“Right away.” Dressed in seconds, the girl left.
(How’d we look today, Eunice? Tits beginning to suit you?) (We’re more than halfway there, Joan; in another week you can cut the time down.) (Not anxious to; it’s the most fun of the day. . . except when our lord and guardian deigns to dine with us. Tell me, hon—have you been fretting about those negative reports?) (No, you have been fretting; they were what I expected. Nobody knows how memory works except that everyone is sure he knows and thinks all the others are fools.) (I’ve been thinking about those flatworms. If you can chop up a trained flatworm and feed it to another flatworm and then the second one seems to remember what the first one learned, then—)
(Boss! I keep telling you, I am not a flatworm! I told you a long time ago that the body remembers, and—let’s table it; here comes the fuzz.)
“Miss Joan, it’s Dr. Garcia and Mr. Salomon.”
“Oh. Well, I’m not going to dress; we’ve still to finish. Grab me a negligee—not that plate-glass job. The London Fog is suitable, don’t you think?”
“I guess. Makes you look only half naked instead of bare.”
“Who taught me to dress that way, winsome Winnie?” (I did.) (Sure, Eunice—but she thinks she bosses me. I’m her good baby who always does what Mama says. . . until we get dear Doctor out of our hair.) “Please tell the gentlemen that I will be right out.”
Miss Smith stopped to apply lipstick, decided that her face could get along with no other renewals, took a brushcomb and teased her too-short locks into fluffiness, stepped into stilt-high mules, put on the negligee and looked at herself in the long glass.
She decided that the selective opacity of the robe was just right—except that the upper part was a little too modest. So she delayed long enough to apply lipstick to areolae.
Now satisfied with her appearance—(Boss, we look like a high-priced pooka.) (Very high-priced, I hope. Were you criticizing?) (Not at all, I was applauding.)—she went out into her boudoir. “Good morning, Doctor. Hi, Jake dear. Won’t you sit down? Coffee? Or we can find some Old Kentucky Rat Poison, bottled in the barn.”
“Coffee,” agreed Salomon. “You look charming, my dear.”
“Snake charming. I’ve been exercising and smell like a horse.”
“Not more than a small pony. I’ll turn up the ventilation. Joan Eunice, Dr. Garcia wants to check you over.”
“Really? What’s wrong? I feel fine. Aside from these cold prison bars all around me, and my head on a pillow of stone.”
“Dr. Garcia thinks we can do something about those cold prison bars. Joan Eunice, we agreed that it was not smart to go into court until you were discharged as well in all respects. He thinks it may be possible, now.”
“Oh. Oh! How about that platoon of psychiatrists?”
“We’ll have them. We may never need them. But we’ll be ready to offset their expert witnesses. You will have to put up with long searching interviews; our own experts must go into court prepared.” (Prepared to justify their fancy fees. Don’t worry, Boss; I’ll hide under a rock whenever a shrink is around.)
“That’s okay. I’m delighted that Dr. Garcia thinks I’m well. Shall we step into my dressing room, Doctor? Come along, Winnie. Jake, the Wall Street Journal is over there.”
Once she was alone with her doctor and nurse Miss Smith said, “Well, Doctor? Shall I stretch out on the massage table?”
“No, this examination is pro forma, to allow me to log that I gave you a physical on the day I discharged you. I’ll listen with a stethoscope and make you say ‘Ah!’—things like that. If you’ll sit down at your dressing table and drop the top of your robe, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
She kept quiet while he passed the stethoscope here and there, coughed when she was told to, inhaled sharply and sighed noisily as directed. Once she said, “Wups! Sorry, I’m ticklish,” and asked, “What does that tell you?”
“Just palpating for lumps. Again, pro forma—although it’s been some time since this was done.” (Enjoying it, kiddo?) (Maybe you are, Eunice; I’m not. I’d rather be approached more romantic-like.) (Don’t kid your grandmother; you enjoy it.)