by Helen Wells
“No brother! I haven’t any family.”
That clashed with his story of two boys on a beach where some accident had occurred. Indeed, the story of a family business was inconsistent with his heated assertion that he had no family. Here, too, lay a sore point.
Bob surprised them by rapidly retracing the years of his childhood and early teens. In an outburst of talk, he told of a happy childhood in a seacoast place, but of something important, troubling, that happened just before he entered his teens.
“Was it an accident?” Dr. Hope suggested. “Involving those two boys?”
Bob opened his mouth to answer when the ward telephone started to ring. It rang persistently; Bob was sidetracked. He sat up, listening to the phone.
“That might have been Susan on the phone!”
“Which Susan was that?” Cherry asked.
Bob scowled. “I never did tell Susan. Didn’t feel I had any right to.”
Susan! This sudden first mention of someone named Susan surprised both Dr. Hope and Cherry. Was Susan the “S” of the note found in Bob’s pocket? The psychiatrist asked Cherry to get the note and read it aloud to their patient. She did so.
“Doesn’t make any sense to me,” Bob protested.
“Maybe I do know a Susan, but at the moment I can’t think who she might be.”
Another fact blocked off, hence it could be a key fact. The notepaper was still crisp and fresh. That suggested that “S” or Susan had written to Bob fairly recently. Bob’s being a member of a family business must have been fairly recent, also, for he could not have been out of college for many years. So his “trouble area” was recent.
“What does Susan look like?”
“I don’t know any Susan, Doctor.”
“All right, then, what does your mother look like?”
Bob laughed. “What is this, another game?” He was stalling, evading—though not on conscious purpose. The psychiatrist, unruffled, said: “Well, if you’ll describe your mother’s room, maybe you’ll ‘see’ her in it.”
Bob described a lady’s nicely furnished bedroom in minute detail, but he did not describe the lady herself. That effacement was significant. Even if his mother were dead, as Bob had once insisted, much too excitedly, he should be able to visualize her. He had some troubling reason not to.
“Imagine,” the psychiatrist said, “that now you are walking out of your mother’s room, and you go downstairs to the living room. It’s evening, just before dinner. Who’s in the living room?”
“Nobody.”
“What time did your father generally come home for dinner? Didn’t he and perhaps someone else come in about now?” Bob looked baffled. “How many places are laid at the dinner table?”
“I am searching in my mind, Doctor, but all I get are distant pictures of the beach and the rocks, from when I was small.”
“Fine. We’d like to hear about the beach, too.”
“The beach—well—” Bob sighed. “I’m so tired. Can’t we have a recess, now?”
“All right,” Dr. Hope said, “let it go. I think you told us a very great deal today.”
“Are you going to send me home—when you find out where my home is?”
“If you don’t want to go home, we won’t force you to go.”
“Thanks, Doctor. Though I suppose I ought to—it worries me, if only I knew what—”
Bob’s eyes closed in exhaustion. They were about to leave him alone when Bob suddenly said:
“I’m beginning to recognize myself.”
Out in the corridor, Dr. Hope and Cherry shook hands.
Dr. Ray Watson was satisfied, after another X ray, with the way Bob’s fractured leg was healing. Bob had been doing push-up exercises in bed to strengthen the triceps muscles in his arms for the use of crutches. On Tuesday Dr. Watson said:
“Well, young fellow! What would you say if I told you we’ll let you try your luck with crutches? Yes, sir, three weeks in bed is enough.”
Bob grinned. “How soon can I drive a car?”
“Hear that, Miss Cherry?” Dr. Watson boomed. “Ambitious, isn’t he? Well, we’ll try you out on crutches first.”
Bob’s spirits rose still higher when Cherry brought him a pair of crutches. Standing up, he was taller than she had estimated him to be. At first Bob hobbled around his room uncertainly on the crutches. Cherry was interested to observe his scientific habit of mind as he figured out how best to manipulate them. He got the hang of them quickly, and said:
“Mind if I show my friends on the ward that there’s another fellow around here on his feet?”
“Just wait while I ask our head nurse.”
Mrs. Peters was happy to say yes, and Dr. Watson himself made a loud announcement to the ward patients. Bob hobbled forth to smiles and cheers from the men in casts and wheelchairs and braces.
“Congratulations,” called Tommy and Mr. Pape and the spine case, who had his own crutches next to his bed.
Bob actually blushed and stammered when he said thanks. He stayed with his ward friends for lunch. This socializing was progress too. Cherry had to urge him back into his room.
Next morning Mrs. Leona Ball came into the ward. She was all smiles. The Cleveland jeweler had answered her urgent letter of inquiry about Bob’s watch. The jeweler’s letter read:
“Dear Mrs. Ball: Our business records show that a man’s wristwatch of Excelsior make, #8991374, was sold two years ago this July to a Mrs. Olivia Albee. The customer paid for it with a check drawn on the First City Bank of Crewe, Connecticut. I myself waited on Mrs. Albee and from our conversation had the impression that she was on a trip. She produced identification from Crewe to validate her check. I trust this is the information you require. Sincerely yours, R. J. Jennings.”
“Albee!” Cherry exclaimed. “Mrs. Olivia Albee. Is she Bob’s wife or mother or sister—or just a friend?”
“Or an aunt or grandmother,” Leona Ball teased her. “I suppose if the jeweler had any more information than this, he’d have sent it along.”
“It’s a real lead,” Cherry said. “At last we have the name of someone who probably knows Bob, and we have the name of that person’s town. We’d better ask Dr. Hope’s advice on what to do next, don’t you think so? He’ll be in tomorrow.”
“Think again, Bob,” Cherry said gently.
Bob was sitting up on the edge of his bed, legs dangling. Dr. Hope had assigned her to reveal the news to their patient; after so many pressing interviews, he felt Bob might be on guard with him.
“Think, now. Doesn’t the name Albee sound familiar to you?”
“Albee … Albee …” Bob repeated. “And you said the town of Crewe, Connecticut. No, I don’t think so—but it’s confusing. It rings a bell somewhere. I think I once had a schoolteacher by the name of Alsop. Sure you don’t mean Alsop?”
“No, I mean Albee. Is that by any chance your name?”
“Albee? No.” But Bob looked very doubtful.
“You’re sure, now?”
Bob sighed, rubbed his forehead, restlessly swung his good leg. Cherry waited.
“You’re right. My name is Albee, Richard Albee. And my hometown is Crewe.” His face cleared.
“You’re sure of that, now?”
“Yes, perfectly sure. Go ahead and check. You’ll find I’ve got it straight this time.”
He was so calm and confident that Cherry was ready to believe that he was Richard Albee, of Crewe. Still, his earlier, calm statements that he’d attended Oberlin College and had held a summer job with the circus turned out to be fantasies.
“We-ell. And who is Olivia Albee?”
“My mother. She bought me that wristwatch—by the way, thanks very much for returning it to me. She bought it a couple of summers ago while she was traveling in the Middle West. In Cleveland, I think she said.”
“Is Crewe your mother’s home, too?”
“Yes. I mean it was, while she was still alive.”
The subject of the patient’s mother was a tou
chy one. Cherry gingerly decided to turn the interview over to Dr. Hope at this point.
He came in promptly, after Cherry’s quick briefing. Bob seemed a little troubled to see him. He picked up the interview where Cherry had left off. Bob protested.
“I suppose you’re going to ship me right back to Crewe—maybe write a note to my mother first. ‘Here’s your son, madam, he’s on your hands now.’”
“No, we’ll do nothing of the sort. I’ve told you that already, Bob. Or Richard?” Dr. Hope smiled at him. “Relax. I’m still your friend. But I’m sure your mother or other relatives must be worried about you.”
“My mother is dead, and I’ve already told you that.”
“So you did,” Dr. Hope said quietly. “I don’t like to pester you with questions about her. I realize it’s painful for you—but it’s part of your cure.”
Bob muttered, “I can’t go back there, I can’t!”
“Why not, fellow? What’s bothering you?”
“Why, how could I ever face her?”
“Your mother?” No answer. Or did Bob mean the unknown Susan? Dr. Hope rephrased his questions.
“Yes, she’s dead. Yes, recently! I don’t know how recently! Well, she died of a tumor, it was neglected, the operation was put off too long because of—” He choked on his own words. “My mother was neglected, and she died.”
“Bob, listen to me. Is your mother really deceased, or are you only worried that she may die?”
Bob’s eyes grew shiny with tears and he would not or could not answer.
Cherry said, “You know, Bob, if your mother, or anyone, needs medical care and can’t afford to pay for it, there’s always free care available. Every hospital does that.”
“That’s right,” Dr. Hope said. “Can’t some other member of your family arrange for an operation if she needs one?”
Bob mumbled, “No other members in my family.”
“Haven’t you a brother?” The other boy on the beach, the other boy in the violin scene, the other man in the quarrel. Literally true or not, these scenes pointed persistently to two boys or two men, and Bob had admitted one might be himself. “Have you a relative named Susan?”
“I haven’t. Oh, let me alone! Please. I haven’t any family.” Bob tried to suppress a sob. “Don’t you suppose I’d tell you their names, or our home address, or our business address if I could?”
The inconsistencies in what he’d said hinted at many sorts of hidden facts. But Bob’s panic was the urgent matter at the moment. Dr. Hope stood by while Cherry soothed him. They promised him they would find out all they could from Crewe, to help him remember. They promised to inquire discreetly so that Bob would not be thrown back into an obviously distressing situation.
At Dr. Hope’s request, the hospital social worker wired the Crewe police, for a confidential report. Had they any record of a Richard Albee? Of an Olivia Albee? She gave what information they had about their patient, and in her long telegram also requested the Crewe police not to tell the Albee family (if one existed) of the Hilton Hospital inquiry just yet, because of medical reasons.
Mrs. Ball sent the telegram on Thursday. No reply arrived on Friday. Cherry made a special trip to the hospital on Saturday. No reply. She wondered how she could wait through the weekend.
CHAPTER VIII
Long Ago and Far Away
“JUST THINK,” MRS. AMES REMARKED. IT WAS SUNDAY AND they were all at home. “A week from today is Columbus Day. And you, Miss Nurse, haven’t yet had a vacation this year.”
Cherry’s father lowered the sports pages of the Sunday newspaper. “I should think any nurse would need to get away from shop talk, and have a vacation and enjoy a little social life.”
“I do have a social life,” Cherry said indignantly. “Or sort of one.” She looked around for Charlie to corroborate this, but Charlie was absorbed in studying the want ads for aeronautic engineers. Either a new job or a promotion at his present Indianapolis job was his objective. “I went to Dottie Wilkinson’s party last evening, didn’t I? With George Baker, as Mother asked me to.”
“George is a very nice young man,” said Mrs. Ames.
“Yes, he is, Mother. I’ve known him since we met in the first grade and he still fails to interest me.”
Her father asked? “Where’s your old friend, Wade Cooper?”
“He’s overseas on a job.”
Cherry hadn’t much patience or interest these days in parties or even seeing old friends. The need to solve Bob Smith’s riddle—or Richard Albee’s?—allowed her no rest. Later on, she told her family, she’d make up for this period with plenty of fun and good friends.
As if on signal, the telephone rang for Cherry. The operator said New York was calling, and then Gwen Jones’s voice came on.
“Aren’t you ever coming to swell the ranks of the Spencer Club?”
“Of course I’m coming. … I don’t know when. With this special case. … Well, when I can get there. … How’s Mai Lee?”
“We’re all fine, Josie Franklin and Bertha Larsen got here Wednesday. … Well, I did say so…. In my letter. … What letter? … Wait a sec. Josie!” Cherry waited while one Spencer Club member conferred with another. Gwen’s voice came on again. “The letter is still in Josie’s coat pocket. Anyway, all I said is hurry up.”
“Yes, ma’am. I know an order when I hear one. What’s going on that’s so special?” Cherry asked.
“Not a blessed thing. Just a visit and a gabfest.” Gwen gave a sample—all their recent news.
The operator cut in. “There will be an extra charge for the next three minutes.”
“Ouch! Cherry! I’m going to hang up.”
“Save a bed and a hamburger for me,” Cherry said, and hung up, laughing.
Of all things, on Monday morning at the hospital Cherry found Dr. Hope poring over a map. Then she saw that the map showed the northeastern states and included Crewe, Connecticut. Crewe was not far from New York City, Dr. Hope explained, about an hour or two by train or car. It was one of a cluster of suburban towns that dotted the shores of Long Island Sound. Across the water from Crewe’s Connecticut shore lay the narrow strip of Long Island, on whose other side the open Atlantic pounded. The Sound itself was fed by the Atlantic Ocean.
“I’ve been sailing and swimming up there,” Dr. Hope said. “The waters of the Sound are really treacherous at times.”
“That’s where Bob’s accident with the two boys happened—if he’s not making up the story.”
“If he is, remember it reflects his feelings and ‘stands for’ the truth in his mind.” Dr. Hope put away the map. “We might try to find out whether there was an accident, because now we have some new information to work with.”
“We have?” Cherry’s hopes leaped up. “Did the Crewe police answer, Doctor?”
“We’re in luck. Look at this!”
He handed her a telegraphed report from the Crewe police department. It had reached Hilton Hospital late Sunday evening. It stated that a family by the name of Albee lived in Crewe and had been in business there for many years. The Albee firm manufactured chemicals and medicines and had been founded by the father, Justin Albee, deceased for some four years.
“So Bob’s father is dead, as he said!” Cherry exclaimed.
“Yes. But read the rest of it.”
The Albee family at present consisted of the mother, Mrs. Olivia Albee, and two sons, Richard and Merrill. Richard had been gone from Crewe for about six or seven months.
“His mother is alive! He does have a brother!”
“Yes.”
“Six or seven months—that was last March or April,” Cherry figured. The calendar in his pocket had its pages torn off up to April. “So he broke down in April—I mean, perhaps,” she amended as Dr. Hope cocked his head at her. She continued reading the Crewe police report.
Six months ago, Mrs. Albee had asked the Crewe police to send out a Missing Persons Bureau inquiry on Richard. However, the other son, Merri
ll, advised them that Richard had left voluntarily and there was no cause for alarm. Merrill told the Crewe police, in confidence, that Richard was under some cloud of a personal nature and wanted to be left alone for a while. The Crewe police department had therefore sent out a routine inquiry, as Mrs. Albee requested, but had not made any detailed investigation.
Bit by bit, carefully, Dr. Hope and Cherry imparted this information to Bob. They started by telling him that they had received good news about his mother: she was very much alive, despite his fears, and still residing in Crewe.
“She is? How can you be sure?” he asked.
They told him about the Crewe police report.
Bob seemed relieved to learn of his mother, yet not nearly as relieved as they might have expected. He did not want to talk about her. Dr. Hope did not press. He changed the subject, and then, casually, mentioned “your brother Merrill.”
“Oh, yes, Merrill.” Bob’s expression was vague, then his face clouded. “Merrill. My older brother. That’s right. He’s all right, isn’t he? What does the police report say about him?”
“Nothing of particular interest,” Dr. Hope said. Cherry knew Dr. Hope must have some reason for evading. “Suppose you tell us something about Merrill. Well, Bob?”
“I guess you’d better call me Richard,” he said gravely.
“Very well, we will. Now, about Merrill?”
Bob—or Richard—smiled. “He’d be amused to see me weaving around on crutches. Oh, he wouldn’t gloat or anything, he’d be sorry, he’s such a good guy. But, you see, I’ve always been the athlete, the—Merrill calls me the eager beaver.”
Cherry heard an undertone here that she could not understand. She asked whether Merrill did not go in for athletics, too. Or for chemistry.
“Merrill?” Their patient sounded surprised. “Oh, no.”
Bob—or Richard—spoke in unrelated snatches. Then he began to remember more consecutively.
“I can see the walnut highboy in our room, when we were boys, and I remember the arguments Merrill and I used to have about who could use the top drawers. The more convenient drawers. Now it’s coming clearer. Merrill used to tell me—you know the way a kid brother gets teased—that I was the baby and shorter, so the bottom drawers had to be mine. Forever and ever, he said. Then when I shot up a head taller than Merrill, he said that I still ought to give him the preference—in everything, always—because of—”