‘Are you a New England Puritan? You believe in self-flagellation.’
‘I was nothing. My wife was Catholic. I learned a great deal from her.’
‘Did she help you to convert?’
‘I’m still not affiliated with any church. I did go to Holy Cross, where I learned to be a practicing Christian. I do not believe in vanity.’
‘I’m a Baptist, not a particularly good one, but I am. So let’s talk sense like two fellow Christians. Mr. Hasslebrook, if you intend staying here at the Palms—’
‘I do.’
‘You cannot do it with a wintertime three-piece suit and one summer pair of pants. Get in the car with me right now, I’ll advance you the money if necessary, and we’ll go back to Charley’s and buy you those three or four great jackets I picked out that day. If you agree to buy so many, I’m sure he’ll give you a good deal. Well under two hundred dollars.’
Hasslebrook studied the proposal, then asked: ‘You think it’s necessary?’ and before Chris could reply, he added: ‘Have the women been talking about me?’
‘Not my wife. She talks about nobody.’
‘The others?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll go. You think two hundred dollars will make me presentable?’
‘Yes, and I’ll lend you the money.’
‘No need.’
They drove up busy Thirty-fifth Street to Charley’s, where Mallory said: ‘Mr. Charles, as a personal favor to me, I want you to pick out for this gentleman four of your very best factory seconds: sports jacket, trousers, belt, and the bill has to be no more than two hundred dollars.’
While Hasslebrook inspected the four jackets, Mallory whispered to Charley: ‘If it has to go over the two hundred dollars he has, I’ll make up the difference,’ and in that way Clarence Hasslebrook, a dour, secretive man, was able to appear in the dining room in five different handsome outfits; his three-piece dark woolen suit was reserved for Sundays, when he attended one of the nearby churches.
On the last day of August when temperatures in Florida should have been blistering, Andy realized that it was an exceptionally comfortable day for checking the grounds, which he had wanted to do for some time. Walking around, he paid special attention to the walkways, the flower gardens and the swimming pool.
He was feeling pleased with his custodianship when he turned a corner to inspect the tennis court and saw a sight that stunned him. On the far end of the court stood Bedford Yancey, dressed in tennis shorts with racket in hand. Opposite him on the near end were two women, also in tennis gear: his wife, Ella, who was obviously capable of playing a decent game of tennis, and Betsy Cawthorn, in her new fully fleshed-out legs. It was as if some master sculptor had re-created the shapely legs that Betsy had had before, but the new legs terminated in rather large, heavy shoes with flat soles that held firmly to the ground. She was standing with the right foot forward and well to one side, the left foot slightly back and off to the other side. In her left hand she held a stout cane with a big rubber base that provided her with maximum stability as she moved her torso and arms to return the softly hit balls that her rehab director was sending her way.
But she did not pat the balls back to him. She hit them smartly, getting her entire upper body into the action, and even though she could not run around the court chasing balls, she could from her stable position manipulate her right arm and stretch herself from the waist up to reach balls that Andy thought she must surely miss. When a ball from Bedford went wide, his wife ran to recover it, but when a shot missed Betsy and came at Ella, she could handle it with dispatch. The three were engaged in some strenuous rallying, as though they were warming up for a game.
‘Marvelous!’ Andy shouted as Betsy reached far to her right to return a shot. ‘This is miraculous! Betsy, you’re playing like a champion. I can’t believe it!’
The players stopped to acknowledge his presence, and Ella suggested: ‘Take that seat over there and watch our girl demonstrate her new skills.’ He accepted the invitation and sat close to the midcourt steel post to which the net was attached, and for a quarter of an hour he watched as Betsy hit shot after shot that Bedford launched her way. He noticed that as she became more skilled at the task of maintaining her stability, she gained more freedom of movement. At the ten-minute mark she became almost a free spirit on the court, making recoveries Andy had earlier thought impossible.
She wore an imported Teddy Tingling-like white tennis dress favored by chic players, and as Andy studied the outfit and how perfectly it suited her, he was suddenly struck by how beautiful she was, and—an inner voice said—how sexy. He had never before allowed himself to think of her in those terms.
At this point, Ella stopped the play on the court and proposed: ‘Dr. Zorn, why don’t you take my racket and play?’ He was about to decline, since he had no tennis shoes, when Betsy said urgently: ‘Doctor, please! We need you,’ so reluctantly he took over as her partner.
The next moments were dreamlike. Never a superior tennis player, Andy at least knew how to handle a racket and defend himself at the net, and with Betsy standing firmly at his right side, he entered the game vigorously, moving about to field balls that Betsy could not reach and chasing to recover balls they both had missed. But as the exchanges continued, Betsy grew bolder, and when Yancey sent a ball well to her left, to her backhand, Andy gallantly moved slightly to his right to play it but was halted by a peremptory cry from Betsy: ‘Mine!’ and she thrust her racket boldly across her body to take a swinging smash at the ball. She maneuvered so cleverly, throwing additional weight on the cane, that she completed the shot almost brilliantly.
Grinning at Andy as she moved her cane back to its position for maximum stability, she said impishly: ‘I always had a strong backhand,’ and the game proceeded. But as she became more confident, she continued to stretch out to her left to deliver backhand shots, and she became adept at moving her body weight about in an almost free and easy manner.
She was so exhilarated by her performance that after two backhand shots she called to Yancey: ‘Feed me a couple straight on,’ and when he did she amazed everyone, including perhaps herself, by raising the cane off the court, standing only on her two flat-soled shoes, and punching the balls back across the net without any teetering of her body.
‘They’re behaving like real feet!’ she cried joyously as she took a hard swipe at the ball, but the effort proved too demanding. At the completion of her vigorous swing she had moved so much that her new legs could not ensure her stability and she began to fall.
‘Catch her!’ Yancey shouted as he ran forward. Ella, too, leaped from her chair to keep Betsy from falling to the hard surface, but their help was not required because Andy lunged forward, caught her about her waist and pulled her to him. For a breathless moment they stood clasped together. This time she did not kiss him, but her left arm, still holding the cane, pressed him closer to her as she whispered: ‘I wasn’t afraid. I knew you’d be there to help if I fell toward your side.’
Andy was so enchanted by all that had happened during the last half hour that he cried impulsively: ‘This day has been too wonderful. Let’s prolong it with lunch together in my office!’ As the four happily walked back to Gateways, Yancey engineered it so that Betsy remained with his wife while he fell behind with Andy, and when they were sufficiently separated that Betsy could not hear them, Yancey said: ‘You could see for yourself, Andy, that Betsy’s made extraordinary progress. I’m sure she’s ready to test her recovery in the real world. And I’m going to recommend that she reenters it—unless an unforeseen reason develops for her to stay with us a bit longer.’
Andy was stunned—the pain of her leaving the Palms, and him, would be insupportable. Everything had changed during the last hour at the tennis court. Medically, he supported Yancey’s reasoning: ‘It’s time for her to return to her real life,’ but emotionally he could not let her go.
With difficulty he managed to regain his composure before joini
ng the women in his office. Telephoning Nora, he asked her to arrange a lunch party for the four of them plus herself, Krenek and Miss Foxworth. When all were gathered at the table Andy started the informal discussion: ‘Our Betsy has just about completed her course of rehabilitation here at the Palms, and we ought to give some attention to what she should do next.’ After a pause, during which everyone looked at Betsy, Miss Foxworth said: ‘When you go, Betsy, it will leave a terribly big hole. We’ve all grown to love you so much. But I suppose you really must return to Chattanooga and resume your real life.’
Yancey added: ‘Betsy, you’ve graduated rehab with honors,’ and his wife agreed: ‘An admirable student. You need to keep up a scaled-down version of your exercise program, but Yancey and I know a couple of good physical therapists you could work with in Chattanooga.’
Ken Krenek said: ‘You’ve acquired a lot of things during your stay with us, Betsy, but if you send us a Chattanooga trucker, we’ll pack for you,’ and Nora cautioned: ‘When you reach home, don’t go into isolation again. Get out into the community and make yourself a part of it.’ Andy added: ‘Keep in touch with us. Let us know how you’re doing, because we don’t want to lose contact with somebody we all love.’
At last Betsy spoke to these good people who were planning her life for her. In a very low voice, not much more than a whisper, she said: ‘But I’m not going back to Chattanooga.’
Everyone was astounded by this declaration, made with such firm resolve, but it was Miss Foxworth who responded first: ‘Betsy, your recovery here has been remarkable. We’ve all been cheering. But you’re not ready to strike out completely on your own. You must stay close to your family and friends.’
‘That’s what I’m doing. I’m staying here,’ she said in the same low, determined voice.
Somewhat uncertainly Miss Foxworth said: ‘Well, we do have the room to accommodate you,’ and Mr. Krenek said immediately: ‘Or we might find you quarters that would fit your needs better.’
When everyone had contributed thoughts on how Betsy should spend the remainder of her life, she sat quietly, with downcast eyes, her hands clasped about a Coke bottle, and said thoughtfully: ‘I found a home here. I found dear, trusted friends who saved my life, my sanity. And I found a pattern of living that made sense. I’ll be the youngest resident you have, far too young, but I want to live a life of service, the way Berta Umlauf does, or my dear friend Nora Varney, or my miracle man Bedford Yancey.’ She paused and said tearfully: ‘I guess you’re stuck with me, Dr. Zorn.’
Of all those who listened to this explanation, only Nora could appreciate its full significance: Brave kid, she wants to stay right here and fight it out. She wants her man and no power on earth is going to get in her way. I wonder if Andy realizes the meaning of what she’s just said? And when she looked across the table at the doctor she thought of the street phrase her nephew Jaqmeel had often used: ‘Poor zombie, he don’t know from nothin’,’ and she felt sorry for him, and for Betsy, too, and for the battles that lay ahead.
When the lunch ended, Andy was left alone in his office with the radiant afternoon sun flooding the room, and he sat once again at his desk trying to sort things out. Far more than Nora had concluded, he was aware of how things had changed since those dramatic moments on the tennis court when he had seen Betsy not as a patient but as a highly desirable woman. The image that persistently came before him was that of Ted Reichert, the young doctor in his clinic who had destroyed himself, his marriage, his job and even his welcome in Chicago by his improper relationships with his patients. Worst of all, Andy thought, he had ruined or at least seriously damaged the lives of those patients. And he knew how infinitely worse his case would sound in the headlines: DOCTOR PREYS UPON RICH DOUBLE AMPUTEE LEFT IN HIS CHARGE. And Betsy? She must be scared, confused. She thinks she wants to stay at the Palms, but that’s crazy. She’s a quarter of the age of some patients. She’s got a whole wonderful life before her.
Abruptly he called Krenek, Foxworth and Nora back to his office, and when they were seated he said with considerable force: ‘I’m afraid Betsy’s plan to remain here with us is a daydream on her part and apt to get the Palms into all kinds of trouble. So I want you three to put an end to this idea. It’d be ridiculous for her to stay here at age twenty-three.’
‘How do we convince her?’ Krenek asked, and Zorn said: ‘You’ll be able to think of something.’
Miss Foxworth spoke first: ‘I’m of two minds. As the woman in charge of collecting the fees and keeping us solvent I want to see Miss Betsy remain right where she is, with her father in Chattanooga sending us those big checks. But woman to woman, I’d have to advise her to get out of the Palms with its horde of old people. She must return to her own group, with its marriageable young men.’
Bluntly Nora asked: ‘When you were her age did you ever take a job where there were no available men?’ and Miss Foxworth said crisply: ‘Yes. In Washington—and the years passed. She should get out of here.’
When Zorn asked Nora what she thought, she said cryptically: ‘I believe Betsy has a strong will. I think she’ll insist on staying here, no matter what we say.’
‘But I just told you that our decision now is for her to go—to get out of a place that isn’t suited for her.’
‘But if she won’t go?’ Nora asked, and he said lamely: ‘We’ll think of something.’
When they returned to their offices, leaving him alone, he continued sitting, deep in thought as he drummed his fingers for some moments on the desktop. He looked at the chair Betsy had occupied during the earlier meeting, and saw her once more in the charming tennis outfit and relived the moment he had reached out to prevent her from falling and embraced her. He felt a tremendous yearning for her, and he was shaken by the depth of his emotions. And then the image of Ted Reichert and the many lives he’d ruined came before him, and it was these conflicting images that kept him awake during most of that night.
DEPARTURES
Officials at the Palms might not have been so quick in uncovering the reasons for the unusual way in which Clarence Hasslebrook had rented quarters in Gateways and his curious behavior once he moved in had not the Duchess penetrated the mystery by her propensity for snooping. In fact, the arrival of a mystery man like Hasslebrook had whetted her appetite for the chase, and she used the same tactic as she had in discovering that Reverend Quade was an author. One morning the postman arrived earlier than usual, and the Duchess, from her vantage point in ground-level front, saw him wheel into the oval, park his postal van in the space reserved and hurry into the lobby, where he distributed the letters in the boxes and then stacked the half-dozen larger packages in the customary space outside the locked area.
As soon as he had gone the Duchess swept out of her apartment wearing a French-style lace peignoir over her nightgown, hurried to the stack of packages and rummaged through them, taking note of who was receiving what, and after finding little but the regular sort of thing arriving for the regular sort of recipient—L.L. Bean catalogs for the men, Neiman Marcus for their wives—she struck what she recognized as a gold mine. It was the first package ever received for newcomer Hasslebrook, and it was the kind that looked as though it contained either a pair of oversized books or a collection of papers that should not be folded. Hefting it in her left hand, she decided it was neither, but what it might be she could not guess. She did, however, take careful note of who had mailed it: Life Is Sacred, Beacon Street, Boston, Mass. The name was familiar; she had heard about this organization before.
She became so tantalized by the question of why Life Is Sacred might be sending a package of this size to Hasslebrook that she was sorely tempted to sequester it before the staff arrived and sneak a glance inside to see the contents, but she decided that this was too risky and illegal to boot. But she did take the package into a corner of the room, bend way over to hide what she was doing and use her sharp fingernails to force a small opening in one corner. It was big enough to allow a glimpse of
the contents and to permit her clever fingers to work one item free and out through the opening she had made. It was a pamphlet, attractively printed, with a cover that showed Jesus on the cross and the bold words HE DIED THAT WE MIGHT LIVE and the name of the issuing society: Life Is Sacred.
When she was back in her room, with the postal truck gone and the staff beginning to arrive, she sat by the window and studied her discovery. It was a well-written, handsomely illustrated religious tract defending human life against the enemies that threatened it: abortion, drugs, suicide and, especially, legal euthanasia. The position of the society was uncompromising; such actions were immoral, counter to the teaching of the Bible and illegal. Those who were members of the society were commanded to fight the good fight against the enemies, those who were not yet affiliated were warmly invited to join and to carry the battle into their own communities.
She noticed that Mr. Hasslebrook’s name appeared nowhere as an officer of the society, but the pamphlet did boast that they had more than two thousand members nationwide. It was an impressive document, and she stayed by her window between the hours of nine to ten wondering what she should do with it. She concluded rightly that if she revealed that she had a copy she might have to explain how she had acquired it, but she solved that problem quickly by burying it under some clothes at the bottom of a small suitcase in her bedroom. Then she wiped her hands as if they needed cleansing and strolled casually into the main office, where she asked Nurse Varney if she could have a few words with Dr. Zorn. When she sat with him, smiling with the innocence of a child, she said: ‘We’ve all been wondering what this Hasslebrook character might be up to, and I think I’ve stumbled on the answer. In picking up my mail this morning I happened to notice among the boxes outside the door of the locked part of the post office a parcel addressed to him. I wasn’t snooping, the name just popped up at me, and I was interested in who might be sending him such an important-looking parcel.’ She paused for effect, then said quietly: ‘A society in Boston. Life Is Sacred. I wondered why they would be interested in a nonentity like Hasslebrook.’
Recessional: A Novel Page 40
