“Daddy’s in the parlor,” she said.
Parlor? Did they still have such things? Only in Bayfield.
She led me into a dim room full of musty, dead air—a sign of long disuse. My patient was sprawled on a stiff rose-colored sofa, looking very uncomfortable. As I drew near, I saw the revolver nestled between his thigh and the back of the sofa. I thought of asking him if he’d heard about the body down the road, then decided against it. Things were complicated enough. Instead, I nodded at the gun and said, “Wouldn’t it be safer to have a watchdog than a gun?”
“Lolly’s afraid of dogs. A German shepherd bit her once.”
“Oh.” So that was that. I changed the subject. “How’re you doing?”
He frowned. “Let’s get going.”
“Daddy, can I help?” Lolly asked.
“Ask the doctor,” he grunted.
Lolly looked at me eagerly.
“We’ll see,” I said. I gave Max a Valium. He eyed it suspiciously.
“It won’t knock you out,” I assured him. “Just dull the pain.”
He swallowed it.
I asked Lolly to show me the kitchen. During my jaunt to the hospital, I had decided the kitchen would make a better operating room than the barn. Lolly led me to a large room at the back of the house. I halted on the threshold. This kitchen had not been renovated for over a hundred years. Under one window there was a cast-iron sink and against a wall stood a gas stove that I’d seen only in old movies. The most modern appliance was the refrigerator, and it was a fifties model that groaned like one of my arthritic patients. The shit brown linoleum was cracked and peeling and the wallpaper was stained from years of leaks, and discolored by smoke, probably from an even earlier woodstove. In the center of the room was a large oak table, battered and scarred. My operating table. The only available light came from the two windows and a small bulb over the sink. I would have to remedy that!
Suddenly, I realized Lolly and I were not alone. Gradually, numerous pairs of eyes—amber, emerald, and gold—emerged from the gloom. Under the table, on the windowsills, even on top of the refrigerator. “Oh my god! Get them out of here!” I cried.
“Scat! Scat!” Lolly cried, charging forward, waving her arms.
There was a cacophony of mews as the cats leaped from their various thrones and perches and scattered in all directions. When the room was finally cleared, I told Lolly I would need more light. Once again, she sprang into action. Lolly might have been slow of mind, but she could follow simple directions. She quickly produced two rickety standing lamps and a reconverted oil lamp with a ruby shade. After an extension cord was found, with Max’s help, the lamps plugged in, and their shades removed, I decided there was enough illumination to operate. Next step: sanitation.
It could be worse, I thought. At least there was electricity and hot and cold running water. What if I’d had to draw water from a well, boil it on a woodstove, and operate by kerosene lamps—or candlelight? Count your blessings! I told myself grimly. And the place wasn’t that dirty. Despite the cats, it didn’t smell catty. There was no decaying food lying around, and the floor looked as if it had been recently washed and swept. Was that Lolly’s work? And I hadn’t spied a single cockroach—yet. Actually, the inside of the refrigerator was in about the same condition as my own. Wilted lettuce, a decomposing peach, and a half-empty can of tuna were the only contents.
I called for rags, a bucket, and disinfectant—ammonia or Clorox—all of which Lolly instantly produced. Together, we scrubbed the table until our knuckles were raw. Satisfied, I set about boiling water in a kettle and submerged my instruments. When I decided they were sterile, I removed them with a pair of metal tongs originally intended for plucking up hot dogs or asparagus spears—I had sterilized the tongs in another pot.
I had to admit Lolly was helpful. Despite her mental deficiencies (the result of Down syndrome, I had diagnosed), she followed simple orders easily and—more important—didn’t charge in and do anything on her own. I decided I could trust her to assist me. “Do you have a clean apron?” I asked.
She promptly produced one from a drawer.
“Put it on,” I said, “and tie back your hair.”
She obeyed both orders without question.
“Here.” I handed her a plastic package containing a pair of sterile surgical gloves. “Wash your hands six times and put these on.”
“Six?” It was the first time she’d questioned me.
“Six,” I repeated sternly.
When she was done, I did the same.
It was time to retrieve my patient. I found him dozing on the sofa. The shock of the accident and the sedative I’d given him had taken their toll. But when I drew near, he stirred.
“It’s time,” I spoke softly.
He blinked.
“Can you roll up your sleeve?” I asked.
He did so, staring at the syringe in my hand.
“This is Xylocaine—the local anesthetic you asked for,” I said. “It will take effect in about five minutes.” I inserted the needle and administered the dose.
With his good hand, Max reached for his gun. But this didn’t bother me. I was sure he wouldn’t shoot either Lolly or me—at least until after the operation.
CHAPTER 8
As I approached the makeshift operating table, I knew my skills were not equal to this undertaking. I needed some magic, luck, or a miracle to get me through—or maybe some of all three. I crossed my fingers, knocked my knuckles against the wooden table, and said a prayer: “God, help me, please.”
I glanced at the clock. Almost noon. No reason to delay any longer. I tore open a package containing a sterile gauze pad, drenched it with disinfectant, and swabbed my patient’s wounded fingers. When this was done, I turned to Bunnell’s intricate drawing of the right hand, which I had propped against the lamp on my right, and picked up a scalpel.
Max drew a sharp breath and closed his eyes.
“It won’t hurt, Daddy,” Lolly assured him. “If it does, I’ll kiss it and make it well.”
“Thanks,” he said, and I went to work.
I was intent on suturing the stump of the first finger when I heard Lolly gasp.
I looked up, to see a tawny cat emerging from behind the refrigerator. She had probably been asleep and we’d missed her.
“Get her out of here!” Max muttered.
Lolly started toward her, but I stopped her. “Don’t touch her! You’ll be contaminated and won’t be able to help me.” She had proved to be a big help, passing me new instruments, taking the old ones. I needed her. As we watched, the cat strolled toward the table and leaped neatly onto the far end.
“I’ll take care of her.” Max raised the revolver he had been cradling in his lap throughout the operation.
“No!” Lolly and I screamed together.
“That’s Sapphire—Mommy’s favorite,” Lolly whimpered.
“Don’t upset Lolly,” I said. “If you do, she won’t be able to help me.”
The cat sat demurely on the end of the table, cleaning first one paw, then the other. Despite the emergency, I thought fleetingly how well cats get along without fingers, let alone an opposable thumb. Frantically, I racked my brain for some other way to get rid of her.
“Didn’t I see some tuna in the fridge?” I asked.
Lolly’s face brightened.
“Try to pick up some tuna with the tongs and carry it to the door.”
She was already at the sink, proving that heavy people can be quick on their feet. Picking up the tongs, she grabbed a chunk of tuna from the can in the fridge. Meanwhile, I concentrated on trying to keep Sapphire from entering the operating zone by giving her a fierce glare. She ignored me, absorbed in her toilet, but she didn’t venture any nearer. As Lolly made her way to the door, she paused to give the cat a whiff of the tuna. It worked. Sapphire dropped lightly to the floor and followed her. Lolly fumbled a little with the doorknob, but it finally turned.
“Quick!” I y
elled, afraid the rest of the cats would pile in as she let Sapphire out. But Lolly was fast. She dumped the tuna outside the door, and Sapphire darted after it. When Lolly slammed the door, the three humans left behind breathed a common sigh of relief. Now the only problem was Lolly’s gloves. They were contaminated. I told her to take them off, leave them in the sink, then get a sterile pair from my bag and put them on. This all took time. I glanced at the clock. Ten minutes had passed since we’d spied the cat. I eyed my patient warily. Was the Xylocaine wearing off? His expression remained sullen, but pain-free. I returned to suturing his finger. I worked as fast as I could, knowing that I still had another finger to go, and I wasn’t sure exactly how long the effects of the Xylocaine would last.
As I started on the second finger, I heard mewing and scratching at the kitchen door. I ignored it, but the others heard it, too. Max reached for his gun.
“Forget them,” I snapped. “They won’t bother us as long as the door’s shut.” Doubling my efforts, I worked quickly and silently, apart from an occasional request for Lolly to get the iris scissors or more suturing material. When I finally tied the last suture, I glanced at the clock. An hour had passed. An ER surgeon could have done what I’d done in ten minutes. I looked at my patient. He was paler than before I’d started, but he was holding his own. I dressed the fingers and pulled a sling from my bag—some of the booty I’d smuggled from the supply closet. When it was snugly fitted over his shoulder and the injured hand was resting comfortably on a splint, I helped him to rise. He wobbled a bit, but Lolly and I managed to guide him back to the sofa in the parlor. He left the gun behind on the kitchen chair.
When he was stretched out, Lolly brought a pillow for his head and carefully spread a multicolored afghan over his feet and legs. “I’ll get your slippers,” she murmured, and disappeared.
“You must rest now,” I said.
He nodded, and for the first time I discerned a difference in his expression. Hostility had relaxed into something softer. Not gratitude exactly, but at least … acceptance. I brought him a glass of water and two tablets. As usual, he looked at them suspiciously.
“They’ll help the pain when the anesthetic wears off,” I explained.
He swallowed them, lay back, and closed his eyes. But as I was turning to leave, he sat up. “Don’t get any ideas,” he said. “My promise still stands. If you try anything, I’ll …” He scrabbled around the sofa with his good hand. “Where’s—”
“In the kitchen, where you left it. I’ll keep it safe until you’re well.”
We glared at each other in silence until Lolly bustled in with the slippers and a book. “Do you want me to read you a bedtime story, Daddy?”
The tension dissolved. “No, honey. I just want to go to sleep.”
She bent and kissed him on the forehead.
CHAPTER 9
The first thing I did when I returned to the kitchen was check out the gun. Following professional crime-scene procedure (although there had been no crime, at least none that I knew of), I donned a pair of my surgical gloves before touching it. All six chambers were loaded. When had he filled the empty chamber? While I was at the hospital? It couldn’t have been easy for him. I visualized him, dizzy with pain, struggling to load the gun with one hand. Or had there been three empty chambers? One left by the bullet he’d fired at the barn roof to scare me, and two left by the bullets he’d put into that fellow down the road? A tremor ran through me. I had to know. I went back to the parlor.
He had been dozing, but he woke with a start when I came in.
“When did you reload your gun?” I asked pleasantly.
He blinked, then studied me thoughtfully. “I trust you didn’t spoil the fingerprints.”
“I’ll return it when your hand has healed.”
“When hell freezes over.”
His confidence in me was overwhelming. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“What makes you think I reloaded it?”
“Who else?”
He glanced at Lolly, who had followed me into the room.
“You didn’t …”
“I told you. She’s not as dumb as she looks.”
“I wish you wouldn’t—”
“You’re afraid I’ll hurt her self-esteem?” He winked at his daughter. “We don’t go in for all that psychobabble, do we, baby?”
“Uh-uh.” She shook her head and grinned.
The exchange had exhausted him. He slumped back against the sofa. Lolly and I returned to the kitchen.
I stared at the gun on the kitchen table. What to do with it? I sat down to think. I couldn’t leave it there. But I didn’t want to carry a loaded gun around with me. And I didn’t know how to unload it. Lolly was watching me.
I reached for the tea towel that my surgical instruments had rested on during the operation and wrapped it carefully around the gun. Then I shoved it into my backpack. The risk was minimal. If I kept within the speed limit and avoided potholes, it probably wouldn’t go off. I would keep it in my bureau drawer until further notice. If I really needed a background check on Max, I could always take the gun to the police and they could lift his prints and run them through the national database. If he had a previous record—bingo—I’d find out immediately. How I would explain my possession of the gun was the least of my worries.
Silently, the cats had resumed their posts. “Let’s go,” I told Lolly. Together, we dismantled the operating room under their watchful gaze.
“How many cats do you have?” I asked as I scrubbed spots of her father’s blood from the oak table.
“Twelve.”
“Holy mackerel! Do they all have names?”
Setting a bucket of soapy water laced with Clorox at my feet, she said. “My mommy named them for jewels. She loved jewelry. That’s Sapphire—and Ruby—and Amber … .” She pointed out each cat as she gave me its name. “And there’s Emmy on the windowsill. That’s short for Emerald. And Di is over by the stove. Di is for Diamond. And there’s Lappy—with the dark blue eyes—on top of the refrigerator. Lappy’s short for lapis lazylee.”
“Lazuli,” I said, correcting her. “Where did they all come from?” I picked up the mop and dunked it in the bucket.
Lolly shrugged her big shoulders. “People dump them on the road when they don’t want them anymore. Then they come up to our house looking for food.”
I grimaced at the heartlessness of people.
When the kitchen finally looked like its former self, I dropped onto one of the wooden chairs, my head in my hands. I had never been so tired. Not as a resident. Not even as an intern. Without my asking, Lolly brought me a cup of tea.
“Thanks.” I looked up at her. “Not just for the tea but for all your help. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
She beamed and plopped on the chair across from me.
Although it was against my principles to interrogate children about their parents, Lolly wasn’t strictly a child. She fell into a special category. I decided to bend the rules.
“Where is your mother now?” I asked.
Her bland, contented face became a sullen mask.
“Has she been gone long?”
No answer.
“Did your mom and dad have a fight?”
She squirmed in her chair, a sure sign that the subject made her uncomfortable. I gave up. When I finished my tea, I said, “I have to go now. I need to see some other patients. But I’ll be back tonight to check on your dad. Meanwhile, it’s up to you to take care of him.”
“Oh, I will.”
“I know you will, Lolly.” I picked up my bag. “He’ll probably sleep all afternoon, but if he wakes up, give him some tea and … some toast, if he wants it.”
She listened to my words as if her life depended on them.
“And if he complains of pain, give him these.” I drew a bottle from my bag and spilled two tablets of Percocet on the table.
Always the perfect hostess, Lolly followed me to the back door and saw me out. She waved as I boarded my bike. The last I saw of her, she was plodding down the drive toward the mailbox.
As my fatigue began to wear off, my mind started to work again, and the thoughts it churned up were not pleasant. They were mostly medically oriented. I buried the criminal aspects of the case. I would dig them up later and examine them. I knew my limitations. I could handle only one thing at a time.
The operation was just the beginning. Now I had to deal with the postop period—keep the hand free of infection and pray that regeneration wouldn’t occur. Preventing infection would be relatively easy if I was careful with the dressings and Max didn’t do something stupid—like take a shower without waterproofing his hand. But the second danger was out of my control. If the neuroma nerve of his index finger—on the side next to his thumb—decided to regenerate, it could ball up, become rigid, and destroy his pinching mechanism—the single most important function of the human hand. The one that lifts us a notch above the rest of the animal kingdom. The most important stage in an infant’s development—the ability to grasp. I should know. Once upon a time I was a pediatrician, I thought ruefully. Also, regeneration is extremely painful.
As I pedaled my bike, I suddenly became aware of my right hand, the way Lucy, of “Peanuts” fame, one day became aware of her tongue. That was all she could think about: tongue, tongue, tongue. At present, all my right hand was doing was lightly gripping the handlebar—and occasionally, when I applied a little pressure, steering the nose of my bike. I began to think of all the other things my right hand could do. Like signaling a turn, adjusting the straps on my straw basket, and, most important, giving the guy who cut in front of me the finger. Others came flooding in:
tie a shoe,
Sleight of Hand Page 3