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  I shook my head. “In a case like this, the mother should be actively involved.”

  She frowned. “I know. It’s not optimal. But do you have techniques that can help the girl at all without maternal involvement? Just lower her anxiety level a bit? Anything you did might reduce her risk of turning out totally screwed up. It would be a real good deed.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “If the mother doesn’t sabotage therapy.”

  “I don’t think she will. She’s antsy, but seemed to really love the kid. The guilt helps us there— think how inadequate she must feel, the kid calling in like that. She knows this isn’t the right way to raise a child but can’t break out of her own pathology. It’s got to feel horrible for her. The way I see it, this is the right time to harness the guilt. If the kid gets better, maybe Mom’ll see the light, get some help for herself.”

  “Is there a father in the picture?”

  “No, she’s a widow. It happened when Melissa was a baby. Heart attack. I got the impression he was a much older man.”

  “Sounds like you learned a lot from a brief visit.”

  Her cheeks colored. “One tries. Listen, I don’t expect you to disrupt your life and drive out there on a regular basis. But getting a referral closer to home wouldn’t make any difference. Mom never leaves to go anywhere. For her, half a mile might as well be Mars. And if they do try therapy and it doesn’t work, they may never try it again. So I want somebody competent. After listening to you I’m convinced you’re right for the case. I’d greatly appreciate it if you could accept less than optimal. I’ll make it up to you with some solid referrals in the future. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “I know I sound over involved and maybe I am— but the whole idea of a seven-year-old calling in like that . . . And that house.” She raised her eyebrows. “Besides, I figure it won’t be long before my practice really gets crazy and I don’t have the time to give anyone this kind of individual attention. So I might as well enjoy it while I can, right?”

  Another reach into the Gladstone. “Anyway, here’s the relevant data.” She handed me a piece of note paper topped with the logo of a pharmaceutical company. On it she’d printed:

  Pt: Melissa Dickinson, DOB 6/21/71.

  Mom: Gina Dickinson.

  And a phone number.

  I took it and put it in my pocket.

  “Thanks,” she said. “At least payment won’t be a hassle. They’re not exactly Medi-Cal.”

  I said, “Are you the physician of record, or do they have someone they’ve been seeing?”

  “According to the mother, there’s a family doctor in Sierra Madre that Melissa’s seen occasionally in the past— immunizations, school physicals, nothing ongoing. Physically, she’s a very healthy girl. But he’s not really in the picture— hasn’t been for years. She didn’t want him contacted.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The whole therapy thing. The stigma. To be perfectly frank, I had to do a sell-job. This is San Labrador we’re talking about; they’re still fighting the twentieth century. But she will cooperate— I got a commitment out of her. As to whether or not I’ll end up being their regular doc, I don’t know. Either way, if you want to send me a report, I’d sure be interested in finding out how she does.”

  “Sure,” I said. “You just mentioned school physicals. Despite the fears, does she attend classes regularly?”

  “She did until recently. Servants drove her and picked her up; parent-teacher conferences were conducted over the phone. Maybe in that neck of the woods it’s not that strange, but it can’t have been great for the kid, the mother never showing up for anything. Despite that, Melissa’s a terrific student— straight A’s. The mother made a point of showing me the report cards.”

  I said, “What do you mean by “until recently’?”

  “Lately she’s been starting to exhibit some definite symptoms of school phobia: vague physical complaints, crying in the morning, claiming she’s too scared to go to school. The mother’s been letting her stay home. To me that’s a big fat danger sign.”

  “Sure is,” I said. “Especially with her role model.”

  “Yup. The old biopsychosocial chain. Take enough histories and all you see is chains.”

  “Chain mail,” I said. “Tough armor.”

  She nodded. “But maybe we can break one this time, huh? Wouldn’t that be uplifting?”

  • • •

  I saw patients all afternoon, finished a stack of charts. As I cleared my desk I listened to the tape.

  FEMALE ADULT VOICE: Cathcart help line.

  CHILD’S VOICE: (barely audible) Hello.

  ADULT VOICE: Help line. How may I help you?

  Silence

  CHILD’S VOICE: Is this (breathy, inaudible) . . hospital?

  AV: This is the Cathcart Hospital help line. What can I do for you?

  CV: I need help. I’m . . .

  AV: Yes?

  Silence

  AV: Hello? Are you there?

  CV: I . . . I’m scared.

  AV: Scared of what, dear?

  CV: Everything.

  Silence

  AV: Is there something— or someone— right there with you, scaring you?

  CV: . . . No.

  AV: No one at all?

  CV: No.

  AV: Are you in some kind of danger, dear?

  Silence

  AV: Honey?

  CV: No.

  AV: No danger at all?

  CV: No.

  AV: Could you tell me your name, honey?

  CV: Melissa.

  AV: Melissa what?

  CV: Melissa Anne Dickinson. (Starts to spell it out)

  AV: (Breaks in) How old are you, Melissa?

  CV: Seven.

  AV: Are you calling from your house, Melissa?

  CV: Yes.

  AV: Do you know your address, Melissa?

  (Tears)

  AV: It’s all right, Melissa. Is something— someone or something bothering you? Right now?

  CV: No. I’m just scared . . . always.

  AV: You’re always scared?

  CV: Yes.

  AV: But there’s nothing there bothering you or scaring you right now? Nothing in your house?

  CV: Yes.

  AV: There is something?

  CV: No. Nothing right here. I . . . (Tears)

  AV: What is it, honey?

  Silence

  AV: Does someone at your house bother you other times?

  CV: (Whispering) No.

  AV: Does your mommy know you’re calling, Melissa?

  CV: No. (Tears)

  AV: Would she be mad if she knew you were calling?

  CV: No. She’s . . .

  AV: Yes, Melissa?

  CV: . . . nice.

  AV: Your mommy’s nice?

  CV: Yes.

  AV: So you’re not scared of your mommy?

  CV: No.

  AV: What about your daddy?

  CV: I don’t have a daddy.

  Silence

  AV: Are you scared of anyone else?

  CV: No.

  AV: Do you know what you are scared of?

  Silence

  AV: Melissa?

  CV: Darkness . . . burglars . . . things.

  AV: Darkness and burglars. And things. Can you tell me what kinds of things, honey?

  CV: Uh, things . . . all kinds of things! (Tears)

  AV: Okay, honey, just hold on. We’ll get you some help. Just don’t hang up, okay?

  Sniffles

  AV: Okay, Melissa? Still there?

  CV: Yes.

  AV: Good girl. Now, Melissa, do you know your address— the street where you live?

  CV: (Very rapidly) Ten Sussex Knoll.

  AV: Could you please repeat that, Melissa?

  CV: Ten. Sussex. Knoll. San Labrador. Cal. Ifornia. Nine-one-one-oh-eight.

  AV: Very good. So you live in San Labrador. That’s really close to us— to the hospital.

  Silencer />
  AV: Melissa?

  CV: Is there a doctor who can help me? Without shots?

  AV: Of course there is, Melissa, and I’m going to get you that doctor.

  CV: (Inaudible)

  AV: What’s that, Melissa?

  CV: Thank you.

  A burst of static, then dead air. I turned off the recorder and phoned the number Eileen Wagner had written down. A reedy male voice answered: “Dickinson residence.”

  “Mrs. Dickinson, please. This is Dr. Delaware, regarding Melissa.”

  Throat clear. “Mrs. Dickinson’s not available, Doctor. However, she said to tell you that Melissa can be at your office any weekday between three and four-thirty.”

  “Do you know when she’ll be available to talk?”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t, Dr. Delaware. But I’ll apprise her of your call. Is that time period suitable for you?”

  I checked my appointment book. “How about Wednesday? Four o’clock.”

  “Very good, Doctor.” He recited my address and said, “Is that correct?”

  “Yes. But I would like to talk with Mrs. Dickinson before the appointment.”

  “I’ll inform her of that, Doctor.”

  “Who’ll be bringing Melissa?”

  “I will, sir.”

  “And you are . . . ?”

  “Dutchy. Jacob Dutchy.”

  “And your relationship to—”

  “I’m in Mrs. Dickinson’s employ, sir. Now, in the matter of your fee, is there a preferred mode of payment?”

  “A check would be fine, Mr. Dutchy.”

  “And the fee itself?”

  I quoted him my hourly rate.

  “Very good, Doctor. Goodbye, Doctor.”

  • • •

  The next morning, a legal-size manila envelope arrived at the office by messenger. Inside was a smaller, rose-colored envelope; within that, a sheet of rose-colored stationery folded over a check.

  The check was for $3,000 and was annotated Medical treatment for Melissa. At my ’78 rate, over forty sessions’ worth. The money had been drawn on a savings account at First Fiduciary Trust Bank in San Labrador. Printed in the upper left corner of the check was:

  R.P. DICKINSON, TRUSTEE

  DICKINSON FAMILY TRUST UDT 5-11-71

  10 SUSSEX KNOLL

  SAN LABRADOR, CALIFORNIA 91108

  The stationery was heavy stock, folded in half, with a Crane watermark. I opened it.

  At the top, in embossed black script:

  Regina Paddock Dickinson

  Below that, in a fine, graceful hand:

  Dear Doctor Delaware,

  Thank you for seeing Melissa.

  I’ll be in touch.

  Faithfully yours,

  Gina Dickinson

  Scented paper. A mixture of old roses and alpine air. But it didn’t sweeten the message:

  Don’t call us, plebe. We’ll call you. Here’s a juicy check to suppress any protests.

  I dialed the Dickinson residence. This time a woman answered. Middle-aged, Gallic accent, voice pitched lower than Dutchy’s.

  Different pipes, same song: Madame wasn’t available. No, she had no idea when Madame would be available.

  I left my name, hung up, looked at the check. All those digits. Treatment hadn’t even begun and I’d lost control. It wasn’t the way to do business, wasn’t in the best interests of the patient. But I’d committed myself to Eileen Wagner.

  The tape had committed me.

  . . . a doctor who can help me. Without shots.

  I thought about it for a long time, finally decided I’d stick it out long enough to do an intake at least. See if I could get a rapport with the little girl, get some sort of progress going— enough to impress the Victorian princess.

  Dr. Savior.

  Then, I’d start making demands.

  During my lunch hour I cashed the check.

  3

  Dutchy was fiftyish, mid-size and plump, with slicked-down too-black hair parted on the right, apple cheeks, and razor-slash lips. He had on a well-cut but old-fashioned double-breasted blue serge suit, starched white shirt, linen pocket square, Windsor-knotted navy tie, and mirror-bright black bluchers with extra heel. When I came out of the inner office he and the girl were standing in the middle of the waiting room, she looking down at the carpet, he examining the artwork. The look on his face said my prints weren’t passing muster. When he turned to face me, his expression didn’t change.

  All the warmth of a Montana hailstorm, but the girl clutched his hand as if he were Santa Claus.

  She was small for her age but had a mature, well-formed face— one of those children endowed early with the countenance they’ll grow old with. An oval face, just this side of pretty, beneath bangs the color of walnut shells. The rest of her hair was long, almost to her waist, and topped with a pink flowered band. She had big round gray-green eyes with blond lashes, an upturned nose lightly freckled, and a pointy pixie chin under a narrow, timid mouth. Her clothes were too formal for school: puffed-sleeve dress of pink dotted swiss sashed with white satin tied in a bow at the back, pink lace-topped socks, and white patent-leather buckle shoes. I thought of Carroll’s Alice encountering the Queen of Hearts.

  The two of them stood there, immobile. A cello and a piccolo, cast in odd duet.

  I introduced myself, bending and smiling at the girl. She stared back. To my surprise, no terror.

  No response at all, other than flat appraisal. Considering what had brought her to the office, I was doing great, so far.

  Her right hand was swallowed by Dutchy’s meaty left one. Rather than have her relinquish it, I smiled again and held out my hand to Dutchy. He seemed surprised by the gesture and took it with reluctance, then let go at the same time he released the girl’s fingers.

  “I’ll be off now,” he announced to both of us. “Forty-five minutes— correct, Doctor?”

  “Correct.”

  He took a step toward the door.

  I was looking at the girl, bracing myself for resistance. But she just stood there, staring down at the carpet, hands pressed to her sides.

  Dutchy took another step and stopped. Chewing his cheek, he turned back and patted the girl’s head. She gave him what appeared to be a reassuring smile.

  “ ’Bye, Jacob,” she said. High, breathy voice. Same as on the tape.

  The rose tint spread from Dutchy’s cheeks to the rest of his face. He chewed his cheek some more, lowered his arm stiffly, and mumbled something. One last glare at me and he was gone.

  After the door closed I said, “Looks like Jacob’s a good friend.”

  She said, “He’s my mother’s retainer.”

  “But he takes care of you, too.”

  “He takes care of everything.”

  “Everything?”

  “Our house.” She tapped her foot impatiently. “I don’t have a father, and my mother doesn’t leave the house, so Jacob does lots of things for us.”

  “What kinds of things?”

  “House things— telling Madeleine and Sabino and Carmela and all the service people and the delivery people what to do. Sometimes he makes food— snacks and finger food. If he’s not too busy. Madeleine cooks the big hot meals. And he drives all the cars. Sabino only drives the truck.”

  “All the cars,” I said. “Do you have a lot?”

  She nodded. “A lot. My father liked cars and bought them before he died. Mother keeps them in the big garage even though she doesn’t drive them, so Jacob has to start them and drive them so they don’t get sticky inside the engine. There’s also a company that comes to wash them every week. Jacob watches them to make sure they do a good job.”

  “Sounds like Jacob keeps busy.”

  “He does. How many cars do you have?”