The Dead Caller from Chicago by Jack Fredrickson

Author:Jack Fredrickson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

Thirty

The clinic was at the Illinois-Wisconsin line, set unmarked and secluded well back from the road. If the Bohemian’s instructions hadn’t been precise, I never would have found the driveway through the trees.

The reception area was designed to receive no one comfortably. It consisted of two hard plastic chairs and a stern-faced woman tucked behind a high counter. I was made to wait for only a moment before a woman in a cardigan sweater came through doors that opened with a faint electric snick. She smiled in spite of the surroundings.

“I’m Dr. Feldott,” she said, extending her hand. She was about forty, prematurely gray, and wore bright red glasses that would surely please Leo if he were feeling well. “Mr. Smith is doing quite well, considering,” she went on as she led me back, through the electronically locked doors.

“Considering?”

“He’s begun acting in a most determined manner. We believe he’s trying to tell us something.”

“He’s not speaking?”

“Occasionally, but he’s not communicating with words. You’ll see.”

We walked down a hall that looked more residential than institutional. Paintings hung on the walls, glass vases filled with fresh flowers sat on narrow tables. The only tip off that we were in a healthcare facility was the doors. They were wider than residential doors. They had keypad locks, and they were all closed.

“His blood is good; everything physically seems to be fine,” she said as we turned a corner. “His issue stems from a shock. You know about his shock?”

I nodded.

“It would help if we could discuss the details of that.”

“I cannot.”

“He’s been eating and sleeping well, and smiling almost all the time, until this morning, when he went into a sort of frenzy. He grabbed a pen from one of our nurses and began motioning for paper. I was called. We took it for an encouraging sign, this new desire to share. But almost immediately, he threw the pen down. He wanted another writing instrument. It was only after some time that we realized he wanted crayons—” She stopped abruptly, seeing the smile on my face. “Something is funny about this?”

“He likes colors. Like no one you’ve ever met. Did you get him the sixty-four-piece set?”

“Not at first,” she said. “We brought him one of the small packs we keep here for children. He got furious, shook his head back and forth. I went out to Walgreens, brought back the largest set, though we removed the little sharpener. He’s been drawing on typing paper ever since, not happy, not unhappy, just … purposeful; driven. He hasn’t eaten at all today, so fixated has he been on drawing. As you’ll see, he draws only one picture, over and over, and presses one upon everyone he sees. At first, we thought he was offering his artwork as gifts, but as he kept drawing the same thing over and over, we realized he’s trying to tell us something with the pictures. We’re hoping they’ll mean something to you.” She stopped at a door, entered a code on the keypad, and pushed it open.

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