She was carrying two suitcases and looking cheerful. A third valise
was down in her new truck. I brought it up and watched her unpack and
hang her clothes. Filling the space in the closet that I’d left empty
for more than two years.
Sitting down on the bed, she smiled. There.
We necked for a while, watched the fish, went out and had rack of lamb
at a sedate place in Brentwood where we were the youngest patrons.
After returning home, we spent the rest of the evening listening to
music, reading, and playing gin. It felt romantic, a little geriatric,
and very satisf’ing. The next morning, we went walking in the glen,
pretending we were birdwatchers and making up names for the winged
things we saw.
Sunday lunch was hamburgers and iced tea up on the terrace.
After we did the dishes she got involved in the Sunday crossword
puzzle, biting her pencil and frowning a lot. I stretched out on a
lounge chair, feigning relaxation. Shortly after 2:00 P.M. she put the
puzzle down, saying, “Forget it. Too many French words.”
She lay down beside me. We absorbed sun, until I noticed her starting
to fidget.
I leaned over and kissed her forehead.
“Ummm. . . anything I can do for you?” she said.
“No, thanks.”
“Sure?”
“Uh-huh.”
She tried to sleep, grew more restless.
I said, “I’d like to get over to the hospital some time today.”
“Oh, sure. . . As long as you’re going out, I might as well get over
to the shop, take care of a few odds and ends.”
Cassie’s room was empty, the bed stripped, the drapes drawn. Vacuum
tracks striped the carpet. The bathroom was bare and disinfected; a
paper runner was wrapped around the toilet.
As I stepped out of the room a voice said, “Hold it.”
I came face to face with a security guard. Wet-sanded triangular face,
grim lips, and black-framed glasses. Same hero I’d met the first day,
enforcing the badge law.
He blocked the doorway. Looked ready to charge San Juan Hill.
I said, “Excuse me.”
He didn’t move. There was barely enough space between us for me to
glance down and read his badge. Sylvester A.D.
He looked at mine and took a single step backwards. Partial retreat
but not enough to allow me through.
“See, got a new one,” I said. All bright and shiny, full color.
Now could you please get out of the way so I can go about my
business?”
He looked up and down a couple of times, matching my face to the
photo.
Stepping aside, he said, “This ward’s closed.”
“So I see. For how long?”
“Till they open it.”
I walked past him and headed for the teak doors.
He said, “Looking for anything in particular?”
I stopped and faced him again. One hand rested on his holster; the
other gripped his baton.
Resisting the urge to bark, “Draw, pardner,” I said, “I came to see a
patient. They used to treat them here.”
I used a phone on the public ward to call Admissions and Discharge and
confirmed that Cassie had been released an hour ago. I took the stairs
down to the first floor and bought a watery cola from a vending
machine. I was carrying it across the entrance lobby when I crossed
paths with George Plumb and Charles Jones, Jr. They were laughing,
keeping up a brisk pace that caused Jones’s short bowlegs to pump. So
much for concerned grandpa.
They got to the door just as I emerged. Jones saw me and his mouth
stood still. A few seconds later his feet did the same. Plumb
stopped, too, remaining just behind his boss. The pink in his
complexion was more vivid than ever.
“Dr. Delaware,” said Jones. His gravel voice made it sound like a
warning ~rowl;, “Mr. Jones.
“Do you have a moment, Doctor?”
Caught off guard, I said, Casting an eye at Plumb, he said, “I’ll catch
up with you later, George.”
Plumb nodded and marched off, arms swinging.
When we were alone Jones said, “How’s my granddaughter?”
last time I saw her she was looking better.
“Good, good. I’m on my way to see her.”