And maybe what he was saying wasn’t way off the truth. As far as their day-by-day expenses went, he could certainly earn enough to pay what was owed. But now they had no comfortable cushion behind them, no investments to rely on should an emergency arise.
Another emergency, he thought bleakly. He was relieved when Polly shifted the focus of the conversation away from their situation. “Why would Raymond Stokes do a thing like this, Michael? Apparently he even took his wife’s money,” she was saying in a scandalized tone. “It says here that all she’s got left is their house, and Raymond even had a large mortgage on that. It must be terribly hurtful for her, his going off with another woman. How could he do those things to the person he was married to?”
It wasn’t just a rhetorical question. Polly was honestly puzzled.
“I guess we never really know anyone all that well, Pol.” Michael saw her in his mind’s eye, sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter, wrapped in her white velour robe, coffee and newspaper close at hand. He adjusted the image to include the new hairdo, and felt a pang of regret.
Even the ones we think we know best, he added to himself. “I thought Raymond and I were friends, but this shows I didn’t really know him at all.”
“They didn’t have kids, did they?”
“Nope, no kids.” Michael tightened his fingers on the phone. “He said once that his wife didn’t want any.” This subject could be explosive with Polly, and he didn’t want to get into it.
She didn’t respond for a moment and when she did he was relieved that she didn’t say any more about children. “Did you know Raymond’s wife? Jennifer, isn’t that her name?”
Michael relaxed. “Jennifer, yes. I was introduced to her at a luncheon Raymond and I were both attending.”
“What’s she like?”
“Short, rounded. Pleasant. We didn’t talk much. I remember thinking she was a good balance for Raymond, because he talked a lot and she was quiet.”
“Sort of like us.” There was humor in her tone. “I talk, you listen. So apart from getting robbed, how’s your day going?” She was cheerful now, and Michael hated to change that, but he had to tell her about the situation with Isabelle and the neighbors.
He did and, predictably, Polly was upset. Michael knew she also felt humiliated.
“It’s horrible having my own mother live this way,” she moaned. “Sometimes I swear she does it just to embarrass me. She knows I care what her neighbors think, I grew up in that house.”
Michael glanced at his watch. “I know, love. We’ll talk it over later and figure something out, but I’ve got to go now, Pol. My next patient’s waiting.”
“So is there any point in making dinner?” Her voice was suddenly brittle, an unnecessary reminder that more often than not, he’d been absent for the evening meal. He knew it was wrong of him to extend his workday into the evening, but sitting at the dining table alone with Polly was agony. He couldn’t bear the empty space at his right, where Susannah had always sat.
So get over it, Forsythe. It’s been over a year. You ’re a man. Your job is to be strong. What the hell’s the matter with you?
“I’ll be there about six.”
“I’m not sure I even remember how to cook.” Polly probably intended the words to be humorous, but they came out snappy instead, and he felt annoyed at her, as well as guilty for all the dinners he’d canceled or avoided.
But he had no right to be annoyed at Polly, did he? He was the one who’d screwed up. The call ended and Michael shoved the disturbing issues it raised back into the shadows of his mind as he concentrated on one patient’s problems after another.
It was after five and Valerie had just left for the day by the time Michael saw his last patient, a four-year-old girl named Clover Fox. Her father, Jerome, had walked into the office an hour earlier without an appointment, assuring Valerie he’d wait as long as necessary if only Michael would see his daughter. He’d moved to Vancouver from Saskatchewan several months ago and didn’t have a family doctor.
Valerie had felt sorry for him and of course Michael had agreed to see the child.
The pale thin girl squirmed on her father’s knee, nose and defiant pale-blue eyes red and runny, coughing at intervals from deep in her chest. Michael glanced over the detailed history Valerie had asked Jerome to fill in, then looked up and smiled at the little girl.
“So, Clover, it says here you’re not feeling so hot.” He winked at her and added, “You’re sure a big girl. How old are you, anyhow?”
She gave him a baleful look, then hesitantly held up four fingers.
“Four, huh? Well, four is a really good age to be,” Michael said approvingly, turning to the handsome young father and asking him about the child’s general health.
“She catches everything going,” Jerome Fox reported with a sigh, stroking a big hand across his daughter’s fine hair.
Michael noted that Jerome had the tough, scarred hands of someone who did manual labor.
“She coughs at night, and she feels really hot to me. Then this morning she broke out in this rash on her back and chest.”
“Is she in day care, Mr. Fox?” It helped to know a child’s routine, who she might be in daily contact with.
“No, I’m taking care of her full-time right now.”
“Your wife works?”
Jerome shook his blond head, and lines of strain showed around his eyes. “Nope, Tiffany left us. Two weeks ago now. But we’re making out okay on our own, right, Clover?”
The girl nodded, then hid her face on her father’s chest.
“I see.” Michael felt compassion for this man and his sad-eyed little girl. No job, no wife, a sick child...it must be really tough.
“I’m looking for a job, Doctor.” Jerome sounded defensive. “I work on construction as a laborer. I moved out here because a local company hired me, but right after I got here they folded. As soon as I get another job, I’ll find good day care for Clover,” he assured Michael. His shoulders slumped. “It’s just tough to get out and look for work and take good care of her at the same time, especially when she’s sick.”
“I can imagine.” Michael smiled again at the little girl and gestured at the examining table. "How about sitting up on here for a minute, honey, so I can have a look at you and figure out what’s making you feel bad?”
Clover scowled, shook her head and clung to her father. He spoke to her in a gentle tone and lifted her firmly up to the examining table. She struggled against him and her mouth bunched as if she was about to cry, but no sound came out.
Michael, familiar with children, took his time, trying to reassure her. He showed Clover the stethoscope and gave her a tongue depressor of her own. When he tried to examine her throat, though, she bit down hard, narrowly missing his fingers. At the same moment, she kicked out her foot in its sturdy little runner, connecting hard with his thigh. A few inches closer to center and she’d have decked him, Michael reflected. It was obvious Clover was a fighter, and that endeared her to him. It was the passive, quiet children who concerned him.
“She’s running a low-grade fever, but her lungs are clear. A viral infection is causing the rash on her back and tummy.” Michael watched as Jerome helped his daughter back into her jeans and slipped her faded purple sweatshirt over her head.
“Does she need a prescription?” Real anxiety colored Jerome’s voice. “It’s just that I’m really short on cash. Tiffany pretty much cleaned out our bank account. I’ve applied for unemployment insurance, but there’s a waiting period.” Jerome sounded close to desperate. “I’ve put my name up in different places, offering to do any odd jobs, but so far nothing’s happened.”
Today, Michael understood so well how it felt to have one’s bank account cleaned out. “She doesn’t need antibiotics. The virus will run its course. Just keep her warm and make sure she gets lots of rest. Take her off milk, milk creates mucous. Give her lots of clear liquids, vitamin C, echinacea, garlic.” He rummaged in his desk d
rawer. “Here are some vitamin C samples, and some echinacea. And here’s a bottle of cough medicine, as well. If she doesn’t improve in the next day or two, bring her back.”
“I will. Thanks a lot, Doctor, for seeing us without an appointment. And for all this stuff.” Jerome stood and carefully put the items in the pocket of his threadbare woolen jacket.
Clover wrapped herself around his leg, glowering up at Michael, who handed her a tiny coloring book and four crayons, one of a number of “prizes” he kept on hand for his youngest patients.
“What do you say, Clover?” Jerome prompted.
“I don’t like green,” she responded instantly, shoving the offending crayon back at Michael, who laughed.
“She’s contrary,” Jerome said, with a shake of his head after he’d finally extracted a grudging thank-you from his daughter. A rueful pride edged his tone.
Michael had noted that Jerome was gentle but firm with Clover, and that her clothing, although worn, was clean, as was Jerome’s.
An idea had been forming in Michael’s head as Jerome reasoned with his daughter. “You mentioned you’re interested in doing odd jobs?”
“Absolutely,” Jerome replied eagerly. “I’m willing to take on any work at all. I can supply references from my former boss and some of the people I’ve worked with.”
Michael explained about Isabelle’s yard, emphasizing that his mother-in-law could be difficult. “The best thing would be for me to take you over there now and introduce you," he decided on the spur of the moment. “You can have a look around and see if you want the job. Then, if she’s agreeable, you could start as soon as Clover’s feeling better. Do you have transportation?”
“Yeah. I’ve got the truck parked outside.” “Here’s the address. I’ll meet you there.” Michael scribbled on a sheet torn from a prescription pad.
It took only moments for him to gather the charts he needed to update, set the security system and lock the front door. On the way to Isabelle’s, he called Polly on the cellular phone and told her his plan.
“She’ll never let you do it, you know.”
Michael could hear the clatter of plates and the running of water. Polly was obviously making dinner. “But I suppose if anyone can persuade her, you can. The only thing I ever did that my mother totally approved of was marrying a doctor.”
“Don’t be too sure of that,” Michael teased. “She told me once that a dentist would have saved her more money. She said she’s covered by Medicare and anyhow she hardly ever gets sick, but she’s had to spend a bundle on her teeth.”
Polly groaned. “That’s my mother, hardly the most sensitive of women. Dinner’s nearly ready, Michael, so don’t let her lure you into sitting around drinking beer with her, okay?”
“Okay. I’ll be home soon.” He was pulling into Isabelle’s driveway, and he looked, really looked, at the house and yard, seeing it as the neighbors must, and feeling sympathy for them.
Isabelle’s house was in a residential area off Main Street, one of a block of houses built in the early fifties on generous treed lots. The others on the block had fresh paint or siding, neatly trimmed lawns, tidy hedges and flowerbeds. Isabelle’s house stood out like a frowsy drunk at a church social, front lawn weed-choked and decorated with an immense and crumbling cement birdbath. The front porch sagged away from the house, and on it stood an overstuffed chair and two packing boxes, as well as a rolled-up rug that had sat there as long as Michael could remember.
As Michael got out of his car, Jerome stepped out of a battered blue pickup, then unhooked Clover from her child’s seat.
“I peed my pants,” she announced immediately.
Too late, Michael realized that Isabelle probably wasn’t going to appreciate his bringing a kid with wet pants and a virus to visit her, any more than she’d be delighted with the idea of Jerome cleaning up her yard.
The day wasn’t improving with age. He led the way to the front door and rang the bell.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Michael, come on in. Who’s your friend?” Isabelle was a tall woman, five-ten, and she had a loud, commanding voice and a definite presence.
Michael introduced Jerome, and Isabelle nodded, scrutinizing him from behind her stylish glasses.
“How d’you do, young man. I saw you sitting in my driveway and wondered what you were waiting for. Is this girl yours?” She looked down at Clover without smiling, and the girl looked back at her, her expression grim.
“What’s your name, child? What’s that rash all over your neck? Better not be measles or something else I could catch.” When Clover didn’t respond, Isabelle snapped, “Cat’s got your tongue, I see.”
“I peed my pants,” Clover announced in an injured tone.
Isabelle made a disgusted noise. “You’re too big a girl to be doing that, aren’t you?”
“She told me, but there was nowhere to stop,” Jerome said. “Could we please use your bathroom?" He held out a paper bag. “I’ve got dry clothes for her right here.”
Isabelle gestured behind her, along the turquoise hallway. “Go ahead. Bathroom’s right down there.” As soon as Jerome and Clover were gone, Isabelle said, “That rash she’s got contagious?”
Michael assured her it wasn’t.
“Good thing. Come on in the front room and sit down.”
Michael followed her into the claustrophobic living room and sat gingerly on a dingy sofa whose springs had long since retired. It always amazed him that Polly, with her flair for decorating, her artist’s eye, her love for order and beauty, was Isabelle’s daughter.
Isabelle had no decorating sense at all. She never threw anything away. Instead, she constantly added bits of furniture she bought at yard sales, fitting them in wherever there was space, impervious to clashing colors or designs. Cardboard boxes littered every room of the house, stacked against walls, tucked under beds, filled with paperbacks, magazines and various items Isabelle had bought and then couldn’t find an immediate use for.
She sat in a recliner across from Michael and lit a cigarette. The house smelled strongly of stale smoke. Michael had long ago given up suggesting Isabelle quit. “Gotta die of something” had been her cheerful response each time he brought it up.
“I’m going dancing over at the Elks hall in an hour,” she announced. “But we could have a beer first, there’re a couple cold in the fridge.”
“Thanks, but I’m heading home for dinner, I’ll pass on the beer.” Michael was trying to figure out how best to bring up the touchy subject of the yard cleanup, and he figured maybe a little flattery might help.
“Going dancing, huh? You look very pretty, Isabelle.” He knew she was vain, but the compliment was sincere. She was an attractive woman, dramatic in both manner and choice of clothing. She was wearing a soft green dress that flared over her generous hips and showed off good legs in dark hose. She had high-heeled black sandals on her feet, and her short hair was tinted a dramatic shining gold and sprayed into a stiff helmet. At sixty-seven she was strong, healthy and proud of the fact that she didn’t appear her age.
Here again Michael often puzzled over the vagaries of genetics. Mother and daughter couldn’t have been less alike.
“Why’d you bring him over?” She jerked her chin at the bathroom door, where a toilet was flushing noisily.
Michael quickly explained that Clover was his patient, adding that Jerome was a single parent, out of work and needing a job. Now came the tricky part. Mentally, he crossed his fingers. “I thought, if you were agreeable, I’d hire him to clean up the yard for you. See, Isabelle, I heard today that your neighbors are taking up a petition. They’re upset about the piles of rubbish in the back. They’ve reported you to Social Services.”
Michael braced himself for anger and outright rebellion against the neighbors and their petition. Isabelle had a fierce temper, so he was totally taken by surprise when she threw back her head and laughed loudly.
“A petition, huh? Well, good for them. I always fi
gured they had no guts, but people can surprise you. Are they offering to pay for the cleanup?”
Michael grinned. Isabelle was outrageous, and he liked her for it. “No, I’m paying. I have a reputation to uphold and that yard of yours is doing it damage.” He said this in a teasing tone. Isabelle knew very well that he didn’t care at all about reputation, but both also knew that Polly did.
Neither acknowledged that now. Instead, Isabelle laughed again, a great, raucous belly laugh. “Well, if you’re paying, then go ahead and pay. What’s the point of having a rich son-in-law if I never take advantage of him, eh?"
Michael appreciated the irony of her words. His guess was Isabelle had far more in her bank account at this moment than he did.
Jerome and Clover came into the room just then, and Isabelle repeated her offer of a beer. Jerome accepted and she went off to the kitchen. She returned with two cans and a small box of juice, which she handed to Clover.
“So I understand you’re gonna tidy up the yard for me, young fellow.”
“If that’s okay with you, ma’am. I sure will do my best.” Jerome hesitated and then added, “Would you mind if I brought Clover with me? I don’t have anyone to leave her with. She won’t be any trouble, will you, honey?”
Clover shook her head and sucked loudly on her drink. Michael stiffened and held his breath; Jerome’s request could ruin the entire plan. Polly insisted that Isabelle didn’t like kids, that she was never a satisfactory grandmother to Susannah.
But once again, Isabelle was agreeable. “Fine by me. Bring her along, just so she isn’t running in and out the house every minute.”
Michael could hardly believe it had been so easy.
When he told Polly the good news twenty minutes later, she was pleased but skeptical.
“I can’t believe she gave in just like that. What does this Jerome guy look like?”
Pickin Clover Page 5