by Helen Wells
“‘Your uncle also says I am a wretch to mention this dilapidated house to you girls at all, what with the hard work entailed. He strongly advises you to spend your spare time this summer quietly and restfully in an airconditioned movie house. With best love from us both, and please don’t send me any more chocolate butter creams from New York. I enjoy them but am getting too plump. Love, Aunt Bess.
“‘P.S. The enclosed photographs were taken several years ago. It was a lovely place, once.’”
The four girls looked at one another. Cherry said, “I’ll bet we could make the place lovely again.”
Bertha was cautious. “First, we should drive out and take a look at the place. Then we should figure carefully how much work, how much time, we’d have to invest. Remember, we are free only on weekends. Maybe it would not be possible.”
Josie said it was too bad that the other members of the Spencer Club were away—Vivian Warren, working for a surgeon out West; Mai Lee, taking the summer off to rest and visit with her family in San Francisco; Marie Swift, on a private duty case in Boston. Ann Evans was still in Canada with her husband. “If all eight of us were here,” Josie said, “we could surely fix up the place.”
“We’ll ask our friends to help us,” Gwen said. “We’ll invite anyone we know for swimming-and-picnicking-and-working weekends.”
“We-ll,” Cherry started. But Gwen’s suggestion could be discussed later. The first thing to do was act on Bertha’s sound advice. “How soon can we see the place?”
Next weekend was the soonest time.
“Well, we’ll aim for next weekend. Anyway, it’s wonderful of Gwen’s aunt and uncle to make this offer,” Cherry said.
CHAPTER III
Parade of Patients
“—AN ACCIDENT AT LAST EVENING’S BALLET PERFOR-mance,” the newscaster was saying as Cherry switched on the radio in Gwen’s car. It was Thursday, a fine June morning, and the four nurses were on their way to work.
“A member of the ballet company, Miss Leslie Crewe, who has been a ballet dancer since the age of thirteen, leaped and then fell or fainted—”
“What?” Cherry turned around to Josie.
“I said, ‘Louder, please!’” Josie shouted over the traffic noise. Cherry obliged.
“When she fell, three men dancers carried her off stage gracefully. Most of the audience was not aware that the Silver Princess, Miss Crewe’s role in the ballet, should pirouette and whirl off the stage. The three men harlequins then reappeared on stage, resuming their places in the ensemble. Miss Crewe was treated backstage by the house doctor, and by her own physician who was in the audience. At first it was rumored that the Silver Princess had broken her leg, but the ballet company’s press agent denied this. Dr. William Fairall took—”
Bertha in great excitement tapped Cherry on the shoulder. “Your doctor! You hear that?”
Cherry nodded, trying to hear as a Broadway bus rumbled alongside.
“The young dancer was taken to the hospital by ambulance, where she would stay overnight. Dr. Fairall promised a bulletin today on Leslie Crewe’s condition.
“Elsewhere in New York, three police horses found that Central Park can be cool, cooler than—”
Gwen switched the radio off. She nosed the car toward the curb and announced, “First stop for our glamour nurse, specializing today in ballet dancers!”
Cherry climbed out and waved goodbye to her friends, then practically ran to Dr. Fairall’s street. For the sake of dignity, she tried to hold her pace down to a fast trot. But curiosity about Leslie whisked her along.
Dr. Fairall was already in his office, doors left wide open, speaking cheerfully into his telephone. Cherry was surprised to see him there so early, but apparently Dr. Fairall’s hours and plans were fluid and open to last-minute changes, as his patients required. The medical secretary, who was taking off her hat, whispered to Cherry, “Doctor is holding a press interview on the phone. Strict orders—no reporters are ever allowed to come here. We’d be swamped!”
“You can tell your readers that Leslie Crewe hasn’t broken any bones!” Dr. Fairall reported. “She isn’t even badly bruised—a dancer knows how to fall. She collapsed. Not an accident, a collapse.”
Dr. Fairall listened, cocking his handsome massive head. He saw Cherry and smiled at her.
“Well, she started dancing again too soon after little H.J. was born, and—worse—she dieted.” Cherry knew that some girls grow plump after having a baby. “Over did the dieting. Malnutrition. And overexertion. … You’re welcome. … ’Bye.” Dr. Fairall hung up.
His phone instantly rang again. He repeated the same information, then hung up. Meanwhile, Irene Wick went upstairs to change into uniform.
Dr. Fairall restlessly walked into the empty reception room.
“I’m worried about those two youngsters, Cherry,” Dr. Fairall said. Bill Fairall, breezy and friendly, had put her on a first-name basis right away. “What’ll the kids do? Here’s Leslie, unable to dance for weeks to come. And Henry J., Henry Young, her husband—he’s a talented young actor—but the play he is in closes this week. Both kids are out of work. He has half a promise for a job—late this summer. Can’t eat promises. Or pay the rent with promises, can you? And there’s little H.J.—I brought that young fellow into the world six months ago.”
Dr. Fairall threw himself into a chair. He sat and thought in silence. A phone rang. Cherry answered and made an appointment for a patient with Dr. Lamb. Then, after looking at today’s appointments for Dr. Fairall, she drew from the files the case histories and charts of the patients who were coming that day.
“You know, Leslie sent my wife and me tickets for last evening’s performance,” Dr. Fairall said musingly. “A good thing I was on hand to help. Now what do Henry J. and Leslie do if he can’t find a job right away? Any old job, so long as it pays. It takes time to find work.” Henry J. had admitted to him last night at the hospital that they had no money except their salaries. Having the baby had eaten up their small savings.
“Well, Dr. Fairall,” Cherry asked, “don’t your ballet dancer and actor have families who might tide them over during this emergency?”
Dr. Fairall explained that their families lived out of town, and could not give any help, unless Henry J. and Leslie and the baby wanted to move into one or the other parents’ house.
“Golly, these kids wouldn’t go running home for help. Too spunky for that. Too ambitious.” Dr. Fairall told Cherry that both Leslie and Henry J. had come to New York in spite of their parents’ disapproval—“or let’s say very faint enthusiasm”—for careers in the theater. Separately, then together, Leslie and Henry J. made their own way.
“They had some rough times—as you can imagine, Cherry. Having a baby to care for makes this current emergency even harder, of course. Hmm. Well, maybe I could—”
He stood up, rubbed his nose, and marched vigorously into his office. “Cherry!” He instructed her to set up the treatment and examining rooms, before changing into her white uniform.
Cherry felt odd working in her street clothes—a yellow linen dress. At eight A.M. Mr. Forsythe was due for some tests before going to his office. Mr. Gatti was coming in at eight-thirty for Dr. Fairall to look at an infected finger, which he was treating. And at nine A.M.—arranged by the doctor’s around-the-clock telephone answering service—Mrs. Lance wanted an infrared treatment to ease acute arthritic pains in her right arm. Other patients with appointments later in the day were several women, three older men, and a student to be vaccinated for a passport.
Cherry scanned the recent entries on the Forsythe, Gatti, and Lance case records. What would be needed? Nothing special for Forsythe or Lance—medication and a sterile dressing for Gatti. Vaccine for the traveling student—she’d get that when needed.
As Cherry scampered to gather supplies, young Dr. Grey Russell came in. He gave her a quiet smile, helped himself to some antitoxin serum from the supply closet under the stairs, and kept right on going
.
“Emergency,” he said. Cherry followed him and stood listening as he started up the staircase. “If Mrs. Jackson”—the part-time R.N.—“isn’t here by eleven, or if Dr. Lamb needs her at eleven, will you work with me? Jeannie Adams, she’s fourteen, thinks she pulled or tore a ligament in her shoulder.”
“Certainly, Dr. Russell,” Cherry said.
“Grey to you.” But not in front of patients, of course. “Tell Irene to send the injured construction workman up to me right away. On the elevator—don’t let him climb the stairs. Thanks.”
Cherry went to answer a ringing telephone at the reception desk. Irene Wick came in, dressed all in white. Courteous and firm, she relieved Cherry of the call. Phones rang again—it was usually this busy every morning, sometimes all day long. When the phones were quiet for a few minutes, Cherry delivered Dr. Grey Russell’s message about the workman.
“Yes, I’ll watch for the workman,” Irene Wick said. “About the telephone calls, Cherry—it’s terribly kind of you to dash to the phones. But when I’m around, especially before or after the patients come in, in force—Well, I’m sure you have more important things to do than answer phones. Just call me to the phone, my dear.”
Cherry was puzzled. This statement—or request?—contradicted what Mrs. Wick had said on Cherry’s first day here, about their jobs overlapping. Then Cherry remembered an incident that had occurred late yesterday afternoon. She said in embarrassment:
“I’m sorry if I intruded on a personal phone conversation of yours. When I picked up an extension phone yesterday at five-thirty, I didn’t realize—”
There were three phones, three extensions, and an intercom system.
“It wasn’t at all personal,” Mrs. Wick interrupted crisply. “Just a patient who enjoys grumbling to me. And incidentally, Cherry, you really needn’t stay so late.” Irene Wick smiled indulgently at her, but Cherry thought the woman’s eyes were cold. “I have to be here, anyway, Cherry, to run the office, so you needn’t be stuck, late or early.”
Cherry murmured, “Thank you very much, hut it’ll depend on how my work goes each day.”
This was the second time the medical secretary had made it obvious she wanted to be first to arrive and last to leave. Why?
Cherry remembered how wary the man on the phone had sounded yesterday when she, not Irene, answered. And how Irene, picking up another extension, had sharply told Cherry to hang up.
“If you want to run upstairs and change into uniform,” the medical secretary offered, “I’ll tell Mr. Forsythe you’ll be right with him, to start some of the tests.”
“Oh, thanks, I’ll be quick,” Cherry said.
She started for either the stairs or elevator. The elevator door was just opening. A man and woman stepped out and collided with Cherry.
“Awfully sorry.” The middle-aged couple backed off to make room for Cherry, just as the street door opened. A messenger boy burst in like a rocket, and collided with them. They ricocheted back on Cherry.
“Oh, my! Sorry, young lady!” the man said.
“Where do I deliver this?” The messenger held up a large, plain white unaddressed envelope. “Where’ll I find Mrs. Irene Tick?”
“My dear girl, we’ve battered you!” said the woman.
“Wick, not Tick,” Cherry gasped. “In there.” To the couple, she said, “Not at all, Mrs.—ah, not battered at all.”
“Our name is Davis,” the man said. “We’re Dr. Fairall’s tenants on the third floor.”
The Davises smiled, held the elevator door for her, and disappeared—as the messenger tore off in the wrong direction, down the hall. Cherry noticed him too late—the elevator door closed automatically. Up she went.
It was only later, while Cherry was taking an electrocardiogram of plump, pink Mr. Forsythe’s heart, that the incident crossed her mind. Why was a letter to Mrs. Wick sent by messenger, instead of mailed? Why was the envelope blank? But this was no time to wonder. Cherry paid attention to the graph slowly issuing from the electrocardiogram machine as Mr. Forsythe breathed.
“Looks good,” Dr. Fairall said when Cherry brought the graph to him at his desk. “Tell Mr. Forsythe I’ll see him now. He’s in good shape, but I want to impress on him not to gain any more weight.”
“He looks like a kewpie, you know,” Cherry said, and Dr. Fairall grinned.
Dottie Nash had run the basal metabolism test for Mr. Forsythe. Dr. Fairall operated the fluoroscope himself.
Cherry did an electrocardiogram for a patient of Dr. Lamb—and so met that elderly gentleman for the first time. She understood on seeing him why Dr. Lamb worked only a few days a week. He was a very old man, thin and brittle, pink-faced, with heavily veined hands and hair like sparse white silk. Yet he was surprisingly quick and dapper. His tired eyes still sparkled, and his pointed nose reminded Cherry of an inquisitive chipmunk’s. He would not wear the usual white cotton coat.
“I owe it to my little old ladies and gentlemen to look like a host, a friend of theirs—which I am,” he explained to Cherry. “When you grow very, very old, a visit to the doctor may not be a cheerful occasion, unless we make it so.”
Cherry said respectfully that she understood Dr. Lamb specialized in older people’s ailments.
“Naturally I do! I have all the aches and pains myself, so I know where it hurts. Anyway, Miss Cherry, my patients have been with me a lifetime—and I’m too old now to take on any new ones. That’s Grey’s work. Well, young lady, Bill Fairall says you’ll help me out whenever Mrs. Jackson can’t.”
Cherry said she would be glad to help. The old doctor glared at her. “I trust I can depend on you not to sneak into my office and ‘clean it up’ and ‘straighten it out’ and put everything in the wrong place!”
“Dr. Lamb, I will never touch anything in your office,” Cherry promised with a straight face.
In the rush that morning Cherry had not seen Dottie Nash come in. But she was there, working in her lab, because her voice came over the intercom. Cherry saw the tall girl at noon, in her long white cotton coat, seated at one end of Mrs. Wick’s desk. Dottie was telephoning for sandwiches and coffee to be sent in. No one had time to go out for lunch.
“What shall we order for you, Miss Ames—er—Cherry?” Dottie asked.
“Oh, anything. That’s not very helpful, is it?” Cherry said. “Whatever you’re having.”
“Whatever we order, it won’t be much good,” Irene Wick complained. “And expensive. I’m going to bring lunch from my own kitchen one of these days! Dottie,” Irene asked, “how was the party? Did you have a nice time?” Her tone to Dottie was gracious but patronizing.
The part-time R.N., Mrs. Rhoda Jackson, passed through the room, saying, “Mrs. Wick, Dr. Russell says we’ll need more novocaine and more vitamin B12 shots when you reorder.”
It was part of the medical secretary’s job to purchase medications, medical instruments, office supplies, even new furniture if needed in the waiting room, and cleaning and laundry services. By keeping inventory of what was needed, then acting as purchasing agent, Irene Wick saved the three physicians considerable time to allocate to their patients.
Irene Wick made a note of the items the part-time nurse had requested. “Cherry, any reorders for you when I phone our supplier? I think we need more penicillin. Mrs. Jackson, how are your children?”
“Just fine, thanks.” The part-time nurse sped off. She wasted no time on being friendly, either to the staff or to patients. She did a nursing job that was precise, reliable, and—well, mechanical. Cherry realized that Mrs. Jackson’s main interest was in her young children, which was right, but she wished she could work up a little interest in others, too. Particularly in the sick, sometimes frightened, often suffering men and women who came to a doctor’s office, seeking help; seeking a little sympathy and encouragement, too.
Dottie Nash said, “Mrs. Jackson giggles occasionally. I s’pose it’s to prove she’s human.”
Mrs. Wick said gently, �
��Your remark isn’t in the best of taste, I’m afraid,” but she looked amused. “I suspect Rhoda Jackson resents having to work, even temporarily. However, she is entitled to her feelings—and to her privacy.”
Cherry was startled by the substantial sums of money that flowed into the office. None of the three doctors’ fees were unusually high. But Dr. Fairall had a large, lively practice, and the youngest and oldest doctors each had a sizable practice, too. Every day several hundred dollars came in, in the form of patients’ checks in the mail, or checks and cash that patients handed to the nearest white-uniformed girl.
The first time a patient on leaving handed Cherry several folded bills, she didn’t know what to do with the cash. Irene, who took care of all business details, was busy elsewhere at the moment. So Cherry wrote down the patient’s name, the amount, and the date; then clipped the note to the money and put it in her uniform pocket. She turned it over ten minutes later to the medical secretary, who laughed at Cherry’s question.
“But, Cherry, this is our system! Dottie, you, I, Mrs. Jackson—whichever of us is around—accepts payment. Then—Come look at this file—” Irene Wick pulled open a file drawer to show Cherry. “Then you find the patient’s card and write down how much was paid.”
“And I put the cash into a cash drawer in your desk, or something like that?”
“No—you—don’t! With so many people streaming in and out of here, the cash drawer was rifled several times. Our pockets are a safer place. At the end of the day,” the medical secretary said, “I collect all cash from you and Dottie, and Rhoda Jackson if she’s in. I figure from the cards what share goes to each doctor, and I take it to them. You know, our doctors don’t have time to keep close track of income and outgo; they rely on me to keep the records straight,” Irene Wick said with a certain pride.
“I take some or all of the cash to the bank—whatever each doctor doesn’t want to keep in his pocket—along with checks and bankbooks, and make deposits in each doctor’s account. Then I bring each doctor his bank receipt.”