The Lady and Her Doctor (12 page)

“I'm sorry, Doctor. Sir, I just got my Irish up thinking of what I went through here, but I shouldn't get mad, should I?”

“Not with all that blubber you're carrying around; as a physician I can tell you that!”

“I shouldn't have talked like that. Excuse me.” She began to whisper again. “Doctor, excuse me if this is fresh, but the way I figure it, you're a mental doctor, aren't you?” She made the old gesture indicating lunacy. “I mean—the madam—You're kind of her private doctor, I mean, aren't you? That's what I figure,” she said.

She honestly believed Sloane was crazy. She wasn't just saying it in anger, she meant it. “You can figure what you like, it's a free country. And you can get out. Now.”

She ducked her head and then handed him a piece of paper she was holding. “Yes, sir. Here's a telephone message I took while you were out this afternoon, Doctor.” She shook her head over the slip of paper. “I almost forget it. You know, Doctor, in the sixteen days I been here, this was the only time the phone rang! That's another reference I could give if I wanted to. It's like a cemetery here.”

He read what Helga had written. “What lady? What does this say?”

“Lady Constant. Lady Constant, she said. ‘This is Lady Constant,' she said. She wanted to talk with Miss Folsom. F-o-l-s-o-m. This was Dr. Krop's residence, no Miss Folsom here, I said. I was sure it was a wrong number because it being the only time the telephone rang but it wasn't the wrong number. Dr. Krop's residence.” Helga shook her head.

“What does this say?” Milton showed Helga.

“Her telephone number to call her back, the lady, and that is when she called, two forty-five. I marked it down.”

“Lady Constant, Plaza 3-4968?” When she nodded, he waved at Helga to leave and, picking up her two suitcases, staring around the hall as if she didn't believe it was real, Helga left the house. As Milton stood there, the door banged behind Helga and immediately Sloane appeared at the head of the stairs.

“I was hiding under the bed. Has she gone?” She peered over the railing, then clasped her hands ecstatically. “Ah, darling, it's like having the exterminators in! That creature was a rodent! Gnawing at my vitals, Milton. Oh, the way she fixed eggs for herself for breakfast, darling, swimming in butter. She was a Pig!”

Milton wouldn't have believed she could spit out a word like that.

“Stuffing herself, wasting, throwing away good food! It was her way of getting back at us, Milton—the waste. But she's gone, she's gone. I could dance with joy.” She began to come down the stairs. “Aren't you joyful, Milton?”

He held up the paper. “I'm puzzled. Here's a telephone message to call a Lady Constant. Who is Lady Constant?” He had looked at the paper, not so much to refresh his memory but because he felt self-conscious about the title; when he looked up at Sloane she was bent over the banister rail as if she had suffered a severe cramp. He ran up to her. Her skin was clammy and her teeth were chattering. He put his arm around her. “Who is Lady Constant, Sloane?”

Her teeth chopped the words into syllables. “A-mor-y. My sis-ter.” She leaned against him. “What will I do? What will I do?”

He started to lead her downstairs. “Do what she asks. Call her.” But she pulled away from his arm, holding to the stair rail as if expecting to be dragged off—to jail, he supposed. He was afraid that they would both tumble if he pulled at her and told her to go upstairs, then. Lie down. “Nothing has happened yet, Sloane. Let's not cry until we're hurt.” She was weeping. He put his hand under her chin. “Look at me. Am I scared? If I'm not scared why should you be? Haven't I got as much to lose as you have?”

She looked at him and then, because her tears fogged her, because she wanted to make sure, wiped her tears away, blinked, stared at his face. Her voice whispered now. “You're not afraid. You're really not, Milton!”

“I'm not.” He pried her hand off the rail. “Leave it to me. I'll handle her.”

Under her breath she repeated that, “Handle her.” She swallowed. “Milton—don't let her—”

“I won't let her.”

She clutched his hand, drew it to her cheek. “She's wicked, worthless, vicious. I—I did what I did, but—”

“You know how I feel about what you did.”

“But she's wicked. From the time she could reach out, she grabbed, Milton. She's always taken everything. What was mine. Anybody's. Mother preferred Amory, she always preferred Amory.”

“Come on upstairs. Cinderella. You told me, and what you didn't tell me, I guessed.”

Sloane, leaning on Milton, walked up the stairs. “Flourished like a green bay tree. Mother pretended to dislike what Amory did—she did dislike it, but admired it, too. Cinderella isn't such a trite story when you're the one it happens to, when you're the one who stayed here with mother—slaved. It isn't
fair
,” she said, weeping again, letting his hand go to cover her face. They walked upstairs together, slowly. “Never cared for anyone but herself,” Sloane said, “her soft comfort. It is my money.” Her breath caught. “Our money, Milton. If they find out they'll take it away and that's what she wants.”

“All she wants now is for you to call, that's all.” They reached the top of the stairs. Holding on to the wall, Sloane moved to their bedroom and once inside allowed him to push her down on the bed and then to give her a sedative which she obediently swallowed. As he was bringing the glass of water back to the bathroom, the phone rang.

Sloane made a grab at Milton. “Don't answer it! Don't!”

“But it must be your sister again.”

“Don't answer.”

“Someone has to. Helga is gone. Sloane, for the love of Mike, you'll put ideas into her head, that's what you'll do. Sloane, don't you see if you don't act natural, she'll certainly start thinking something is funny. A sister doesn't have to think a sister murdered their mother to come home from Europe and call her up. For Christ's sake, she just called you up! There could be a thousand reasons for that, a thousand reasons for her coming back—at least don't put the words into her mouth!”

She moaned, “Don't, don't!” but he got his jacket out from between her fingers and ran downstairs.

The telephone call was from Jenny. “Hold it, Jenny.” He put his hand over the receiver so Jenny couldn't hear and called up to Sloane that it was Jenny, not her sister, but she didn't answer him. “What is it, Jenny? I'm in kind of a—”

“Now, Milt, have I been on your neck? I haven't seen hide nor hair of you since you came to see me, have I? I am reminding you that I haven't been on your neck so you won't tell me you're ‘in kind of a—' before you hear why I called.”

“O.K., Jenny.”

“I'm only on this phone now because I'm worried about you.” The way he hissed, said she should mind her own business, how many times did he have to tell her to keep her nose out. “This is something to worry about, Milt! Listen, around three o'clock this afternoon I had a telephone call. I waited until now because I hear you're still attending the cardiac clinic, anyhow.” (“You hear, you hear!” he said, but she paid no attention.) “You'll never guess who I had this call from, Milt.”

But he did guess. Helga had said there was no Miss Folsom here, only Mrs. Krop, Dr. Krop's wife, Dr. Milton Krop. At first Sloane's sister might have figured Sloane had sold the house to a Dr. and Mrs. Krop, but Helga would surely have told her if they were new here. Helga certainly knew Sloane had lived here all her life. The old days, Sloane was always giving Helga, the good old days in this house when servants were servants. The sister waiting on pins and needles for Sloane—or whoever it was—to call back would certainly be curious about this, and why not look into the telephone books where his name was still where it always had been, Dr. Milton Krop. Perfectly natural. The sister would telephone his office and get Jenny.

“A call from a certain ‘Lady,'” Jenny said. “I hope not a ‘Lady' who means trouble, Milt, but I have my doubts. She turned out to be your wife's sister, from France. When she called, she asked for you, Milt, but why should I bother explaining you weren't in practice any more? I've had a bellyful of their complaining to me when I tell them that. She asked if I was your nurse. No, I wasn't your nurse, them days are gone forever. Secretary then? I said I was Mrs. Krop, since she had to know. Mrs. Krop? Dr. Krop's mother? I knew right then she wasn't just a patient. You know how you can tell when it's personal.”

“Psychic. I know.”

“Who said psychic? I told her I was Dr. Krop's sister-in-law and she said so was she your sister-in-law, she rather imagined! Rather imagined! She asked who your wife was, to make sure, and then on the basis we were both sisters-in-law tried to get very chummy. All of a sudden, very chummy, you see? Are you beginning to smell a rat, Milton?”

“What rat?”

“The sister, of course, Milt! She tried to pump me! Until that minute she didn't know a thing about her sister getting married. Until that minute! All she knew was her mother was as usual, no sicker than usual, and then all she knew was her mother was dead and when the funeral was to be. What she hadn't known was her sister had married the doctor who had taken care of her mother. I didn't tell her—she remembered the name, Milt. As far as she knew, you were just her mother's doctor to her sister and now here you are married to her. She wanted to know a lot of things—how her mother died, for instance. Were you in attendance, any other physician? What kind of doctor were you, anyhow, a big specialist with a Cadillac? How long were you and her sister going steady before you were married? How long were you married?”

“Women are supposed to be curious. So what?”

“Aren't you curious, Milt?”

“About what curious?”

“About what I told her. Maybe I told her wrong, Milt, and if I did you can't blame me. If you'd only tell me what's what, Milt!”

“I don't care what you told her,” he said.

Jenny tested that, silently repeating Milton's sentence for her inner guide. He meant it, she decided, he didn't care. She said quickly, “I didn't tell her anything.” When the telephone rang, when this Lady called, Jenny had been reading about another teenage murder in the newspaper. There was an article explained these murders and how the atom bomb was partly responsible. The kids nowadays had no future they could count on like in the old days, the article said, and when you had no future you could easy become a killer. And neither did Milt have any future. The article explained Milt, too, didn't it? How he could have done something—funny; how he could not worry now over what might happen? She didn't need to worry over the teenager, Bud, but only over poor Milt.

“I didn't tell her anything, Milt, I sang your praises and maybe I shouldn't have done that because that way she found out you're not a big specialist with a Cadillac. I guess talking to me was enough to show her you weren't in the money, Milt; anyhow before you married her sister. And I'll tell you what else she said—that her mother never mentioned her sister and you in the same breath in her letters. She wrote about her doctor and she wrote about her daughter, but not in the same breath, so she knows you never went steady with Sloane, and then you got married so soon after the funeral, she knows that. Oh, Milt,” Jenny said, “watch out, watch out, she's poison! I can feel it in my bones. She's suspicious.”

“You know what she can do with her suspicions,” Milton said, “the same thing you can do with yours. How many times do I have to tell you?” He could tell her and he could hang up on her, but that was all. Jenny was like a bulldog, he couldn't pry her loose. Although Sloane was still upstairs in the bedroom—she was hanging on to him also—he began to climb the stairs again. She did not move when he came into the bedroom, but she knew he was there, all right. He went to the bed and sat down and when he put his hand on her shoulder she shivered and turned so she could see him. “You see what happens when you let your imagination run away with you, Sloane? That was Jenny. Her reason for calling was your sister had called her—now don't start imagining about that! Your sister can look in a phone book, there's only one Dr. Milton Krop in Jackson Heights and it's a free country, she could call Jenny! And why did Jenny call? Not what you're thinking, kid. To make sure you really have royalty in your family so she can shoot her mouth off to the neighbors. Wait till Bud the Princeton man gets hold of this! You see? Now call your sister—a fishing expedition.”

Sloane sat up in the bed, shoving her hair back, looking wild. “Milton—Amory wouldn't have come back unless she suspected, I assure you. Don't delude yourself.”

“I'm not deluding,” he said. “I'm just not crossing my bridges in advance.” He could not smooth her hair just then—God, what fear did to a face, he thought—but he took her wrist. He could take her pulse. “I'm not going to let you call her. You should feel your pulse, kid! I'm going to call her. I'll say you're out somewhere, not home yet, but I just came in and found the telephone message. Naturally, I call up the minute I hear she's in town. Her brother-in-law.” He patted her hand and laid it down neatly at her side, getting off the bed. “Sloane, what do I call her, Lady Amory?”

“Lady Constant.”

“But I should sound like one of the family. A brother-in-law.”

“Lady Constant. Why must you sound like one of the family? What do you mean, Milton?” She was watching him closely, her eyes narrowed watching him.

“I mean I should sound like one of the family. Not the butcher boy, I mean. Lie down again, Sloane. Give that sedative a fighting chance to work on you. I'll report back after I talk to her.” He paused on the half landing and practiced saying “Lady Constant” to the damned bronze figure there; she was suspicious of him also, she was poison.