Race for the Dying by Steven F Havill

Author:Steven F Havill
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Poisoned Pen Press
Published: 2014-01-08T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-seven

Thomas glanced at his watch and saw that only forty minutes had passed. During the surgery, the rest of the world could have stopped. Now, he took a deep breath, determined to face Mrs. Cleary with a cheerful, attentive demeanor.

He wheeled out into the waiting room and saw Mrs. Cleary locked in conversation with another young woman holding an infant. Both women looked up as he wheeled toward them, and Mrs. Cleary bent closer and whispered something in the young woman’s ear, who in turn nodded vigorously.

“Mrs. Cleary? Would you come in?” Thomas said. He held out his hand indicating Dr. Haines’ office. “A moment, please?” he said to the young mother and watched as the elderly woman heaved herself out of the chair. Robina Cleary was heavy, but not ponderously so. Her steely gray hair was bound in a tight bun under a small, simple black hat, and her voluminous black dress touched the floor. As she pushed herself upright, she jerked to the side slightly, and a gnarled hand shot out for balance, gripping the back of the chair. For just a moment she remained frozen, and then, ever so gingerly, straightened up and released her grip on the furniture, transferring her weight to the cane.

“My,” she said, and shook her head. “Now don’t you ever grow old, dearie,” she said, and the young mother responded with a tight-lipped smile.

Mrs. Cleary did not walk directly across to where Thomas waited. Rather, she maneuvered around the perimeter of the room, now and then reaching out for balance with her right hand, the same hand that held the cane. Her left hand appeared ineffectual.

“Young man,” she said, “I’ve heard so much about you.” She looked at Thomas with bright blue eyes that still managed to twinkle in the midst of a sea of wrinkles deeply caked with fragrant powder. “You had a surgery this morning.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Thomas said. “But how are you feeling this fine day, Mrs. Cleary?”

“Well, now, I’m ailing. There’s no doubt about that. But I’m vertical, and that’s something. What did young Mr. Doyle managed to do to himself?”

Auntie Robina, Thomas wanted to say, amused by the hallmark of the true busybody. Without replying, Thomas held the door for her, and she managed her way past his wheelchair, trailing an atmosphere of half a dozen fragrances. Thomas recognized perfume, a complex scent that argued with facial powder, various other lotions and potions, and the unmistakable intrusion of urine. She paused halfway through the door to catch her breath.

“Where do you live, Mrs. Cleary?” Thomas asked, unable to imagine the elderly woman walking up Grant or Gambel Streets.

“An absolutely charming little cottage on Bryan’s Bay,” she said wistfully. “My sister and I make do with very little, I assure you. But then again, when you reach my age, what all do you need?” She reached into her voluminous bag and brought out an empty Universal Tonic bottle and placed it gently on the desk in front of her.

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