I sank back in the water and covered my face and neck with hot wet cloths. Ralph was quiet for a minute, then said, “I’ll make some coffee if you’ll tell me the secret-I couldn’t find any. And I didn’t know whether you were saving those dishes for Christmas, so I washed them.”
I uncovered my mouth but kept the cloth over my eyes. I’d forgotten the goddamn dishes yesterday when I left the house. “Thanks.” What else could I say? “Coffee’s in the freezer-whole beans. Use a tablespoon per cup. The grinder’s by the stove-electric gadget. Filters are in the cupboard right over it, and the pot is still in the sink-unless you washed it.”
He leaned over to kiss me, then went out. I reheated the washcloth and flexed my legs in the steamy water. After a while they moved easily, so I was confident they would be fine in a few days. Before Ralph returned with the coffee, I had soaked much of the stiffness out of my joints. I climbed out of the tub and enveloped myself in a large blue bath towel and walked-with much less difficulty-to the living room.
Ralph came in with the coffee. He admired my robe, but couldn’t quite look me in the face. “The weather’s broken,” he remarked. “I went out to get a paper and it’s a beautiful day-clear and cool. Want to drive out to the Indiana Dunes?”
I started to shake my head, but the pain stopped me. “No. It sounds lovely, but I’ve got some work to do.”
“Come on, Vic,” Ralph protested. “Let the police handle this. You’re in rotten shape-you need to take the day off.”
“You could be right,” I said, trying to keep down my anger. “But I thought we went through all that last-night. At any rate, I’m not taking the day off.”
“Well, how about some company. Need someone to drive you?”
I studied Ralph’s face, but all I saw was friendly concern. Was he just having an attack of male protectiveness, or did he have some special reason for wanting me to stay off the job? As a companion he’d be able to keep tabs on my errands. And report them to Earl Smeissen?
“I’m going to Winnetka to talk to Peter Thayer’s father. Since he’s a neighbor of your boss, I’m not sure it would look too good for you to come along.”
“Probably not,” he agreed. “Why do you have to see him?”
“It’s like the man said about Annapurna, Ralph: because he’s there.” There were a couple of other things I needed to do, too, things I’d just as soon be alone for.
“How about dinner tonight?” he suggested.
“Ralph, for heaven’s sake, you’re beginning to act like a Seeing Eye dog. No. No dinner tonight. You’re sweet, I appreciate it, but I want some time to myself.”
“Okay, okay,” he grumbled. “Just trying to be friendly.”
I stood up and walked painfully over to the couch where he was sitting. “ I know.” I put an arm around him and gave him a kiss. “I’m just trying to be unfriendly.” He pulled me onto his lap. The dissatisfaction smoothed out of his face and he kissed me.
After a few minutes I pulled myself gently away and hobbled back to the bedroom to get dressed. The navy silk was lying over a chair, with a couple of rents in it and a fair amount of blood and dirt. My cleaner could probably fix it up, but I didn’t think I’d ever care to wear it again. I threw it out and put on my green linen slacks with a pale- lemon shirt and a jacket. Perfect for suburbia. I decided not to worry about my face. It would look even more garish with makeup in sunlight than as it was.
I fixed myself Cream of Wheat while Ralph ate toast and jam. “Well,” I said, “time to head for suburbia.”
Ralph walked downstairs with me, trying to hold out a supporting hand. “No, thanks,” I said. “I’d better get used to doing this by myself.” At the bottom he won points by not lingering over his good-byes. We kissed briefly; he sketched a cheerful wave and crossed the street to his car. I watched him out of sight, then hailed a passing cab.
The driver dropped me on Sheffield north of Addison, a neighborhood more decayed than mine, largely Puerto Rican. I rang Lotty Herschel’s bell and was relieved when she answered it. “Who’s there?” she squawked through the intercom. “It’s me. Vic,” I said, and pushed the front door while the buzzer sounded.
Lotty lived on the second floor. She was waiting for me in the doorway when I made it to the top of the stairs. “My dear Vic-what on earth is wrong with you?” she greeted me, her thick black eyebrows soaring to punctuate her astonishment.
I’d known Lotty for years. She was a doctor, about fifty, I thought, but with her vivid, clever face and trim, energetic body it was hard to tell. Sometime in her Viennese youth she had discovered the secret of perpetual motion. She held fierce opinions on a number of things, and put them to practice in medicine, often to the dismay of her colleagues. She’d been one of the physicians who performed abortions in connection with an underground referral service I’d belonged to at the University of Chicago in the days when abortion was illegal and a dirty word to most doctors. Now she ran a clinic in a shabby storefront down the street. She’d tried running it for nothing when she first opened it, but found the neighborhood people wouldn’t trust medical care they didn’t have to pay for. Still it was one of the cheapest clinics in the city, and I often wondered what she lived on.
Now she shut the door behind me and ushered me into her living room. Like Lotty herself, it was sparely furnished, but glowed with strong colors-curtains in a vivid red-and-orange print, and an abstract painting like fire on the wall. Lotty sat me on a daybed and brought me a cup of the strong Viennese coffee she lived on.
“So now, Victoria, what have you been doing that makes you hobble upstairs like an old woman and turns your face black-and-blue? I am sure not a car accident, that’s too tame for you-am I right?”
“Right as always, Lotty,” I answered, and gave her an abbreviated account of my adventures.
She pursed her lips at the tale of Smeissen but wasted no time arguing about whether I ought to go to the police or drop out of the case or spend the day in bed. She didn’t always agree with me, but Lotty respected my decisions. She went into her bedroom and returned with a large, businesslike black bag. She pulled my face muscles and looked at my eyes with an ophthalmoscope. “Nothing time won’t cure,” she pronounced, and checked the reflexes in my legs and the muscles. “Yes, I see, you are sore, and you will continue to be sore. But you are healthy, you take good care of yourself; it will pass off before too long.
“Yes, I suspected as much,” I agreed. “But I can’t take the time to wait for these leg muscles to heal. And they’re sore enough to slow me down quite a bit right now. I need something that will help me overlook the pain enough to do some errands and some thinking-not like codeine that knocks you out. Do you have anything?”
“Ah, yes, a miracle drug.” Lotty’s face was amused. “You shouldn’t put so much faith in doctors and drugs, Vic. However, I’ll give you a shot of phenylbutazone. That’s what they give racehorses to keep them from aching when they run, and it seems to me you’re galloping around like a horse.”
She disappeared for a few minutes, and I heard the refrigerator door open. She returned with a syringe and a small, rubber-stoppered bottle. “Now, lie down; we’ll do this in your behind so it goes quickly to the bloodstream. Pull your slacks down a bit, so; great stuff this, really, they call it ‘bute’ for short, in half an hour you will be ready for the Derby, my dear.” As she talked,
I leaned back against a big pillow and tried not to relax too much. The temptation to lie down and sleep was very strong. I forced myself to follow Lotty’s quick, clever talk, asking questions, but not debating her more outlandish statements. After a while I could feel the drug taking effect. My neck muscles eased considerably. I didn’t feel like unarmed combat, but I was reasonably certain I could handle my car.
Lotty didn’t try to stop my getting up. “you’ve rested for close to an hour-you should do for a while.” She packed the bute tablets in a plastic bottle and gave me a bottle of nepenthe.
I thanked her. “How much do I owe you?”
She shook her head. “No, these are all samples. When you come for your long-overdue checkup, then I’ll charge you what any good Michigan Avenue doctor would.”
She saw me to the door. “Seriously, Vic, if you get worried about this Smeissen character, you are always welcome in my spare room.” I thanked her-it was a good offer, and one that I might need.
Normally I would have walked back to my car; Lotty was only about eight blocks from me. But even with the shot I didn’t feel quite up to par, so I walked slowly down to Addison and caught a cab. I rode it down to my office, where I picked up Peter Thayer’s voter card with the Winnetka address on it, then flagged another cab back to my
