Girl on the Best Seller List (13 page)

The waiter set a plate of osso buco at Gloria’s place.

“Though I can’t recall exactly
where
it is from,” Min frowned. “Probably one of the minor tragedies.”

S
TANLEY SECORA
arrived at Jay Mannerheim’s office ten minutes late. He knew the doctor’s routine by now; he had often done odd jobs for him, and he knew how important it was to be punctual. His tardiness meant that Mannerheim was already with his one-thirty patient. Never under any circumstances, the doctor had always made clear, was he to be interrupted once a patient entered his office, and he shut the door leading down to the inner sanctum. There was a long hallway between the waiting room and the room where the doctor sat listening to whomever was on his couch. Stanley stood in the waiting room staring at the door to that hallway. On Saturdays the doctor had no help, so there was no one for Stanley to tell that he could not do as the doctor had asked. Stanley had known when Jay Mannerheim stopped him on Genesee Street at noon that he was in no condition to wash the doctor’s windows. Still, he had said he would be there at one-twenty — he was
that
confused on this May day.

What had made him late was that he had tried to call Mrs. Wealdon, and, again, there was no answer. Ever since his meeting with her — that incredibly brief moment or two during which he had faced her in the Wealdon living room — he had been unable to keep from trembling. He had botched it badly, but she had not helped by hurrying him that way. He wanted to return; he
had
to return as soon as she got back. He planned to keep trying the number, then, when she answered, to hang up and go there. Yet part of him was afraid of this plan; part of him was already too wounded by the early encounter. Now that part tried to reason with him: What if she’s not alone? Mr. Wealdon could be there by that time, or her agent, someone, anyone; and his trembling would mount with rage, and he would be at the same time furious and humiliated, like a bridegroom spurned on his wedding night.

• • •

There was another part of him, too, which wanted to tell Jay Mannerheim about it. He remembered an afternoon some months ago — he had been doing the doctor’s windows — when the news clipping with Gloria Wealdon’s picture had fallen from his pocket. He had felt very embarrassed for the doctor to see it. He had simply stood there blushing, with the picture on the floor between them. It was Jay Mannerheim who had bent down and handed it to him.

“Is this yours, Stanley.” It had not been a question, just a remark.

Stanley had carelessly stuffed it back into his pants. “I admire her,” he had said, “that’s all.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that.” Mannerheim was always so casual about everything.

“Did you read her book, Doctor?”

“Some of it.”

Stanley wanted to ask him what he thought about those parts in which Will figured. He said instead, “I guess she wrote everybody up.”

“I guess.”

“You have to give her credit, don’t you, Doctor?” “Nobody else deserves the credit for it,” Mannerheim said.

If he were to tell Mannerheim how he felt, he didn’t think Mannerheim would laugh. Mannerheim never laughed at the things people said, and some of the things his patients said were very crazy. Stanley had heard them in there more than once. In the hallway between the waiting room and the doctor’s office, you could hear very plainly anything that was going on. Stanley had done the windows there a couple of times when the doctor was practicing.

There was one afternoon when Stanley heard old Mrs. Highsmith yell, “I’m not crazy, you’re making me crazy!”

Stanley had felt like guffawing, but he had managed to suppress his laughter and continue with his job.

Another time he had actually heard Mrs. Fulton in there.

She had said, “He even takes her to Elbridge with him Fridays.”

“What’s wrong with that?” said the doctor. “Why should Virginia be dragged along on his business trips?”

The Doctor: “Why not?”

“Oh hell, why not sleep with her too? Why not have sex with her. They’re related, aren’t they?”

Stanley had been shocked, but if the doctor was shocked, there was no indication; his voice just sounded steady and ordinary as he answered Mrs. Fulton, and Stanley could never understand how exactly the doctor was supposed to help a woman who said such things.

Stanley decided to leave Mannerheim a note telling him he could not do the windows. He walked across to the desk and tried to open the top drawer, for a pencil and paper. The drawer would not give; it was locked, and the lock controlled the other drawers as well. After Stanley puzzled over this, he began to wonder whether or not Mannerheim really had a one-thirty patient. Perhaps he was simply alone in his office, going over some papers. Perhaps he had shut the door to the hallway simply because he wanted privacy. In that case, Stanley would only take a minute, just long enough to tell him that he could not wash the windows. Carefully, Stanley turned the handle of the hall doorway, opening it inch by inch. He stepped tiptoe into the hallway, moving slowly. Then he became aware of Louie Stewart’s voice, coming from the doctor’s office.

“… so I might have to.”

“Can you tell me why you think that?”

After a long pause:
“I don’t know.”

“Was it your own idea, Louie?”

“No.”

“Whose idea was it?”

“It still is an idea.”

“Whose idea is it?”

A long pause.

The doctor: “Can you tell me whose idea it is if it isn’t yours?”

No answer.

The doctor: “Louie, are things different than they used to be?”

No answer.

The doctor: “You usually don’t lie down on the couch as you’re doing now, do you?”

“No.”

“Then things are a little different, aren’t they?”

No answer.

“Louie, do you feel yourself under strain or tension?”

“Yes.”

“You described something that was unusual to me when you first came in, can you remember?”
No answer.

“You said that shortly after Gloria Wealdon left the drug store something happened? Do you recall that?”
No answer.

The doctor again: “You said that you heard voices, Louie. Did you tell me that?” “They don’t talk any more.” “When they did, Louie, what did they say?” “They stopped.”

“You told me they stopped, but can you tell me what the voices said?”

“I’m not supposed to tell anyone.” “Did they tell you not to tell anyone?”
No answer.

“Have you ever heard them before?”

“No.”

“But when Gloria Wealdon left the drug store, you heard them.”

“I heard them before that.”

“How soon before that, Louie?”

“Before she left. When I was filling her prescription.”

“Are these voices angry with Gloria Wealdon?”

No answer.

The doctor: “Louie, is something chasing you, or after you?”

“I think so.”

“Can you describe your feeling to me?”

A long pause.
Then:

“No, that is impossible.”

“But something, someone, is after you?”

“Yes.”

“Is Gloria Wealdon after you?” “Maybe. I don’t know.” “Did your voices say she was?” “No.”

“Did they tell you to do something?”
No answer.

“You’re very worried about something, aren’t you, Louie?”

“Yes.” A
long sigh.

“Can you tell me about it?”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Do you find it difficult to think now?”

“Yes.”

“About what?” “My mother.”

“Is something wrong with her? Is she ill?”

“She’s worried about me.”

“Why should she worry about you?”

“I don’t know.”
Pause.

“She knows me.”

“Louie, would you like a few minutes’ rest now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want to rest on the couch a moment?”

“All right.”

“When I come back, in a moment, we can talk some more, if you want.”
No answer.

“You rest, Louie. Close your eyes and rest.”

• • •

Stanley Secora moved away from the doctor’s office door and hurriedly shut the door to the hallway behind him. Suddenly he felt enormous guilt at having listened to all that, and on an impulse he squeezed himself into the small utility closet in the waiting room. He could feel his back poked by a dust pan, and could hardly control his heavy breathing, his trembling. He stood in the dark, while the doctor came through the hallway door, shut it behind him, and crossed to the desk. He dialed a number and waited, while Stanley watched his back through the crack of light. After a few seconds, the doctor put the phone’s arm back in its cradle. He reached for the telephone book, flipped through it, and ran his finger down a column. Then he dialed a second time. The seconds, for Stanley, were like eternities.

He heard the doctor say: “This is Jay Mannerheim. Is Dr. Baird in?”

Stanley could smell the dust around him. Now he was shaking.

“Well, let me talk to someone in authority. This is an emergency!”

Then, after another eternity: “Hello, this is Jay Mannerheim. Yes. Look, I have a patient who is very ill. It’s happened quite suddenly. I think he’s a catatonic schizophrenic.”

The dust pan was edging off Stanley’s back, off its hook. Stanley reached behind him and held it.

Mannerheim was trying not to raise his voice, but his anger was evident. “I’m not a medical doctor! I am a psychologist…. What do you mean how do I know it’s a catatonic schizophrenic then! I’m telling you that’s what I
think!
I need help here! … No, I have a patient at two-thirty.”

Stanley was holding the dust pan now, with his back wrenched in an awkward position.

“I
can’t
locate his family now,” he said. “I’ve tried, and there’s no answer…. You’ll have to send a doctor here.”

The dust in the utility closet seemed to increase.

Stanley heard Jay Mannerheim say his address into the telephone. He heard him say, “Believe me, this is an emergency. I can’t leave this man alone.”

Then Stanley sneezed, the dust pan clattered to the closet floor, and in a few, slow seconds Stanley was face-to-face with the doctor.

“What are you doing here, Stanley?”

“I burned my hands,” said Stanley dumbly.

“In there?” the doctor pointed at the closet angrily.

“No. I — wanted to tell you I couldn’t do the windows today.”

“What were you hiding for?”

“I — I got nervous. I — overheard s-s-s-some of — ”

“Never mind now. Look, Stanley, you can do me a favor. Find Mrs. Stewart, can you do that?”

“I’m s-s-sorry, D-D-Doctor, I didn’t m-mean to — ” “I know you didn’t mean to. But find Mrs. Stewart, Stanley. She must be out — downtown somewhere. Find her and tell her to call me.” “Yes,” said Stanley. “I’ll try.”

With his foot, Jay Mannerheim kicked the dust pan back inside the utility closet and shut the door quickly. “Find her, Stanley,” he said before he went back into his office. “This is serious.”

F
REDDY FULTON
had a den. Fern Fulton rarely bothered to snoop around in it, but something that had happened shortly after lunch that day made her go to the den. It was a conversation between Virginia and Freddy, one that Fern was not supposed to hear. They were still at the table in the dinette, lingering over their peachcake dessert, while Fern was clearing the table. Fern had gathered the garbage into a bag and was ready to take it out to the back yard. She had even opened the screen door, when she noticed she had forgotten to add the old bunch of philodendron to the garbage. She let the screen door swing shut and was about to reach for the philodendron when she heard her daughter say:

“I’m really worried.”

“Now stop that. Your mother …”

“She’s taken the garbage out.”

“Virginia, let me take care of it. Haven’t I always handled things well?”

“Yes.”

“Then why are you worried?”

“This is such a terrible thing to happen.”

“Just because Gloria Wealdon’s …”

“I kept thinking that it wouldn’t happen. That she wouldn’t really come back to Cayuta.”

“I know, but …”

“Well, now it’s happened.”

“No one has to know, Virginia. No one.”

“She’ll find out. She will!”

“I’ve never heard you carry on like this.”

“I suppose not.”

“Forget it. Trust me, Virginia.”

“I think we ought to warn Gloria Wealdon.”

“Warn her? So she’d know for sure? You know better.”

“Well, tell her, maybe, just tell her.”

“Virginia,
tell
her?
Tell
her! You know better!”

“Ask her, threaten her — something.”

“Oh, we’d be cooked then, all right.”

“I’m afraid. If mother ever — ”

“Your mother is not as hysterical about everything as you and I sometimes imagine, Virginia.” “About this?”

“Look, it’s over. You and I know it’s over.” “What’s done is done … but is it?” “Let me handle it. It’s my business, honey. I can handle it.”

“But I’ve always felt involved too.” “I’ll handle it. Believe me. No one has to know, no one!”

• • •

Then Fern had heard her husband push his chair back from the table and she had hurriedly given the screen door a bang. The garbage was still at her feet when her husband walked into the kitchen.

He said, “I thought you just took the garbage out.”

“I had to check those clothes on the line. They’re still damp.”