The Ditto List

by Stephen Greenleaf

  Esther Preston had evidently been to see her husband professionally on two occasions in 1964, once to get a Pap smear, the other for a throat culture. The next year, the year of the divorce, there had been three visits: the first in January, the second in March, the third in April. The diagnosis was apparently inconclusive, the symptoms vague: headache, fever, nausea, weakness, fatigue. On the final sheet in the file were some handwritten notes, dated April 12, all but one in a scrawling hand. D.T. read over the page three times, then leaned toward Esther Preston.

  “Is Dr. Haskell’s first name Wayne?” he whispered.

  She nodded, frowning.

  “Then he’s the one who greased your bars, moved your ramp, all the rest of it.” And broke into Dr. Preston’s office last night, he thought but didn’t say.

  “But—”

  D.T. held up a hand to silence her, then stood up. “May Mr. Preston return to the stand, Your Honor?”

  Judge McCall nodded. Nathaniel Preston left his lawyer’s side and returned to the witness chair, looking warily at D.T. “You examined your wife from time to time in your capacity as a physician, did you not, Doctor?” D.T. asked.

  Jerome objected, the judge overruled, D.T. repeated his question.

  “Yes,” Dr. Preston said.

  “This was during your first two years of practice?”

  “Yes. Until we divorced.”

  “So you had a professional as well as a personal relationship with her in those years?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Exactly when did you file for divorce, by the way? What month?”

  “April, I believe. Of sixty-five.”

  “Yes. I see a copy of the petition right here. April 24. That’s correct, is it not?”

  “It sounds right.”

  “So of course you never examined your wife after that date. In your capacity as a physician?”

  “No.”

  “Did she see any other doctors while you were married?”

  “No. I don’t believe so. Not to my knowledge.”

  “Did she have any major illnesses in those years?”

  “No. She was in good health while we were married, other than minor colds and things.” Preston looked at his wife for the first time. “Her severe problems only came later.”

  D.T. picked up the medical file and took it to the doctor. “This is the file you kept on your wife, isn’t it?”

  Preston flipped through it. “Yes.”

  “Is it complete?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Has it been in your possession since you performed the examinations?”

  “Yes. I guess so.”

  “Are the notations in the file your own?”

  “Yes.”

  “Turn to the back page, please, Doctor.”

  “I have it.”

  “Read it. The final paragraph only.”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” Jerome insisted. “Irrelevant and immaterial. A ridiculous waste of time.”

  “These are my final questions, Your Honor,” D.T. responded. “I’ll be finished in two minutes. The relevance of the evidence will be obvious.”

  “Very well,” McCall said. “Go ahead, Dr. Preston.”

  Preston wiped his brow. “No. It’s not … it’s been changed. Something, I … do something, Fitzgerald, you stupid bastard. For God’s sake stop this!”

  “Read it” D.T. thundered.

  “Objection, Your Honor,” Jerome called out once again, from somewhere behind D.T. “This is privileged information. And irrelevant. And—”

  “The privilege is the patient’s, not the doctor’s, Your Honor,” D.T. said. “The patient is right here. She waives it, don’t you, Mrs. Preston?”

  D.T. turned around. Esther Preston smiled and nodded. “Read it, Doctor,” he repeated.

  “No. I won’t. You can’t make me.”

  “Read it, you son of a bitch.”

  Preston shook his head. “Your Honor,” Jerome’s voice squeaked. “I insist counsel be cited for contempt. He has no right to speak to the witness in that manner.”

  “Yes, Mr. Jones,” but Judge McCall’s lips were curled into what D.T. thought might be a smile. D.T. turned back to the witness and plunged ahead.

  “What was it, Doctor, when the symptoms first came on? Headache, fever, fatigue, nerves? The old housewife’s syndrome, is that what you thought? Neurotic complaining, an excuse to quit the job, to hire a maid, to eat out? A lot of women get that way, don’t they, Doctor? Psychosomatic basket cases, felled by their humdrum lives. Incurable by medicine, sometimes curable by divorce. Is that what you thought it was at first? I see those women all the time, too, Doctor. They’re obnoxious, many of them. Nuisances.”

  “Yes, I—”

  “But this was something different, wasn’t it?” D.T. spoke while his teeth ground against each other.

  “No. Esther was just—”

  “Esther had MS, didn’t she? And you knew it on April 12. You suspected that’s what caused her health problems, and you referred her to your partner, Dr. Haskell, a neurologist. He confirmed your suspicions, and you divorced her a week after you learned for certain what she had. You bailed out of the marriage without telling her she had contracted MS because you knew it would cost you a bundle in the divorce settlement. You would have had to pay her medical expenses, and a huge alimony judgment because she soon would lose the ability to earn her own living. You didn’t want that burden hanging over your head, so you just kept quiet and divorced her. Your partner, Haskell, insisted that you tell your wife, but you wouldn’t so he pulled out of the medical partnership. And has felt guilty and frightened all these years because he didn’t tell Mrs. Preston himself and he was afraid she’d find out what he’d done. Isn’t that what happened, Dr. Preston? Isn’t that exactly it?”

  “No. Not at all. I had no idea.”

  D.T. stepped forward and pulled the file out of the doctor’s rigid fingers. “It’s right here, Doctor. If you’d left it home I’d never have found it. Your Honor, I request leave to read from the medical record the witness has already identified.”

  “I don’t understand this, but go ahead.”

  “It’s right here in black and white. At the bottom of the sheet headed ‘Physician’s Comments.’ Quote, ‘Nat. Poss. MS. See me about this soonest. Wayne.’ Look at it, Doctor. Isn’t that what Dr. Haskell wrote?”

  He shoved the record under Preston’s nose. Preston didn’t look. “No,” he said. “No, I swear.…” Preston grabbed for the paper and tugged it out of D.T.’s hands and ripped it down the middle.

  Half the document fell to the floor. D.T. bent to retrieve it. Judge McCall’s voice thundered high above him. “You do that again, Doctor, and you’re in contempt of this court and subject to arrest and prosecution for the wanton destruction of evidence. I hope you understand that.”

  Preston started to tear the remaining portion, then stopped, as though his brain had died. D.T. removed the fragment from his hands. Then he turned to the judge. “Move to amend the complaint, Your Honor, to include fraud. Larceny by trick. Breach of a fiduciary relationship. Intentional infliction of mental distress. Prayer for two million in punitives, a million actuals.”

  “This is not the time for that, Mr. Jones,” McCall said, standing, gathering his robe. “I take it we’re finished here for now. The matter stands submitted, pending application for amendment of the pleadings. Gentlemen, I suggest you settle this matter before you leave the courtroom. It has the smell of one big mess.”

  Judge McCall left the bench. D.T. took the remainder of the file and put it in his briefcase and tucked the briefcase under his arm. Jerome Fitzgerald trotted to his client’s side and whispered to him feverishly. D.T. looked at Esther Preston and gave her the thumbs-up sign. Her eyes would fuel him for another year.

  Jerome was walking toward him, sniffling, possibly in tears. “Two hundred thousand, D.T. Right now. So nothing leaves this room, and nothing is filed in court.”


  “Triple it,” D.T. said.

  Jerome shrugged. “Okay.”

  D.T. smiled and patted Jerome on the back. “I’ll let you know,” he said. Then he began to do some math.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Only Michele could have compelled February to be so faultless. The sun was bright, the sky was cloudless, the air a balmy breath, the breeze a soothing frond. He drove through the city in a rapture, as if all its occupants were celebrating the advent of his ex-wife’s second union, as if the marriage were as much a tribute to him as to the bride and groom.

  Dressed in a tux that fit him like old Levi’s, driving Michele’s matchless cloth-top Rolls, freed from Barbara’s claims upon his energies and his conscience, fresh from his triumph in the Preston case the day before, D.T. knew again the dance of youth. At a stoplight a young girl looked at him and whistled. He smiled and bowed and blew a kiss. She waved and drove away, leaving him a joyous twig. He drove on down the boulevard, captain of his ship, anchored only to his current mood. When he reached his destination the church loomed so majestically D.T. was persuaded that Michele had flown it in from Canterbury for the day.

  He sailed his Silver Cloud into the parking lot and followed the directions of the security guard who protected it. After parking in the shade of the lofty spire, he marvelled that he could keep the car till Michele and George returned from Bermuda, marvelled too at the number of service vehicles that surrounded him—the large vans of florists and caterers, the tiny sports cars of hairstylists and manicurists, the huge trailer of the video outfit Michele had engaged to record it all on tape. D.T. locked the doors to the Rolls and entered the church and in the process experienced an uncommon decline in sumptuousness.

  The narthex was a stage an hour before the curtain. Intense and speechless, people dashed into it and out of it like silent-screen comedians, bearing flowers, candles, bunting, finger foods, champagne. Behind a table in the corner sat Joyce Tuttle, resplendent in a viral surge of blue chiffon, an open guest book and a silver pen displayed like handicrafts before her. D.T. went over and signed in.

  “How’s it going, Joyce?” His eyes dwelt on the pandemonium.

  “I’m fine, D.T. I hear you and that Barbara woman broke up.”

  “Another year without a Beltone for you, Joyce.”

  “I also hear you’re involved with some bucolic little thing who stabbed her husband.”

  “If by involved you mean I’m one of her lawyers, then yes.”

  “There was something about a baby, too, wasn’t there?”

  “Yes. Something.”

  “It’s at Michele’s?”

  “Till the mother’s release on bail.”

  “Are you the father, D.T.? That’s what’s going around.”

  He looked at Joyce’s meaty lips. “Yes. I am the father. Please tell everyone who signs this book that D. T. Jones is the father of a killer’s child, and that if they send me a dollar and a self-addressed stamped envelope I’ll send them a picture of the killer and me performing a series of unnatural acts proscribed by the laws of several southern states.”

  Joyce Tuttle recoiled, then started to protest his outburst, but D.T. left her and entered the sanctuary.

  Various workmen swarmed over the pews and aisles, the altar and the transepts, depositing floral arrangements, fabric ornaments, and crystal containers that looked like trophies for some marvelous athletic achievement. As D.T. stood silently and tried to encompass it all, a man ran up and grabbed his arm and pointed toward the altar. “Does the white splash? Should I add jonquils as a dilutant? Or perhaps mums? But mums are so tacky, don’t you think? Footballish, or something.”

  D.T. looked down at the small man’s vanishing scalp. “Jonquils are nice. Informal. This is her second, after all.”

  The man’s grip inflicted pain. “It is? Why wasn’t I told? The entire thrust must be altered. My God, sir, you’ve saved my life. Henri! Jacques! Tout de suite.”

  The man scurried down the aisle shouting orders to his minions. D.T. went back to the narthex and asked Joyce Tuttle where he could find Michele.

  She ignored his question as she adjusted her strapless bra. “You’re upset, aren’t you, D.T.? I told you this didn’t have to happen if you played your cards right. You should be the groom. Not George.”

  “I’ve been a groom, Joyce. I’m luckier at horses.”

  “I hate to see Michele end up with a wimp like George.”

  “I’m sure she’s comforted by your unswerving support, Joyce. And George is not a wimp. Now, where is she?”

  “In the vestry.”

  “Which is where?”

  “That way. It’s marked.”

  “Is she dressed yet?”

  “I think so, except for odds and ends. She’s been here since five.”

  D.T. walked one way and then another, found the vestry door and knocked. Mirabelle opened it and when she saw D.T. she shook her head. “We all aflutter in here, D.T. You got a pint of whiskey on you it do us all some good.”

  “No whiskey, Mirabelle. But there’s all kinds of champagne out there.”

  “Champagne makes me pee, and I ain’t got the time. Plus I never peed in church in all my life.”

  D.T. laughed and leaned to the side to peer around Mirabelle’s large body. Michele had her back to him, her hands in her hair, putting something shiny in it. “Hi there, former Mrs. Jones,” he said. “I’m here if you need me.”

  She turned toward him. “Hi.” Her stance was shy, awkward and girlish. “You’re lovely,” he said, without having to think about it, without having a doubt that it was true.

  She closed her eyes and lowered her head. “Have you been in the sanctuary?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  He thought of the jonquils, of the altered thrust. “It’s fine. Perfect. Don’t worry about a thing.”

  “There’ll be a brief reception here at the church, then close friends back at the house. I hope you’ll come, D.T.”

  “Okay.”

  She raised her hands and watched them tremble. “Why do I feel there are certain controlled substances that would be a big help at a time like this.” Her laugh was forced. He suppressed an urge to kiss her.

  “Hey. Relax. It’ll be great. In an hour you can get drunk and act silly and wake up in Bermuda.”

  Michele frowned, and started to speak, then seemed to change her mind. “Have you seen George?”

  “No. You want me to find him? It’s bad luck for him to see you beforehand, you know.”

  “I know. It’s all right. I’m sure everything’s fine.”

  “So am I. Well, I’ll let you finish dressing, then I’ll be back in a bit. Show time is ten o’clock. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Need anything?”

  “Only courage.”

  He patted his empty pocket. “I’ve got a flask of it right here. I’ll give you a snort just before we head down the aisle.”

  “Good.”

  “The second time’s a piece of cake.”

  “Cake. I still have some of ours frozen, did you know that, D.T.? I guess I’ll have to make room for more.”

  “In the freezer in the garage?”

  She nodded.

  “I’ll just sneak in there during the reception and take it off your hands. Great cake, as I recall.”

  “It was.” Michele’s voice was low and languid. D.T. decided to depart.

  “See you in a bit.”

  “Okay.” He passed Mirabelle’s still shaking head and wandered back the way he’d come and went out into the blazing winter sun.

  Cars streamed past, the riders ogling the activity at the church, a few of them honking encouragement or derision, some even stopping to gape. As he watched the guests arrive, a limousine pulled to the curb and George and another man got out. When he noticed D.T., George walked quickly toward him.

  D.T. extended his hand. In his morning coat and spats, George seemed
about to offer a deal on a casket. “Well, today’s the day,” D.T. said cheerily.

  George nodded and repeated the statement. “I’d like you to meet my brother Harold, D.T. My best man.” They shook hands. “Harold’s from Akron. He’s in tires. He’s also been married thirty years. I trust it runs in the family.” George looked at his brother fondly. The brother only smiled and looked subservient, perhaps revealing the secret of a marathon marriage.

  “Thirty years at least,” D.T. agreed. “You know I wish both of you all the best.”

  George’s face grew solemn. “I just want you to know I’ll do everything I can to make her happy, D.T.”

  “You don’t have to make any promises to me, George. I don’t have any status around here.”

  “Oh, but you do. Michele admires you a great deal. As do I. No doubt Michele will confide in you from time to time, as is only natural, and, well, I just want you to know that I’m willing to do anything, anything at all, to make the marriage everything Michele wants it to be.”

  George was as earnestly nervous as a realtor with a prospect who had doubts about the deal. D.T. put a hand on his shoulder. “Relax, George. The two of you will be very happy. Michele’s amazingly easy to please, believe it or not. Just be yourself, is all I can say. Be yourself, and sit back and enjoy it.”

  “Thank you, D.T. Your blessing means a lot.”

  “No problem. Well, see you at the altar, I guess.”

  “Yes. At the altar.” George and his brother moved away toward the church. “If you’re ever in Akron look us up,” the brother called back. D.T. assured him he would, then decided to take a stroll.

  In the small space between the church and the rectory he found a lovely shaded garden. Among the trees and vines and shrubs was a delicate wooden glider, the kind his grandmother had had on her back porch, where she and her cat had spent long portions of their summers. He sat on the glider and began to swing, back and forth, back and forth, the glider speaking to him cheerfully, as though he were a friend.