The Stars Are Fire(49)
He opens the right-hand drawer of his desk, which reveals a familiar sight: papers having been stuffed into it over a long period of time.
“I keep the cash at the bottom in a tobacco tin. There’s not enough in here to tempt a thief. I worry more about the drugs.”
He means the contents of a cabinet, hidden within a tall kitchen cabinet, which can be opened only with a key.
“Well, let’s see,” he says. “I have at least five dollars here. Will that do?”
“I should hope so.”
“I took a look at what you’ve done out front,” he says, searching underneath a pile of papers on his desk. “I’m extremely impressed. How long has it been since your last job?”
She folds her hands. “I’ve never had a job.”
“Really?” he asks, much surprised and looking up at her. His hair needs a comb. “You’ve taken to it like a, well…”
“Duck to water,” she finishes. “I was ready for a challenge.”
“You mean surviving a fire, taking care of your children, and trying to find housing wasn’t challenge enough?”
“Mental challenge was what I meant.”
“I know I have my checkbook here,” he mumbles, frustrated.
Grace can see the checkbook near the edge of the desk in front of her. Ought she point it out? Will she seem too eager to be paid? But what’s the sense of not seeing what’s right in front of her?
She slips it off the surface of the desk. “Is this it?”
She watches while he begins to write out her check, the first she has ever received. But then he stops. “Do you have a bank account?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, let me know when you do,” he says, ripping up the check. He reaches into his pants pocket and removes a large wad of cash. He counts out thirty-five dollars. She feels awkward taking the stack of money from his hand.
“I was wondering,” she says, making a sweeping motion over his desk, “if you’d like me to tidy up your desk and your office. If there are things here that are personal, please say, and of course, I won’t go near them. But I can see from here that there are papers that need to be filed.”
He examines the mound. “I can’t think of anything in here too personal. Did you read the patients’ files?”
“No,” she answers, “no more than their names and addresses really.”
“I want you to. The information doesn’t leave this building, but you should have an idea of the patients’ medical history. Also, if they’ve come from somewhere else and are first-time patients here, please make sure you have the name and phone number of the physician they used to see. Though you’d be surprised how many of them have never been to a doctor. The women have, usually, but not the men.”
Grace nods. “I’d better go. I have to get those supplies.”
“You won’t be able to get them now,” he notes, checking his watch. “Nor before you come in on Monday. Do you know how to drive?”
“I do,” she says, “but I don’t yet have a driver’s license.”
He smiles. His teeth are white. Only children, in her experience, have such white teeth. “I’ll send you out on Monday morning in my car. You can get the supplies and your license in the same trip.”
“And open a bank account,” she adds.
Dear Rosie,
I’m guessing by now that you know that we survived the fire, that Gene didn’t come back, and that I lost the baby I was carrying. It was born dead, which was a great sadness to me, but I’m determined not to write about sorrow in this letter. I’ve had enough of it. The good news is that my mother and I and Claire and Tom have moved into Merle Holland’s big house on the water, ending our homeless period. There was a fellow squatting in the house when we got here, though that’s not a fair thing to say. He inhabited the house. Seeking shelter from the fire, he saw a piano in the upstairs turret and headed for it. When I entered the house for the first time, I heard music and discovered that the man was on the second floor playing the piano. He left us when he learned that he had an audition with the Boston Symphony Orchestra. We haven’t seen him since, so I gather he got the job.
My other news is that Claire came down with scarlet fever, and as a result, I drove her (yes, Rosie! I can drive a car!) to a clinic, where there was a doctor who successfully diagnosed her and cured her. After the pianist left, and it became clear that if I didn’t find work our little family would starve, I went back to the clinic and asked for a job as the receptionist. The place was busy when I entered, and they hired me. There’s a thing going around here that’s a form of pneumonia, due to smoke and ash inhalation during the fire. It’s pretty serious, so I thought I might mention it in case Tim shows any signs—a bad cough, listlessness, loss of appetite. But since I can’t imagine Tim not eating, I’m pretty sure he’ll never get it.
Oh, Rosie, my life has changed so much in three months, you would hardly recognize it as the life I had with you. I work, my mother takes care of the kids, we live in what you and I would have called a mansion. I’ve met new people—well, a few—and I feel different. I wish I could explain in depth what I mean, but that wouldn’t be something a woman could put in writing, if you catch my drift. I hope I haven’t shocked you.