Chapter 8
DR. FONTENOT, Dr. Hackthorne and Missy Blumendahl sat on her broad veranda and drank potent highballs. Hackthorne was decidedly uncomfortable, laced up as he was in a corset designed to support his injured back.
"Don't give a hoot what your X-rays show. I can definitely feel two bones rubbing ends. I'm ruined."
"Cowflop," replied Dr. Fontenot rudely, bobbing his spade beard. "You had a little sprain and some spasm around the point of L-five. That crepitation is in your mind only. Who'd have thought you would turn out to be a hypochondriac?"
"Who'd have thought he'd turn over a car," snorted Missy, fitting a cigarette into her long jade holder. "Gawping at my house and running off the road as pretty as you please. I always said I wouldn't ride in one of those newfangled beetles."
"It was the only transportation to be had," replied Hackthorne patiently.
"Then you should have walked or hitched or something. By the way, when is your Barrett coming?"
"Any minute. He would have come with me, but he had some loose ends to tie up." Hackthorne reached for the drink that rested on a nearby table, flinched, groaned. "Broken back, sure as shootin'. Damn but that thing grabbed me then."
"I warned you about sudden movements," admonished Dr. Fontenot. "You'll be feeling pretty sore for a couple of weeks."
Hackthorne scowled. "I can't stay here a couple of weeks. I have a job."
Fontenot sneered openly. "Let Van Delkin take care of it. You won't be going anywhere for a while."
"If that head-hunter tinkers around with my residents, I'll murder him." The scowl came on again.
Fontenot's grin was devilish. "Why? Van Delkin is practically the direct descendant of Freud. I'll bet he has a ball with your boys."
"Yeah," growled Hackthorne, "and I have to smelt all that fertilizer out of them as fast as he puts it in."
"You don't believe in analysis?" asked Missy mischievously.
I didn't say that It has a place. Just as narcotics have a place. But in most cases I must seriously question any treatment that is habit-forming and administered on flimsy pretexts. In addition, I think analysis is by its nature subjective rather than objective, unscientific, and used about a thousand times to every one time it is indicated. It has value in the confessor sense but as I always say, a clergyman is much better at it than a doctor. The cleric doesn't have to apologize for his mysticism and witchcraft."
Missy blew her nose. "By God, you sound just like Ike, Junior. He's a psychiatrist too, you know."
"Why isn't he here feeling heads then?" demanded Hackthorne.
"Because if he did, the psychiatry departments at four Veterans' Hospitals would have to shut down."
Hackthorne frowned, "Blumendahl... of course! I never connected the names. Why, I've met the lad. We downed a few together at the convention last year. He tore the pants off these crack-headed geniuses and their fairy stories about childhood schizophrenia. Van Delkin walked out on him. In spite of what Heath et al have discovered about the schizophrenic blood factor, Van Delkin still thinks it's caused by frog warts, trauma, suppressed desire for one's grandma or some equally fatuous nonsense. Someone is coming," he finished, pointing.
A cab was turning into the driveway. It ground to a stop and discharged its passenger.
Missy stared. "He's a stranger to me."
"Not to me," snapped Hackthorne. "It's Rodney Barrett himself."
Handsome and broadshouldered, Rod mounted the steps at Missy's bellowed invitation. His generous mouth was stretched in a wide smile as Hackthorne introduced him to the others. But the smile wiped away instantly when Hackthorne announced with a grimace, "For your information, son, I have a broken back."
"What? You've hurt yourself?"
"He was ogling my place," Missy said, "and riding in one of those miserable little buckets of nuts they make abroad out of discarded beer cans. The thing flipped on him and now he's stuck here until he can travel." She grinned. "I expect you to stay here, too, Dr. Barrett. I couldn't handle your crank friend alone."
Rod looked startled. "Stay here-with you?"
"Sure. I have exactly eleven bedrooms. Lula and Ella stay in one downstairs near the kitchen. Tangi in another one. I use one and old Hack will be using one. Rooms awastin'."
"Well-I haven't looked Kenton over yet. I'm not quite sure... "
"Oh, hell," snarled Hackthorne, wincing against a twinge. "Certainly you'll stay here. Best eats for miles around. Don't fight it."
Rod nodded. "Thanks, Mrs. Blumendahl."
"Missy, to you. Who's hungry?"
None admitted he was but all proved it when, seated at the supper table, each found before him a plump stuffed squab with a cross of bacon over its breast. Conversation flew wild through the meal. And without seeming to, Missy observed Rod carefully, weighing him, measuring him, making up her mind about him.
While the others ate German chocolate cake and ice cream, Missy excused herself, went to the hall phone. She spoke guardedly when Bridge Pilgrim answered. "Get that gal over here," she told him. "I got the best-lookin' psychiatrist here you ever saw. He'll put up an office in Kenton if he likes things, and who'd make him a better nurse than Nola?"
"Say," replied Bridge excitedly, "that sounds good. In an hour or so? I've been wanting her to meet people."
"An hour would be just right." She hung up and returned to the dining room, her long cigarette holder poking from her lips at a jaunty angle.
"This," said Dr. Hackthorne, pointing his fork at a second piece of cake, "is fairly wriggling with calories and cholesterol."
"You should worry," retorted Missy, attacking her own slice. "Anyone as shad-bellied and strung out as you needn't worry about such things. What about all those calories in Bradsher's Special Age?"
He looked at her severely. "Madam, calories in whiskey are legal, or didn't you know?"
She laughed. "How about brandy calories? Shall we repair to the veranda and try some?"
All agreed that the idea had its merits. They rose and made their way to the big porch, Hackthorne twinging and cursing with each painful step.
After they had dawdled a while over coffee and brandy, Missy got up and beckoned to Rod. "Son, come with me. These others will excuse us long enough for me to show you your room."
He followed her from the veranda into the hallway, up the carpeted, richly gleaming staircase, and to a gigantic bedroom. It was filled with heavy antique furniture; the cherrywood bed looked as if it weighed a ton and was so high it had to be mounted by means of steps.
"Didn't you bring any luggage, son?" she asked.
"I left a bag at the railroad station. Thought I'd be staying in town-"
"I'll send for it later. Set a while, will you? I want to talk to you."
She perched herself on an overstuffed chaise. Rod chose a chair and sat down, watching her warily.
"Did you notice me sizing you up downstairs?" she asked. "All through supper, and before, I was making notes."
"I didn't notice, especially." He smiled easily. "Naturally you would be curious about me-would try to judge whether I measured up to your image of a psychiatrist. Did I pass the test?"
"Did I?" she retorted.
"Don't tell me I was that obvious."
"Oh, you were quite subtle about it. But the leading questions you asked once or twice-the way you sometimes steered the conversation-the penetrating glances when you thought I wasn't looking... Do you think I'm a fool, son?"
"The farthest thing from it," Rod said. "In fact, I've decided you're smart as hell. And a darling, for all your bluster. Your psyche is positively hypenic. And if a man wants a reason to locate around here, you'll do as well as any."
Her voice softened. "Thanks, son. For your information, you passed your test, too. Warm, charming, knowing-just the type to do patients a lot of good. And deep in your eyes, there's a devil lurking. That's fine. Shows you're human. But a trace of something else is in your eyes, too. Fear."
He looked away. "Not fear. Hurt."
"Fear, I say. Forgive me for being so nosy on first acquaintance, but what in tarnation are you so afraid of?"
He shivered slightly. "Missy, I had a dilly of a crack-up. You see, I placed this girl on a pedestal...
"Oh, sure. And you discovered she didn't belong there. It's as old and common as bad breath. Ten to one you loved her up until she was steaming, then refused to delve into her lingerie. So she did what came naturally. She became a pushover for the first Lothario who did a good job of titty-tickling. Right?"
He flushed. "You've been reading my mail."
"And you a psychiatrist! Didn't you ever run into this sort of thing while in residency?"
"Of course. Dr. Hackthorne put me on cases with certain parallels."
"Did it work?"
"In a sense. It dredged me up out of the doldrums. But I can't get rid of my hurt."
"Not hurt. Fear. My guess is that you're scared to death of lovely young women. Of becoming involved with them, that is."
"Hurt or fear, what's the difference?" Rod queried bitterly. "Until I conquer whatever it is, I won't be much of a psychiatrist."
"Nonsense. But I got a newscast for you. Hang around here, and you'd better beat that fixation. Did you know that the Kenton area has more good-looking women than places ten times its size? Why, just in this neighborhood-" Missy began ticking them off on her fingers. The fourth girl she named was Melody Flemming, whom she characterized as a "neighbor gal." She added reflectively, "Then there's this new nurse, Nola. You'll meet her soon. And Lula, my cook. And my personal maid, Tangi... Now there's a beauty!" Grinning like a female demon, Missy pulled at a nearby bell-rope.
A minute or so later, a stunning young woman appeared in the doorway. She had the figure of a Venus, a complexion like beige velvet, black hair hanging to her waist.
Rod felt as though his skin had suddenly grown too small for his body.
"Tangi," said Missy fondly, "this is Dr. Rodney Barrett. He may be staying with us for a while. See that he's comfortable, will you? Get rid of those frilly sheets on the bed, the skirt hangers, all that-bring in man-stuff. Don't forget glasses, and shove a bottle of Bradsher's into a drawer."
"Sure thing," warbled Tangi, in so melodious a contralto that Rod melted like wax. She threw him a sidelong glance, smiled. "If there's anything you want, sir, just ring." She turned with the grace of a ballet dancer and lithely stepped out of the room, her south end undulating entrancingly.
There was a moment of silence, while Rod tried to recover.
Missy's grin had become wicked. "Is she rape walkin' or isn't she?"
"My God! Who is she?"
"I told you. My maid. Daughter of my Portuguese herd boss," Missy said. "Every bit as good as she looks, too. A heart like gold, a wonderful sense of humor, and I'd flat die if she quit me. Consequently I pay her twice what she's worth." Missy's grin was now making her look like a female Mephistopheles. "See that fabulous body of hers? In her book, its most exalted mission is to give her sensual pleasure. She's as objective about it as a bird after a worm. If she takes a shine to you, you'll have company some night and there's no way you can escape it outside of jumping from your window."
Rod was looking at her soberly. "Missy, a man could fall in love with Tangi. Without any trouble at all."
"Lots of men do. Nothing ever comes of it, though, so don't get any ideas in your head. Tangi is strictly not a one-man woman. Besides, I have other plans for you." She pushed herself up from the chaise. "You must think I'm awful meddlesome. Well, I am. Shall we rejoin the other guests?"
As they walked down the stairs, Rod made up his mind. He would give Kenton and the county a try.
Fears or no fears, things around here were too fascinating to pass up.