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Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: Sleight of Hand
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My gaze veered to the press—the only reason I had dropped by. “It
is
a Multi!” I cried, as if discovering a long-lost friend.
“What?” The man switched off the press and stared at me.
“Sorry.” I looked at him. “My name's Jo Banks. I heard your press from the road and I had to see if it was like ours. My dad's a printer. He had a Multi when I was a kid and I used to help him in the shop.” I stretched out my hand.
His hand remained at his side. “I'm busy. I don't have time to gab.” He flicked the on switch. The barn was filled with the clatter of the press and further conversation was out of the question.
Well, I'd found out what I wanted to know and had my nostalgic high from the whiff of paper and ink. I figured I might as well go. This guy wasn't exactly Mr. Hospitality. Printers aren't known for their social skills. They are a dour, taciturn lot. My dad is like that, too, until you get to know him. It's the nature of their work, I guess. They work long hours, often alone, or with just a helper or two. They are under constant pressure to meet insane deadlines. And their equipment is always letting them down. If something can go wrong, it usually does. Such a life does not inspire happy-go-lucky congeniality. But this guy took the prize for unfriendliness. I turned to leave.
A sharp yelp stopped me. The barn was silent. I spun around. The printer was bent over the head of his press in a position I instantly recognized—that of someone in excruciating pain. I ran to his side.
The first two fingers of his right hand were jammed between the rollers, up to his second knuckles. He had managed to hit the off switch with his left hand, but not before the familiar smell of burning rubber filled the barn. I looked around for some tools. Spying a Phillips screwdriver on a bench nearby, I snatched it up and scanned the press. To free his fingers, I'd have to loosen the top roller. It was held in place by four screws. I went to work, while the printer moaned at my side.
“Easy does it,” I said lamely, trying to soothe him. My bedside manner lacked its usual sparkle because at the back of my mind lurked the unthinkable thought that my unexpected visit had rattled this man, and that I might have caused his accident.
The first three screws freed up easily, but the fourth was stuck. It wouldn't budge. Corroded with ink from a thousand print jobs, it resisted all my efforts.
“Goddamn it, can't you get it?” the man cried, stamping his foot in frustration.
I spotted an oil can on the bench and squirted it on the screw. But how long would it take to work? I would never know. The man, unable to bear the pain any longer, yanked his hand from the press and stowed it under his armpit.
“Don't.” I grabbed his arm.
He pulled away.
“I'm a doctor,” I explained belatedly. “My office is down the road and I'm on the staff of the Bridgeton Hospital. Let me see your hand.”
Slowly, he held it out. The first two fingers were an ugly sight—smashed and bleeding. Probably broken. But all that could be fixed. The important thing to find out was, “Can you move them?”
He couldn't. I turned his hand over and saw what I feared most: a deep cut above his wrist. Some sharp part of the press had cut him while he was struggling to pull his hand from the machine. If the tendon was damaged, his whole hand might become useless.
“We have to get you to the hospital.” I was applying pressure above the gash, although it wasn't bleeding much. No artery had been damaged, thank god.
He pulled his arm away. “No hospital.”
I looked at him. “What do you mean?”
“
No hospital,
” he repeated more loudly, backing away from me.
“Look, this is no joke. You could lose the use of your hand.”
He scuttled over to a battered desk piled high with scrap paper from old runs, pink order slips, and other junk that only a printer would recognize. With his good hand, he yanked open a drawer.
“You need surgery right away.” I said. “And by an expert. I can drive you to Philly—to one of the major medical centers. Do you have a car?”
His look of naked terror shocked me. I've known people who were afraid of doctors and surgery, but this was ridiculous.
A ray of sun knifed through a ragged hole in the roof, glinting off the metal object he had removed from the drawer. When he spoke, I realized it wasn't doctors or surgery he was afraid of.
“You're a doctor,” he said. “You can do the operation.”
His words barely registered. All my attention was fixed on his good hand and the gun he was pointing at me.
A parade of unhelpful thoughts marched through my mind:
This guy is wacko.
I've done it again—walked into a ludicrous life-threatening situation.
Tom will say it was my own fault.
If I die, it will kill Dad.
“I don't do hand surgery,” I managed to croak. “That's a specialty. If you botch it, the patient can lose the use of his hand.”
As I waited for him to say something, I heard the soft trudge of footsteps approaching the barn.
Please, god, let it be someone who will help me.
The printer also heard the steps and glanced over my shoulder through the open barn door. I didn't dare turn and take my gaze off the gun.
The footsteps paused. “Daddy?” A childlike voice spoke behind me.
“Come in, Lolly, baby.” The printer spoke in a gentle, coaxing tone, all the time keeping the gun trained on me.
Expecting a child to appear, I was startled by the age and size of the person who moved into my field of vision: a woman of about
twenty, clothed in a shapeless housedress of about the same size. Even in the dim light, I could see that her pale oval face wore a puzzled expression.
Hiding his pain, the printer spoke slowly and deliberately. “This lady dropped by to say hello. She'll be staying with us for a while.”
The young woman's gaze moved slowly from her father to me.
“She didn't want to stay at first,” the printer went on, “but I persuaded her.” A grimace of pain distorted his features.
“Daddy! What's wrong?” She lumbered toward him, oblivious of the gun.
“Get back!” he shouted. “Pinched my hand in the press is all. This lady's a doctor. She's going to fix me up.”
Lolly looked at me.
Watching her standing irresolute between us, I suddenly understood. Despite her age and size, Lolly was still a child. My heart sank. She could not help me, even if she wanted to. Which she probably didn't.
I wondered if there was anyone else on the property, or in the house. “We should get your daddy to a hospital right away.” I told her. “He—”
“Don't listen,” her father interrupted.
“Go to the house and tell your mom to call nine one one,” I commanded.
“That would be a neat trick.” He smiled sardonically. “Her mom's been gone for over six years. Right, honey?”
The child-woman turned her head from me to her father and back again. I looked at the man and saw his face drain of color as he sank to the floor. Lolly rushed forward. But he hadn't lost consciousness. “Stay back!” he ordered, still holding the gun on me.
Alarm bells went off in my head. I was still a doctor and I knew this man must be treated at once. “We better get started,” I said.
The man frowned. The impossibility of his situation was dawning
on him. If he lost consciousness, he was finished. Then I could do with him what I wanted.
“If I'm to perform this surgery, I'll need surgical instruments, medical supplies, not to mention anesthesia.”
“A local,” the man burst out.
I shrugged, as if this detail was of no consequence—although putting him under completely would solve all my problems. “I'll have to go to the hospital to get these things,” I said.
“Lolly can get what you need.”
“Does she drive?” I realized I was talking to him as if the woman wasn't there. I glanced at her. Chewing on her lower lip, she seemed unaware of any disrespect.
“Yeah. She does all the errands. She's not as dumb as she looks, are you, baby?”
She smiled at him, as if he had paid her a compliment.
“Does she have a license?” I asked.
He ignored this, and a groan of pain escaped him. Lolly started toward him. Again, he waved her back. “Do what the lady says. Get her what she wants. You know where the money is.” He slumped against the press, where he had fallen, still pointing the gun.
I suddenly felt exhausted. I wished I could sit down. But I addressed Lolly. “I'll need—”
“No,” the man shouted. “She won't remember. You have to write it down.”
“Can she read?”
“No. She shows the list wherever she goes. To the grocer, the clerk at the hardware store … They all know her … .”
“But the things I need are at the hospital. Nobody knows her there. They won't give her anything. Some of this stuff, they won't even give me, let alone Lolly. I'll need surgical supplies, and I'm not a surgeon.”
“How do you plan to get them, then?” he said angrily.
“Steal them,” I said simply.
The faintest glimmer of a smile came and went. I saw him make a quick calculation. “Get them yourself, then.”
Had I heard right? He'd let me go—alone? My expression must have given my thoughts away.
“Don't worry. You'll come back.” His face took on a cunning expression.
I said nothing.
“Because if you don't—” He aimed the revolver at the barn roof and fired.
I jumped.
The bullet ricocheted off a beam and rolled into a dark corner of the barn. The gun was still smoking when he turned it on his daughter. “I'll shoot Lolly. Won't I, baby?”
To my horror, the simple woman nodded—and smiled.
Before leaving, I asked the printer his name.
He hesitated.
“I like to know the names of the people I operate on,” I said firmly.
“Max.”
I waited for the last name.
“That's all you need,” he said, dismissing me with a wave of the gun.
Lolly giggled.
It would be a long time before I learned the cause for that giggle.
 
 
As I picked my way through the field of soybeans, my feet felt caked in cement. The brief glimpse of freedom I'd been given had been replaced by Lolly's deadweight. Her life was now my sole responsibility. Not to mention the surgical operation I had to perform, for which I was totally unqualified. I had observed others perform hand surgery in medical school, but the only hand surgery I'd done myself was to remove a splinter from a finger!
Of course I could call his bluff, I thought. Chances were a hundred to one he wouldn't kill his own daughter. But how could I be sure? I didn't know this man from Adam. He could be a vicious criminal. He was definitely hiding something, or why would he refuse to go to the hospital? The only reason had to be that he didn't want to be identified, have his name go through the system. And why did he have a gun so readily available? Many farmers owned guns. But they were usually rifles for hunting or shotguns for scaring off the occasional nighttime intruder—animal or human. Not revolvers.
I had just mounted my bicycle and was cursing myself for not having my Honda, when Max appeared at the barn door. He was yelling something and pointing at the dusty maroon Chevy parked in the drive. I dropped my bike and trotted over to him. “Take my car,” he said, and tossed me the keys. I caught them and got in the old car. It was empty except for a very worn teddy bear on the front seat. Lolly's?
I checked the gas gauge. The tank was half-full. Enough to get me to the motel, then to the hospital and back. My captor had allotted me only two hours to find what I needed. And it was urgent that I attend to his wound as soon as possible. I decided the best I could do was suture the two mangled fingers, try to preserve the nerve endings, and let them heal. Complete reconstruction of the fingers and cut tendon would have to come later, performed by a specialist with the latest expertise and equipment. Somehow, during the healing period, I would have to gain my patient's confidence and convince him to go to a medical center.
My first stop was the Oakview Motor Lodge, which served as both my home and office. Every motel is required by law to have a doctor on call to serve its guests in an emergency. Once a fancy pediatrician working for a high-falutin' group of M.D.s from a glitzy office in Manhattan, I had sunk to the lowest of the low—a “motel doctor” serving customers in the boondocks of South Jersey.
I was stopping home to where I could pick up a few medical supplies and my textbook on hand surgery. I owned a copy of this book
by accident. Written in 1947, it was still considered a definitive text and referred to by foremost surgeons. The illustrations were especially prized for their clarity and accuracy. As one highly respected surgeon had told me, “Surgical techniques, tools, and medicines change swiftly, but the human body doesn't. At least not since Neanderthal man. The human hand is pretty much the same as it was a thousand years ago.” This surgeon was Dr. Philip Graham, my teacher and mentor. He thought I had an innate skill for surgery and had tried to convince me to become a surgeon. But I'd balked. I didn't think it was for me. Nevertheless, when I graduated, he gave me a copy of this book and told me, “If you ever change your mind, this might come in handy. No pun intended,” he added with a smile.
If I believed in destiny, there was a special reason for this gift.
In my entire training, I had witnessed only two hand surgeries. One involved a thumb with a cut tendon, impairing the patient's ability to pinch. Don't laugh. Pinching is one of the most important functions of the hand, although misused at times. The other hand had been damaged in a fire and required a skin graft to restore its function. As I drove, I tried to visualize those operations, rolling through them step by step, from first cut to final sutures. If only I had a video! I thought they probably did have some in the hospital library, but there was no time for that.
I pulled into the motel parking lot, jumped out, and ran up the outside staircase, making the iron treads ring.
My bed was still unmade. I had rushed off for my pleasure ride—without breakfast—before the dew had dried on the asters. There was nothing prettier than a flood of blue asters along the roadside, sparkling in the early-morning sun. Ha! That was an eon ago. In another world. Another life. I scanned my bookcase. There it was—second shelf from the top, third book on the left, with the worn red cover, gold letters embossed on the spine:
Surgery of the Hand,
and under that, the name Bunnell, and under that, the small imprint of a gold hand.
I dug the book out and flipped to the table of contents.
Phylogens and Comparative Anatomy
No time for that …
The Normal Hand
Or that …
Reconstruction of the Hand
Operative Technic
Now we're talking … .
Clearing Skin
Draping and Lighting
In a barn?
Keeping Off Skin
Holding by Assistant
Lolly?
Operating
I flicked to the photographs—black-and-white shots, murky and dark. Damn. So much for 1947 photography. Actually, photography was fine back then, if you had the right photographer. The publisher must have been economizing. Then I saw the illustrations—clear, meticulous, and accurate. An expert had drawn these. I breathed a sigh of relief and glanced at my watch. Holy shit! Where had a half hour gone? Clutching the book to my chest, I headed back to the parking lot. I made a quick detour to my office, housed in a cabin dating from earlier days, when the motel was an “auto court.” I grabbed my medical kit and crammed it with such useful items as surgical scissors, syringes, plastic gloves, gauze, adhesive tape, iodine, and alcohol, then stowed the kit in my backpack. I was getting into the Chevy when I heard a familiar male voice hail me. With dread, I watched Tom, my current boyfriend, jump from his pickup truck and stroll toward me. Another delay.
“I'll bet you forgot,” he said as he drew closer.
The sight of his familiar, reassuring figure jolted me back to the real world, the sane world, where people didn't make impossible
demands on you or wave guns in your face. I was tempted to blurt out the whole story to him, when Lolly's pale face rose before me and I restrained myself. “What?” I said between stiff lips.
“Your archery lesson.” He looked hurt because I'd forgotten. And no wonder, since only the night before I had begged him to teach me the sport.
“I'm sorry. I got an emergency call and it flew right out of my head.”
“New car?” He looked quizzically at the dusty Chevy.
“I borrowed it. No time to explain.”
“Better not hold you up, then. We'll make it some other time.”
“Sure.” I glanced at my watch. Only an hour to get to the hospital, locate the supplies I needed, and get back to Lolly before …
He caught my glance and turned back to his truck.
“See ya,” I said.
He kept walking.
As I turned the key in the ignition, I caught a glimpse of Maggie in the office, seated at the front desk, punching her calculator. And, at the other end of the lot, I saw her husband, Paul, getting into his car, about to take off on one of his daily errands. He waved. How I envied them their normal routines and wished I could follow my own.
The night before, when I'd stopped by the lobby to pick up my paper, Maggie and Paul had been discussing the body found by the roadside. Maggie had learned about it through the ever-faithful Bayfield grapevine and, in her infinite wisdom, had decided that the odd couple who were renting the Wister place, only half a mile away from the site, had something to do with it. “The husband's a real recluse,” she said, “and nobody's seen the wife for years. I think she left him. But their daughter's always driving around—”
“She's a bit dim, isn't she?” Paul offered, making a circular motion with his finger next to his temple.
To tell the truth, their gossip had irritated me at the time. Now, with a shock, I realized who they had been talking about! I thought
of Max and his gun and the two bullet holes in the corpse only a half mile away. Could there be a connection? Despite my urgent deadline, I idled in the parking lot until my nerves settled down.
I felt as if I were locked inside a glass box and couldn't get out. My friends—Tom, Maggie, and Paul—were outside the box, going about their daily business, and they assumed I was going about mine. They had no idea I was in a desperate, life-threatening situation, wanting to cry out to them for help. But if I did, Max might lose the use of his hand, and Lolly might die—and it would all be my fault.
I drove silently out of the lot.

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