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Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: The Doctor Makes a Dollhouse Call
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M
rs. Doyle shepherded her band of students into the rented van and they all settled back to enjoy the scenery. It was the second Saturday in December and by some miracle all the members of the karate class had been able to adjust their Christmas shopping schedules to make the trip to Seacrest. Horatio's help had also been enlisted. He had rolled up the mats and tied them to the luggage rack on top of the van. As a reward, he had been invited to see the performance. As he sat huddled in the backseat, as far away from the cackling women as possible, he had mixed feelings about the invitation. Dr. Fenimore was at the wheel.
“Now, Amelia …” Mrs. Doyle had arranged to sit next to her prize pupil in order to give her some final instructions. “Be careful with your karate chop, we don't want to hospitalize any of the ladies right before Christmas.”
“I've never been to the Shore in December,” said Mabel Parsons.
“You won't catch her taking a swim, I'll bet,” said another octogenarian.
“Why not?” retorted Amelia. “When my husband and I were younger we belonged to the Polar Bear Club and went in the surf every January.”
“Brrrr,” said Mrs. Doyle. “Better you than me.”
Fenimore found driving an unfamiliar vehicle arduous, especially to the background noise of the ladies' endless chatter. Reminding himself that it was for a good cause, he gritted his teeth and concentrated on the road ahead. Fortunately, in December, the road to the Shore had very little traffic.
“Oh, look, Kathleen! There's a scarecrow.”
Mrs. Doyle looked out her window. Sure enough, a jaunty scarecrow stood guard over a desolate field of withered corn stalks.
“He looks just like Horatio!” someone cried.
Shrieks of laughter greeted this pronouncement.
If the van window had not been sealed shut, Horatio would have jumped out then and there.
Fenimore sincerely hoped that the Pancoast sisters appreciated the sacrifice he was making on their behalf.
 
As they pulled up to the Victorian mansion, it began to rain. This was a cause of consternation to the party. Mrs. Doyle had planned to present her performance outside on the front lawn.
“What on earth shall we do?” she whispered over Fenimore's shoulder.
“Don't panic. The Pancoasts' dining room is big enough to accomodate a Flyers game. With a little shuffling of furniture, we'll manage.”
 
 
“Here they come, Emily!” Judith called her sister to the front window. Emily, ensconced in a wheelchair, rolled forward. Fenimore had called the night before to alert them to the impending invasion.
“What pretty sweat suits,” Judith observed as the ladies descended from the van in varying shades of pastel pink, blue, yellow, and green. “They look like a bunch of Easter eggs.”
“That would make Dr. Fenimore the Easter Bunny,” commented Emily dryly.
With Horatio's help, moving the dining room furniture against the wall was easy. The only problem was the china closet. Mrs. Doyle was afraid one of the performers might strike the glass and shatter its priceless contents. Horatio finally solved this problem by tying two wrestling mats over the front of the closet.
At last they were ready to begin. Folding chairs had been erected around the periphery of the room for the audience, which consisted of Judith, Emily, Edgar, Marie, Susanne, and Mildred. Adam and the children were expected to join them later, in time for the finale. Carrie and her little charges had also been invited. Mrs. Doyle had even provided a small tape recorder to play music during the program. It alternated between brisk Sousa marches and soothing Strauss waltzes.
As the music started up, the ladies were all crowded into the kitchen giggling in anticipation of their first performance. They had shed their pastel-colored sweat suits to reveal bright red body suits and leotards, cinched at the waist with their idea of the prestigious “black belt.” As the first group of five ladies
paraded into the dining room to the beat of “The Washington Post March,” Dr. Fenimore knew he had come up with the right tonic for his depressed friends. He glanced over at Horatio. The boy's dark face had deepened a few shades and he was viciously biting his lip. Fenimore prayed this self-inflicted pain would prevent him from erupting into an embarrassing guffaw.
The karate experts lined up in five rows of five each and began their maneuvers. Shaking their fists first to the right, then to the left, they punctuated each move with staccato shouts. The kicks were next, aimed at the audience and accompanied by more shouts. Originally, Fenimore had thought of these women as sort of senior Rockettes. But that image quickly faded. There was nothing merry and bright about these performers. They were in deadly earnest. Their enemies had better watch out.
 
Refreshments were served after the performance. The ladies had all showered and changed back into their colorful pant suits. Seated in the parlor, balancing their teacups and taking dainty bites of pastries, no one would have suspected them of being able to fend off the fiercest attackers on a dark street corner.
Fenimore set about the other task for which he had come to Seacrest—testing Emily's pacemaker. He had brought the programmer. He unzipped the plastic case and took it out, along with the instruction manual (in case he forgot how it worked). The programmer resembled a laptop computer, but a little larger. Several people gathered around to look—Adam, Susanne,
Carrie, Horatio, and a few of the younger children.
“How does it work?” asked Carrie.
Fenimore explained that he programmed the pacemaker to take over Emily's heartbeat if her natural pacemaker failed. To prevent her from becoming dizzy her heart must beat at a rate above fifty-five beats per minute. If it dropped below that, not enough blood would get to her head or other parts of her body, and she would become dizzy or faint.
Mildred wandered over holding the cell phone she seemed never to be without.
“Hey, keep that phone away from here,” Fenimore warned. “They've been known to interfere with pacemakers,” he said sternly.
Mildred moved away, looking hurt.
As Fenimore beckoned to Emily, he noticed Carrie and Horatio hovering awkwardly in the background. Why not invite them to watch?
“Would you mind if Carrie and Horatio look on?” he asked Emily.
“Heavens no.”
“You two wait here until I call you,” he said, and pushed Emily in her wheelchair to the privacy of the library.
Fenimore quickly attached three electrodes to Emily's chest and waited while she rebuttoned her blouse. “Come in you two scientists,” he called. He lifted the lid of the programmer and the screen glowed amber.
As he adjusted the settings, Emily asked the teenagers, “How would you like to have your life depend on a metal gizmo no bigger than a half dollar?”
“Not much,” Horatio said honestly.
Carrie nodded in agreement.
The three watched the screen intently.
“Is everything in order, Doctor?” asked Emily.
Fenimore nodded. “Everything's perfect,” he said. “You'll probably be around for another hundred years.”
“I hope not.” Emily laughed.
As they were leaving the room, Horatio hung back. “What's that?” He pointed to a small box next to Emily's telephone. Carrie lingered too.
“That's a telephone transmitter. Emily wets the index finger of each hand—”
“Sometimes I just stick them in my mouth,” Emily said with a twinkle.
“—and inserts each finger into a special ring. Each ring is attached to a lead that, in turn, is plugged into the transmitter. When Emily punches in the pacemaker company's eight-hundred number, her electrocardiogram is sent to them like a fax. The company checks it out every three months to make sure her pacemaker is working.”
 
An hour later the ladies had said their good-byes and were safely packed in the van. Fenimore was about to get in when he remembered Horatio. The last time he had seen him, the boy was tying the mats to the luggage rack. Now there was no sign of him. Fenimore asked everyone, and finally Amelia Dunwoody said she thought she had seen him heading toward the beach.
Fenimore hurried that way. The beach was about a hundred
yards below the back of the Pancoast house and he had to climb through prickly underbrush and over heavy sand dunes to reach it. His oxfords were not made for that kind of excursion. He slipped and slid and the sand poured into his shoes. “Darn that kid,” he muttered as he came out onto the beach. It was deserted except for a small figure standing by the water's edge.
Fenimore began hallooing and waving his arms.
Horatio looked up. Slowly he started toward him.
“We're leaving. I couldn't find you,” Fenimore complained as the boy drew near.
“I never saw it before,” Horatio said.
“What?”
“The ocean.”
“Oh.” Fenimore was thoughtful as he followed the boy back to the van.
It wasn't until Fenimore was turning into Spruce Street that he remembered the programmer. In all the excitement he had left it behind.
F
enimore had been asleep no more than an hour when he was awakened by the doorbell. He entered the vestibule cautiously and peered through the frosted glass of the front door. (One night he had opened the door too quickly and been attacked by two thugs.) Horatio peered back. Hadn't he just said good night to that kid?
“It's my mom. She's sick.”
He let him in. “I'll get my instruments.”
“No briefcase.”
Fenimore went to the kitchen and reached behind the refrigerator, where he kept a supply of grocery sacks. While transferring his things from his briefcase to the sack he questioned Horatio.
“What's wrong with her?”
“This morning she just had a bad cold. But tonight, when I got home, she could hardly breathe.”
“Why didn't you call nine-one-one?” He was alarmed.
“No way. They won't come to our neighborhood.” Horatio danced from one foot to the other. “I shouldn't of left her for so long.”
With a twinge, Fenimore realized he was to blame. If he hadn't dragged Horatio to Seacrest, the boy would have been home much earlier. Into the paper bag, Fenimore dumped stethoscope, blood pressure cuff, sterile cotton balls, syringes, a vial of penicillin, tongue blades, a bottle of alcohol, a thermometer, and a collection of samples of pills. “Let's go.”
Horatio glanced at Fenimore's bare feet.
“Wait a minute.” The doctor pattered up the stairs and returned in a few minutes, fully dressed.
Horatio ran out ahead of him. As he locked the front door, Fenimore said, “My car's over there.”
“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 something?”
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.

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