CHAPTER 47

A liar is far worse, and does greater mischief, than a murderer on the highway.

Martin Luther

“S  end her away, Sonny, she’s all right now.”

“Not until we find the goddamned baby.”

“Tell her we need more money. She owes me, Sonny. I saved her life. She would have died.”

“Oh, it was you, was it? You saved her life! You did it all by yourself!”

“Of course it was me! Where were you when she was having convulsions?”

“Mother, for Christ’s sake, don’t you give any credit to Helen? Who do you think restored her sanity?”

“God! Is that what you think? You think Helen did it? Look at her, she’s insane herself. She’s a hysterical cripple.”

“Christ, Mother, shut your fucking mouth!”

Another voice, pleading: “Oh, stop it! My God, please stop it!”

Marilynne Barker lolled back in her office chair, half asleep. It was two o’clock, a time when she often felt drowsy. When her phone rang, she sat bolt upright and stared at it. It rang a second time before she answered it, wary of the human misery about to pour out of the receiver.

“Marilynne Barker speaking.”

“Mrs. Barker, my name is Truesdale. I’m a physician at Boston City Hospital. I have here the results of a test conducted on an infant, Charles Hall, which indicate he should be receiving medication. We would like to deliver it to the foster home where he is in care, if you would kindly oblige us with the address.”

Mrs. Barker twirled in her chair and looked out the window at the boys playing baseball in the schoolyard next door. Their thin cries came through the window. Smack, went the bat. “How is it that you don’t have the address, if you were doing tests?”

“I have no idea. I can only tell you that if this child does not receive a dose of Haemoplateletsaroxin immediately, he will be in danger of asphyxiation from the collapse of his right lung.”

The ball was a grounder. It went between the legs of the pitcher, while the hitter, a fat boy with red hair, lumbered to first base. “It’s strange,” said Mrs. Barker, “how many missing pieces of paper there have been lately. Well, all right, just a minute.” Reluctantly she went to her files and returned to read Deborah Buffington’s address to Dr. Truesdale.

“Thank you,” he said, with formal gratitude, and hung up.

Almost at once, Mrs. Barker had second thoughts. She called Boston City Hospital and asked for Dr. Truesdale.

“Jussaminute,” said the woman at the switchboard. Well, at least Dr. Truesdale actually existed.

“Ophthalmology,” said another voice.

“Ophthalmology? Is this Dr. Truesdale’s office?”

“This is the office of Dr. Truesdale and Dr. Clementine.”

“But ophthalmology, that’s eyes, isn’t it? Not lungs?”

“I’m sorry?”

“May I speak to Dr. Truesdale?”

“Dr. Truesdale is attending a conference in Barcelona.”

“In Barcelona! Oh, damn it all!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, God, never mind.”

Marilynne Barker hung up, furious with herself. She had been hornswoggled. It was just another example of male supremacy. A male doctor, even a phony one, could get his way. All he had to do was throw out a few bogus medical terms and she grovelled at his feet.

Mrs. Barker looked out the window at the boys playing baseball. They looked healthy and happy, they weren’t abandoned, they weren’t pregnant, they were not about to require the services of the Department of Social Services, and she was grateful for it.