Q. You had surgery when, Mrs. Siddons?
A. All the time, yessir. And I says to my husband. John Siddons, that’s my husband, you see. I says to him that since I’m most near dead anyways, I might as well go and see if that son of Obie Cox can do me any good, because sure as hellfire, he couldn’t do me any harm, don’t you see. And he looked. Yessir?
Q. Who was your doctor, Mrs. Siddons?
A. Which one? I’ve had a passel of them.
Q. Who performed the surgery to remove your kidney?
A. Here’s a list of doctors. I seen all of them from one time to another. I think Jones, or was it Harriman? But he’ll know. You just ask him. After he was finished, he said— No, that was another time.
Q. Mrs. Siddons, you realize, don’t you, that our examinations have shown you to be in excellent health, with an appendix, and both kidneys…
A. That’s what I’m telling you. Obie Cox’s son done worked a real miracle on me!
Chapter Six
IT was raining in New York state, had been raining for three days now, and the wind was cold, the world dark and mist-shadowed. There were no edges on buildings, trees, rocks, anything. Rounded by fog and mist, the estate looked unreal, a double exposure used to illustrate a fantasy tale. Winifred turned from her window and paced her room some more. Turnover time again, she thought bitterly. Of all the initial team that had taken over the care of the Star Child, she was the only one remaining, and now they were being shuffled again. She kicked a hassock furiously. Her clock chimed four and she jerked the door open and marched down the heavily carpeted hallway to the conference room, where she expected to have her dismissal notice handed to her.
Colonel Wakeman was in charge now. A psychologist of the Watson school, he had no use for Winifred. He was a pansy, she thought with disgust. Just what Johnny needed. Wakeman was forty-two, athletic, sunburned, virile-looking, and a pansy, who knew that she knew and hated her for knowing.
At Wakeman’s side was Dr. Felix Duprey, the new pediatrician assigned to Johnny. He had the thick folder of medical records tucked under his arm. A brush moustache, sideburns, pot belly over long thin legs. She looked at the next of the new men. Leonard Mallard, who smiled and smiled, was in charge of security of the estate. Lenny had been there for almost a year before anyone had been let in on the secret that he was in charge. He had filled a vacancy in the lower echelons, ostensibly gathering information about the place and how it was run, and only in the past week had stepped up to his rightful position. And people had vanished overnight.
There were others that she had met briefly: the Russian teacher, a French physical activities coach, consultants in all fields from other nations. She nodded and walked around the conference table to her seat. They were still waiting for Rose Laskey, the art instructor, a tall girl, twenty-seven, with long fluttery hands that could work magic with paper, clay, paints, all the accoutrements of her profession. Winifred suspected that Rose was C.I.A. She wondered again, as she often did, if she was the only one present who wasn’t holding down two positions.
She wondered even more why no one had ever approached her about taking on the second, even more important job. Probably thought she was undependable.
There were ten professionals on the estate, drawing salaries of fifty thousand to one hundred thousand dollars annually, plus whatever they drew that never was recorded for public disclosure. There were fifteen sub-professionals, the second-class professional; the assistants to the first-class professionals, etc., and they made an average of sixteen thousand dollars per year. There were twelve sub-sub-professionals, clerks, cooks, and menials of various sorts, low in rank on the estate, probably very high in offices whose doors came wrapped in plain brown paper. They made from six thousand to nine thousand dollars a year. Openly. Then there was the cost of the upkeep of this minor army. All told the bill came to over two million dollars every year. Quite a budget designated to the care and feeding of one skinny little boy.
Wakeman cleared his throat and the meeting was under way. It was like most of the consultation meetings where various members gave verbose reports about the boy’s progress. Rose would produce art work; the doctors would read from their records and offer a prognosis for the coming months—always the same, colds, hay fever, asthma, prognosis favorable. Winifred’s report consisted of his psychic development. A mother’s baby book, one dollar over a ten-cent-store counter, conscientiously filled in, would have done the same job. Sometimes there was news of an impending Visit by a dignitary, the president of the United States, or the premier of Russia, or a representative of this or that church, but nothing of that sort came up this time. After the meeting Wakeman turned to Winifred and asked if she could stay for a private talk.
She nodded. No one ever ordered anyone to do anything here, much too civilized for that. But she had been ordered, and she suspected, now it would come. Her pink slip. Did anyone ever actually get a pink slip? She never had seen one. Her mind followed the line of thought, pink slip, lingerie, Freudian slip…
“Dr. Harvey, as you know your own work here has been indispensable to those who have studied the Star Child throughout the years. When the clearance has been lifted and you can publish your studies, your name will be placed among the other giants in the field.”
“My reward in heaven,” Winifred murmured. Wakeman looked confused for a second, then cleared his throat and continued as if she hadn’t spoken.
“After many long hours of consultation, however, the decision has been reached that the transference that has been effected by your devoted care of the child is not to his best interests. We believe his growing dependence on you has added to the immaturity that is detrimental to his progress.”
Winifred smiled and drummed her fingers on the polished surface of the table. Again Wakeman was discomfited for a second. Winifred turned to take in Lenny with her gaze. He was seated slightly to the rear and side of her so that she couldn’t see both men at the same time. She addressed herself to Lenny.
“Have you read my latest report? The summary of three months ago?” Lenny nodded, smiling. “Okay, then tell him to knock off this pep talk and get down to basics. I say the kid is, to put it as bluntly as I know how, going crazy in this environment. He has shown signs of autistic behavior from infancy, and they are growing more pronounced. He is developing into a paranoid schizophrenic, and if you remove the one stable element in his environment, this development will hasten.”
“Dr. Harvey, your report was given all consideration,” Wakeman said frostily. “We feel that you have exaggerated the situation.”
Winifred stood up, gathering her notebook and purse, keeping her gaze on Lenny. “Balls,” she said. She started to leave the room, but Lenny’s voice stopped her.
Very quietly he said, “Winifred, there is an alternative.”
She swung around to stare at him.
“You are to be relieved of all official duties in regard to the boy. That’s irrevocable. But you can stay and continue as his confidant.”
She stiffened. Now they were making the offer. She waited ..
“He needs someone he can talk to, and you are that someone. We all know that. You would work directly under my orders, however, not under the medical board’s auspices.” He held up his hand before she could speak. “Not now. Think about it. I’ll talk to you again.”
Winifred walked back down the hall slowly. Wakeman and Lenny. Her side. The U.S.A. side. They didn’t want her reports to go to the international board any longer. They wanted the inside information for themselves. Everyone believed something would come out eventually that would give one side or the other an edge. She entered her room still deep in thought, and jumped when Johnny said, “Are you leaving too?”