Different Seasons - Stephen King [244]
I gave Miss Stansfield my folder and she looked through it with complete attention for perhaps five minutes. I asked her permission to smoke my pipe and she gave it absently, without looking up. When she did look up at last, there was a small smile on her lips. 'Are you a radical, Dr McCarron?' she asked.
'Why do you say that? Because I advise that the expectant mother should walk her round of errands instead of riding in a smoky, jolting subway car?'
' "Pre-natal vitamins," whatever they are swimming recommended and breathing exercises! What breathing exercises?'
'That comes later on, and no-I'm not a radical. Far from it What I am is five minutes overdue on my next patient.'
'Oh! I'm sorry.' She got to her feet quickly, tucking the thick folder into her
purse.
'No need.'
She shrugged into her light coat, looking at me with those direct hazel eyes as she did so.
'No,' she said. 'Not a radical at all. I suspect you're actually quite comfortable? Is that the word I want?'
'I hope it will serve,' I said. 'It's a word I like. If you speak to Mrs Davidson, shell give you an appointment schedule. I'll want to see you again early next month.'
'Your Mrs Davidson doesn't approve of me.'
'Oh, I'm sure that's not true at all.' But I've never been a particularly good liar, and the warmth between us suddenly slipped away. I did not accompany her to the door of my consulting room. 'Miss Stansfield?' She turned towards me, coolly enquiring. 'Do you intend to keep the baby?'
She considered me briefly and then smiled- a secret smile which I am convinced only pregnant women know. 'Oh yes,' she said, and let herself out. By the end of that day I had treated identical twins for identical cases of poison ivy, lanced a boil, removed a hook of metal from a sheet-welder's eye, and had referred one of my oldest patients to White Memorial for what was surely cancer. I had forgotten all about Sandra Stansfield by then. Ella Davidson recalled her to my mind by saying: 'Perhaps she's not a chippie after all.'
I looked up from my last patient's folder. I had been looking at it, feeling that useless disgust most doctors feel when they know they have been rendered completely helpless, and thinking I ought to have a rubber stamp made up for such files-only instead of saying ACCOUNT RECEIVABLE or PAID IN FULL or PATIENT MOVED, it would simply say DEATH-WARRANT. Perhaps with a skull and crossbones above, like those on bottles of poison. 'Pardon me?'
'Your Miss Jane Smith. She did a most peculiar thing after her appointment this morning.' The set of Mrs Davidson's head and mouth made it clear that this was the sort of peculiar thing of which she approved. 'And what was that?'
'When I gave her her appointment card, she asked me to tot up her expenses. All of her expenses. Delivery and hospital stay included.'
That was a peculiar thing, all right. This was 1935, remember, and Miss Stansfield gave every impression of being a woman on her own. Was she well off, even comfortably off? I didn't think so. Her dress, shoes, and gloves had all been smart, but she had worn no jewellery -not even costume jewellery. And then there was her hat, that decidedly out-of-date cloche. 'Did you do it?' I asked.
Mrs Davidson looked at me as though I might have lost my senses. 'Did I? Of course I did! And she paid the entire amount. In cash.'
The last, which apparently had surprised Mrs Davidson the most (in an extremely pleasant way, of course), surprised me not at all. One thing which the Jane Smiths of the world can't do is write cheques.
Took a bank-book out of her purse, opened it, and counted the money right out onto my desk,' Mrs Davidson was continuing. Then she put her receipt in where the
cash had been, put the bank-book into her purse again, and said good day. Not half bad, when you think of the way we've had to chase some of these so-called "respectable" people to make them pay their bills!'
I felt chagrined for