by Helen Wells
Cherry said doubtfully, “I’m sure the system works if you are satisfied with it, but—it—it sounds so hasty and informal. Just suppose one girl were even a little dishonest—would anyone ever notice, with all the emergencies and phone calls and pressure of work around here?”
“Quite right, Cherry. The doctors could easily be cheated. Of small sums, anyway—five dollars here, ten dollars there. About one-third of the patients pay cash in the office. But almost all doctors’ offices use this system—I’ve worked in several. And in the two years I’ve worked here,” said Mrs. Wick, “everyone has been—well, devoted to Dr. Fairall and Grey and dear old Lamb. They’re wonderful men. They do terribly vital work. That’s why I—perhaps—take more responsibility upon myself than my job requires.”
Cherry asked what her duties were. The medical secretary enumerated them: make appointments, act as receptionist, send out bills, receive and record patients’ payments, order and pay for supplies, and keep inventory of these, keep patients’ case records typed up-to-date and accessible—handle the mail and the doctors’ correspondence—and, biggest job of all, do the bookkeeping.
“I do an audit every three months,” the medical secretary said. “Then I give the figures to our tax accountant, who estimates the doctors’ quarterly tax payments. Besides, I think it’s important to analyze regularly how things stand financially for our doctors. It’s the best way, too, to keep expenses under control.”
Irene Wick certainly knew what she was doing!
“And aren’t you assisting Dr. Fairall with a book he’s writing?” Cherry asked.
“Yes, he dictates to me. Sometimes I go to the medical library for him to look up and verify some fine point.” Irene Wick stared full at Cherry and said, “He does rely quite specially on me.”
“Good for you,” said Cherry.
“I’ve been doing some of the nursing or assisting myself,” Irene Wick told Cherry. “For a while we didn’t have a nurse here, and I was pleasantly surprised at all I was able to do for our doctors.”
Cherry was rather annoyed. The overtone said plainly: We don’t need you here, Miss Nurse. Go away. Cherry asked as evenly as she could:
“What nursing did you do?”
“Oh, I weighed the patients, and once I gave a patient some Vitamin B, on Dr. Fairall’s order. In another case I gave an injection. Dr. Lamb showed me how.”
Cherry did not bother to say this was scarcely nursing. No point arguing. The best thing was to reassure Irene Wick that her job, her value and importance here, were not jeopardized by the presence of a graduate nurse.
So it was no wonder that Mrs. Wick seemed a little resentful and hurt when Dr. Fairall made a decision late that Thursday. From now on Cherry, the graduate nurse, not the medical secretary, was to be “first in command” in the office—in case of any emergencies, differences of opinion, or judgment. Irene Wick did not say anything, but she walked stiffly past Cherry, and stood drumming her fingers on her desk.
Cherry felt sorry. The woman apparently took pride in being of service here. Better to keep a tactful distance for a while. Cherry was actually glad when a medical supplier’s salesman came in presently and asked for Mrs. Wick.
He had extraordinary milk-white skin and reddish hair. A small, gentle, young man, he seemed the very opposite of the usual aggressive salesman. He spoke to Cherry shyly, almost apologetically.
“My name is Bally, Alex Bally. Here’s my card—” He asked Cherry her name and she told him. “Mrs. Wick knows me. In fact, Miss Ames, she does most of her business with my firm, so if you’d just tell her Bally is here—”
“Certainly,” said Cherry, and rang the lab where Irene had gone.
When Irene Wick came in, she asked Cherry quite formally whether she wanted to order the medical supplies from Bally. Cherry said, “Of course not, Irene. Managing and administering and purchasing is your job. My job is nursing.”
The medical secretary looked enormously relieved. Then she said very low to Cherry, “You’re a dear.”
Afterward, Cherry thought that her job here was not only nursing. Dr. Fairall had put her in charge, in a supervisory sense. So it was up to her to be continuously aware of everything going on in this busy office, and to maintain the morale of the staff.
CHAPTER IV
A Young Ballet Dancer
FRIDAY MORNING AT DR. FAIRALL’S CHERRY HEARD SUCH a wild commotion—it sounded like splintering wood, thumps, yells, and a car backfiring—that she ran to the street windows in alarm. A dilapidated station wagon, sagging under a load of household articles, was parked in front of the brownstone. Standing on the sidewalk and solemnly surveying the station wagon were two young men. One was very tall, very thin, with long hair to his bony shoulders and a ferocious beard, dressed all in black. Cherry couldn’t decide whether he was wearing a costume or gym clothes. The other young man, with wavy golden hair, was strikingly handsome. He wore swim trunks, an oversize sweatshirt, and was whistling “Dixie” off-key. He broke off to say:
“First let’s take care of the baby’s crib. Wouldn’t want it to get smashed.”
“Neither smashed, mashed, nor bashed,” a basso voice issued from the lanky giant. “Nor boiled, oiled, nor spoiled.”
Cherry was so fascinated that she opened the door to hear better, and stood just inside.
“My dear Will Shakespeare,” exclaimed a woman’s voice, “will you please not touch the crib! Henry J., won’t you carry it up yourself ?”
“Yes, Mrs. Faunce, don’t worry,” the handsome Henry J. called back. He opened the station wagon’s rear door, reached in, and put a straw hat on his head against the hot sun.
“Mistrusted, disgusted, and busted,” intoned the giant. He walked around the station wagon and bowed to the driver’s seat. “Help you out, Mrs. Faunce?”
He handed out a tiny, perfectly beautiful old lady who appeared to be every inch a duchess. Cherry was working with Dr. Grey Russell that morning, but hoped he would not need her for another few minutes, because this performance was not to be missed. She stepped out of the doorway and said, experimentally, “Good morning.”
“Oh, hi,” said Henry J., and busily turned his back on her. Cherry noticed that his old sweatshirt carried in faint letters, nearly laundered out: Texas.
The silver-haired duchess smiled at Cherry and said, “Dr. Fairall has kindly offered Leslie and Henry J.—”
“I,” the giant boomed at Cherry, “am the prophet Elijah.” And he glanced down at her to see whether he had startled or otherwise impressed her. Cherry just grinned.
“—use of the vacant apartment on the top floor of his building,” Her Grace explained to Cherry. “As you see, we are moving in. Not Elijah nor I—we’re merely helping. Are you Dr. Fairall’s nurse?”
Cherry introduced herself. Dr. Fairall must have made a quick decision to lend the Youngs the vacant apartment. Since he was treating an emergency at the hospital that morning, he had not yet had a chance to notify his office staff.
“Well, welcome,” Cherry said. “I’m sorry we didn’t know you were coming—so soon, I mean. We’d have had the apartment cleaned up a bit for you. Perhaps we still can, Mrs. Wick will know.”
“We had to come pronto,” Henry J. said, looking up at her from under the straw hat. He was bent nearly double under a rolled-up mattress that the bearded one was placing on his back. “Our rent is due at the other place, and we haven’t got it. We’re on the point of eviction. Whew! Is there an elevator, Miss Ames? Don’t I remember one?”
“Yes. A tiny one. I’ll show you—” Cherry led the way into the house. Henry J. and the duchess followed, and the giant carrying the baby’s crib.
Irene Wick met them at the door. She looked terribly puzzled, mostly by the mattress.
Cherry said serenely, “Mrs. Wick, perhaps you already know Mrs. Faunce, the prophet Elijah, and Henry J.—is it Young?”
Irene Wick laughed. “So that’s who it is under the hat! Of course I know Henr
y—and Leslie and the baby. And I should know you, Mrs. Faunce.” She ushered in the little old lady. “I’ve heard so much about you—what a wonderful babysitter you are! I’ve often seen your late husband, in many roles. He was a great actor.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Wick. I have heard so much of you, too. Yes, Adrian Faunce was a great actor.”
The lady smoothed her worn dress. Cherry noticed that her shoes, too, were old. Evidently her husband had been improvident to leave his widow so poor. Or he may have had the actor’s usual struggle, in spite of his talents, to earn a steady living. The Actors’ Fund helped many aging performers and their families, but Mrs. Faunce looked too vigorous to retire willingly to an old actors’ home.
Elijah—his name really was Nick, Cherry found out later, and he was currently playing the role of the prophet in a church play, hence his beard and long locks—had already tramped up the stairs with the crib. First Mrs. Wick and the old lady, then Henry J. and the mattress, rode upstairs in the elevator. Cherry went back to work. The young ballet dancer and her baby would arrive as soon as the apartment was in some kind of order.
At lunchtime Cherry went upstairs to see if she could help.
Cherry found the little old lady making peanutbutter sandwiches in quantity, as fast as she could. In the living room a hi-fi record player poured forth the liquid, rolling accents of a Welsh poet declaiming his verses. Here the two young men were busy arranging on mantel and shelves a collection of programs announcing celebrated plays and ballets, in several countries and languages. In the bedroom the mattress was still rolled up. A mobile—a school of paper fish hung from a ribbon—floated over the baby’s crib, which was flanked by green plants.
“Leslie says her plants cheer her up,” Henry J. remarked as Cherry returned to the living room. She nearly stumbled over a big box of books and photographs, and a small box of dishes and groceries. “Have a sandwich, Miss Ames? A peanut butter or a pickle sandwich?”
“Thanks, no. Anything I can do to help?” Cherry asked. Henry J. said No.
The tall, thin, bearded young man glared at her. “You look disgustingly clean!” He waved his arms in sweeping protest. “Are you always so clean?”
“Ugh, yes, revolting,” and Cherry went away, giggling.
About half past four she heard the now familiar spatter of backfiring—then a baby crying and a girl’s soft voice in the front hall. Cherry was helping Dr. Fairall.
Irene Wick stopped by to whisper that the two boys had brought Leslie in a wheelchair and that she looked quite weak. As soon as Dr. Fairall conscientiously could leave his gallbladder patient, he went upstairs. After an interval he came back and asked Mrs. Wick to order from the corner drugstore some iron and liver medication for Leslie, to build her up.
“Have they the money to pay for iron and liver vitamins?” Mrs. Wick asked. “That’s expensive.”
“Probably not,” Dr. Fairall said. “Put it on my charge account, if necessary.”
“Oh, Doctor, you shouldn’t!” the medical secretary exclaimed. “Haven’t we something else on hand that would do?”
“You know, Irene,” Bill Fairall said impatiently, “there are more important considerations than money.”
In the silence Cherry felt uncomfortable at having to witness this rebuke. Then the medical secretary said:
“Excuse me, Doctor. It’s just that you already treat so many people without charge.” Mrs. Wick smiled at him flatteringly. Dr. Fairall did not look up from writing at his desk.
Presently Dr. Fairall said, “Cherry—and you, Irene—go upstairs whenever you get a chance, will you? Those kids need help. Sorry if I was abrupt, Irene. You know what a wild day I’m having.”
Cherry would have asked permission to go up for a visit anyway. It was nice being urged to go.
She went upstairs after her day’s work was finished. She found the apartment halfway livable now—“livable for a gypsy,” Cherry thought, stepping over empty soda bottles. Henry J. ushered Cherry in and cordially invited her to stay for dinner.
“We’re having chopped beef forestière, with mushrooms, parsley, and a dash of—er—something. I’m preparing it from a cookbook. Or if you’d rather, Miss Ames, you can share the baby’s cereal.”
A girl’s matter-of-fact voice called tiredly from the bedroom, “We are having plain hamburgers, with a dish of cereal, dear Henry. This isn’t the day for gourmet cooking.”
Cherry rapped on the open bedroom door. “May I come in? I’m Dr. Fairall’s nurse.” She was curious to meet the young ballerina, and, while not expecting some exquisite girl in drifts of tulle skirts and ribbontied slippers, Cherry was surprised at Leslie Young’s appearance.
She was not a pretty girl; in fact, her features were odd and irregular. Her straight, dark hair was slicked back and tied into two pigtails. Yet the total effect was arresting, memorable. Leslie was on the tall side, thin to the point of boniness, and obviously weak as she lay on the bed in blue jeans and cotton shirt. Even so, she had a lanky grace, poise, an odd distinctiveness.
“She’s an original,” Cherry thought. “She’d stand out anywhere.”
“I’m glad to meet you, Cherry Ames,” said the young dancer. “Excuse me for not getting up, but I can’t. Isn’t it stupid?”
Cherry looked down into the girl’s enormous, lackluster eyes. “When did you last have something to eat, Leslie? And I wish you’d call me Cherry.”
“Hi, Cherry. This morning. An egg.”
“I’m great at broiling hamburgers,” said Henry J., standing in the doorway. “I did cook the cereal.”
“Then will you please feed the baby when he wakes up,” Leslie said. “And I wish so much, darling, that you wouldn’t talk baby talk to him.”
“Why not? He’s a baby,” said Henry J.
“He’s a person. He’s somebody,” said Leslie, “so let’s not insult him with inanities.”
“May I meet your son?” Cherry asked.
Henry J. proudly led her to the crib where a husky, rosy baby lay blinking and yawning, wiggling his tiny fingers and toes.
“He’s trying to wake up,” Henry J. murmured.
“What a fine, big boy!” Cherry exclaimed.
Leslie said, “Thank you. He’s named after his daddy,” and she beamed.
“Glub!” said the baby cheerfully. “Flambp!”
“Yes, indeed,” Leslie answered. “That’s right,” Henry J. encouraged him. Another voice said, “Glub to you, too, young fellow. May I come in?”
It was Grey Russell. He wanted to meet “our new neighbors.” The Youngs were interested to meet Dr. Fairall’s quiet young relief doctor. They all talked for a few minutes, about the one thing they had in common—knowing Bill Fairall. Leslie said, “He’s been wonderful to us.”
“Imagine letting us use this apartment,” Henry J. said. “I hate to accept it rent free. A man at Elijah’s garage got me a job driving a taxi from midnight until eight. Relieving some of the regular drivers. I start tonight.”
“We-ll,” Leslie said, “I hope you can stay awake. It’s really not a practical plan for an actor.”
Grey Russell, who was just a little older than Henry J., listened thoughtfully.
“It isn’t practical?” Henry J. said vaguely. “No, I suppose not. The taxi job will interfere with my making the rounds of the casting offices.”
Cherry said it was high time Leslie had some food—time for her and Dr. Russell to leave.
Grey Russell was on his way to the dentist. He drove Cherry home. He was sorry he hadn’t time to accept her invitation to come in for potluck supper with the Spencer Club.
“I’d like to meet your friends,” he said. “I’d like it just to get acquainted with you. No real chance during working hours, is there? Will you have supper with me Sunday evening?”
“Why, thanks,” Cherry said, trying not to sound surprised. “I’d love to.”
“Tell you what. I’ll call for you at seven, and we’ll go to the Stage Door.
We’ll dine in the garden.” Cherry looked so puzzled that the young doctor laughed. “That’s a new restaurant here in the Village, run by a bunch of kids who are in, or want to be in, the theater. Sounds like fun. Let’s try it.”
Grey let her off at her door, No. 9 Standish Street.
“You’ve made a date with Dr. Russell for Sunday evening?” Gwen, Bertha, and Josie were pleased for her, but puzzled when Cherry told them. “That’s nice,” Bertha said. “But have you forgotten that this weekend we’re driving out to Long Island, to look at the house? And do some preliminary work there?”
Cherry said of course she was going with them and would work as hard as anyone. “I’ll just take the train back to the city late Sunday afternoon.”
Early the next morning the four girls started out with high hopes, sunglasses and sun hats, and necessary cleaning equipment.
In Gwen’s car they left Manhattan Island via the Queens Midtown Tunnel for Long Island, and rode along green parkways. The traffic was light that early, and they went skimming along in the morning sun. Big apartment buildings beyond the parkway were left behind. They passed fewer houses, smaller towns, churches, airports. The girls began to smell a salty breeze. After a while they began watching for their exit from the parkway.
It took them onto a quiet country highway, past meadows and barns, then right into the lovely elmshaded village of Prescott.
“Look, there’s the library—and the old meeting hall!” Gwen pointed out, driving slowly. “And the church, they’ve repainted the steeple—”
The village dated back to pre-Revolutionary Days. Cherry recognized it as a bit of New England. The public buildings faced a grassy commons, with its statue of Nathan Hale. The wooden buildings and houses, simple and classic in design, were painted a sparkling white. Low white picket fences enclosed lawns and the widely separated houses. Over all towered the centuries-old elm trees.