I Will Fear No Evil (13 page)

“So here is my thought. You can invite Mr. Salomon to join you for breakfast . . . and you could invite us, too, for that bit of brunch—and we four can talk over what needs to be done next. I shall follow the wishes of your guar—your lawyer. Or let him select another physician and withdraw, if I find that I must.”

“My guardian,” Johann said quietly. “We’ll do whatever my guardian requires. But I hope he does not decide to replace you, Dr. Hedrick. I have been a difficult patient and I’m sorry. I know what a miraculous job you have done on me . . . and I am grateful.”

“Thank you, Miss Smith.”

“I would be delighted to have you three gentlemen join me for brunch . . . if you will be so kind as to unstrap my arms.”

(Boss!) (What’s biting you, little one? I thought I was being a perfect lady?) (You are—
but don’t you dare let gentlemen in here to eat with us until we’re made pretty!
Not a speck of makeup, and our hair must be a mess. Horrid!) (But look, dear, it’s just Jake and our doctors.) (It’s the principle of the thing. I know more about being a girl than you do—well, don’t I? When did I
ever
come to work with my face stark naked and my hair in rats? Why, I often got up much earlier than I had to, just to make sure that I was as pretty as possible, just for you. Didn’t I? Did I not?)

“A pain, Miss Smith?”

“Eh? I mean, ‘Oh?’ Sorry, Doctor, just thinking. If I am to have gentlemen guests for breakfast, shouldn’t I start practicing how to be a lady? It’s new to me, you know. Do I have any makeup on?”

Hedrick looked startled. “Do you mean lipstick?”

“Whatever it is that ladies put on their faces; I’m sure it’s always more than lipstick. And my hair should be brushed. Or do I have hair?”

“Why, certainly you have. Still short but a fine, healthy growth.”

“That’s a relief. I thought possibly I had a plastic skull and would have to wear wigs.”

“There was some prosthetic restoration. But Dr. Boyle managed to save the scalp and you’ll never notice the prosthesis.” Hedrick smiled briefly. “Tougher than natural bone. With good blood supply to your scalp and normal hair—just hasn’t grown out very far.”

“I’m relieved. Dandruff?”

“Haven’t noticed any.”

“We won’t worry about it this morning. Doctor, I’d like to be made up to look like a lady ready to receive guests. If you’ll have one of the servants take in a cup of coffee and some orange juice to Mr. Salomon along with our invitation to breakfast, I’m sure he won’t mind waiting.” (How’m I doing, Eunice?) (Fine, old dear!)

Dr. Hedrick looked puzzled. “Miss Smith, when I set up a support team, I try to anticipate every possible emergency, supplies, drugs, and so forth. This is the first time I’ve been asked to produce lipstick. And cosmetics.”

“Oh. But you’re not being asked to, Doctor. The ladies’ powder room on the first floor is stocked with all shades of lipstick and many cosmetics. Should be. Was. Should still be, or someone will hear about it. And one of the nurses can help me. That pretty redhead—Minnie? Ginny? Miss Gersten, I mean. She must know quite a lot about cosmetics.” (She does—that red hair came out of a bottle, Boss.) (Mee
ow!
Shut up, pussy cat.) (Wasn’t being catty, Boss. She does well, in spite of those godawful uniforms.)

“Winifred Gersten,” said Dr. Garcia. “Nurse, find Winnie. And take that tray out; it’s cold.”

Forty minutes later Miss Johann Smith was ready to receive. Her hair was fluffed, her face had been made up with restrained boldness by the red-haired nurse, and the result as shown in a mirror had been approved by the second voice inside Smith—grudgingly, it seemed to Johann—(I can do better. It’ll do for now.)

The bed had been contoured to let her sit up and from somewhere a smart bed jacket had been produced, one that matched her eyes. Best of all, her hands and arms were free.

Johann found that her hands were trembling. She attributed it to excitement and decided that, if she had trouble controlling a fork, she would stick to things that would not slop on her jacket—besides, she was not hungry now. Too excited.

(Steady down, Boss darling. Leave the eating to me.)

(But—)

(No ‘buts.’ I’ve been feeding that face for years. The body remembers, Boss. You talk to the gentlemen; I’ll handle the calories. Now let’s shut up; they’re arriving.)

“May we come in?”

“Do, gentlemen, please. Good morning, Jake. I hope you had a good night’s rest.” (Put out your hand to him, Boss.)

“Slept like a child.”

“Good. So did I.” Johann extended her left arm and hand, that being the side the lawyer was on. “Look, Jake! Hands!”

Salomon took her hand, bowed over it—hesitated and then touched it to his lips. Johann was so amazed that the hand was almost snatched back. (Good God! What does Jake think I am? A pansy?) (He thinks you’re a beautiful girl. You are. I should know. Look, Boss, we must talk about Jake—later. Say hello to your shrink.)

Dr. Rosenthal was saying, “I’m a party-crasher. May I come in, Miss Smith?”

“You’re most welcome. Someone is going to have to assure these other gentlemen that I don’t have termites in the attic; I’m depending on you, Doctor.”

The psychiatrist smiled down at her. “That is an appeal hard to resist. I must say your improvement since yesterday is astounding. You’re looking lovely—Miss Smith.”

Johann smiled and gave him her hand. Dr. Rosenthal bowed over it and kissed it—not a quick and frightened peck such as Salomon had given it, but a kiss that was soft and warm and unhurriedly sensuous. Johann felt a tingle run up her arm. (Hey, what is this?) (Stay off his couch, Boss. He’s a wolf—I can tell.)

When he straightened up he held her hand a moment longer than necessary, smiled again, then moved away. Johann thought of asking him if that was his standard way of treating patients, decided not to—but felt slightly annoyed that the other two doctors had not offered the same homage. Yonny Schmidt had been born at a time and place where hand-kissing was unheard of; Johann Smith had never taken it up; Miss Johann Smith was discovering that the silly custom was habit-forming. She felt flustered.

She was saved by another voice from the door, that of her butler. “May we serve now, Miss Smith?”

“Cunningham! It’s good to see you. Yes, you may serve.” Johann wondered who had given instructions to make the meal formal?

The butler stared over her head and said tonelessly, “Thank you, Miss.” Johann was startled. The butler, like all the male household staff (and some of the females), was sudden death armed or unarmed; his manner alone could intimidate news snoops. (The poor man is scared!) (Of course. So calm him down, Boss.)

“But first come here, Cunningham.”

“Yes, Miss.” Her household chief walked carefully toward her, stopped a very respectful distance away.

“Oh, do come closer. Look at me. Right at me, don’t turn your eyes away. Cunningham, the way I look is a shock to you. Isn’t it?”

Cunningham swallowed without speaking; his Adam’s apple bobbed.

“Oh, come now,” Johann said firmly. “Of course it is. But if it upsets you, think what a shock it is to
me
. Until yesterday I didn’t even
know
that I had been turned into a woman. I’ll have to get used to it and so will you. Just remember this: Underneath I am the same cantankerous, unreasonable, unappreciative old scoundrel who hired you as a guard-footman nineteen years ago. I’ll go on expecting perfect service, notice it as little, and remember to say ‘Thank you’ as seldom. Do we understand each other?”

The butler barely smiled. “Yes, sir—I mean ‘Yes, Miss’.”

“You meant ‘Yes, sir’ but you’re going to have to learn to call me ‘Yes, Miss’ and I’m going to have to learn to expect it. We old dogs must learn new tricks. How’s Mrs. Cunningham’s lumbago?”

“Some better, she says. Thank you, Miss.”

“Good. Tell Mary I asked. You may serve.”

The brunch was almost merry. Johann tasted the wine when Cunningham offered a sample, approved it but declined a glass herself. She barely touched it to her tongue but the flavor spread like strong brandy and she had been startled almost into choking by the vibrant wonder of its bouquet. Yet the bottle she recognized as that of an adequate but not spectacular Chablis. She played safe with orange juice.

Table talk was lively and directed mostly at the hostess with no reference to her status as a patient. The men seemed to vie for her attention—and Johann found that she enjoyed it. She laughed frequently, answered their sallies, and felt witty herself.

But she could see that Jake was not eating much and looked at her all the time except when she looked back . . . at which his gaze wavered and shifted. Poor Jake. (Eunice, what are we going to do about Jake?) (Later, Boss—one thing at a time.)

She was startled again when Cunningham came to remove her plate from her lap table—startled to see that scrambled eggs and two rolls had disappeared as well as orange juice, half a glass of milk, and one of three link sausages. “Coffee, Miss?”

“I don’t know. Dr. Hedrick, am I allowed coffee?”

“Miss Smith, now that you can eat sitting up, there is no reason why you should not eat or drink anything you want.”

“Then I’ll celebrate. The first coffee I’ve been permitted in ten years—Demi-tasse for me, Cunningham, but mansize cups for the gentlemen. And Cunningham?—is there any Mumm ninety-seven on ice?”

“Certainly, Miss.”

“Serve it.” She raised her voice a little. “Any sissies who won’t drink champagne this early in the day may sneak out quietly.”

No one left. When glasses were filled and bubbles were chasing up their stems, Dr. Hedrick stood up. “Gentlemen, a toast—” He waited until they were standing. Johann raised her glass with them.

But did not drink: the toast was “To our lovely and gracious hostess—long may she live!”

“Amen!” “Cheers!”—and the tinkle of breaking glass.

Johann felt tears, ignored them. “Thank you, gentlemen. Cunningham, fresh glasses.”

When they were filled she said, “Gentlemen, I ask for another standing toast”—she waited, then went on—“this should be to Dr. Boyle . . . and to you, Jake old friend, without whose loyal help I would not be here . . . and certainly to you, Dr. Hedrick, and to all the doctors who have helped you and helped Dr. Boyle . . . and to all the patient nurses I have snapped at. But those can wait. I ask you to drink”—her tears were falling and her voice was almost a whisper—“to the memory of the sweetest, loveliest, and most gallant girl I have ever known . . . Eunice Branca.”

The toast was drunk in silence. Then Jake Salomon slowly crumpled into his chair and covered his face with his hands.

Dr. Hedrick jumped to help him, Dr. Garcia was quick on the other side. Johann stared in helpless distress. (Oh, I should have known better! But I meant it, darling, I meant every word.) (I know you did, Boss, and I appreciate it. But it’s all right. Jake has got to admit that I’m dead. And so do you.) (Are you dead, Eunice?
Are you?
) (Don’t worry over a word, Boss. I’m here and I won’t leave you ever. I promised you. Have you ever known me to break my word?) (No, never.) (So believe me this time. But we’ve got to take care of Jake.) (How, dearest girl?) (When the time comes, you’ll know. Talk later, when we’re alone.)

Dr. Rosenthal was leaning over her. “Are you all right, my dear?”

“I’m okay—just terribly sorry about Mr. Salomon. Is
he
all right?”

“He will be shortly. Miss Smith, don’t worry about Mr. Salomon. Yes, you brought on another catharsis—which he needed, or he would not have had it. As for his physical well-being, he’s in Dr. Hedrick’s hands . . . and Curt Hedrick hasn’t lost a patient he reached in time since he started practicing his specialty. Your house is loaded with everything Dr. Hedrick could possibly need . . . and Mr. Salomon isn’t even ill; he simply needs to lie down, plus a happy drug.”

Dr. Rosenthal sat with her while the room was cleared of dishes, brunch table, dining chairs, etc. Dr. Hedrick returned with Dr. Garcia. Johann again asked, “How is he?”

“Half asleep. Slightly ashamed of being a ‘spectacle’ and a ‘nuisance’—his terms. But only slightly as what I gave him doesn’t permit such self-hate very long. How are
you?
”

“She’s ready to go six rounds,” Rosenthal assured him.

“‘So the scopes say. We might as well get on with our conference, Miss Smith. I discussed all that I am going to say with Mr. Salomon while you were getting pretty before brunch, and it has his approval. I am withdrawing from your case.”

“Oh, Dr. Hedrick!
No!
”

“Yes. Dear lady, ain’t nobody going away mad. This means that you are well.
Well
. Oh, still weak, still in need of care. But I’m not deserting you. I’m turning you over to Dr. Garcia.”

She looked at Dr. Garcia, who nodded. “Nothing to worry about, Miss Smith.”

“But—Dr. Hedrick, you will come back and see me? Won’t you?”

“Delighted to. But not very soon, I’m afraid. You see—Well, there is an interesting transplant case which has been hanging fire. A radical one, the heart and both lungs. Now they are ready to start surgery. I received a call before you were awake, asking if I would be available. I said that I would have to call back—and after I saw you I did call and said that I could do it. After consulting Dr. Garcia, of course, and notifying Mr. Salomon.” He smiled quickly. “So, if you will excuse me, I’ll leave.”

Johann sighed and reached out her hand. “Since you must.”

Hedrick took her hand, bent over it; Dr. Rosenthal said lazily, “Aren’t you going to scrub first, Doctor?”

Hedrick said, “You go to hell, Rosy!” and kissed her hand. It seemed to Johann that Dr. Hedrick stretched it at least twice as long as Dr. Rosenthal’s earlier effort. She felt goose pimples on her arm and a most curious feeling at her middle—yes, she decided, if one had to be a woman, this was a custom to be encouraged.

(Going to lay him, boss?) (Eunice!) (Oh, piffle, Boss. We’re Siamese twins now and should be honest with each other.
You
wanted to lay
me
for years. But couldn’t. You knew you wanted to, I knew it too; we just never talked about it. Now you still can’t. But you can lay
him
if you want to . . . and it’s the best way to say ‘Thank you.’ But watch it. dearie. Do it here, not where you might get caught. He has a jealous wife; he has all the signs.) (Eunice, I’m not going to discuss such a ridiculous idea! I’m surprised at you. You, a nice girl—and married yourself.) (Wups, dearie! I’m not married. ‘Until death do us part’ is the limit . . . and I’m a ghost. ’Minds me, though—my husband—erase and correct; my widower, Joe Branca. Got to talk about
him
, too. Doc’s turning to go. So wet your lips and smile, if you have it even faintly on your mind. And you
have
.)