The Doctor Makes a Dollhouse Call

by Robin Hathaway

  “No car,” Horatio said. “You want it stripped?”

  “But we’re in a hurry … .”

  “Follow me.” Swiftly Horatio led the way through the dark streets. Philadelphia streets form a grid pattern. They are perfectly straight and intersect at ninety-degree angles. William Penn laid them out that way in 1682, and nobody had seen fit to change them. It was a boring plan, but easy to follow. The blocks were long, and after midnight, during the week, except for an occasional siren, they were country quiet. But not country safe. Street lamps sprayed light on every corner, turning the spaces in between a deeper dark. Horatio stayed close to the curb, away from alleys and cul-de-sacs. Sometimes he even walked in the middle of the street. Fenimore followed.

  Gradually the trees and row houses petered out and were replaced by vacant lots. Fenimore wondered why Horatio hadn’t buried his cat somewhere here. (That was how he had first met the boy, when he was trying, unsuccessfully, to bury his cat.) Fenimore asked him.

  “And let the hoods dig him up and play catch with him?”

  They were now passing vacant lots, and more sky was visible. Not a friendly, star-winking sky. A leaden, smog-heavy sky that weighed on them like a lid. The disappearance of the trees and houses made Fenimore feel vulnerable. He half expected a crop duster to show up and start swooping down at them, like in North by Northwest. But Horatio danced on. Fenimore had to push to keep up with him.

  They were heading toward a complex of high-rises; three concrete towers loomed dark against the lighter sky. Public housing projects—the government’s inspired solution for sheltering the poor.

  When they were half a block from the towers, Horatio stopped and turned. “Keep low and close to me. We’re going in the back.”

  Fenimore could make out a group of kids in front, sitting on the ground, leaning against the wall, resting against their bikes. A silvery haze hovered above their heads and the sweetish scent of marijuana reached them. They looked harmless enough, but Horatio knew better. He led Fenimore around the side of the building, careful not to attract their attention.

  “Do they ever come after you?” Fenimore resisted a strong urge to glance over his shoulder.

  The boy shrugged. “I’m learnin’ a few karate moves. Come on,” he ordered.

  When Horatio leaned on the heavy fire door there was the sound of scuffling on the other side. “Fuck off!” a voice barked. Horatio ducked around the corner, sped along a cinder-block wall, and stopped before another graffiti-covered door. Fenimore caught up with him as he pushed it—more cautiously this time. No sound. Like a well-trained bloodhound, the boy sniffed before bounding up the concrete fire stairs. The litter on the stairs was ankle-deep. They waded through it. The smell of urine was overwhelming. After four flights of steps, Fenimore was ready to die. He lagged a full flight behind Horatio. His chest burning, he leaned against the wall.

  “Come on!”

  The boy’s harsh whisper urged him upward. At the top of the fifth flight, he could see the boy’s silhouette holding the fire door for him.

  “This is it.” Horatio walked a few feet down the dim corridor and stopped at the first door on the right. His key rasped in the lock.

  When Fenimore stepped into the room he stopped short. Confronting him on the opposite wall was his own poster. The stirring scene entitled “The Doctor.”

  “Mom, I’m back. I brought the doctor.” Horatio went over to the open sofa bed which filled most of the room. “Mom!” he shook her.

  Fenimore nudged him aside and bent to look. The woman lay buried under a mound of ragged blankets, quilts, overcoats—all scrupulously clean, smelling faintly of camphor. Her face, the only visible part of her, was flushed and moist with perspiration. Her mass of dark hair—the one feature she shared with her son—spread across the pillow. In every other respect, she was the image of a colleen from County Cork. Horatio, on the other hand, resembled a young matador from Madrid. Her name, Horatio had told him, was Bridget. Bridget Lopez.

  “Mrs. Lopez?”

  She muttered something unintelligible, her eyes closed. Reaching under the covers, Fenimore searched for her hand. He located it by its heat. When he took her pulse, her skin burned under his fingers. She began to cough. The covers shook with each spasm. While waiting for it to subside, Fenimore opened the paper bag and took out a vial of penicillin. “Get me a glass of water and a bowl of ice,” he ordered. “And chop the ice.”

  “What do I chop it with?”

  “A hammer, your shoe, anything. Wrap the cubes in a dish towel first.”

  As soon as Horatio was gone, Fenimore began peeling back the bedclothes. When he reached the woman, he found she was fully dressed in slacks and several layers of sweaters. A vain attempt to ward off chills. Gently, but firmly, he forced a tongue depressor between her teeth and pried her mouth open. With a small flashlight he checked her throat and tonsils. They were badly infected. He undid the sweaters and pressed the stethoscope against her bare chest. As he thought, she had pneumonia.

  “Thunk, thunk.” Horatio was making progress with the ice.

  Fenimore turned the woman, pulled down her slacks, and inserted the needle of the syringe into her buttock. When the boy came back with the water and the ice, his mother was tucked neatly under the covers again.

  “Thanks. Put them down and give me a hand. I want to raise your mother a little.” Together they managed to raise her to a semi-sitting position. Fenimore took the glass and pressed it to her lips. They were dry and peeling, as if badly sunburned. She opened her eyes and tried to drink. The effort was too much and the water ran down her chin. She brushed it away with her hand and sank back, eyes closed. In a minute they would have to try again.

  Fenimore glanced around the room. Except for the open bed, it was neat and tidy: an oasis in the midst of chaos. White curtains hung at the single window. A table was covered with a blue-and-white-checked cloth—a bowl of fruit resting on it. Suddenly Fenimore asked, “Where is everybody?”

  “Huh?” Horatio’s eyes were fixed on his mother’s face.

  “Your brothers and sisters? Where are they? Why aren’t they here looking after her?” Horatio had told Fenimore he was one of six.

  “Oh,” he shrugged, “they’re probably at my aunt’s.”

  “Where is that?”

  “South Thirteenth. She has a garden apartment.” He rolled his eyes. “It’s just another project, but she has a window box and a flower bed. She can’t plant anything in them, ‘cause the hoods’ll pull ’em up, but she thinks she’s better off. She wants us to move over there. She’s praying somebody’ll get shot or OD and there’ll be a vacancy.”

  “Couldn’t one of them have stayed with your mother?”

  “She probably shooed them out. She wouldn’t want them to catch it. ‘They might miss some school.’ She’s big on school.”

  This whispered conversation had been carried on over Mrs. Lopez’s prostrate form. Suddenly she opened her eyes. They were the color of the sea under a cloudless sky. Her son’s deep brown eyes must have been a gift from his father. Mr. Lopez had been shot by a random bullet while he was sitting on his front porch. “Killed for the sin of wanting a breath of fresh air,” his wife said. That’s why they’d moved to the project. Mrs. Lopez thought it would be safer.

  “That you, Ray?”

  He moved closer. “Yeah. I brought the doctor. You know, the one I work for.”

  Curiosity gave her strength. She turned her head to look at Fenimore.

  “Hello, ma’am. You’re going to be okay. I gave you a shot of penicillin and I think it’s beginning to work.” (It couldn’t possibly begin to work for another twelve hours, but it would help her to think it would.) “Come on, Rat. Let’s try that water again.”

  Horatio raised his mother’s head and Fenimore put the glass to her lips. This time she took some and swallowed it. When she had drunk half the contents, she pushed it away and glared at her son. “What’re you doing here? Wanna catch someth
ing?”

  Horatio sent Fenimore a what-did-I-tell-you look.

  “Your son did the right thing, ma’am. You’re very sick. Someone has to look after you.” As he spoke, she suddenly began to cough—each heave wracking her whole body. When it stopped, she fell back and didn’t try to talk again.

  Fenimore poured some penicillin tablets into a plastic bottle and instructed Horatio on the dosage. He also gave him a bottle of cough medicine. “This has codeine in it. Give her one teaspoon now, and another if she starts to cough again. Try to get her to drink, but if she won’t, get her to suck ice. You better put that ice back in the freezer now.” He began to pack up his instruments. “If she isn’t better by noon tomorrow, call me and we’ll get her to the hospital.” He looked around for the phone.

  “We don’t have one,” Horatio said.

  “Is there a pay phone in the building?”

  He snorted. “They rip ‘em out as soon as they put ’em in. But there’s one at the deli a few blocks away. The dealers use it.”

  “Okay. And no school tomorrow. If they want a note, refer them to me.” He spoke to the woman. “Mrs. Lopez, I’ve asked your son to stay home tomorrow and look after you. Those are doctor’s orders.”

  She didn’t open her eyes or make any further protest.

  “Man, she is sick.” Horatio looked alarmed.

  “She’ll be okay,” Fenimore reassured him, “but you have to stay with her.”

  “But I hafta walk you home.”

  “No way,” he adopted the boy’s expression. “I’ll be fine.”

  “You’ll never make it.” He looked him over. “You never would’ve made it here without me. At least you’re not wearing a fuckin’ tie.” He unbuttoned the two top buttons of Fenimore’s shirt, revealing a white undershirt, and pulled the collar of his jacket up. Still dissatisfied, he grabbed a cap off a hook on the wall—a kind of Andy Capp affair. “Put it on.”

  Fenimore obeyed.

  “That’s better. I’ll see you outta here.” His expression was mulish and Fenimore decided not to protest. Before he opened the door, Horatio glanced back at his mother. She seemed to be resting comfortably. As he stepped out, he darted a look up and down the corridor. “Come on.” But he carefully locked the door behind them.

  They took the corridor in short bursts, stopping every few yards to listen. The concrete walls echoed with a fight, a staccato exchange of obscenities. They passed two kids helping each other with their heroin shots; bumped into a couple in a deep embrace plastered against the wall; and tripped over a drunk sprawled on the third-floor landing. None of these occupants noticed them. When they reached the ground floor, Horatio shoved the door open. Again he sniffed like a bloodhound seeking the trail. Fenimore sniffed for another reason—to replace the noxious odors of the fire stairs with some relatively fresh air.

  “Looks okay”—he turned to Fenimore—“but I don’t like it. Remember, keep low.” He gave him a gentle shove.

  As Fenimore made his way across the vacant lot, “keeping low,” he experienced déjà vu. When had he last covered ground in a similar manner? Then he remembered—’69, in Nam.

  CHAPTER 16

  Every year, on the Saturday before Christmas, it was the custom for the Pancoast sisters to have an open house and display the dollhouse. It was always beautifully decorated, inside and out, just like their real house. It had a wreath on the door, a tree in the parlor with tiny colored lights (that actually blinked), and a stocking for each member of the family hanging from the mantelpiece. Of course, in the dining room, the table was set with a traditional roast of beef and plum pudding (sculpted from polymer and exquisitely painted by Marie).

  The inhabitants of Seacrest, adults as well as children, looked forward eagerly to this party every year. Next to Christmas itself, it was the most important event of the season. But this year, for obvious reasons, the aunts were in no mood for a party. They had definitely agreed not to have it.

  One afternoon the doorbell rang. It was Carrie. She was just passing by and thought she’d stop in to ask when they expected her to come serve the refreshments at the open house.

  Emily and Judith were silent as Carrie looked from one to the other. Finally, Judith said, “Well, dear, we thought we wouldn’t have an open house this year.”

  “Not have it? Oh, Miss Judith, what will I do? The children look forward to it so. It’s the only Christmas celebration they have, except for the few little presents I can dig up for them at the thrift shop. And they love the dollhouse. It won’t be Christmas if they don’t see the dollhouse all lighted up. What on earth will I tell them?”

  Emily coughed and shifted in her wheelchair. Judith played with her rings and looked out the window.

  “And what about all the others?” Carrie went on. “The whole town comes to your open house. They’ll be so disappointed. It will ruin everybody’s Christmas.” She stopped suddenly, afraid she had gone too far.

  Emily looked over at Judith. “I suppose it is selfish to let our unhappiness spoil everyone else’s happiness.”

  Slowly Judith nodded. “It does seem mean to deny them a party—especially the children.”

  “Oh, Miss Judith! Miss Emily! Thank you! Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll do everything. Just give me the list. I’ll buy the groceries. I’ll set the table. I’ll even trim the tree, if you’d like … .”

  The aunts thanked her and told her they’d call her as soon as their plans were firm. As they watched her from the window—she was almost skipping down the path—they agreed they had done the right thing.

  When Dr. Fenimore received his annual Christmas greeting card from the Pancoasts, he was surprised to see that it included an invitation to their traditional open house. Last year he had attended with Jennifer and it had been a happy occasion. But this year was quite a different matter. Of course, he would go. It would be a perfect opportunity to observe the Pancoast family members closely. Since Jennifer was still in France, he decided to take Mrs. Doyle.

  When they arrived at the Pancoast house, the long driveway was already filled with cars and they had to park in the street. Mrs. Doyle was thrilled by the decorations. In each window burned a single white candle in a nest of holly with white berries. Fixed to the door was an arrangement of pine boughs gathered together with a white satin bow and hung with cones. White had been substituted for the usual red, Fenimore surmised, in deference to the recently departed family members.

  The door opened to his touch revealing a long line of people facing toward the foot of the central staircase where the dollhouse stood in all its splendor. The young woman in front of them turned. It was Carrie.

  “Oh, hello, Doctor.” She smiled. “I’m taking the kids through now because I have to serve the refreshments later.”

  Her brothers and sisters had all been scrubbed and brushed and dressed in their Sunday best for the occasion. They were also on their best behavior. They stood patiently in line in front of Carrie, their excitement only evident in their faces as they turned occasionally to make sure their sister was still there.

  The line progressed slowly. While they waited, Fenimore introduced Carrie to Mrs. Doyle and they chatted. When Carrie found out that Mrs. Doyle was a nurse, her face lit up. “Oh, that’s what I wanted to be,” she said.

  “Why the past tense?” asked Fenimore.

  Her smile faded. “Oh well, it’s impossible now—since mother’s … uh … illness.”

  “But there are things you can do at home,” Mrs. Doyle said. “Correspondence courses, for instance. That’s how I got my start.”

  Fenimore looked at his nurse. He had not known that.

  “My father was a chronic invalid and I was needed at home too. I’ll send you some information about those courses.”

  “Oh, would you, Mrs. Doyle? I’d be so grateful.” Then she turned to Fenimore with an anxious expression. “The police have been to see me three times, Doctor. They keep harping on the fact that I was in the kitchen on Tha
nksgiving … .”

  “Jackasses!” Fenimore barked so loudly that several people turned to look at him. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll have a word with them before I go back.”

  They were approaching the dollhouse at last and Carrie’s attention was distracted by her brothers and sisters as they begged her to look at “the tiny tree!” and “the little stockings!” and “the plum pudding!”

  The next time they saw Carrie, she was wearing a white frilly apron and offering them an assortment of Christmas cookies on a tray. “Aren’t they pretty?” she said.

  They each took one and she moved on.

  “Nice child,” Mrs. Doyle said.

  Fenimore told her the nature of Carrie’s mother’s illness.

  The nurse shook her head. “I’ll send her that information right away. She can begin to learn the fundamentals at home and get her hands-on experience later. She’d make a fine nurse. I can tell. She has all the right instincts.”

  “Doctor, may I have a word with you?” It was Adam Turner, the school teacher.

  “Certainly. What’s up?”

  “The police,” Adam said. “They’ve been pestering us day and night. It’s interfering with my work. And Susanne’s at her wit’s end.”

  “They’ve even been badgering the children.” Susanne joined them and nodded at Amanda and Tad, who were stuffing themselves with petit fours nearby.

  At least Carrie wasn’t their only suspect. Fenimore was relieved. And secretly, he was pleased the police were doing their job. “I plan to talk to them this afternoon,” he said. Which was true, but for other reasons.

  “We’d appreciate that,” Adam said.

  During the course of the party, Fenimore was accosted by each member of the Pancoast family, except Marie, who had declined to come. Edgar, Mildred, Judith, and Emily all complained bitterly about being visited and questioned frequently by the local police, and usually at the most inopportune times—while at dinner, asleep, or in the bath. Mildred was the most indignant. She had been soaking in a bubble bath studying her horoscope, trying to soothe her jagged nerves, when who should ring the bell but some cop and his smart aleck sidekick who took notes on every word she said. She had barely had time to put on a dressing gown before they barged in. And would you believe, they even questioned the children. There ought to be a law.