by Linda Barnes
I pity male detectives, I really do. Some may laugh and ask where a six-foot-one redhead’s gonna hide, but I have my response down pat: A female six-foot-one redhead is as easy to hide as a trip to your local wig shop.
I could do it with hair dye, like Roz—or Roz before she discovered the clippers—but the truth of it is, I like my own particular shade of flame, and I take umbrage when anyone suggests I may have helped nature’s hand. So I do wigs. They’re not especially comfy, and the cheapies, the kind they foist off on undercover cops, are a guaranteed headache. So I stick to two decent ones, a long straight brunette and a curly blond.
I gazed at the business card’s neat type. Sandra Everett. Sandy. Definitely curly blond. Cute is not easy to achieve at six-one, so I decided on earnest. Older than me, maybe thirty-five to forty. Well groomed. Wealthy. Unaccustomed to the word no.
I own a single good navy business suit, purchased at a Filene’s Basement sale. Paired with a prim white silk blouse, it would see me through. A hat would be good. In one of the many rooms I could rent to Harvard students if I bothered, I keep the few things of Aunt Bea’s that I didn’t send to charity. I plucked the frivolous silk flowers off a straw boater, pinned it to my wig so it would sit at a properly unbecoming angle.
Pearls would have been nice if I’d owned any.
I found a pair of Italian leather flats that pinched my toes, another Filene’s Basement deal. I wear sneakers most of the time, but they wouldn’t do for Sandra.
Disguised, I spent some time with the current Yellow Pages. Muir wasn’t listed under Physicians, but he was part of a special feature, the GUIDE TO PHYSICIANS AND SURGEONS, ARRANGED BY PRACTICE. Under Oncology at the Jonas Hand/Helping Institute. Tiny letters beneath his name spelled out: Chief of Staff, Pediatric Oncology-Hematology. I cut to the big print: Longwood Avenue. I cross-checked the reference under Hospitals, but the ad for JHHI gave no specifics, not even physicians’ names. Just a single all-purpose phone number.
While I ran my finger down the lists of names and places, I tried to imagine how Sandy Everett would sit in her clothes, how she’d move. Since she’d opted for flats rather than heels, I decided she’d try to try to make herself seem shorter. Ducking my head forward and hunching my shoulders, I felt a surge of righteous determination.
I made sure my message machine was operational, grabbed my purse with a more ladylike motion than usual, and left the house.
When I drive a cab, I keep strictly away from the Longwood Medical area, preferring a tricky left turn and a crescent-shaped detour onto the Riverway to avoid the whole of Hospital Row, which boasts—in addition to Helping Hand—Children’s Hospital, Beth Israel Hospital, Brigham and Women’s, the Deaconess, the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, and probably a few new health-care havens that have opened since the last time I checked. The traffic is appalling. People late for doctors’ appointments, hurrying to give birth, or racing to see loved ones in extremis tend to be less than mindful of their turn signals. Add the fact that every intersection in the one-mile stretch has its very own traffic light, and the result is a caliber of gridlock unique even in Boston.
An old yellow Saab decided to turn left in front of me. From the right-hand lane. No signal.
I usually cab nights because I don’t have the patience for daytime driving. I’d rather risk midnight muggers than hang out behind a five-mile-an-hour stream of honking commuters. While traffic crawled, I slid Bonnie Raitt’s Collection into the tape deck, a much-practiced maneuver I can perform blindfolded on an S curve.
Another reason I avoid the Longwood Medical area is that once you hit your destination, there’s no place to park. The few metered slots are regulated in scant twenty-minute allotments. There is nothing you can do in a hospital in twenty minutes, right? So the meters are perpetually red-flagged and traffic tickets adorn every windshield. But that doesn’t create any more parking spaces, and the garages are incredibly expensive.
Whoa, I said to myself. Incredibly expensive is Emily Woodrow’s middle name. And since this visit was on her, I could afford a garage.
I crossed Brookline Avenue after two lights worth of left-turners. Kept up a stop-and-go pace in front of Children’s Hospital.
Unlike the rest of the medical outfits, JHHI lies south of Huntington Avenue. I began looking seriously for a garage. The chance of car theft increased dramatically on the wrong side of the streetcar tracks.
JHHI had its own meager parking facility. I yanked the car into the barely marked drive. The ramp spiraled steeply, a two-way job too narrow for more than a mile-an-hour creep. The structure beyond the ramp featured cramped spaces, mostly occupied. Few cars seemed to have parked entirely between the yellow lines. For two bucks a half hour, it was no bargain. I squeezed between a badly parked Mercedes and a battered Plymouth. Signs and arrows directed me to an arched passageway that led to the lobby.
I wondered if the passageway, newer than the garage, had been built to shield the hospital from its surroundings, ushering patients from parking lot to front door without making them confront the boarded-up tenements across the street, the littered playground to one side, the seemingly abandoned factory on the other.
I glanced quickly around. No one in sight, so I gave my wig a quick downward tug with both hands, settled the straw hat on top, and eased through the automatic doors wondering how Marie Antoinette had ever kept her hairdo afloat.
The high-ceilinged lobby was pleasant enough. Both the elegant chandeliers and the ultra-utilitarian reception desk seemed out of place in opposing ways. To the left, a low fountain spilled into a shallow pool. Pennies and silver coins glittered in the shallows. Of course: A body of water in a hospital would soon become a wishing well.
Make my child healthy. Keep me whole.
A dark-skinned woman pulled a contraption halfway between a wagon and a wheelchair around and around the fountain. In its depths, a reclining child, pale as the pillows behind her head, lay tethered to a machine that gurgled and spat. A second machine, attached to her arm, flashed green blips across a screen.
A nurse pushed an IV stand across the wagon’s path. It squeaked as it rolled by.
A young mother, impossibly burdened with diaper bags and car seats, tried to bundle her two small children against the chill. A third child, older, possibly four, splashed in the fountain, drenching the sleeves of his navy-blue jacket and giggling. She yelled at him, then glanced furtively around the lobby and bit her lip.
The lobby was hot. Sandra Everett was sure going to sweat in her suit jacket. Perspire. Sandra would perspire.
I sweat.
I approached the information desk.
“Where would I find Dr. Muir?”
The aging attendant looked up at me with instant respect. On her desk was a chart, printed on graph paper. She ran a fingertip down one column, then another. “It’s a clinic day. With the construction, let’s see, he’ll be on Eastman Two. Take the last elevator on the right, or you could just climb these stairs if you want to.”
“Thank you.”
“You have an appointment with Dr. Muir?”
“Yes.”
“He’s a wonderful man,” she said, looking off in the direction of my right shoulder. “I hope everything works out for the best.”
I followed her gaze and found myself staring at a row of portraits, stiff men in formal dress, lined up like ancestors in a family gallery. JONAS HAND read the bronze plaque under one. James Helping, a plump smiling presence, hung next to him. Jerome Muir had already earned a place of honor on the wall.
He was extraordinarily handsome. I would have taken more time to study his likeness, but the receptionist kept her eyes fastened on me, making me feel guilty, as if I were late for a genuine appointment.
I climbed the stairs quickly. Surrounded by all the wheelchairs and wagons, I was grateful I could.
Directly ahead, an area was boarded off, under construction. Hammers pounded and a buzz saw worked. A temporary plaque on a column announ
ced EASTMAN TWO. A signboard listed names and displayed arrows, sending patients to a waiting room on the right or one on the left. I scanned the list and veered right.
Jerome D. Muir, Dr. Renee Talbot, Dr. Simon Piersall, and Dr. Edward Hough worked to the right. Presumably the Muir Group.
The waiting room was nothing much. Blues and grays. Tweedy aged carpet. Landscape prints on pale walls. Magazines overran a square coffee table and sat haphazardly on a couple of the upright blue chairs. Seating for thirty. The place smelled of disinfectant. Or maybe I was just imagining it, confronted by all that white behind the reception counter.
The main room had an adjoining alcove, a children’s wing, featuring low furniture in primary colors, stacks of kiddie books, and cabinets full of Raggedy Anns and toy racing cars.
Behind the counter, backed by a wall of tabbed files, two women peered at computer terminals, single-mindedly entering data. The dark-haired, middle-aged one wore glasses that had left red moon-shaped weals on either side of her nose. The other was a knockout: slim, young, and black, with strikingly tilted eyebrows. Neither acknowledged my approach, so I waited. Sometimes if they just notice you standing there, they feel guilty. Not often. But I’ve conducted a survey, and if you interrupt, they’re almost always in foul humor.
The middle-aged woman glanced up first. “Can I help you?” she asked with no hint of apology.
I drew in a deep breath and started the gag.
First I handed over my card and smiled as if I were doing her a favor.
“The Suffolk News?” she said.
“Oh, don’t let that alarm you,” I said easily. “I’m not here in my capacity as a reporter.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, of course you don’t,” I said generously. “I told the advisory board that we should have called first, but they wouldn’t hear of it. And since I was going to be in the neighborhood—”
“Miss Everett, I don’t—”
“Mrs. Everett, dear. Now if Dr. Muir can’t see me right away, I’ll absolutely understand. I’m quite willing to wait, but the board insisted that I deliver the invitation personally.”
“Invitation,” she repeated.
“Yes. Invitation. I’m the current vice-president of the local Silver Crescent chapter. We’re a charitable organization, and each year we honor an individual who’s made a major contribution to our community. Dr. Muir is an overwhelmingly popular selection, and the consensus of the nominating committee was that I approach him in person.”
“He’s extremely busy.” It was a line she was so used to dishing out, she probably didn’t even hear herself say it.
“It’s just eleven fifteen, and I’ve brought lots of busy-work,” I said. “I can catch up on the minutes of the last meeting, work on the phrasing of the press announcement. I only need a few moments of his time, and I know he’ll be pleased. The Silver Crescent isn’t in the Shriners’ league, dear, but we do what we can.”
The middle-aged woman exchanged a quick glance with her young co-worker. Which one had called Emily Woodrow crazy? I wondered.
The black receptionist shrugged and bent over her typing. She might as well have announced that she was the less senior of the two. The older one would have to flip the coin and make the call. I pressed a little harder.
“Look,” I said, with a smile glued to my face, determination shining through, “I know it might have been preferable, from your angle, to arrange matters formally with the public relations department. But there’ll be plenty of time for that. Right now, the ladies of the Silver Crescent are waiting for my report, waiting to hear how Dr. Jerome Muir reacts when he learns that he’s been named our very special speaker of the year. I’m willing to wait. It’s a waiting room, isn’t it? And sooner or later, I’m certain he’ll find time to see me.” I put more warmth in my smile and added, “I’m really in no hurry, Barbara.”
I sure would hate to wear a name tag to work, especially one that gave only my first name.
“Dr. Muir is extremely busy,” she repeated, wavering.
“He must be a wonderful man to work for.”
She inserted her tongue between her teeth. She’d made a mistake and she knew it. She should have implied that he was out, on hospital rounds.
I quickly retreated to a chair and busily shuffled through my handbag. If that didn’t get me into the presence I didn’t know what would. I’d used the key words: charity, contribution, Shriners, honor. No receptionist would want to be tagged as the obstacle who’d blocked a hefty donation.
I’d taken a chance using the reporter’s card rather than an ordinary calling card, but I wanted an excuse to question. This way, any apparent lack of tact could be attributed to journalistic habit.
I surveyed the waiting room’s inhabitants—a young woman staring into space, a couple holding hands, a tiny black teenager wearing a turban—trying to make eye contact, develop likely sources of gossip. No one took any notice of Sandra Everett.
Two wan children, one about five, the other eight, sat listlessly nearby, ignoring the toys.
“It could be some time,” the receptionist warned.
“I can wait,” I said. And I did.
11
The staring woman jerked back to reality when a nurse called her name. Leading the eight-year-old, she hurried past the reception counter and down a curtained hallway. The young couple never exchanged a word, but they never stopped holding hands either. The five-year-old made airplane noises and drummed his feet.
I entertained myself by trying to remember my mother’s favorite Yiddish maxims concerning doctors. She had quite a few, all passed down to her by my grandmother, an awe-inspiring woman by all accounts, union firebrand and scab nemesis extraordinaire.
The only one I could remember was: “Far der tsayt ken afile a dokter a mentshn nit avek’hargenen.” Or, “If your time hasn’t come yet, even a doctor can’t kill you.”
I’d folded and stuffed a sheet of typing paper into an envelope before leaving my house. Under the watchful gaze of the receptionist, I carefully inscribed a few sentences. Too bad Roz hadn’t been home. She could have fixed me up with something fancy, even parchmentlike. This phony testimonial business cried out for her artistic touch.
A man wearing a white smock over khaki overalls passed by with a brisk step. His keys jingled as he opened a metal lockbox next to a column. He withdrew wrapped test tubes, stashed them in a pouch, and disappeared with a nod in the direction of the desk.
I finished writing, reinserted paper into envelope, shifted my weight, and smiled, self-importantly and pointedly, at Barbara, the receptionist. She returned my stare blankly and I wondered if she’d bothered to inform Muir of my arrival.
The exotic black woman fetched noontime sandwiches for herself and her colleague. She didn’t ask if I was hungry.
By one o’clock I was starving, but I didn’t want to give up my seat, my silent battle of wills with the receptionist.
One o’clock ticked slowly into two o’clock. I removed my straw hat; the wig was making my scalp sweat. Waiting-room magazines revealed that seafood was potentially hazardous, while beef would definitely kill you—provided the ozone layer held out for another twenty years. Sexual harassment was moving out of the office and into the courtroom, and three out of four movies featured slice-and-dice killers.
I started getting the waiting-room willies. Anytime I’m stuck in a room smelling of antiseptic, I flash back to my father’s death. It wasn’t like I saw him every day; he and my mom had long since separated. But viewing him so shrunken, so different from his larger-than-life cop self, so diminished by tubes and drains and cotton hospital johnnies … The memory still makes me want to snatch cigarettes out of the mouths of teenagers.
The couple disappeared down the hallway shortly after the mom with eight-year-old departed. I waited. More patients were called. More arrived to occupy their vacant chairs.
I kept an eye on my receptionist. Carlotta Carlyle was
steaming under the collar, but that was unimportant. How would Sandra Everett handle the situation?
Sandra, I decided, had two kids, was recently divorced. Determined to make a career in journalism, her old college major, she was genuinely puzzled that there weren’t more opportunities out there for ladies who’d taken ten years off to raise the kids. The kind of woman who prefaced her sentences with “Well, I’m not a feminist, but—” Maybe a touch of the South in her background. A woman taught to value niceness over just about anything else.
A woman who might use her volunteer work to gather quotes from the wives of community leaders, but who’d never ever print anything scandalous.
I fingered my synthetic blond curls. Time for a reminder, I thought. A gentle reminder.
I waited until the black woman was handling the desk alone.
“Has Dr. Muir given you any idea when I might have a few minutes?” I asked.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just don’t know.”
“Could you give him a buzz and find out?”
“Not if I want to keep my job.”
“Like that?”
“Like that.” She gave me a rueful grin that changed as she looked over my shoulder. She bent immediately to her work and I assumed my dragon lady had returned. Instead I heard a man’s voice.
“Savannah,” he said to the black woman, “you guarding the desk all by yourself? Think you can manage that?”
SAVANNAH was printed plain as day on her badge. But it was evident from his tone that he knew her.
“Barbara will be right back,” she said with a faint edge to her voice.
“You ought to do fine,” he said coolly. “Ring Jerome and tell him I’ll be in his office.”
“He’s, uh, tied up, Dr. Renzel,” Savannah said.
“Where’s Barbara?”
“Oh, Dr. Renzel. I didn’t see you come in!” The middle-aged receptionist rushed up, smiling and ineffectually patting her hairdo.
