Sleight of Hand

by Robin Hathaway

  “You got it.” The vendor grinned as he gave me a liberal portion of each.

  “Keep the change,” I said.

  By the time I climbed into the bus, I was almost looking forward to the ride. As we rolled out of the terminal, I admired the Philadelphia skyline. Small, but nice. I didn’t know Philly very well. I would have to explore it one day.

  Jack, the night clerk, was at his post when I stopped by to pick up my mail. A would-be author, he had taken this job so he would have time to write. His day job was something to do with computers. Tapping away on his laptop—science fiction was his favorite genre—he didn’t even notice when I came in. I hated to disturb him, but …

  “Any mail?” I asked.

  He looked up, dazed.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt. Whatcha workin’ on?”

  With a struggle, he pulled himself back to the real world. “Oh … a little disaster that won’t occur until after our time.” He smiled and handed me my mail.

  “I’m glad of that. We have plenty to go around now.” I glanced through my mail. Two bills and an ad from the Planned Parenthood society. They sent me one every month, like clockwork. I showed it to Jack.

  He laughed. “How did you get on that list?”

  I shrugged. At least there were no missives from the Mafia society. I would sleep easily.

  CHAPTER 35

  I met Barry early the next morning to go over my charts. I really felt guilty. He had had to deal with two emergencies while I was gone, one at a motel in Wilmington in the middle of the night! I decided to treat him and his wife to dinner at the Brick Tavern, the only upscale restaurant within easy driving distance of Bayfield. Dating back to before the Revolution, this historic inn claimed to be where the town fathers had gathered to dress up like Indians before burning a cargo of tea on the ship Greyhound. There was a monument in the center of Bayfield commemorating this event. Boston wasn’t the only town to thumb its nose at the king; it just had a better PR system.

  The tavern specialized in country-style cooking and had the only bartender for miles who could make a decent martini. Barry accepted eagerly but told me his wife, Carol, wouldn’t be able to find a baby-sitter on such short notice. I wondered about this, because I happened to know that both Barry’s and Carol’s mothers lived in the neighborhood and would kill to baby-sit with their precious grandkids. But that wasn’t my business. My only interest was in paying Barry back.

  The Brick Tavern had a nice ambience—low lighting, soft music, linen tablecloths, candles, and fresh flowers on every table. The menu was simple by New York standards. Only four entrées were offered: chicken potpie, sirloin steak, catfish (fresh from the Cohansey River), and lamb chops. But each dish was carefully prepared with the freshest ingredients, and Betsy, the owner’s wife, was a spectacular cook, supervising everything herself. Barry took the chicken; I opted for the catfish. But we asked our waiter to hold our orders while we each enjoyed a second martini.

  I had looked forward to catching up on hospital gossip. I was especially interested in the couple I’d caught smooching in the closet a few weeks ago. But the conversation veered in another direction. It was my fault. The gin loosened my tongue and I started confiding my troubles to Barry. Without mentioning names, I brought up the subject of Lolly. I knew he had experience with learning disabilities, and I wanted to pick his brain. He had once intended to specialize in this field, but an early marriage and children had forced him to cut his training short and go to work.

  He perked up at once. “Say, I think I know that woman. Does she shop at Safeway?”

  “Gee, I don’t know.”

  He leaned toward me, speaking earnestly. “There’s this woman who comes to our supermarket. Her name’s Lolly. The checkers all know her. So does the manager. She has Down syndrome. Could it be the same person? What’s the scoop on her? Where does she live? Does she have any family?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I only saw her a few times.” I was kicking myself. I should have known by now that everybody in Bayfield knows everybody else. Panicking, I scanned the room for our waiter, hoping to signal him to bring our order sooner.

  But Barry persisted. “Carol and I have been worried about her. We’ve wondered if we should contact Social Services.”

  “I’m sure she’s well cared for,” I said.

  “But what about her car? It’s a real jalopy. Is it safe?”

  “Oh, I’m sure—”

  “But should she even be driving? Does she have a license?”

  Oh god. Mind your own business. I never realized Barry was such a busybody. This was a side of him I’d never seen before. “I’m sure this woman has a license,” I said. “She couldn’t be driving all this time without one. The police would have picked her up. Oh look, here comes our food!”

  With relief, I watched the waiter set down our plates. As a further distraction, I suggested wine. I knew Barry fancied himself a wine connoisseur, so I asked him to make the selection. While he discussed the merits of Australian versus Chilean with the waiter, I dredged my drunken brain for conversation topics to supplant Lolly. But my worries were needless. Barry spent the rest of the meal discussing this wine and that, eating, and flirting with me. I easily kept him at bay, but I felt sorry for his wife. I thought it was mean of him not to have brought Carol and given her a break from housekeeping and the three kids.

  I didn’t see Barry for a couple of days. Then I ran into him in the doctor’s lounge, a stuffy room with a sofa, two chairs, and a perpetual pot of tepid coffee.

  “Hey, Jo, I’ve been looking for you.”

  “Oh?”

  “You know that woman we were talking about? Lolly?”

  My stomach lurched.

  “We saw her in the market last night, and while she was shopping, I went out to the parking lot and jotted down her license number. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that before.” He paused, waiting for me to congratulate him, I guess.

  “And?”

  “I called Newark to see if it was registered in her name. It wasn’t.”

  With an effort, I controlled myself. “Well, it probably belongs to one of her parents,” I said.

  “She has parents?”

  “Don’t most people?” I snapped, and hurried out of the lounge. Damned do-gooder, I thought. Why doesn’t he mind his own business? Next, he or his wife would follow Lolly home! I wondered if I should warn Max.

  CHAPTER 36

  Meanwhile, my archery lessons continued. Those and my medical practice were the only things that kept me in touch with the real world—and sane. After our most recent session, Tom actually told me I was improving.

  “When do I get to go deer hunting?” I asked with a laugh.

  This was an old bone of contention between us. The first time I met Tom, he had a beautiful buck in his sights, and when I drove up, I scared him away. I had been glad at the time, because I was against hunting. He was still trying to convince me that killing deer was okay, especially since the county was overpopulated with them and they were destroying the farmers’ crops. But now he didn’t rise to my bait. He said simply. “We’ll see.”

  As we sat on his porch watching the sun make its usual grand exit, a cold beer in hand, I felt the deep peace of the landscape steal over me. Nothing but field and sky stretching as far as the eye could see. I knew the Lenape Indians had camped here. Bits of their pottery and weapons were still found by farmers and “walkers of the field” after a heavy rain. There was something eternal about this view that put the trivia of our daily lives in perspective. That’s why Tom had bought this house. Someday, he hoped to own the fields that surrounded it and preserve the area from suburban sprawl. I reached for his hand. In silence, we watched the rose-and-purple sky show.

  Brrrring.

  “Damn.” I pulled my cell from my pocket. It was Dad, and he’d heard from that man Frankie again. He said Frankie wanted to talk to me.

  Oh god, I thought, I can’t give him my cell number. It w
ould be too risky. He might try to trace it. Would I have to go to Manhattan again? This was getting ridiculous.

  “He’s calling back tonight,” Dad was saying. “What should I tell him?”

  “Ask him if you can take a message. Tell him I’m out of town.”

  By the time I disconnected, the show was over, the sky had cooled, and Tom had gone inside. The mood was spoiled. I cursed the cell phone and the modern age that had invented it.

  “I’d better be getting back,” I called. “I have a big day tomorrow.”

  Tom came out and nodded, requiring no explanation, but I felt his disappointment. As I rode off, I wondered how long he would put up with my abrupt exits.

  CHAPTER 37

  The next day was a big day. I had to make plans in case I needed to take off for Manhattan. Most important, I had to find someone to cover for me. Someone other than Barry. I wanted to stay as far away from him as possible. I was just finishing my last chart when my cell rang. It had been ringing all day and I was tempted to ignore it, but my conscience won out.

  Max! Fit-to-be-tied! “There’s this moron outside who wants to see Lolly. Claims she’s a social worker. And on top of that, one of the cats is sick and Lolly’s carrying on. Can you get the hell over here?”

  “I’m on my way.”

  As I pulled up to the farmhouse, I saw a strange car in the drive. A woman was at the wheel. I parked my Honda and went over to her. When she saw me, I read her expression: woman biker. Dangerous? She cracked her window just enough to be heard. “Who are you?”

  “A friend of the family,” I said.

  “I’m from Social Services. I’m looking into the care of a woman named Lolly. We don’t have a last name. I’ve been referred by a Dr. Freedman … .”

  Good old Barry.

  “He suspects this person has Down syndrome and is driving a car without a license.”

  Familiar with the tenacity of bureaucrats, I didn’t brush her off, but I tried to placate hers. “I’m afraid this isn’t the best time. One of Lolly’s cats is sick and she’s upset. Could you come back in a few days?” Like never. “By then the cat will either have died or recovered.”

  The woman did not look happy with this plan.

  “Look,” I went on, “I’m a physician, affiliated with the same hospital as Dr. Freedman, and I assure you there’s no urgency about the situation.”

  The woman pondered my words. Finally, she said, “Very well, under one condition. Lolly does not drive during the interim.”

  I agreed and she drove away, her face set in a grim frown.

  With trepidation, I went in to see Max.

  “How the hell did she get wind of Lolly?” Max greeted me.

  My conscience stung. “She’s no secret, Max,” I said. “She’s a familiar figure in town—at the supermarket and other stores.”

  “Why don’t people mind their own business?”

  “When have they ever?” I snorted, thinking of Barry, and reached for his bandaged hand. He winced.

  Oh no. I unwrapped the bandages, and my worst fears were realized. One of the fingers I had repaired was swollen to nearly twice its size. “When did this begin?” I asked, trying to appear calm.

  “I don’t know …” He shrugged. “Last night, it began to throb, and this morning …” He bit his lip.

  My god! He’s in severe pain. That could mean the nerves are regenerating! Could things get any worse?

  While I was preparing a morphine shot for Max, my cell rang. Dad again.

  “Frankie left a message while I was out. He said that woman is very sick. Pneumonia. They took her to Bellevue. She isn’t expected to make it. He thought you’d like to know.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  As I gave Max his shot, thoughts crowded my head. This is my last chance. If the woman really is Regina and she’s dying, maybe I can get her to sign a confession, clearing Max. She has nothing to lose now. The threat of prison is gone forever. I have to see her.

  I gently laid his hand on a pillow and gave him two penicillin tablets to prevent further infection.

  But how can I leave Max in his present condition? He needs his morphine shots. Lolly can’t give him those. “The morphine should kick in quickly and you’ll feel better,” I told him.

  Lolly came in, looking upset.

  “Now what?” asked Max.

  “Sapphire isn’t good.” Her lower lip trembled.

  “I’ll come take a look at her as soon as I’m finished here,” I told her.

  “Damned cats!” Max muttered after she left. “We could take a cruise for the price of their food alone. Next, she’ll want to call in a vet.”

  I tossed the syringe in the wastebasket. “Why don’t you watch something on the boob tube while I take a look at Sapphire.”

  He looked up warily. “Does Medicare cover a cat call?”

  His little joke caught me off guard. Could the morphine be working that fast? “Maybe,” I said. “How old is she?”

  “About nine.”

  “Nine times seven is sixty-three. Sorry. She just misses.”

  “Oh hell.” He turned on the tube.

  Sapphire didn’t look good. I was no vet, but the cat’s eyes were glazed, her fur was dull, and Lolly told me she hadn’t been eating well.

  “Will she die?” asked Lolly, her eyes filled with tears.

  “No. We’ll take care of her. If she isn’t better tomorrow, we’ll take her to a vet.” I patted her arm.

  While examining Sapphire, I had come up with a plan. I would rent a car and take Max with me to Manhattan. But what about Lolly? She would have to come along. But she would never leave her sick cat. Sapphire would have to come, too!

  I called Dad to break the news that he was going to have four houseguests—three humans and one cat. He was thrilled.

  CHAPTER 38

  The logistics of getting a rental car proved more complicated than I’d imagined. If I rode my Honda to Bridgeton to pick up the car, what would I do with my bike afterward? And I couldn’t let Lolly drive me, because I’d given my word to the social worker that I wouldn’t let Lolly drive. Who could I ask to drive me? Not Tom. He’d have too many questions. Paul or Maggie, of course. Maggie was free, and volunteered eagerly.

  I had to lie again about my mission. I told Maggie my father was ill. Poor Dad, by now he was at death’s door. Maggie asked me to drive her car because I knew the way. As we drove, to be polite, I asked about her son, Nick.

  “He’s in better spirits,” she said. “They’re letting him do some drawing and painting.”

  “No kidding.”

  “He did a lovely watercolor of a view from his bedroom window—from memory. He told me he never realized how beautiful it was until he couldn’t see it anymore.” Her voice choked up, but she was in control. She swallowed and went on. “He gave it to me. I’m going to have it framed and hang it over the mantel. You’ll have to come see it sometime.”

  “I’d like to.”

  “The teacher says he has real talent. Did you know that prisoners could sell their arts and crafts through some galleries and gift shops? Their profits are saved for them in a special account, and when they get out, they can draw on it.”

  “That’s great,” I said, although I knew it was unlikely that Nick would ever get out.

  “I’ve joined the Prisoners’ Aid Society. They help prisoners during their incarceration and afterward, when they’re released. It’s a very inspiring group.”

  I glanced over at my friend. She looked different. I had been so absorbed in my own problems, I hadn’t noticed. She was sitting up straight, her expression was alert, and she was making plans for the future. Maybe my little talk had done some good. “Here we are,” I said, turning into the Budget rent-a-car lot.

  I completed the paperwork quickly. The attendant brushed out the car and familiarized me with its idyosyncrasies. The whole transaction took less than ten minutes. We set off, me in the lead in a brand-new Toyota, and Maggie foll
owing behind in her old Ford Escort. It was a relief, I thought guiltily, to be alone and not have to talk about Nick. He wasn’t a favorite of mine. And now I could think about my own problems without interruption. What a selfish bitch you are, I berated myself. Maggie is coping again. She seems to be in charge of her life. You should be glad. And I was, truly. At least something was going right.

  Back at the motel, I thanked her for the lift.

  “I hope your dad’s okay,” she said

  I mumbled something unintelligible and hurried off to pack.

  Getting the rental car was duck soup compared to persuading Max to go to New York. When I told him I had already rented a car, he was furious.

  “What’s the big idea. You’re my doctor, not my caretaker!” He glared at me.

  I knew he was right. I should have spoken to him first. I sat down on the sofa and explained to him the reason I had acted so quickly. I told Max I had to continue his morphine shots. Lolly couldn’t do that, and he would need them for at least another twenty-four hours, until the nerves in his hand settled down. The only way I could take care of him and check on my dad’s health was to take him with me. Lolly couldn’t be left alone. And I knew Lolly wouldn’t go without Sapphire.

  “I can do without the morphine,” he said stubbornly.

  “Look, we’ll be driving at night. No one will see you. My father is one hundred percent trustworthy. You can count on that. You will stay in his apartment while I do my errands for him. He never has visitors. And we’ll be back tomorrow night,” I promised.

  “It’s still risky.”

  I gave a heavy sigh. “As a famous sage once told me, ‘Life is a risk. The sky might fall, Doctor,’”Iquoted Max.

  “Wise guy,” he said. But he shut up.

  Persuading Max to go to New York was a breeze compared to packing up Max, Lolly, and Sapphire for the trip. First, I had to deal with Max’s medical paraphernalia and medicines; then there were Sapphire’s supplies—water dish, food dish (Lolly claimed the cat wouldn’t eat out of any other dishes and her appetite was poor anyway), litter box, kitty litter, cat food—wet and dry—and an eyedropper for giving her milk if she refused to drink by herself.