by Al Lacy
He picked up Dr. Lee Harris’s medical bag from the foot of the bunk, rubbed it lovingly, then lifted his eyes toward heaven. “Thank You, Lord, for bringing me Mr. Bendrick for a visit. I will get out of here someday, and I will become a doctor. You knew exactly how to lift my spirits!”
When Mitchell Bendrick arrived at 218 Thirty-third Street and stepped into his apartment, he called out, “Sylvia, I’m home!”
Silence.
“Sylvia! Are you here?”
Silence.
Knowing his wife often visited neighbor women and women in their own apartment building, Mitchell was not concerned. He moved to the closet where Dane’s medical books and his winter clothes were kept. “Guess I’d better put these out so I won’t forget to keep my promise to that boy tomorrow.”
He placed the books and the clothing on a chair nearby, then picked up the day’s edition of the New York Times from a small table. A bit tired from his long walk to the Hall of Justice and emotionally drained from his visit with Dane Weston, he sat down in his favorite overstuffed chair and immersed himself in the paper.
Moments later, Mitchell heard the door open, and though he was engrossed in an article about crime on Manhattans streets, he looked up at Sylvia. Having been married to her for many years, he was aware at once of the worried expression on her lovely face.
As she walked toward him, Mitchell folded the newspaper and laid it aside. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? You look worried.”
Sylvia sighed and sat down in her own favorite overstuffed chair. “I was just up in the Atwood apartment with Vera, darling. She’s not doing well at all. About an hour ago, I was walking down the hall on the second floor, and as I was passing the apartment, I heard Vera sobbing. I knocked on the door. When she let me in, I found her with a large purple bruise on her face.”
Mitchell’s bushy eyebrows arched. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes. Vera had been on the sofa, so I made her lie down again, and asked her to tell me about it. She told me that last night, Leonard came home quite late from work. He had stopped at his favorite barroom—as he often does—and was drunk when he entered the apartment. She was lying on the sofa, as usual. He asked why supper wasn’t on the table.
“Vera told him that she and Kenny had eaten at the regular time. Since she had no idea when he would come home, she and Kenny did the dishes and cleaned up the kitchen. He told her to get up and cook him a meal. She told him she was too weak to cook another meal; that he would have to make himself a sandwich. He—he jerked her up off the sofa and slapped her face, demanding a hot meal.”
Mitchell put a hand to his temple. “Oh no.”
“It got rough, all right. Kenny was looking on and rushed to his weeping mother, screaming at his father to leave her alone. This made Leonard even madder, and he knocked Kenny across the room with his fist.”
“That low-down—”
“Vera said that this morning, Kenny had a big purple bruise on his face, as well. At breakfast, Vera told Kenny he could stay home from school until the bruise was healed. She didn’t want his teacher or anyone else at school to see him looking like that.
“She said at that point, Leonard looked like a madman. He told her Kenny wasn’t going to miss school. He could tell anyone who asked about the bruise that he slipped and fell down the stairs here at the tenement. Kenny left for school, and ten minutes later, when Leonard was about to leave for work, Vera was standing beside the sofa, crying, and told him he shouldn’t have struck Kenny when all he was trying to do was protect her.”
“He’s a beast.”
“Yes, that he is. With his face beet red, Leonard told Vera Kenny had it coming. He should not have spoken to his father in that tone of voice. When Vera repeated that the boy was only trying to protect his mother, Leonard slapped her again, knocking her to the floor, and stormed out of the apartment.”
Mitchell sighed. “It is just so sad that people have to live that way. I’ll never understand why some people feel that alcohol will solve their problems, when in reality it creates more problems. I’m sure that when Vera married Leonard, he was a fine, hard-working man. From what I’ve been able to learn about him, he has just become so jaded and discouraged over the years with having to go from one job after the other to keep bread on the table and a roof over their heads.”
Sylvia nodded sadly. “And the drinking just makes him meaner than ever.”
Mitchell reached over and clasped both of her hands in his own calloused hands. “I know what you mean, sweetheart.”
“I’m so thankful that you have always been such a loving husband and father. I can sympathize only to a point with Vera because I’ve never had to live with a man who was a drunkard and an abuser.” Tears filled her eyes.
“There is nothing so strong as a gende man.”
Mitchell smiled at her, then the smile vanished. “If it were only Leonard, I’d put him out. But that poor sick mother and her child need a home. I know you want to do all you can to help them, honey, but please tread carefully. I don’t want you in that man’s way when he becomes violent.”
“I’ll be careful, dear. But I must lend a hand when it’s needed.”
“Okay, but let me go with you the next time you go up there to visit Vera. Just in case Leonard is home. I may be several years older than Leonard, but I’ll protect you with my life.”
“I know you would do that, sweetheart,” Sylvia said softly, then rose to her feet, bent over, and placed a kiss on Mitchell’s cheek.
It was then that Sylvia spotted the books and clothing on the nearby chair. “Oh! Dane! I’m so overwrought about Vera and Kenny that I forgot where you’ve been. You got to see him, then?”
“Yes, I did. And I’m as sure as anything that he did not kill that Benny Jackson. Sit back down and let me tell you all about my visit with that precious boy.”
Chapter Twenty
That evening, Vera and Kenny Atwood sat down at the table and began eating the beef stew Vera had prepared for their supper.
Leonard was late, and they both knew it was because he had stopped at the bar to tip the bottle with his drinking pals.
Kenny looked across the table while chewing his food and set adoring eyes on his mother. It hurt him to see her so pale and thin, and it bothered him that the dark circles under her eyes were becoming more pronounced. Worse than that were the purple marks on her cheeks—the result of his father’s brutality.
Vera felt Kenny’s eyes studying her battered features. She forced a smile. “Honey, don’t worry about me. These bruises will heal.”
Anger suddenly showed in the nine-year-olds eyes, and it etched deep grooves in his forehead and around his mouth. “I’m sorry that Papa hit you again after I left for school this morning, Mama. If I was a man, I would beat him up real good for all the times he has slapped you around. I’d—I’d pound him so hard, they’d have to haul him off to the hospital.”
Vera shook her head. “No, no, Kenny. You should never even think about such a thing. Even though your father is mean at times—especially when he has been drinking—you should never want to harm him.”
“I can’t stand it when he hurts you. He should never hurt you. If I was bigger, I would stop him, and I would fix him so he could never do it again. You know—like break his arms so he couldn’t lift them.”
Vera closed her eyes and shook her head vigorously. “No, Kenny, you mustn’t think like that!”
“But Mama, you’re already sick. He doesn’t even care. He just beats on you, anyhow. If I was a man, I would—”
“No more, Kenny! I appreciate your concern for me, but no more talk about what you would do to your father if you were a man. Let’s talk about something else.”
The conversation went to what was happening at school, and Vera kept him occupied by asking questions about different schoolmates.
When they had finished eating, Vera pushed her chair back and rose weakly to her feet. “I’ll keep the stew in the pot, and when your
father comes home, he can heat it up himself.”
Kenny knew his father would not like being told he had to heat the stew up, but he did not comment. Instead, he left his chair, rounded the table, and took her hand. “Come on, Mama. You’re going to lie down on the sofa. I’ll take care of the stew, and I’ll wash and dry the dishes.”
Vera looked down at him and ran fingers through his thick straw-colored hair. “All right, sweetheart. I’ll let you.”
When Kenny had led his mother to the sofa in the parlor and made sure she was comfortable, he returned to the kitchen.
Some thirty minutes later, he was just finishing his cleanup job when he heard his father enter the apartment. His body stiffened when he heard his father’s whiskey-ridden voice thunder, “Get up from there, Vera! I want my supper!”
Kenny left the kitchen, rage seething in him, and hurried into the parlor. His father was standing unsteadily over the sofa, glaring down at his mother, hands on his hips.
“I told you to get up, woman! I want my supper!”
As Kenny drew up beside the big, muscular man, Vera looked at her son and said, “Leonard, I had Kenny leave the beef stew on the stove in the pot. All you have to do is stoke up the fire in the stove so your stew and your coffee can heat up. The coffee is already in the pot.”
Leonard’s breathing became heavy. His fury charged the atmosphere in the apartment. “I want you to do it for me! It’s your job! Get up and do it, right now!”
Fear was a cold worm in Kenny’s stomach. He tensed up, his mouth going dry.
Vera’s hands trembled as she sighed and struggled to get off the sofa. She fell to her knees on the floor. When Kenny started to help her, Leonard seized his arm and yanked him back. “Leave her alone! She can get up by herself!”
Kenny’s fear intensified.
Vera grasped the edge of the sofa and struggled to her feet. She staggered a few steps and fell again.
Leonard stood over her, his face bloated in drunken rage. “You ain’t foolin’ me, Vera! You’re fakin’ it.” With that, he grabbed an arm, jerked her to her feet, and slapped her face.
Kenny’s fear became blind wrath. He lunged at his father, pounding him with all his might. “Leave her alone! Stop hurting my mama!”
Leonard’s wrath grew hotter. He let Vera fall to the floor, picked Kenny up, and threw him across the room. Kenny howled when his left leg slammed into a small table.
As he lay on the floor, wailing in agony and holding his leg, Leonard stomped to the spot, stood over him, and blared, “Stop that bawlin’ and get up!”
Vera rose to her hands and knees, and looked at Kenny as the boy clutched his leg. Blood showed on his pants leg. He attempted to get up, but when he put his weight on his leg, he howled in agony and fell to the floor.
“I told you to get up!” roared Leonard.
Kenny wailed, “I can’t, Papa! I can’t!”
Vera was so weak; all she could do was crawl to her son. Drawing up to him, she raised her eyes to her husband. “Can’t you see he’s hurt? There’s blood on his pants!”
Leonard watched as Vera told Kenny to let go of his leg so she could pull up his pants leg and look at it. Kenny obeyed and looked on as his mother carefully pulled up the leg of his pants. Her eyes widened when she saw the damage. “Oh, Leonard! We’ve got to get him to the hospital! His leg is badly broken. There are bone splinters poking through the skin.”
The rheumy-eyed Leonard Atwood shook his head stubbornly. “He ain’t goin to no hospital!”
Vera broke into tears, pulled the pants leg down gently, then struggled to her feet. Looking at her husband through the tears, she said, “He’s got to have a doctor.”
“I said no!”
She staggered toward the door, wincing. “If you won’t do it, Leonard, I’m going to tell Mr. Bendrick to find the policemen on this beat and have them take Kenny to the hospital.”
Leonard scowled. “Vera, if the police get involved, they’ll arrest me for what I did to Kenny. You are not to go out that door!”
Ignoring him, Vera opened the door.
Leonard swore and charged after her, but in his drunken state, he slipped on a throw rug and fell.
Vera stepped into the hall and saw a man and his wife who were occupants of an apartment four doors down. Jack and Lillian Dickson were just coming out of their apartment.
“Jack! Lillian!” cried Vera. “I need your help!”
“What is it, Vera?” called Jack.
“It’s Kenny! He’s hurt bad!”
The Dicksons hurried toward her.
Inside the Atwood apartment, Leonard was on his unsteady feet, and having heard Vera call to the neighbors, rushed to the open door. Vera was standing just outside the door. When he saw the Dicksons on their way toward Vera, he pushed his way past her, and hurried down the hall toward the rear of the building.
Vera turned and saw him rushing away. “Leonard, come back here!”
Leonard ignored her. When he reached the stairs, he stumbled his way down to the first floor, darted out the back door into the alley, and ran as fast as he could go.
By this time, Mitchell Bendrick had heard the loud voices in the hall on the second floor, and appeared at the top of the front staircase as other tenants were coming out of their apartments. He saw Jack Dickson with Kenny in his arms, heading toward him with Vera and Lillian at his side.
Mitchell rushed up and met them, and looked at the boy, who was obviously in agony. “What happened?”
“Leonard threw Kenny across the parlor,” Jack told him. “His leg is broken.”
“Splinters of bone have broken through the skin,” spoke up Vera. “We’ve got to get him to the hospital. Leonard ran away because he knows he’ll be in trouble with the police for this.”
Mitchell sighed and shook his head. “I’ll go find the policemen on this beat and have them get a paddy wagon so we can take Kenny to the hospital. Just go down to the office and tell Sylvia what happened. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
At Manhattans Mercy Hospital, Vera Atwood and the Bendricks were in the waiting room while one of the surgeons and his assistants were examining Kenny in the surgical unit.
Vera was lying down on a couch while Mitchell and Sylvia were trying to comfort and encourage her.
Over an hour had passed since Kenny had been wheeled into the surgical unit on a gurney, when the surgeon, Dr. Robert Latimer, entered the waiting room, a serious look on his face.
Vera struggled to sit up and Mitchell hastily moved to help her. Sylvia placed a pillow at her back.
Dr. Latimer cleared his throat nervously. “Mrs. Atwood, I’m sorry, but the news is not good. Kenny’s leg has been shattered from just below the knee, all the way to the ankle. We—we must amputate the leg from that spot down. We need your permission to go ahead with the surgery.”
Vera felt like a spike had been driven through her heart. Face pinched, she said, “Doctor, are—are you sure the leg has to be amputated? Is there no other recourse?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Atwood, but there is no choice in the matter. In order to save his life, I must remove the leg. Gangrene will set in if I don’t, and Kenny will die.”
Vera’s eyes filled with tears. “He’s just a child. He will have to go through the rest of his life on crutches or in a wheelchair.” She threw her hands up to her face. “Surely, I’ll wake up from this terrible nightmare!”
Sylvia laid a hand on Vera’s shoulder. “Honey, at least you will still have your son.”
Vera sniffed, took hold of Sylvia’s hand, and let the tears run unchecked down her bruised face. She set her wet gaze on the doctor and swallowed hard. “Dr. Latimer, you have my permission to amputate the leg. Could—could I see him before you do the surgery?”
“I’ll be glad to take you in, but he is heavily sedated. He won’t know you’re there.”
“I understand, but I still want to see him before—before you do the amputation.”
The d
octor took Vera’s hand and helped her rise to a standing position. He looked at the Bendricks. “I’ll bring her back shortly.”
“We’ll be here, Doctor,” said Mitchell.
Dr. Latimer kept a strong arm around Vera as he guided her through the door and they moved slowly down the hall. “Mrs. Atwood, before I sedated Kenny, I could already tell that the amputation was going to be necessary. I told him what I would have to do. He shed some tears, but took it quite well. He told me he understood, and assured me he would learn to use crutches.”
Vera nodded. “He’s braver than his mother is about it.”
They entered the surgical unit and Dr. Latimer guided her to the operating room where Kenny lay on the table, deeply sedated.
Another surgeon was there, as well as two nurses. They observed in silence as Vera moved up to the operating table, steadied by Dr. Latimer, and looked down at her son. She was thankful that for the moment, he wasn’t suffering.
Vera took Kenny’s hand in both of her own and bit her lips. She feared what his life might be like, but steeled herself as she said, “Doctor, it’s going to be hard to watch him have to adjust to being a cripple. But … but at least I’ll have him with me.”
“Right, ma’am. I can tell Kenny has real grit in him. He will be fine.”
Vera kept her gaze on Kenny’s motionless face. “Doctor, I don’t have the money to pay for this. My husband may never come back. I have no idea how I’m going to—”
“Don’t fret yourself about the money, Mrs. Atwood. Kenny’s life is at stake. We need to get started right away.”
Vera nodded, tenderly ran her fingers over her only child’s face, then bent down and kissed each bruise, as if kisses would make then go away. “Mama will be here when you wake up, sweetheart. Be the brave boy you always have been. Mama is here for you. I love you, son, more than anything in this world.”
Tears were streaming down her cheeks as the doctor guided her to the door, and when he opened it, Mitchell and Sylvia Bendrick were standing there in the hall.
“We’ll take her back to the waiting room, Doctor,” said Mitchell.
