Duby's Doctor (5 page)

Mitchell grabbed Jean and pulled him out the
door.

On Day Four, Mitchell’s car pulled up and
parked at St. Luke’s Daycare. Mitchell and Jean got out and stood
looking at the building. Mitchell took a deep breath, squared her
shoulders, and they started for the door.

Minutes later, Mitchell and Jean waited in a
foyer beneath a large painting of Jesus teaching children. A nun
emerged from one of the classrooms and strode forward to greet
them.

Mitchell extended her hand. “I’m Doctor
Oberon. I called earlier.”

“Yes. I’m Sister Elizabeth,” said the nun.
“Is this the student?”

“Yes, this is Jean. Johnny, say hello.”

Jean, who had been studying the painting,
turned toward the nun and smiled. “Hello,” he said, and went back
to examining the picture.

Sister Elizabeth looked slowly from Jean’s
feet to his head and back again. “You said he’s not ... slow.”

“He isn’t,” said Mitchell. “He just, he’s
recovering from a serious accident. He’s learning everything all
over again. All the basics. But he speaks fluent French. And he
could be a big help if you have to move any heavy objects. Please,
Sister, in the name of mercy...”

Compassion filled Sister Elizabeth’s eyes,
but she shook her head. “I’d like to help you, Doctor. Really. I
see the need, but ... well, it wouldn’t be fair to the other
children. What would their parents say?”

“Sister, please!” begged Mitchell. “I know
how you feel – believe me, I’m practically a nun, myself – but
you’ve got to help me!”

The nun put a comforting hand on Mitchell’s
shoulder. “There are government agencies for this sort of thing.
Why not try the V.A. Hospital?”

“We’ll never prove eligibility,” said
Mitchell. “I don’t know if he’s a veteran. Heck,
he
doesn’t even know if he’s a...” Mitchell gave a sigh and admitted,
“Frankly, neither one of us is in love with Uncle Sam right
now.”

At that moment, a junior nun blundered
through a door behind Sister Elizabeth and, carrying paint can,
roller, aluminum step stool, and more, rattled across the hall to
another doorway. The junior nun realized that Mitchell and Sister
Elizabeth had stopped to watch her noisy progress. She sent them a
rueful look and exited the corridor.

Sister Elizabeth turned her attention again
to Mitchell. “Doctor Oberon, whatever your personal political
feelings, the fact is there are governmental and civic agencies to
whom you can, and should, turn for help. We appreciate your faith
in us, but truly there is nothing we could teach him here that he
can’t learn better from those agencies.”

Jean turned from looking at the picture on
the wall and said, “Who is this man? Does he work here?”

Sister Elizabeth looked at Jean, at the
painting of Jesus, and then at Mitchell. Jean waited for an
answer.

“I think I’ll let you field that one,
Sister,” Mitchell said.

Sister Elizabeth turned to Jean and answered,
“That is our Lord. We like to think His work is done here.”

A horrendous clanging clatter from beyond a
door indicated the junior nun’s ladder and painting gear had
collapsed. Silence hung in the air while Mitchell and Sister
Elizabeth looked at one another.

“I’m okay!” the junior nun called from the
other room.

“And painting! Did I mention painting? He’s a
whiz at painting,” said Mitchell. “You could use him as a handy
man.”

“We have no budget to pay a handy man,”
Sister Elizabeth said.

“We’d accept payment in kind. You could teach
him a little, on the side,” Mitchell gestured toward the painting,
“about a lot of things.”

Sister Elizabeth looked at Jean for a long
time. She closed her eyes for a few seconds, and her fingers found
the crucifix on the chain about her neck.

Finally, she opened her eyes and turned to
address Mitchell. “He should report for work promptly at seven
tomorrow morning. Pack a lunch. We will provide juice or milk.” She
glanced at Jean. “A lot of juice or milk.”

Sedately and with great dignity, Sister
Elizabeth turned and left the foyer.

Behind her, Mitchell pumped the air with a
fist and mimed, “Yes!”

Over the Atlantic Ocean the next morning,
cloud edges glowed pink and yellow while the sky around them
changed from pale gray flannel to baby blue flannel. In a quarter
of an hour, the sun’s fiery eye would peep over the horizon.

Mitchell’s condo, nestled deep under Coconut
Grove’s expansive banyan trees, remained dark on the outside. On
the inside, lights glowed and two people radiated excitement as
they prepared for the first day of a new life.

Jean’s room contained a single bed (covered
in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle® linens), a three-drawer dresser,
two easels, and bookshelves filled with art supplies. Wearing
jeans, tee shirt, and sneakers, Jean struggled to make up his
bed.

Mitchell reached around the doorjamb and
placed a Transformers® lunch box on the dresser. “Brush your
teeth,” she said. “Let’s go.”

Jean gave up and tossed the Ninja Turtle
bedspread loosely across the rumpled bed. He headed for the
bathroom.

Thirty minutes later Mitchell’s was one of a
steady stream of cars dropping off preschoolers at St. Luke’s
Daycare. Mitchell pulled into the drop-off zone and stopped. Jean
clutched his lunch box in his lap. Mitchell put a hand on his
shoulder.

“Want me to go with you?” she said.

“
Non
. I can go.”

“You have the paper I gave you, with the
telephone numbers and everything?”

He touched his pocket and nodded. He watched
the children on the playground.

After a second, Jean opened the car door and
got out, still contemplating the children. He shut the door and
looked through the car window at Mitchell.

“These people are very short,” he said.

“Well, yeah. They’re supposed to be short.
You were short, too, once. I think.”

A horn honked behind them, another parent
eager to get into the drop-off zone.

Mitchell waved goodbye and drove off.

Jean waved, turned, and walked into the
fenced playground.

He wandered through the playground carrying
his lunch box. Around him preschoolers shrieked, laughed, ran,
jumped, and played. Chaos reigned.

In the corner of the fenced play yard, a
little girl about four years old stood clutching her Barbie® lunch
box tearfully. On the side of the lunch box,
Debbie
was written in black marker.

Jean walked to the corner of the yard and
squatted down a few feet in front of Debbie. “First day?”

Debbie nodded.

“Me, too,” Jean said.

Together they watched the raucous play of the
other children. Sister Elizabeth stepped onto the porch of the
school and rang a bell. Children ran toward the building and
entered it. Jean and Debbie did not move.

“Scared?” he said.

Debbie nodded.

“Me, too,” he said. “Want a ride?”

Debbie nodded and stepped toward him. He
scooped her onto his shoulder, stood, and together they entered the
building.

Sunshine glinted off the chrome of
convertibles and the cameras of tourists. Salt-tanged sea breezes
swished among the palm fronds in Peacock Park. Gourmet coffee
aromas mingled with the smells of fresh seafood broiling in butter
and herbs. Coconut Grove inundated the senses of its denizens on a
warm autumn day.

Inside The Mayfair, Carinne and Trish enjoyed
none of the sights and sounds of the Grove outside. As always,
Carinne traveled in her climate-controlled, window-tinted limousine
directly to The Mayfair’s underground garage, and from there up the
secure elevators to The Mayfair’s climate-controlled boutiques.

Carinne Averell had never walked the Bohemian
streets of Coconut Grove. As the only child of a wealthy and
paranoid widower, she would never enjoy wending her way like a
commoner among street musicians, jewelry hawkers, sidewalk
eateries, skaters, cyclists, and Frisbee-carrying dogs.

Trish, her hired friend, walked beside
Carinne through the posh MayFair mall while Rico, the vigilant
“chauffeur,” trailed a few yards behind the two girls.

At the entrance to an exclusive lingerie
shop, Rico hesitated. Instead of accompanying the girls into
frou-frou territory, he stayed just outside the door. He followed
them with his eyes only. Carinne knew his casual stance was a lie.
In the same way, she knew his Men-in-Black sunglasses hid the way
he watched her even though his face seemed directed elsewhere. And
she knew his eyes, even without the sunglasses, revealed nothing of
the man behind them.

Trish lifted a racy hot pink teddy for
Carinne to see, shielding it from Rico’s eyes with her body. “How
about this?” Trish said. “Guaranteed to jump-start your fiancé’s
heart.”

“Please, don’t refer to that man as my
fiancé.” Carinne moved away from the teddies display.

Trish dumped the unwanted hot pink number and
followed. “That’s what you call the man you’re going to marry, and
you are going to marry him. The bride should try to look a little
happier about it.”

“I’m not getting married; I’m going back to
school.” Carinne began idly finger-walking along a rack of satin
bustiers in bright colors. “Besides, the ‘bride’s’ father is happy
enough for both of us.”

After a moment of feigned interest, Carinne
left the bustiers and strolled to a display featuring pen-and-ink
drawings of ladies in various states of alluring undress. Carinne
looked at the drawings for longer than she had looked at things
that were actually for sale. These drawings were not Duby’s work,
but they almost could be. The style was nearly the same.

“Try to see the bright side of it,” Trish was
saying. “He’s not too old, not too bad looking, got a lot going for
him....” Following Carinne’s gaze, Trish noticed the drawings. “Not
bad.”

“I’ve seen better.”

“Are we talking about the man or about the
art?”

“Both.”

Trish broke into the first genuine smile she
had been able to produce all afternoon. “So, that’s it!” she
whispered, leaning closer to Carinne with a teasing light in her
eyes. “Methinks the Lady Carinne doth carry a torch for some other
knight. Pray, tell this poor serving maid his name.”

Carinne flicked a sideways glance at Rico,
who was watching her with his shaded eyes and his phony
indifference. She ignored the question and moved on to another
display. She browsed through the store, seeing nothing and
remembering everything.

On the immaculate lawn of the Averell
estate, Carinne took afternoon tea with her father. Lazaro, another
bodyguard, served as waiter and umbrella tender, keeping Mr. and
Miss Averell supplied with tea and cakes and protected from the
sun.

In the center of the grassy expanse before
them, Rico and Dubreau sparred like extras from a martial-arts
movie.

Beyond the fighters, two more henchmen of
her father’s, whose names she didn’t care to know, were enjoying
the match.

As usual, Rico was clearly out to prove
Dubreau was unnecessary to the team. Rico spun and slammed a
vicious kick into Duby’s solar plexus, sending Duby to the ground,
hard.

“
Daddy, make them stop,” Carinne said, as
casually as she could manage. She must never reveal her emotions,
lest they become her father’s strongest weapons against her.
“They’re getting too rough. When it’s so crude, it’s not
entertaining.”

“
Nonsense, sweetheart,” her father
answered, “it’s all a game. Like medieval tournaments, when the
knights of old would joust for the entertainment of their queen.
Choose your champion, Princess.”

Carinne had chosen her champion, but she
knew better than to say so. She gripped the arms of her peacock
chair and forced herself to watch the match without favoritism.

It seemed that Duby fought a defensive
battle, avoiding wicked, treacherous moves by Rico that would have
felled a lesser man. Duby had taken a few hard punches to his
handsome face, and his nose was bleeding.

Rico made a serious mistake: he grew cocky
in anticipation of an easy victory.

Duby chose his moment, then erupted like
Mount Vesuvius. With a series of rapid, spinning kicks, Duby backed
his foe across the lawn and finally sent Rico tush-over-teakettle
into the swimming pool.

The nameless henchmen laughed, increasing
Rico’s shame. Even Averell seemed amused when Duby, carrying out
the game, presented himself on one knee before Carinne’s chair.

“
Your majesty,” he said with a courtly
bow of his head.

Carinne realized that Trish was watching and
waiting for a response.

“There are no knights in shining armor any
more, Trish. And, I’m not carrying a torch for anybody.”

Trish nodded, watching Carinne’s eyes. “But,
there was a guy,” Trish whispered.

Carinne’s tone was convincingly dismissive.
“A mistake. That’s all.”

Mitchell was among the many parents driving
slowly through St. Luke’s Daycare’s drop-off area to collect
students at day’s end. When Mitchell’s car inched into the prime
pickup position, Jean waved goodbye to Sister Elizabeth and his new
(short) classmates. He bounded to the car.

“Don’t run on the concrete!” shouted
Mitchell.

As they drove away from the school, Jean
looked out the car window and rubbed his left knee.

“Y’see?” Mitchell said. “Don’t run on the
concrete. Okay? So, how was the day otherwise?”

“Pretty good. I met a girl.”

Mitchell swallowed a weird twinge of
jealousy. Who could he have met but nuns and preschoolers? She
smiled at him. “Wow, you work fast. What’s her name?”