Authors: Robin Hathaway
Sleight of Hand (15 page)
Dr. March was still in practice, and at the same location. The neighborhood was more run-down than I remembered, but his office was the same. Dr. March had never been one for frills. His waiting room contained a few chairs, probably obtained from the Salvation Army when he had started practice thirty years ago, and the floor was plain cement so it could be mopped down easily each night after his four-legged patients had left. His patients were the same, but their owners had changed. Once Irish and Italian, they were now primarily Asian and Hispanic.
I took a seat next to a Hispanic man with a frisky Lab and placed the cat carrier at my feet. The Asian woman across from me was cuddling a small fuzzy dog of unknown origin. The Hispanic man on my left was having trouble controlling his Lab. I loved Labs. I'd had one when I was a kid. Midnight was her name. I was making friends with the Lab when Dr. March appeared in the doorway. That was another of his quirks: He never stood on ceremony. He had an assistant who helped him with the animals in the back, but no pretty, starched receptionist reigned up front. He greeted his patients himself.
He looked older and grayer, but he had the same kindly expression and air of competence that gave instant reassurance to the anxious owners of sick animals. When his gaze reached me, his face lit up. “Josey! What are you doing here?” (In my distress over the Regina episode, I had forgotten to call ahead.) He came over and gave me a firm handshake.
I nodded at the cat carrier at my feet. He bent to look inside. When he stood, he addressed the others waiting. “I'm afraid I'll have to see to this patient first,” he said. “It's an emergency.”
The other owners nodded gravely. Picking up the carrier, Dr. March ushered me into the back room. He removed Sapphire gently from the carrier and sat her on the scratched and dented metal-topped examining table that I remembered from years ago. It had more scratches and dents now. With deft hands, he felt her throat and abdomen. Then, with a small flashlight, he looked in her eyes and ears. The cat made no protest. “How long has she been like this?”
“About a week.” I felt a sharp pang of guilt for not attending to her sooner.
“How's her appetite?”
“Not good.”
He brought out a syringe and took a blood specimen. Sapphire didn't feel a thing. I wondered why Dr. March had chosen to treat animals instead of people. Without thinking, I asked him. “And don't tell me it's because they don't talk back,” I said.
I expected a jovial response. Instead, he said quietly, “Animals don't let you down.”
I remembered he was a bachelor. Such a kindly, energetic man should have married and had a family. I wondered who had let him down.
“I believe she has a kidney infection.” He stroked her head and back. “I'd like to keep her overnight for observation, make sure the antibiotic is working.”
I thought quickly about whether I could manage another night away from Bayfield. “All right,” I said.
He went to a cabinet, took out a bottle of tablets, and shook two of them into his hand. Sapphire watched him placidly from the table. He forced her mouth open and shoved the tablets down her throat. It looked rough, but it was done with such dexterity the cat barely noticed. I knew I wouldn't be able to do it as well.
A curly-headed assistant in jeans and T-shirt stuck her head in the door. “Need me, Doctor?” she asked.
“Yes.” He introduced Melanie to me and explained Sapphire's condition and medication. She picked up the cat and crooned and petted her as she carried her off.
“How's your practice going, Josey?” He seemed in no hurry to see his waiting patients.
“Okay.” I didn't elaborate. I didn't feel like explaining my exodus to south Jersey. Instead, I asked, “Is it possible for someone to develop an allergy to cats late in life?” My field of expertise was children. I wasn't as well versed in this sort of thing.
“Sure. It happens all the time.”
“Would a cat lover be likely to take a dislike to cats if they developed such an allergy?” I was grabbing at straws.
“I've never heard of that. Most cat lovers keep their cats and put up with the allergy. And, of course, your cat is no stray. You know that, right?”
I looked surprised.
“She's a short-tailed Persian, worth a few thousand. Her owner probably wouldn't part with this kitty for that reason alone.”
My shocked expression prompted him to ask, “Whose cat is she?”
“A friend's.”
He looked quizzical, and I remembered how, when I was a child, he had always sensed when I was upset about somethingâand not just my animals. He had always offered just the right amount of
consolation. But I wasn't a child anymore. When I didn't elaborate, he asked, “How's your Dad?”
consolation. But I wasn't a child anymore. When I didn't elaborate, he asked, “How's your Dad?”
“Good.”
“Still working?”
“Yep.”
“Good for him. It's the only way. I plan to go out with my boots on.”
“You're a long way from that,” I said heartily.
“Great to see you, Josey. You come back tomorrow around nine o'clock and I'll have Sapphire for you. I expect she'll be fine.” He patted my shoulder.
I thanked him profusely.
As I left, I saw him greet the owner of the fuzzy little dog and cradle the animal in his arms. The Lab had settled down and was asleep at his owner's feet.
On the way to the subway, I wondered why, if Sapphire had such an expensive pedigree, Regina hadn't taken the cat with her when she'd left Bayfield.
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Back at the apartment, my extended family was gathered around the television set, watching an old Western starring John Wayne. Lolly was the only one who looked up when I came in.
“Is Sapphire all right?” she asked.
I told her what Dr. March had told me and that we would be staying another night. Dad and Lolly looked happy; Max looked resigned. Lines of pain etched his face. I prepared a morphine shot and gave it to him. I knew he would never ask me for it, but he didn't complain when I gave it to him, either. I decided if his hand wasn't better by the time we returned to Bayfield, I would have to get him to a specialist somehow.
Not in the mood for TV, I went into my bedroom, where I continued to think about Max. There were times when I thought he
trusted meâeven liked me, such as that night when he had suggested we have wine with dinner. But other times, I would catch him staring at me with a look of pure malice. Well, we were bound together for the time being by one of the oldest ties in historyâdoctor and patient. I wasn't going anywhere, and neither was heâat least for the moment.
trusted meâeven liked me, such as that night when he had suggested we have wine with dinner. But other times, I would catch him staring at me with a look of pure malice. Well, we were bound together for the time being by one of the oldest ties in historyâdoctor and patient. I wasn't going anywhere, and neither was heâat least for the moment.
I spied an old Dick Francis novel, a favorite of mine when I was in my teens. I had collected all his books. I settled down on the bed with
Come to Grief
. I was totally caught up in the story, my troubles forgotten momentarily, when I came to a paragraph in which Francis described how the jockey communicates with his horse through his hands. Sid Haley, the jockey hero, could no longer do this. He had lost one hand and had a prosthetic replacement that worked electronically. Horses don't respond well to electronics.
Come to Grief
. I was totally caught up in the story, my troubles forgotten momentarily, when I came to a paragraph in which Francis described how the jockey communicates with his horse through his hands. Sid Haley, the jockey hero, could no longer do this. He had lost one hand and had a prosthetic replacement that worked electronically. Horses don't respond well to electronics.
I closed the book and laid it aside.
Dr. March called early the next morning. His diagnosis had been correct. Sapphire had improved enough for her to travel, and I would be in charge of giving her the antibiotic. Great. We picked her up and headed for the turnpike. Dad had told me about a route to the turnpike that avoided going through Manhattan, and I managed not to get lost this time. Of course, it was daylight, which helped. And Sapphire was feeling better, so she didn't yowl as much. Max dozed, as the result of his medication, and Lolly was preoccupied with looking after her cat. I was relatively free to think during the trip back, for better or worse.
Since the search for Regina had proved futile, I pondered what my next step was going to be. I could try again to persuade Max to take a riskâreveal his identity and have the necessary surgery. But I already knew what his answer would be. And he had a point. Not only was he implicated in Regina's crime but now he was suspected of some connection with the murder of a Mafia counterfeiter.
By the time we reached Bayfield, I was not only depressed but also numb with fatigue. I dropped off my three passengers and returned to the motel. I couldn't face taking the rental car back to
Bridgeton yet. I waved to Maggie, who was covering the front desk, and shot upstairs. My room had never looked so welcoming, with its dark red comforter and cheerful Dufy prints. I shook off my shoes, curled up in the comforter, and fell asleep.
Bridgeton yet. I waved to Maggie, who was covering the front desk, and shot upstairs. My room had never looked so welcoming, with its dark red comforter and cheerful Dufy prints. I shook off my shoes, curled up in the comforter, and fell asleep.
The phone woke me.
Tom. “Two trips to the Big Apple in one week? Are you getting homesick?”
“Uh ⦠how did you know?”
“Maggie. How do you think? Nobody tells me anything.”
“Meaning?”
“You could at least let me know when you leave town.”
“It was an emergency.”
“Your dad?” He was instantly concerned.
“No, not that kind of emergency.”
“I see.” He was offended.
I couldn't deal with him now. “Look, could I call you back?” “Anytime.” He hung up before I could soften my abrupt request.
“Hell.” Me and my double life. It was starting to affect my normal life. Normal life? Ha! Who are you kidding? When have you ever led a normal life? When I was nine, things were pretty normal. That was the year I was almost expelled for throwing a dictionary out of the window and having it land on the principal's head. When asked to explain, I'd said, “I had an impulse.” Poor Dad. He'd had a
tough time talking our way out of that one. The principal, sporting a large bandage on his bald head, had looked at him coldly and said, “You should teach your daughter to control her impulses.” Later, Dad sat me down and told me a story about an impulse he had once hadâand the consequences.
tough time talking our way out of that one. The principal, sporting a large bandage on his bald head, had looked at him coldly and said, “You should teach your daughter to control her impulses.” Later, Dad sat me down and told me a story about an impulse he had once hadâand the consequences.
As a boy, he had lived in the country. There was a quarry nearby where he and his brothers liked to swim. One day, my dad was angry with his brother Mike for something. On an impulse, he held Mike's head under the water for over a minute. He almost drowned. When his brother recovered, his dad didn't punish my dad. He just said, “Think how you'd feel if Mike had died.”
“Could the principal have died?” I'd asked in horror.
“Of course.” Dad had looked at me gravely. “You were very lucky.”
I didn't waste much time worrying about the principal, but I had nightmares for weeks about being locked in a cell on death row. From then on, I controlled my impulsesâmostly.
Sapphire recovered. Max's infection subsided. But the window of time during which he could have corrective surgery was shrinking. It was beginning to look like I would have to take a residency in hand surgery and do the operation myself.
Meanwhile, life went on as usual. I saw patients, had an occasional archery lesson, sometimes followed by lovemaking, and made daily visits to the farmhouse to check on Max and Lolly.
Max kept to himself. Partly because the medication made him sleepy and he dozed in front of the TV. Our encounters were brief. I examined his hand, changed the dressing, and made suggestions regarding his health. I was afraid he might be slipping into a chronic depression. I recommended more exerciseâboth physical and mental. I suggested he take walks around the property. The weather continued to be incredibly beautifulâblue-and-gold days sharp with the smell of wood smoke. Bayfield still allowed wood and leaf burning. The safety frenzy that had swept the country had somehow missed this remote corner of south Jersey. To stimulate Max's mind, I gave him crossword puzzle books and whodunits. But he preferred the hypnotic drone of the boob tube. With an ordinary patient, I would
have called in Social Services. But there was no chance of Max agreeing to that. He needed to keep his identity secret at all costs.
have called in Social Services. But there was no chance of Max agreeing to that. He needed to keep his identity secret at all costs.
Lolly had simple pleasures. She liked to cook, clean, play with her cats, and take long walks. She would often come home bearing bouquets of wildflowers from the fields and fill every available receptacle she could findâbuckets, baskets, bottlesâand set them around the house.
One day, I saw her carrying a bunch of wildflowers
away
from the house,
toward
the woods. Curious, I watched from the kitchen window until she reemerged through the treesâempty-handed. When she came in, I asked, “Where are the flowers?”
away
from the house,
toward
the woods. Curious, I watched from the kitchen window until she reemerged through the treesâempty-handed. When she came in, I asked, “Where are the flowers?”
She frowned, and for the first time, the usually straightforward Lolly was evasive. “I ⦠uh ⦠left them in the woods.”
Intrigued, I said, “It was such a beautiful bunch it seems a shame to let them die. Let's go get them.”
Lolly stood rooted by the refrigerator. “I can pick more,” she said.
My curiosity thoroughly aroused, I grabbed my jacket from the chair and said, “Come on. Let's go. I need some exercise.”
Reluctantly, Lolly followed.
When we reached the edge of the woods, I stepped back to let her lead. She moved slowly, walking with her usual lumbering gait. The leaves crunched under our feet and the rays of the late-afternoon sun glanced through the trees, lighting on a branch here, a rock there. A rabbit darted across our path and some crows squawked angrily above us in a treetop. Lolly trudged on, seemingly unaware of her surroundings. Once she paused and looked back. I waved encouragingly. Again, Lolly frowned but continued on.
Soon we came to a small clearing. In the center was a rock about the size of a football. Next to the rock stood an old whiskey bottle overflowing with flowers. There was no mistaking the site; it was a grave. My first thought was, Lolly's buried one of her cats here. “Who's buried here?” I asked.
Fixing me with her calm gaze, she said, “Mommy.”
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After Lolly spoke, the first sound I noticed was the crows cawing. Their squawks had reached a hysterical pitch, one that exactly matched my thoughts and feelings. I started to cover my ears but realized that would do no good, because the sound was inside my head. I grabbed Lolly's hand and said, “Let's get out of here.”
I half-pulled her through the woods, stumbling over rocks and dead branches, until we came out into the sunlight. I hurried her across the field and didn't slow down until we reached the house. We were both panting as we came into the kitchen. Max was eating a sandwich at the table. He looked up. “Where have you been?”
Lolly was about to tell him, but I jumped in first. “We took a walk,” I said. “It's such a beautiful day. You should try it.”
He went back to his sandwich. I saw the loaf of bread and a knife lying on the table and wondered how he had cut it. “I'd better be going,” I said. I did have patients to see.
Max grunted. Lolly was silent.
I worried that she would tell Max where we had been as soon as I left. But there was nothing I could do about that. As I trolled down the drive, I glanced across the field. The sinking sun had struck the woods, and the trees looked on fire.
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