“Boom!” Otis Amber shouted as the intern hurried by.
“Idiot,” muttered Denton Deere.
DENTON DEERE PACED the floor. “Listen, kid, I’d like to help you, but I’m only an intern specializing in plastic surgery. It would be different if you wanted a nose job or a face-lift.” He had meant to be amusing; it sounded cruel.
Chris had not asked for charity. All he wanted was to play the game with the intern.
All the intern wanted was half of the ten thousand dollars. “I hear your brother suggested sharing clues. Sounds like a fine idea.” No response. Maybe the kid thinks I’m the murderer. The tenants must think so, the way they peered over their shoulders; and that delivery boy shouting like that. Why me? I’m a doctor; I took an oath to save lives, not take them. “I’m a very busy man, Chris, I have lots of sick people depending on me. Oh well.” Plowing his fingers through his stringy mouse-brown hair to keep it out of his eyes (when would he find time for a haircut?), he seated himself next to the wheelchair. “The clues are in my locker. What were they? ‘The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain’?”
“F-for p-plain g-g-grain shed.” Chris spoke slowly. He had practiced his recitation over and over, hour after lonely hour. “G-grain—oats—Otis Amber. F-for, shed—she, F-Ford. F-Ford lives in f-four D.”
“Ford, apartment 4D, good thinking, Chris,” The intern rose. “Is that all?”
Chris decided not to tell him about the limper on the lawn, not until the next time. His partner would have to visit him a next time, and a next time, as long as he didn’t sign the check.
“Now, about signing the check,” Denton Deere said.
Chris shook his head. No.
ON A BENCH in the lobby Angela embroidered her trousseau, waiting for Denton. Dad had tried to teach her to drive, but she was too timid; he, too impatient. Why bother with driving lessons, her mother said, anyone as pretty as you can always find a handsome young man to chauffeur you. She should have insisted. She should have said no just once to her mother, just once. It was too late now.
Theo came in with an armload of books. “Hi, Angela. Hey, I found that quotation, or rather, the librarian found it. You know: May God thy gold refine.”
“Really?” Angela thought it unnecessary to remind him that it was Flora Baumbach and Turtle who had asked about the quotation, not she.
What lush lips, what white teeth, what fine and shiny hair. Theo fumbled between the pages of a chemistry book for the index card. On it was written the third verse of “America, the Beautiful”:
America! America!
May God thy gold refine
Till all success be nobleness
And every gain divine.
Theo had begun reading the refrain and ended up singing. He shyly laughed off his foolishness. “I guess it doesn’t have anything to do with money or the will, just Uncle Sam’s patriotism popping up again.”
“Thank you, Theo.” Angela stuffed her embroidery in the tapestry bag on seeing Denton Deere rush off the elevator.
“Hello, Doctor Deere, how about a game of chess?”
“Let’s go,” the intern said, ignoring Theo.
Sandy opened the front door for the couple, whistling “America, the Beautiful.” The doorman was a good whistler, thanks to his chipped front tooth.
“I CAN’T DRIVE you home; I’m on duty tonight.”
“I’ll take a cab.”
“Why must you go back to the hospital? Your crazy partner isn’t dying, you know.”
“She’s not crazy.”
“She made up her so-called wasting disease, I call that crazy. Nothing was wrong with her legs until the explosion in the Chinese restaurant.”
“You’re wrong.”
“First you ask me to look in on her, now you don’t want my opinion. Anyhow, I called in a psychiatrist. Maybe you should talk to him, too. I’ve never seen you so troubled. What’s wrong, the wedding dress isn’t ready, the guest list is too long? You’ll have to cope with more important matters than that once we’re married. Unless you don’t want to get married. Is that it?”
Angela twisted the engagement ring her mother made her wear in spite of the rash. No, she did not want to get married, not right away, but she couldn’t say it, she couldn’t tell him—them, not like that. Denton would be so hurt, her mother . . . the engagement was announced in the newspaper, the wedding gown, the shower . . . but once they found out she wasn’t their perfect Angela . . .
How long has she been sitting here in the hospital corridor? A man in a business suit (the psychiatrist?) came out of Sydelle’s room. “You must be Angela,” he said. How had Sydelle described her—a pretty young thing? “I hear you’re going to marry one of our interns.” She was going to get married, her one claim to fame.
“How is Ms. Pulaski, Doctor?”
“Do you mean is she crazy? No. No more or less than anybody else in town.”
“But the crippling disease, she made that up?”
“So what? The woman was lonely and wanted some attention, so she did something about it. And quite creatively, too. Those painted crutches are a touch of genius.”
“Is that normal? I mean, it’s not insane to shock people into noticing who you are?”
The doctor patted Angela’s cheek as though she were a child. “No one was hurt by her little deception. Now, go in and say hello to your friend.”
“Hello, Sydelle.”
Without makeup, without jewelry, clothed only in a white hospital gown, she looked older, softer. She looked like a sad and homely human being. “You talk to the doctors?”
“It’s a simple fracture,” Angela replied.
“What else?” Sydelle turned her face to the wall.
“The doctor says your disease is incurable, but you could have a remission lasting five years, even more, if you take good care of yourself and don’t overdo it.”
“The doctor said that?” Maybe a few people could be
