Devil's Waltz (21 page)

Her hands tightened. The rest of her remained unchanged.

“Was Dr. Ashmore doing research in the Sudan?”

She nodded. “With the U.N. Studying disease patterns — that’s why Mr. Huenengarth felt the donation to UNICEF would be an appropriate tribute.”

“Disease patterns,” I said. “Epidemiology?”

She nodded. “His training was in toxicology and environmental medicine, but he did that only briefly. Mathematics was his true love, and with epidemiology he could combine mathematics with medicine. In the Sudan he studied the pace of bacterial contagion from village to village. My father admired his work and assigned me to help him take blood from the children — I’d just finished my nursing degree in Nairobi and had returned home.” She smiled. “I became the needle lady — Larry didn’t like hurting the children. We became friends. Then the Muslims came. My father was killed — my entire family…. Larry took me with him on the U.N. plane, to New York City.”

She recounted the tragedy matter-of-factly, as if numbed by repeated insults. I wondered if exposure to suffering would help her deal with her husband’s murder when the pain hit full force, or would make matters worse.

She said, “The children of my village… were slaughtered when the northerners came. The U.N. did nothing, and Larry became angry and disillusioned with them. When we got to New York he wrote letters and tried to talk to bureaucrats. When they wouldn’t receive him, his anger grew and he turned inward. That’s when the buying started.”

“To deal with his anger?”

Hard nod. “Art became a kind of refuge for him, Dr. Delaware. He called it the highest place man could go. He would buy a new piece, hang it, stare at it for hours, and talk about the need to surround ourselves with
things
that couldn’t hurt us.”

She looked around the room and shook her head.

“Now I’m left with all of it, and most of it doesn’t mean much to me.” She shook her head again. “Pictures and the memory of his anger — he was an angry man. He even earned his money angrily.”

She saw my puzzled look. “Please excuse me — I’m drifting. What I’m referring to is the way he started. Playing blackjack, craps — other games of chance. Though I guess
playing
isn’t the right word. There was nothing playful about it — when he gambled he was in his own world, didn’t stop to eat or sleep.”

“Where did he gamble?”

“Everywhere. Las Vegas, Atlantic City, Reno, Lake Tahoe. The money he made there he invested in other schemes — the stock market, bonds.” She waved an arm around the room.

“Did he win most of the time?”

“Nearly always.”

“Did he have some kind of system?”

“He had many. Created them with his computers. He was a mathematical
genius
, Dr. Delaware. His systems required an extraordinary memory. He could add columns of numbers in his head, like a human computer. My father thought he was magical. When we took blood from the children, I had him do numbers tricks for them. They watched and were amazed, and didn’t feel the sting.”

She smiled and covered her mouth.

“He thought he could go on forever,” she said, looking up, “making a profit at the casinos’ expense. But they caught on and told him to leave. This was in Las Vegas. He flew to Reno but the casino there knew also. Larry was furious. A few months later he returned to the first casino in different clothing and an old man’s beard. Played for higher stakes and won even more.”

She stayed with that memory for a while, smiling. Talking seemed to be doing her good. That helped me rationalize my presence.

“Then,” she said, “he just stopped. Gambling. Said he was bored. Began buying and selling real estate… He was so good at it…. I don’t know what to do with all this.”

“Do you have any family here?”

She shook her head and clasped her hands. “Not here or anywhere. And Larry’s parents are gone too. It’s so… ironic. When the northerners came, shooting women and children, Larry looked at them in the face and screamed at them, calling them terrible names. He wasn’t a big man…. Did you ever meet him?”

I shook my head.

“He was very small.” Another smile. “Very small — behind his back my father called him a monkey. Affectionately. A monkey who thought he was a lion. It became a village joke and Larry didn’t mind at all. Perhaps the Muslims believed he
was
a lion. They never hurt him. Allowed him to take me away on the plane. A month after we got to New
York
, I was robbed on the street by a drug addict. Terrified. But the city never frightened Larry. I used to joke that he frightened it. My fierce little monkey. And now…”

She shook her head. Covered her mouth again and looked away. Several moments passed before I said, “Why did you move to Los Angeles?”

“Larry was unhappy at Sloan-Kettering. Too many rules, too much politics. He said we should move to California and live in this house — it was the best piece of property he’d bought. He thought it was foolish that someone else should enjoy it while we lived in an apartment. So he evicted the tenant — some kind of film producer who hadn’t paid his rent.”

“Why did he choose Western Pediatrics?”

She hesitated. “Please don’t be offended, Doctor, but his reasoning was that Western Peds was a hospital in… decline. Money problems. So his financial independence meant he’d be left alone to pursue his research.”

“What kind of research was he doing?”

“Same as always, disease patterns. I don’t know much about it — Larry didn’t like to talk about his work.” She shook her head. “He didn’t talk much at all. After the Sudan, the cancer patients in New York, he wanted nothing to do with real people and their pain.”

“I’ve heard he kept to himself.”

She smiled tenderly. “He loved to be alone. Didn’t even want a secretary. He said he could type faster and more accurately on his word processor, so what was the purpose?”

“He had research assistants, didn’t he? Like Dawn Herbert.”

“I don’t know names, but yes, from time to time he’d hire graduate students from the university, but they never met his standards.”

“The university over in Westwood?”

“Yes. His grant paid for lab assistance and there were tasks that he needn’t have bothered himself with. But he was never happy with the work of others. The truth is, Doctor, Larry just didn’t like depending on anyone else. Self-reliance became his religion. After my robbery in New York, he insisted we both learn self-defense. Said the police were lazy and didn’t care. He found an old Korean man in lower Manhattan who taught us karate, kick-fighting — different techniques. I attended two or three lessons, then stopped. It seemed illogical — how could our hands protect us against a drug addict with a gun? But Larry kept going and practiced every night. Earned a belt.”

“Black belt?”

“A brown one. Larry said brown was enough; anything more would have been ego.”

Lowering her face, she cried softly into her hands. I took a napkin from the lacquer tray, stood by her chair, and had it ready when she looked up. Her hand gripped my fingers hard enough to sting, then let go. I sat back down.

She said, “Is there anything else I can get you?”

I shook my head. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“No, thank you. Just your coming to visit was gracious — we don’t know many people.”

She looked around the room once more.

I said, “Have you made funeral arrangements?”

“Through Larry’s attorney… Apparently Larry planned it all out. The details — the plot. There’s a plot for me too. I never knew. He took care of everything…. I’m not sure when the funeral will be. In these… cases, the coroner… Such a stupid way to…”

Her hand flew to her face. More tears.

“This is terrible. I’m being childish.” She dabbed at her eyes with the napkin.

“It’s a terrible loss, Mrs. Ashmore.”

“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” she said quickly. Suddenly her voice was hard, plated with anger.

I kept quiet.

“Well,” she said, “I suppose I’d better attend to business.”

I got up. She walked me to the door. “Thank you for coming, Dr. Delaware.”

“If there’s anything I can do—”

“That’s very kind, but I’m certain I’ll be able to handle things as they come up.”

She opened the door.

I said goodbye and the door closed behind me.

I began walking toward the Seville. The gardening noises had died and the street was beautiful and silent.

When I entered room 505W, Cassie followed me with her eyes but the rest of her didn’t move.

The drapes were drawn, and yellow light came from the half-open door of the bathroom. I saw wet clothes hanging over the shower rod. The bed rails were down and the room had the gluey smell of old bandages.

A metered I.V. line was still attached to Cassie’s left arm. Clear fluid from a hanging bottle slow-dripped through the tubing. The whirr of the I.V. meter seemed louder. LuvBunnies surrounded Cassie. An untouched breakfast tray sat on the table.

I said, “Hi, sweetie.”

She gave a small smile, closed her eyes, and moved her head back and forth the way a blind child might.

Cindy came out of the bathroom and said, “Hi, Dr. Delaware.” Her braid was gathered atop her head and her blouse was untucked.

“Hi. How’re you managing?”

“Okay.”

I sat on the edge of Cassie’s bed. Cindy came over and stood next to me. The pressure of my weight made Cassie’s eyes open again. I smiled at her, touched her fingers. Her stomach rumbled and she shut her eyes once more. Her lips were dry and chapped. A small scrap of dead skin hung from the upper one. Each breath ruffled it.

I took her free hand. She didn’t resist. Her skin was warm and silky, soft as a dolphin’s belly.

I said, “Such a good girl,” and saw her eyes move behind the lids.

“We had a rough night,” said Cindy.

“I know. Sorry to hear it.” I looked down at the hand in mine. No new wounds but plenty of old ones. The thumbnail was tiny, square-edged, in need of cleaning. I exerted gentle pressure and the digit rose, remained extended for a moment, then lowered, tapping the top of my hand. I repeated the pressure and the same thing happened. But her eyes remained shut and her face had grown loose. Within moments she was sleeping, breathing in time with the I.V. drip.

Cindy reached down and stroked her daughter’s cheek. One of the bunnies fell to the floor. She picked it up and placed it next to the breakfast tray. The tray was farther away than she’d estimated and the movement threw her off balance. I caught her elbow and held it. Through the sleeve of her blouse, her arm was thin and pliable. I let go of it but she held on to my hand for a moment.

I noticed worry lines around her eyes and mouth, saw where aging would take her. Our eyes met. Hers were full of wonder and fear. She stepped away from me and went to sit on the sleeper couch.

I said, “What’s been happening?” though I’d read the chart before coming in.

“Sticks and tests,” she said. “All kinds of scans. She didn’t get any dinner until late and couldn’t hold it down.”

“Poor thing.”

She bit her lip. “Dr. Eves says the appetite loss is either anxiety or some sort of reaction to the isotopes they used in the scans.”

“That sometimes happens,” I said. “Especially when there are a lot of tests and the isotopes build up in the system.”

She nodded. “She’s pretty tired. I guess you can’t draw with her today.”

“Guess not.”

“It’s too bad — the way it worked out. You didn’t have time to do your techniques.”

“How’d she tolerate the procedures?”

“Actually, she was so tired — after the grand mal — that she was kind of passive.”

She looked over at the bed, turned away quickly, and put the palms of her hands on the sofa, propping herself up.

Our eyes met again. She stifled a yawn and said, “Excuse me.”

“Anything I can help with?”

“Thanks. Can’t think of any.”

She closed her eyes.

I said, “I’ll let you rest,” and walked to the door.

“Dr. Delaware?”

“Yes?”

“That home visit we spoke about,” she said. “When we finally do get out of here, you’re still planning on doing it, aren’t you?”

“Sure.”

“Good.”

Something in her voice — a stridency I’d never heard before — made me stand there and wait.

But she just said “Good” again, and looked away, resigned. As if a critical moment had come and gone. When she started to play with her braid, I left.

No sign of Vicki Bottomley; the nurse on shift was a stranger. After completing my own notes, I reread Stephanie’s, the neurologist’s, and those of the consulting endocrinologist — someone named Alan Macauley, with strong, large handwriting.

The neurologist had found no abnormality on two successive EEGs and deferred to Macauley, who reported no evidence of any metabolic disorder, though his lab tests were still being analyzed. As far as medical science could tell, Cassie’s pancreas was structurally and biochemically normal. Macauley suggested further genetic tests and scans to rule out some sort of brain tumor, and recommended further “intensive psychological consultation per Dr. Delaware.”

I’d never met the man and was surprised to be referred to by name. Wanting to know what he meant by “intensive,” I looked up his number in a hospital directory and called it.

“Macauley.”

“Dr. Macauley, this is Alex Delaware — the psychologist who’s seeing Cassie Jones.”

“Lucky you. Been to see her recently?”

“About a minute ago.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Wiped out — post-seizural fatigue, I guess.”

“Probably.”

“Her mother said she didn’t hold her dinner down.”

“Her mother, huh?… So, what can I do for you?”

“I read your notes — about psychological support. Wondered if you had any suggestions.”

Long pause.

“Where are you now?” he said.

“Chappy Ward nursing station.”

“Okay, listen, I’ve got Diabetes Clinic in about twenty minutes. I can get there a little early — say in five. Why don’t you catch me? Three East.”