushing crumbs from his thin hospital gown. Don’t just stand there. You’re letting a draft in? It was a dismissal, but it wasn’t scat. Emma nodded. Yes, sir. She left. It became their secret ritual. Every day at 3:30, Emma would bring him a cookie.
Sometimes it was oatmeal. Sometimes, if her mother had extra baking money, it was a chocolate chip one she bought from the cafeteria. He never ever said, “Thank you.” Instead, he would complain. “This one’s too hard. This one’s too soft. Do you know how much sugar is in this? It’s poison.” But he always always ate it.
He started talking to her, not about himself, not about the war. He would ask her about school. What are they teaching you? You learning long division? Yes, sir. Waste of time. No one uses long division. You got a calculator? What about that nurse Jacobs? He’d ask. She’s a dragon, isn’t she? She’s just very strict, Emma would say. Hymph.
She’s wound too tight. Needs a cookie. Emma learned things about him in little pieces. She learned he hated the color green. He liked baseball, but only the old games. And he hated being called Henry. Name’s Hank. He told her. Only doctors and tax collectors call me Henry. One day, nurse Jacobs almost caught her.
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