Flash and Filigree (21 page)

“Very well, Doctor. I’ll tell them.”

“All right, Miss Smart. Now then, what time is it?”

“Four forty-five, Doctor.”

“My next appointment?”

“Why, there’s nothing else today, Doctor.”

“Good. You needn’t disturb me again, Miss Smart.”

“Doctor, Nurse Thorne is here to see you.”

“All right, have her come in.”

Dr. Eichner met Eleanor Thorne at the door, taking her hand warmly, but with just the right amount of slightly-pained-smile to indicate
noblesse oblige
and so discourage any undue forwardness on her part.

“Take coffee, Miss Thorne,” he said, having already poured off two brandies neat. “You have heard of the fantastic events of yesterday, no doubt?” he continued, drawing chairs together for them.

“Yes, what an extraordinary thing!” said she, trying to feel at home. “Was it actually the man who came here before—intoxicated?”

“Evidently,” said the Doctor, “
evi-dent-ly.
”

“He must have been mad. Really
mad.
It’s—frightening.”

“My dear,” said the Doctor, smiling, putting a hand on her own, as both repressed a shudder of distaste, “perhaps there’s more of madness in the world than one can ever know, and
power
is not infrequently her bedfellow.” They raised their cups, each now using two hands for it, and the Doctor continued in a lively voice: “However, I suppose the fortunate thing is that psychotic manifestations generally cause no alarm. Or is it
unfortunate
?”

“Well,” said Nurse Thorne, turning in her chair, “I simply wanted to express my own—and I’m sure I speak for the rest of the staff—my own feelings of relief and gratitude that you weren’t harmed.”

Dr. Eichner nodded appreciatively, and Nurse Thorne went on: “The money was recovered as well, I understand.”

“Yes. Yes, the money was recovered as well.”

There was a moment of silence while they both sipped of coffee or brandy before Nurse Thorne spoke again. “Doctor,” she began earnestly but rapid enough to suggest that she had rehearsed. “I hope I may speak to you in confidence. As you know, I have always admired your work here at the Clinic, and since being Head Nurse, I have come to have a great respect for you personally. I feel somehow closer to you than to most of the staff, and—well, I thought perhaps you would like to know that you will be asked to stay over for a board meeting this afternoon and—and to replace Dr. Charles, as Chief Surgeon, when he retires next month.”

The Doctor took a delicate sip of brandy. “Well! I must say that from time to time I had envisioned as much—on the basis of rumor, of course—but have managed to restrain my hopes so as not to be disappointed. May I ask where you heard this, Nurse Thorne?”

“It is no longer a rumor, Doctor. Sally Weston in the front office—she does Mr. Roberts’ typing—told me, in confidence of course. The meeting is to be at 5:20, in a very little while now. There was bound to be a leak.”

“Yes. Yes. Perhaps. Pertinent hearsay of the last minute should often be treated as conclusive. That is so. Well, Nurse Thorne, we will be working together, then.” The Doctor raised his glass, assuring her of it. “My compliments,” he said.

Eleanor Thorne beamed, joining the toast.

“There may be some reorganizational matters wanting our attention later,” said the Doctor with great understanding. “You might be giving this your consideration and pass on to me whatever suggestions you see fit when the time arrives.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” said Nurse Thorne, rising to go. “Thank you, and—congratulations.”

“Thank
you,
my dear. Forewarned is quite often, as they say,
forearmed.
”

At five o’clock Dr. Eichner had an emergency call from one of his regular patients, which he shortly concluded with the gentle admonition: “I see what we’re up against, Mrs. Cranell. Your starch estimate did not take into account
soya,
and—well, I
think
we’d-bettter
-watch-it
for a week or so.”

Miss Smart then called to say that the Doctor was requested to stay over for a board meeting at 5:20. Miss Smart rather shyly repeated the hearsay, which, by now, was going the rounds with open, official sanction.

Dr. Eichner settled down again, this time in a great leather chair, with his automotive trial sheets. He had just decided to replace his Delahaye with a new Gordini, and the decision made him tingle. Then, in a moment of reflection, he rose and went to the window. Half in a world of fantasy, his mind’s eye roved the desolate winding heights of Andorra, and the endless moon-lit roads of Spain, where one could drive for a hundred miles without meeting a single car.

“You have bad luck,” said Garcia from below.

The Doctor gave a start. He had not noticed this Mexican gardener, puttering there in the bed below.

Garcia tipped his hat, smiling a little.

“Well, how are you, Garcia?” asked the Doctor.

The gardener nodded his head, smiling. “You have bad luck,” he repeated, “losing the money.”

“Yes, wasn’t it,” said the Doctor with grand good nature. “However, it’s been found. They
found
it, the Police.” He spoke rather loud, as though the gardener were deaf.

“Yes,” said Garcia, “the Police.” He nodded to show comprehension, making his smile a funny little twisted thing.

“
I need
money,” he said.

“How’s that?” said Fred Eichner.

“I have twenty-three dollars a week.” He held up his fingers. “Two-three,” he said. “I need twenty-six. My wife have baby.”

Dr. Eichner nodded in sympathy, but didn’t speak.

“Twenty-six,” the gardener repeated, raising his fingers. “Two-six.”

“Yes. Well, you should certainly speak to Mr. Roberts’ office about it. I’m sure they would see—” The Doctor stopped short, looking intently now at Garcia, as the latter stood shaking his head, still smiling, of course, rather artificially it would seem.

“You Doctor,” he said, pointing a finger at Fred Eichner, “you will speak?”

“Well,” said the Doctor, “it’s hardly my place to ask the—”

“You new boss in Clinic, yes?”

“Perhaps,” said the Doctor, letting his annoyance show. “But it would hardly be my place—”

“My wife no have baby,” said Garcia flatly. “Already she have three baby. Expense. I have expense. Here.” He pointed suddenly at the bed beneath the window where the Doctor stood. “I put new seeds—
here.
Old seeds broken by footprint.
Here.
” And he pointed to what might have been the precise spot an inch above which Dr. Eichner had poised the low-heeled shoe of Treevly.

“Footprint?” said the Doctor softly. “
What
footprint?”

“Footprint-of-thief,” said Garcia with slow emphasis. “Footprint-of-woman-steal-money.”

And the eyes of the two men locked in steady fascination.

“There was a footprint there?” said the Doctor, incredulous at what was taking place. “Yesterday?”

“Yes.” The gardener’s smile looked strange and mechanical. “I cover. Old seeds no good, eh? New seeds. Money.” He made a gesture then of holding his open palm out to the Doctor. “You speak to Robert office please?”

“
When
did you find the footprint?” Dr. Eichner demanded in a hollow voice.

“When thief run, I see. Thief jump into flower and run, yes?”

“You
saw
?”

“Yes.
I
see thief run.”

“You
saw,
” the Doctor repeated dully.

The gardener’s laugh was like that of a wooden device. “I see thief run,” he cried with grotesque gaiety. “I find footprint! Cover! Police, yes?
Police!
Police look for footprint. I cover. Yes? Footprint is cover!”

The Doctor’s eyes left Garcia’s and for a long moment seemed to scan the dim horizon of the closing day. He cleared his throat. “You say—you say twenty-three to twenty-six?”

“Yes,” said Garcia, “twenty-six. Two-six.”

“I think it can be arranged,” said the Doctor evenly. “Yes, I think it can be arranged.”

The gardener turned to go, touching his cap. “Little, yes? Yes. Two-six.” He gave the Doctor a very cool smile. “Seeds not much cost! Seeds not much cost this year.” And he walked away slowly, into the dying light, rubbing the trowel against his leg.

T
HE CONCERT AT
the school was at ten o’clock, and when Ralph telephoned Babs about two hours before he was to pick her up, she had asked, lightly enough, if they were “going formal,” whereupon Ralph had laughed, saying “no,
au contraire
!” Even so, when Ralph went by for her, she appeared at the door wearing a new hat, high heels, and her smartest black, whereas Ralph was dressed simply, in the student manner of sports-jackets and open-collar shirts.

When she was settled in the car, Ralph gave her a kiss, but Babs pulled away, saying: “Careful, don’t muss!” And they were off.

Above the windshield, on the girl’s side of the car, was a sun-shade, the back of which held a mirror, and snapping on the overhead light, Babs turned the mirror down to check her appearance. As the car got under way, she began to talk with increasing vivaciousness. And as she spoke, she glanced quite openly and yet without any deliberate vanity, into the mirror, where she noted her image and expressions, even when these expressions were seemingly ingenuous, or unexpected, such as frowns, expressions of apprehension, distaste, incredulity, shame, and even adoration.

It was something quite beyond vanity. It was, in fact, as though she were very earnestly trying to take the boy and herself seriously, and that by continually referring back to her image in the glass, she could generously give whatever they might say the reality and the dramatic validity it could not otherwise have.

By the time they reached the school, Babs’ animation had progressed to an extraordinary point, so that upon entering the auditorium, she received the immediate attention of everyone near, but most especially of the girls. And about half the audience w
as
constituted of young girls, living on campus, here now in groups of two or more, attired in varying combinations of sweaters, jeans, men’s shirts, sandals, skirts, short white socks, and saddle-shoes. Many had books with them, to indicate they had just come from the library, and some continued to read, while here and there were kerchiefed heads to show that these girls had freshly washed their hair or otherwise prepared it for bed.

There was a small army of single men in the audience who, for the most part, wore T-shirts, read from folded newspapers, and had a pencil behind one ear. Others were there, of course, in boy-girl couples, holding hands and talking gravely.

It was the girls, however, who were the motif of this scene. They turned and twisted in their seats, laughing to left, right, and behind, whispering, signaling with mystery and import. The girls were grouped, of course, and these groups seemed to vie with one another as to which could laugh the more often, with the most bitterness, and with the most emphatic finality. They leaned across each other, whispering things to which the others gave bent attention, then all would laugh with such a burst of savage and somehow sexual derision as to give the impression that what had just been said could only have been the most sensational obscenity conceivable to them, a peripheral
bon mot
relating to some fantastically heinous perversion of the Dean.

“Do you like Bach?” asked Ralph, looking over the program.

“Love him!” said Babs, perhaps a bit too loud.

Several titters were heard and a girl, sitting slouched next to Babs, a lean, dry-lipped, sloe-eyed blonde whose shorn locks bunched their fullest an inch above her eyebrows, looked up from a book by Jean Genet, her mouth set in a pained distant smile.

“Why didn’t you tell me it was going to be casual?” Babs asked in a disturbed whisper.

“But I did,” protested Ralph.

“But I mean like
this
!”

“Well—”

Then the music began. Babs sat stiffly upright through the piece looking straight ahead. When it ended, someone behind her said “Oh, love him!” in a harsh stage whisper. And Babs joined in the light applause, trying to smile, even with her eyes. But Ralph saw from the side that the lower lids were so heavy with tears that any moment they would begin to trickle down her cheeks.

“Had you rather go some place else?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, almost soundlessly, and they left their seats, the girl walking in front, her little black hat perched high on her head, and her sightless eyes still wide in the effort to ignore the nudging and giggling among the girls.

They didn’t speak then until they were in the car again.

“Sorry you didn’t like it,” said Ralph casually, showing a foolish annoyance, and Babs burst into tears, hiding her face in her hands and pulling away from the boy at once when he tried to console her.

“You’re ashamed of me,” she sobbed.

“What?” said Ralph.

“You
are,
” she insisted, pathetically, “—because—because I’m not in—
intelligent.
” She said this uncertainly, as though it might have been the first time she had ever had occasion to use the word. “. . . because I never
went
to college—you think I’m—
I’m nobody
—but I
wanted
to go—I wanted so much, Ralph—” and she raised her tear-traced face to him to plead the truth of it, “—and to be—to be—” but her voice trailed off in pitiful helplessness.

“Don’t be silly,” said Ralph, slightly unnerved, if only by the singular close-up of a girl in a smart hat crying in real anguish.

“Don’t be silly,” he repeated softly, kissing her eyes and cheeks, whereupon Babs herself may have sensed the incongruity for, a moment later, she pushed away from him to remove the hat, shaking her head, bringing a hand to her hair in little gestures of arrangement, which seemed to calm her wondrously.

Ralph started the car, and they drove down Wilshire Boulevard. Babs sat quietly, her face toward the window on her side, where the dead-dark trees fled past.