I nodded.
She tossed the handkerchief at me and I caught it.
She said, “Baseball Bob,” with reflexive quickness. Laughed. Shut it off.
I put the handkerchief on the table. “Baseball Bob?”
“We used to say that,” she said defensively. “Jimmy and me and Reggie. When Reggie was little. When someone would make a good catch, he was Baseball Bob— it was stupid.”
“In my family it was ‘You can be on my team.’ ”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that one.”
We sat in silence, resigned to each other, like boxers in the thirteenth round.
She said, “That’s it. My secrets. Happy?”
The phone rang. I picked it up. The operator said, “Dr. Delaware, please?”
“Speaking.”
“There’s a call for you from a Dr. Sturgis. He’s been paging you for the last ten minutes.”
Vicki stood.
I motioned her to wait. “Tell him I’ll call him back.”
I hung up. She remained on her feet.
“That second therapist,” I said. “He abused you, didn’t he?”
“Abuse?” The word seemed to amuse her. “What? Like some kind of abused child?”
“It’s pretty much the same thing, isn’t it?” I said. “Breaking a trust?”
“Breaking a trust, huh? How about blowing it up? But that’s okay. I learned from it— it made me stronger. Now I watch myself.”
“You never complained about him either?”
“Nope. Told you I’m stupid.”
“I—”
“Sure,” she said. “That’s all I needed, his word against mine— who’re they gonna believe? He’d get lawyers to go into my life and dig it all up— Reggie. Probably get experts to say I was a liar and a rotten mother . . .” Tears. “I wanted my boy to rest in peace, okay? Even though . . .”
She threw up her hands, put her palms together.
“Even though what, Vicki?”
“Even though he never gave me peace.” Her voice soared in pitch, teetering on hysteria.
“He blamed me till the end. Never got rid of those feelings that first faker planted in his head. I was the bad one. I’d never cared about him. I’d made him not learn, not do his homework. I didn’t force him to go to school because I didn’t care a hoot. It was ’cause of me he dropped out and started . . . running around with bad influences and . . . I was one hundred percent of it, hundred and five. . . .”
She let out a laugh that raised the hair on the back of my neck.
“Wanna hear something confidential— kind of stuff you people like to hear? He was the one gave me that book about that bitch from New Jersey. That was his Mother’s Day gift to me, okay? All wrapped up in a little box with ribbons and the word Mom on it. In printing, ’cause he couldn’t do cursive, never mastered it— even his printing was all crooked, like a first-grader’s. He hadn’t given me a present for years, not since he stopped bringing home his shop projects. But there it was, little gift-wrapped package, and inside this little used paperback book on dead babies. I nearly threw up, but I read it anyway. Trying to see if there was something I’d missed. That he was trying to tell me something I wasn’t getting. But there wasn’t. It was just plain ugly. She was a monster. No real nurse. And one thing I know— one thing I’ve worked into my own head, without experts— is that she has nothing to do with me, okay? She and me didn’t even live on the same planet. I make kids feel better. I’m good at that. And I never hurt them, okay? Never. And I’m gonna keep helping them the rest of my natural life.”
18
“Can I go now?” she said. “I’d like to wash my face.”
Unable to think of a reason to keep her there, I said, “Sure.”
She righted her cap. “Listen, I don’t need any more grief, okay? The main thing is for Cassie to get better. Not that . . .” She colored and began walking to the door.
“Not that I can do any good in that department?” I said.
“I meant, not that it’s gonna be easy. If you’re the one ends up diagnosing her, hats off to you.”
“What do you think about the fact that the doctors can’t find anything?”
Her hand rested on the doorknob. “Doctors can’t find lots of things. If patients knew how much guessing goes on, they’d . . .” She stopped. “I keep on, I’m gonna get myself in trouble again.”
“Why are you so certain it’s organic?”
“Because what else could it be? These aren’t abusers. Cindy’s one of the best mothers I’ve ever seen, and Dr. Jones is a real gentleman. And despite who they are, you’d never know it, because they don’t lord it over anyone, okay? That’s real class, far as I’m concerned. Go out and see for yourself— they love that little girl. It’s just a matter of time.”
“Before what?”
“Before someone figures out what’s wrong. I’ve seen it lots of times. Doctors can’t figure things out so they call it psychosomatic. Then poof, all of a sudden someone finds something that hasn’t been looked for before and you’ve got yourself a new disease. They call that medical progress.”
“What do you call it?”
She stared at me. “I call it progress too.”
She walked away and I stayed behind, thinking. I’d gotten her to talk but had I learned anything?
My thoughts shifted to the cruel gift her son had given her. Pure spite? Or had he been telling her something?
Had she told me about it as part of a game? Told me just what she wanted me to know?
I stayed with it a while and came up with nothing. Cleared my head and walked to 505W.
• • •
Cassie sat propped up in bed, wearing red floral pajamas with white collar and cuffs. Her cheeks were raspberry-pink and her hair was gathered in a topknot tied with a white bow. The I.V. had been disconnected and it stood in the corner, like a metal scarecrow. Depleted glucose bags hung from the arms. The only evidence her veins had been punctured was a small round Band-Aid atop one hand and the yellow Betadine stain below it. Her eyes glistened as they followed me.
Cindy sat near her on the bed, spoon-feeding her cereal. She wore a SAVE THE OCEANS T-shirt over a denim skirt and sandals. Dolphins cavorted across her bustline. She and Cassie looked more similar than ever.
As I approached, Cassie opened a mouth full of cereal-mush. A stray speck dotted her upper lip.
Cindy picked it off. “Swallow, honey. Hi, Dr. Delaware. We didn’t expect to see you today.”
I put my briefcase down and sat on the foot of the bed. Cassie looked confused but not fearful.
“Why’s that?” I said.
“It’s the weekend.”
“You’re here, so I’m here.”
“That’s very nice of you. Look, sweetie, Dr. Delaware came all the way to see you on a Saturday.”
Cassie looked at Cindy, then back at me, still muddled.
Wondering about the mental effects of the seizure, I said, “How’s everything?”
“Oh, fine.”
I touched Cassie’s hand. She didn’t move for a second, then drew away, slowly. When I chucked her chin, she looked down at my hand.
“Hi, Cassie,” I said.
She continued to stare. Some milk dribbled out of her mouth. Cindy wiped it and closed her mouth gently. Cassie started to chew. Then she parted her lips and said, “Hah,” through the mush.
“Right!” said Cindy. “Hi! That’s great, Cass!”
“Hah.”
“We did very well with our food today, Dr. Delaware. Juice and fruit and crackers for breakfast. Then we had our breakfast Krispies for lunch.”
“Great.”
“Real great.” Her voice was tight.
Remembering the short-lived moment of tension last time I’d talked to her— the feeling that she was about to tell me something important— I said, “Is there anything you want to discuss with me?”
She touched Cassie’s hair. Cassie started to play
with another drawing. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Dr. Eves tells me you’ll be going home soon.”
“That’s what she says.” She adjusted Cassie’s top-knot. “I’m sure looking forward to it.”
“Bet you are,” I said. “No more doctors for a while.”
She looked at me. “The doctors have been great. I know they’re doing their best.”
“You’ve seen some of the best,” I agreed. “Bogner, Torgeson, Macauley, Dawn Herbert.”
No reaction.
“Got anything planned when you get back home?”
“Just getting back to normal.”
Wondering what that meant, I said, “I’d like to come out pretty soon.”
“Oh— of course. You can draw with Cassie at her play table. I’m sure we can find a chair to fit you— can’t we, Cass?”
“Fip.”
“Right! Fit.”
“Fip.”
“Excellent, Cass. Do you want Dr. Delaware to draw with you at your little bear table?” When Cassie didn’t answer she said, “Draw? Draw pictures?” and made scrawling motions with one hand.
“Daw.”
“Yes, draw. With Dr. Delaware.”
Cassie looked at her, then me. Then she nodded. Then she smiled.
• • •
I stayed awhile, providing entertainment and looking for signs of post-seizural damage. Cassie seemed okay but I knew brain effects could be subtle. For the thousandth time I wondered what was going on in her little body.
Cindy was friendly enough, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that her enthusiasm for my services had waned. She sat on the sleeper, brushing out her hair while scanning TV Guide. The hospital air was cool and dry and the hair crackled with each stroke. Northern light came in through the room’s single window, a straw-colored beam that burned through the smog and burst against the fairy-tale wallpaper. The lower edge of the beam touched upon the long dark strands, tracing a metallic streak through them.
It created an odd cosmetic effect and made her look beautiful. I’d never thought of her as desirable— too busy wondering if she was a monster. But seeing her gilded that way made me realize how little she exploited her looks.
Before I could mull that any longer, the door swung open and Chip came in, carrying coffee. He had on navy sweats and running shoes and his hair looked freshly washed. A diamond sparkled in his ear.
His greeting was tavern-buddy friendly but a ribbon of steel ran through the amiability— resistance not unlike Cindy’s. It made me wonder if the two of them had discussed me. When he sat down between Cassie and me I got up and said, “See you later.”
No one argued, though Cassie kept looking at me. I smiled at her. She stared a while longer before shifting her attention to a drawing. I collected my stuff and headed for the door.
“Bye, Dr. Delaware,” said Cindy.
“Bye,” said Chip. “Thanks for everything.”
I looked over his shoulder at Cassie. Waved at her. She raised a hand and curled her fingers. The topknot was in disarray again. I wanted to swoop her up and take her home with me.
“Bye, sweetie.”
“Bah.”
19
I had to get away from the hospital.
Feeling like a teething puppy with nothing to chomp, I turned out of the lot and drove up Hillhurst, heading for a restaurant at the top of the street that I’d learned about from Milo but never went to alone. Continental food of the old school, autographed photos of near-celebrities, dark panel walls saturated with nicotine bitters, waiters without SAG cards.
A sign in the lobby said the restaurant wouldn’t be serving for another half hour but the cocktail lounge was accepting sandwich orders.
A middle-aged, tuxedoed woman with improbable red hair worked behind the bar. A few serious drinkers sat at the padded horseshoe chewing ice cubes, snuffling salted freebies, and devoting what little attention they had left to an auto-chase scene on the tube. The TV was mounted on a ceiling bracket. It reminded me of the one I’d just seen in Cassie’s room.
The hospital . . . dominating my thoughts the way it had years ago. I loosened my tie, sat down, and ordered a club sandwich and beer. When the bartender turned to prepare it, I went to the pay phone at the back of the lounge and called Parker Center.
“Records,” said Milo.
“Doctor Sturgis?”
“Well, if it isn’t Doctor Hard-to-Get. Yeah, I figured easiest way to get some action in that place was use the title.”
“If only it were so,” I said. “Sorry for the delay getting back to you but I was tied up with Vicki Bottomley, then Cassie and her parents.”
“Anything new?”
“Not much, except the Joneses seemed a little cool.”
“Maybe you’re threatening them. Getting too close.”
“Can’t see why. As for Vicki, she and I had a little psychodrama— I was trying to clear the air, leaned on her a bit. She accused me of suspecting her of harming Cassie. So I asked her if she was, and she went nuclear. Ended up giving me a sanitized version of her son’s story and adding something I hadn’t known: Reggie gave her a book as a Mother’s Day gift. True-crime thing about some nurse in New Jersey who murdered babies.”
“Some gift. Think she was trying to tell you something?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I should tell Stephanie to pull her off the case and see what happens. If Stephanie can be trusted. Meanwhile, this Dawn Herbert thing. On top of being murdered, she was a bit of a kleptomaniac.”
I gave him my blackmail theory. “What do you think?”
“Uh-huh . . . well,” he said, clearing his throat, “that’s certainly a good question, sir, but that information’s not currently available on our present data base.”
“Bad time to talk?”
“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” A moment later, he lowered his voice: “Brass coming through on tour, some kind of police-biggie convention this weekend. I’m off in five minutes. How about late lunch, early dinner— let’s say half an hour?”
“Started without you,” I said.
“What a pal. Where are you?”
I told him.
Still talking quietly, he said, “Good. Order me a pea soup with a ham bone and the breast of chicken with the cornbread stuffing, extra stuffing.”
“They’re only making sandwiches right now.”
“By the time I get there, they’ll be serving real food. Tell ’em it’s for me. Remember the order?”
“Soup, bone, chicken, extra stuffing.”
“They ever remake The Thirty-nine Steps, you can play Mr. Memory. Have ’em time the order so nothing’s cold. Also a dark draft. The Irish stuff— they’ll know what I mean.”
I returned to the bar, relayed Milo’s order to the bartender, and told her to delay my sandwich until he arrived. She nodded, called the kitchen, then served my beer with a dish of almonds. I asked her if she had a newspaper.
“Sorry,” she said, glancing toward the barflies. “No one around here reads. Try the machines out front.”
I went back to Hillhurst and caught a faceful of sunglare. Four coin-op newspaper dispensers lined the sidewalk. Three were empty; one of them was vandalized and graffitied. The last one was fully stocked with a tabloid promising SAFE SEX, RAUNCHY GIRLS, AND DIRTY FUN.
I went back into the lounge. The channel had been switched to an old western. Square jaws, moping dogies, and long shots of scrubland. The barflies stared up at the screen, entranced. As if it hadn’t been filmed just over the hill, in Burbank.
Thirty-six minutes later Milo appeared, waving me over as he strode past the bar, toward the restaurant section. I took my beer and caught up with him. His jacket was over his shoulder and his tie was tucked into his waistband. The band was crushed by the weight of his belly. A couple of the lushes looked up and watched him, dulled, but still wary. He never noticed. But I knew he would’ve been pleased to see how much cop-scent he still gave off.
; The main dining room was empty except for a busboy running a manual carpet-sweeper over a corner. A stringy old waiter appeared— American Gothic on a crash diet— bearing soft rolls, Milo’s ale, and a plate of cherry peppers and stuffed olives.
“Him, too, Irv,” said Milo.
“Certainly, Mr. Sturgis.”
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