That gave him time to look about without having to commit himself to consideration of what he saw. It was nothing anyway: a narrow room; a narrow window, high and old-fashioned looking, with bars on this side of the glass. The scuffed sofa where he lay smelled faintly of tears and dust, and creaked a little when he got off.
The door opened and a black woman in a white dress like the school nurse’s took him by the arm and said come along, boy. They went into a wide hallway with tiles on the floor, a place he faintly recalled. The plaster was dark brown until it got higher than his head. Up there it was vanilla. Chocolate for kids, he thought, vanilla for grown-ups. Serves them right.
They went through a door, and the nurse pushed him through another one.
A man in a white coat was sitting at a desk. He had a fluffy beard that was not quite red and not quite yellow, sort of like ketchup and mustard mixed up. “Hi,” he said.
Little Ozzie nodded, not speaking.
“Want to tell me your name? I’m Doctor Bob.”
“Osgood M. Barnes.”
“Is that what they call you at school?”
Little Ozzie nodded again.
“I bet they don’t. I bet they call you … Skippy.”
Little Ozzie shook his head.
“Skeeter?”
“No.”
“Duke?”
“No.”
“All right, Osgood. Now Doctor Bob wants to ask you a few simple little questions before we send you home to your mommy and daddy. You’d like to go back to your mommy and daddy again, wouldn’t you?”
Little Ozzie shrugged. “I guess so.”
“Where do you live?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, Osgood. Doctor Bob can’t send you home if you won’t tell him where your home is.”
“I don’t see how it’s any use to have a doctor send somebody home if he doesn’t know where you live unless you tell him.”
“You’re feeling defiant, aren’t you, Osgood?”
“No!”
“Can you explain to Doctor Bob why it is that you don’t want to tell him where you live?”
“I do want to tell you—I just don’t live anyplace right now.”
“Maybe we ought to talk about something else for a while, Osgood. Want to tell me where your mommy is?”
“I don’t know.”
“Uh huh.” Doctor Bob turned away for a moment and stared out the window, playing with his beard. “There’s a Coke machine and a candy machine I know about. Would you like a Coke and a candy bar?”
“No,” Little Ozzie said honestly, “I’d like a sandwich and a glass of milk.”
“What kind of sandwich, Osgood?”
“Jelly and cream cheese.”
“How about peanut butter?”
“I don’t like peanut butter much.”
“Dr. Bob doesn’t think they have any cream cheese down in the commissary, Osgood. I’ll tell you what I’ll do—if you’ll tell Dr. Bob where your daddy works, Dr. Bob will have somebody bring you a glass of milk and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”
“At the Consort Hotel.”
Dr. Bob smiled. “Now we’re getting someplace, Osgood. Do you know what he does there?”
“He’s a salesman.”
“I see.” Dr. Bob stroked his chin.
“Can I have my sandwich now?”
“Why not.” Dr. Bob pressed a button on the intercom on his desk. “Shirley, run down to the commissary and get us a cream cheese and jelly and a glass of milk. Peanut butter, if they don’t have cream cheese. Then call the Consort, downtown. Ask if they have an employee or a guest called Barnes.” He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “What’s Daddy’s first name, Osgood?”
“Ozzie.”
“First name probably Osgood, but don’t count on it, Shirley. Any Barnes.”
