Flash and Filigree (2 page)

“With a what?” asked the Doctor, frowning.

“A Band-Aid,” replied the young man easily. “You know, a small adhesive compress. I’d been carrying a pack since the earlier treatments.”

“Yes, I see,” said the Doctor.

“And so . . .” Mr. Treevly shrugged. “
I
went on about my own affairs. Didn’t pay the slightest attention to it, not the
slightest.
In fact, I didn’t see it again for another long period—about four months, actually. It was covered with the compress, which I managed to keep out of the water so it wouldn’t come off when I was taking a bath. Then I had a look, quite by accident as a matter of fact, when the compress finally
did
slip off as I was dressing. Two weeks ago. That’s when I made the appointment. I told the girl—your secretary, I suppose—that it wasn’t urgent, and she suggested this date. At the time, I didn’t realize it was so far ahead, but she said you were very busy. So
I
took the first date she suggested, without really realizing, you see, how far
ahead
it was. I had a look at the lesion this morning. It seems completely healed over.”

Then Mr. Treevly leaned forward. “I’ll just show you,” he said, and raised his eyes to poise a look, almost of challenge, at the Doctor.

Dr. Eichner didn’t move for a moment, his head resting on his hand. “Yes,” he said finally, getting to his feet. “Yes. If you’ll . . . just step over here to the light—perhaps you’d better lie on that couch . . .”

Mr. Treevly quickly removed his shoes and trousers and lay down on the low brown leather sofa where he seemed to hold himself rather stiffly, staring at the ceiling like a man in a trance. Dr. Eichner examined the lesion. On the inner side of the left calf, quite near the knee, was a little region of very slight redness, the skin almost imperceptibly drawn toward the trace of a small flat scar. The Doctor touched it with one finger, then with several outstretched, gently pressing the surrounding area. It seemed to have healed completely.

After a moment or so he straightened up slowly and crossed the room to the high polished metal lavatory there.

“Yes,” he said, speaking over his shoulder, in a voice that seemed somehow strained, “I don’t think you have anything to worry about. It’s clearing up nicely.”

Mr. Treevly was sitting on the edge of the sofa, bending over, putting on his shoes, when the Doctor crossed the room again, pausing just momentarily at his desk where he picked up a cupped onyx paperweight holding a few clips and rubber bands. He emptied these onto the desk and walked toward the sofa, taking out his handkerchief as he did and wrapping it around the colored stone.

“Well, I thought as much,” said the young man with what sounded like a chuckle, distant, head bent, fingers working at the lace, “. . . but
I
always say it’s better to play safe in matters like this.”

“Yes, of course,” said the Doctor and, as he spoke, standing very close, he brought the padded weight down sharply across the back of the young man’s skull.

Mr. Treevly crumpled, but before he could slip to the floor, Dr. Eichner pushed him back onto the sofa. Then he walked rapidly to his desk, undoing the handkerchief from the paperweight and replacing it, with the clips and rubber bands, on the desk. He sat down, took a sheet of memo-paper and his pen.

You are lying,
he wrote.
You are a psychopathic liar. If you ever come back here, I will turn you over to the police. I warn you: stay away, and leave me alone; or you will find yourself in very serious trouble
—

At that instant the inter-office phone rang. Dr. Eichner started, crumpled the paper and threw it in the waste basket. He picked up the phone immediately. “Yes?” He was almost shouting. “What?
No.
No, Miss Smart; now listen to me: there’s a stretcher-case in my office. I want him taken to one of the day-rooms in the West Wing. He’ll come around soon; he’s intoxicated. Do you understand? And have my car sent. Yes, right away; I’m going home. Yes, of course, cancel them! Have the car sent round now.
Yes, yes, at once!
”

“D
AFFYS WILL DO
for Harrison if it’s really going to
spoil
anything.” Barbara Mintner spoke brightly from the day-room window, leaning out with a smile for one last press of the sill against her trim abdomen.

Just below, puttering in the strip of turned soil, Garcia raised his dark face to hers and again she was standing straight and proper, her slight figure starched a delicate confectionery in fresh nurse’s habit, framed a merciless white, indomitable, against the mauve gray of the day-room walls.

“We see,” said the Mexican gardener, trying to smile a little.

“Garcia,
please,
” said Miss Mintner in her child’s voice, pouting her lips at him, then coming forward on die sill again all confidence and animation. “She’s going Sunday. It’s true this time!”

Garcia turned away, vague in disbelief and calculation, his lips pursed in a whisper of Spanish. “Two day,” he said coming back to her.

Barbara Mintner was ready to clap her hands. “Dr. Warner said so this morning! Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Yes, he say that about everyone,” said the gardener without smiling.

“But it’s true this time, Garcia,” Miss Mintner pouting, almost pleading, “it really is! And wouldn’t it be a shame not to have them on the last two days, after doing it all along!”

“Three day,” said Garcia, “three day, count today.”

“All right, silly, three days. Please try! It doesn’t have to be freesias for Harrison, but
please
get the roses. Remember, just two more days!”

“Two day,” said the gardener shaking his head, looking back down to where his hand turned the dark loam with a trowel.

Before Barbara Mintner could follow it up, the West Hall door sounded opening, and swift creped-steps could be heard in the corridor outside the day-room wall.

“Please, Garcia,” she said quickly, making her voice a stage whisper, “you
won’t
be sorry, I promise you.” And she brought the two paneled-windows in slowly, smiling a secret at him as he watched from below, herself now on tip-toe, leaning forward slightly, the motion timed so that she was just closing the latch when Head Nurse Eleanor Thorne swung the day-room door open.

“And what’s Mister Garcia up to now?” said Nurse Thorne taking it all in without breaking her stride before she reached the center of the room.

“Oh, he’s such a baby,” said Barbara Mintner turning to half face her. “Afraid someone’s going to spoil his precious playthings.”

Eleanor Thorne scoffed. “I dare say. I’m only too glad you didn’t say
work
things!”

The soft brilliance of the Pacific morning lay behind Barbara Mintner and etched a golden haze along the proud lines of her head and shoulders.

“Your hair is quite nice that way,” said Eleanor Thorne abruptly and, quickly rushing on with a gesture toward the low leather couch where Mr. Treevly lay: “How is he?”

“He’s coming around,” said Miss Mintner, “while ago his respiration—” and even as she pronounced the word, Mr. Treevly raised his head, then lowered it again very slowly.

“Feeling better?” said Nurse Thorne, walking briskly toward his couch against the far wall.

“It’s my head,” said Mr. Treevly, passing a hand over his closed eyes.

Near the window, Barbara Mintner muffled a snicker.

“I shouldn’t wonder,” said Nurse Thorne archly, after throwing a sharp glance at Miss Mintner.

“I’m going to lunch now,” she continued to the girl, turning and stepping precisely past her. “I’ll stop at the Dispensary and have Albert bring over some bromide. I’m going to the cafeteria, and then to Bullock’s . . .” She finished in a masculine tone over her shoulder in the open door: “If the bromide doesn’t bring it off, give him a sodo-injection. Two c.c.’s. I’ll be back at 12:20.”

“Yes, Miss Thorne,” said Babs Mintner, lowering her eyes as if she had been painfully kissed.

Mr. Treevly half rose as the door closed behind Eleanor Thorne. “What is it?” he said. His voice was strained and feeble, as though it hurt him to speak. “What’s up?” And now, he seemed to take account of his surroundings for the first time.

“It’s all right,” sighed Miss Mintner, “you just lie back and rest a few minutes. Everything is all right.” She continued to look out of the window, across the rolling lawn and through the trees beyond. She hummed softly to herself.

Mr. Treevly slowly pulled himself up, sat on the edge of the couch, his face in his hands. Suddenly he lurched forward, getting to his feet, then fell back bodily onto the couch, catching himself with one hand.

“Where is the Doctor?” he cried. “Where is Dr. Eichner? What
happened
?”

Miss Mintner gave a start, involuntarily shrank back toward the window; then, as quickly, she crossed the room to his couch.

“Now, please,” she was firm, “please lie
quietly.
Everything is all right.” She put her hands on both his shoulders and pushed down on him. Mr. Treevly resisted.

“What’s the matter?” he repeated, looking around rather wildly. “Where is the Doctor?”

“Nothing’s the matter,” Miss Mintner shrilled. “Now
please
lie back! I’m going to give you something and you’ll be perfectly all right.” She looked anxiously toward the door, speaking half aloud. “Oh, where is that
boy
?”

Mr. Treevly shook her away violently. “What’s going on here?” he cried. “What’s up!” There seemed to be pain and a certain desperation in his voice.

Miss Mintner dropped her hands and stepped back abruptly, so angry she could cry.

“Nothing happened I tell you! You had too-much-to-drink and now you’re acting like a baby!” Then in a burst of indignation, she came forward, cross enough with herself to slap him, and began to push on his shoulders again. But her anger was spent in the gesture and there only remained a tearful petulance. “Please lie back!” she said.
“Please.”
She drew the word out in a sob.

Mr. Treevly made an odd grimace, felt his head with outstretched fingers, then closed his eyes and lay back, one hand to his brow.

Barbara Mintner sighed, not quite audibly, touched her hair and dabbed lightly at her moist temples. Suddenly she shot a fearful glance to the window where she had whispered with Garcia. She moved as if to determine whether or not he was there now, listening.

“Is this the Hauptman Clinic?” asked Mr. Treevly without raising his head.

Miss Mintner stopped, stood looking at him from mid-floor. “Yes,” she answered, as caution and uneasiness crept back into her face.

“I’m a patient of Dr. Eichner,” said the young man evenly.

“Yes, that’s right,” said Miss Mintner. She glanced at the door. “Where
is
that little fool!” she said under her breath.

Mr. Treevly raised his head, his eyes open wide. “You know then?” He had risen to one elbow.

“Yes, of course,” said Miss Mintner moving toward him, and again as if to prevent his getting off the couch, she put one hand on his shoulder. “Now please . . .” she said in the tone she had used with the gardener. “Please lie back!”

Mr. Treevly shook her off. “Where is the Doctor?” he demanded. “What’s up?”

“He isn’t here,” she cried irately. “I’ve told you that!”

“This isn’t his office!” Treevly said sharp, looking at her with such wild accusation, she could have surely thought him insane.

Miss Mintner started for the door, and stopped short. “Really,” she said, turning suddenly in tears at the unfairness of it, “I’ve never seen anything like it. You’re a bundle of never-ends! A person would think you’d been taking Benzedrine, instead of . . . instead of . . .
whiskey . . .
and goodness knows what else!” she added with forced contempt, her hand just touching the knob of the door as Mr. Treevly slumped back to a lying position on the couch, his hands covering his face.

Standing at the door in silence, putting a handkerchief to her soft wet eyes, she watched him narrowly. “I don’t care,” she said half-aloud in bitterness, “it just isn’t fair!”

On the couch, Mr. Treevly groaned painfully.

And watching his helplessness now, Miss Mintner began to feel herself once more at the helm of the situation. She eased toward him from the door, still clutching the small handkerchief in her hand. When she was quite near the couch, Mr. Treevly spoke in a broken whisper. “Something is wrong, do you understand? I have a pain in my head. Would you please tell me where Dr. Frederick Eichner is?”

Miss Mintner drew herself up. “Dr. Eichner has gone home,” she said imperiously. “He left full instructions about you, and if you will just lie quietly until the ward-boy comes from the Dispensary with something to make you feel a lot better . . .”

“Gone
home
!” cried Treevly bolting upright. “What do you mean gone home? What
time
is it?” He got to his feet unsteadily, warding her off with his hand. “What time is it?” he demanded.

“Listen,” said Miss Mintner in an outraged girlish threat,
“I told you . . .”

“What time is it!” Mr. Treevly shouted.

Miss Mintner’s face grew scarlet; she looked as if she were going to burst. Then she turned on her heel and walked straight to the door. “All right! All right, if you won’t co-operate . . . then do what you want to!” She flung open the door and turned to face him, her great eyes terrible now, blinded with tears and rage.
“Goddamn you!”
she said and slammed the door behind her.

In the hall however, standing with the door behind her, she dropped her face in her hands. Her slight shoulders bunched and shaking with dry sobs, she leaned back against the door. Then, an extraordinary thing happened. The door, although she had violently slammed it shut behind her, had failed to catch, and had, in fact, by the force of the slamming, rebounded to a quarter-open position; so that the girl now, having already through sightless anguish improperly reckoned the distance between herself and the door, came tumbling backward into the day-room.