him going, and nothing he told her was more than she could cope with.
Indeed, her spirits rose, for she was increasingly certain that she knew
what was wrong with him and how he might be helped.
He finished, his voice low and thin. "So . . . is that the reward
for all the years of hard work and careful financial planning? Premature
senility? Now, when we can really start enjoying what we've earned, am
I going to wind up with my brains all scrambled, drooling, pissing my
pants, useless to myself and a burden on you? Twenty years before my
time?
Christ, Faye, I've always realized that life isn't fair, but I never
thought the deck was stacked against me this bad."
"It won't be like that." She reached across the table and took his hand.
"Sure, Alzheimer's can strike people even younger than you, but this
isn't Alzheimer's. From what I've read, from the way it was with my
father, I don't think the onset of senility-premature or otherwise-is
ever like this. What it sounds like is a simple phobia. Phobia. Some
people have an irrational fear of flying or heights. For some reason,
you've developed a fear of the dark. It can be overcome."
"But phobias just don't develop overnight, do they?"
Their right hands were still clasped. She squeezed his as she said, "Do
you remember Helen Dorfman? Almost twenty-four years ago. Our landlady
when you were first assigned to Camp Pendleton."
"Oh, yeah! The building on Vine Street, lived in number one, first
floor front. We lived in number six." He seemed to take heart from his
ability to recall those details. "She had a cat . . . Sable.
Remember how the damn cat took a liking to us, left little gifts on our
doorstep?"
"Dead mice."
"Yeah. Right there beside the morning paper and the milk,"
He laughed, blinked, and said, "Hey, I see what you mean by bringing up
Helen Dorfinan! She was afraid to go out of her apartment. Couldn't
even walk out on her own lawn."
"The poor woman had agoraphobia," Faye said. "An irrational fear of
open spaces. She was a prisoner in her own home. Outside, she was
overwhelmed with fear. Doctors call it a 'panic attack,' I think."
"Panic attack," Ernie said softly. "Yeah, that's it, all right."
"And Helen didn't develop her agoraphobia till she was thirty-five,
after her husband died. Phobias can spring up suddenly, later in life."
"Well, whatever the hell a phobia is, wherever it comes from ... I
guess it's a lot better than senility. But good God, I don't want to
spend the rest of my life being afraid of the dark."
"You won't have to," Faye said. "Twenty-four years ago, nobody
understood phobias. There hadn't been much study done. No effective
treatments. But it's not like that now. I'm sure it's not."
He was silent a moment. "I'm not crazy, Faye."
"I know that, you big jerk."
He mulled over the word "phobia, and he plainly wanted to believe her
answer. In his blue eyes, she saw a rebirth of hope.
He said, "But the weird experience I had on the interstate on
Tuesday.... And the hallucination-I'm sure it must've been a
hallucination-of the motorcyclist on the roof.... How does stuff like
that fit this explanation? How could that be a part of my phobia?"
"I don't know. But an expert in the field could explain it all and tie
it together. I'm sure it's not as unusual as it seems, Ernie."
He pondered for a moment, then nodded. "Okay. But how do we begin?
Where do we go for help? How do I beat this damn thing?"
"I already have it figured out," she said. "No doctor in Elko is going
to know how to treat a case like this. We need a specialist, someone
who deals with phobic patients every day. Probably isn't anyone like
that in Reno, either. We'll have to go to a bigger city. Now, I
suspect Milwaukee's big enough to have a doctor with experience in these
things, and we could stay with Lucy and Frank-"
"And at the same time get to see a lot of Frank, Jr., and Dorie," Ernie
said, smiling at the thought of his grandchildren.
"Right. We'll go there for Christmas a week sooner than planned, this
Sunday instead of next. Which is tomorrow, in fact. It's already
Saturday. When we get to Milwaukee, we'll look up a doctor. If, by New
Year's, it looks like we'll have to stay there awhile, then I'll fly
back here, find a full-time couple to manage the place, and rejoin you.
We were planning to hire somebody this spring, anyway."
"If we close the motel a week early, Sandy and Ned will lose out on some
money over at the Grille."
"Ned will still get the truckers off the interstate. And if he doesn't
do as well as usual, we'll make it up to him."
Ernie shook his head and smiled. "You've got it all worked out. You're
something, Faye. You sure are. You're an absolute wonder."
"Well, I will admit I can be dazzling sometimes."
"I thank God every day that I found you," he said. "I don't have any
regrets either, Ernie, and I know I never will."
"You know, I feel a thousand percent better than when we first sat down
here. Why'd it take me so damn long to ask you for help?"
"Why? Because you're a Block," she said.
He grinned and finished the old joke: "Which is only one step removed
from a blockhead."
They laughed. He grabbed her hand again and kissed it. "That's the
first real laugh I've had in weeks. We're a terrific team, Faye. We
can face anything together, can't we?"
"Anything," she agreed.
It was Saturday, December 14, near dawn, and Faye Block was sure they
would come out on top of their current problem, just as they had always
come out on top before when they worked together, side by side.
She, like Ernie, had already forgotten the unidentified Polaroid
photograph that they had received in a plain envelope last Tuesday.
Boston, Massachusetts
On an intricately crocheted doily, on the highly polished maple dresser,
lay black gloves and a stainless-steel ophthalmo scope.
Ginger Weiss stood at a window to the left of the dresser, looking out
at the bay, where the gray water seemed to be a mirror image of the
ashen mid-December sky. Farther shores were hidden by a lingering
morning mist that shimmered with a pearly luminosity. At the end of the
Hannaby property, at the bottom of a rocky slope, a private dock thrust
out into the choppy bay. The dock was covered with snow, as was the
long expanse of lawn leading back to the house.
It was a big house, built in the 1850s, with new rooms added in 1892, in
1905, and again in 1950. The brick driveway curved beneath an enormous
front portico, and broad thick steps led up to massive doors. Pillars,
pilasters, carved granite lintels above doors and windows, a multitude
of gables and circular dormers, bay-facing second-story balconies at the
back, and a large widow's walk on the roof contributed to an impression
of majesty.
Even for a surgeon as successful as George, the house might have been
too expensive, but he had not needed to buy it. He had inherited the
place from his father, and his father had inherited it from George's
grandfather, and his father had bought it in 1884. The house even had a
name-Baywatch-like ancestral homes in British novels, and more than
anything else, that inspired awe in Ginger. Houses in Brooklyn, where
she came from, did not have their own names.
At Memorial, Ginger never felt uncomfortable around George. There, he
was a figure of authority and respect, but he seemed to have his roots
in common stock like everyone else. At Baywatch, however, Ginger was
aware of the patrician heritage, and that made George different from
her. He never invoked a claim to privilege. That would not be like
him. But the ghost of the New England patriciate haunted the rooms and
corridors of Baywatch, often making her feel out of place.
The corner guest suite-bedroom, reading alcove, and bathin which Ginger
had been settled for the past ten days, was simpler than many chambers
in Baywatch, and there she was almost as comfortable as in her own
apartment. Most of the pegged-oak floor was covered by a figured Serapi
carpet in shades of blue and peach. The walls were peach, the ceiling
white. The maple furniture, which consisted of various kinds of chests
used as nightstands and tables and dressers, had all come off
19th-century sailing ships owned by George's greatgrandfather. There
were two upholstered armchairs covered in peach-colored silk from
Brunschwig & Fils. On the nightstands, the bases of the lamps were
actually Baccarat candlesticks, a reminder that the apparent simplicity
of the room was built upon an elegant foundation.
Ginger went to the dresser and stared down at the black gloves that lay
upon the doily. As she had done countless times during the past ten
days, she put the gloves on, flexed her hands, waiting for a rush of
fear. But they were only ordinary gloves that she had bought the day
she had been discharged from the hospital, and they did not have the
power to bring her to the trembling edge of a fugue. She took them off.
A knock sounded at the door, and Rita Hannaby said, "Ginger, dear, are
you ready?"
"Coming," she said, snatching her purse from the bed and taking one last
quick glance at herself in the dresser mirror.
She was wearing a lime-green knit suit with a creamy white blouse that
had a simple lime-green bow at the throat. Her ensemble included a pair
of green pumps that matched the suit, an eelskin purse that matched the
pumps, a gold and malachite bracelet. The outfit perfectly complemented
her complexion and golden hair. She thought she looked chic. Well,
perhaps not chic, but at least stylish.
However, when she stepped into the hall ' and got a look at Rita
Hannaby, Ginger felt at a disadvantage, a mere pretender to class.
Rita was as slim as Ginger, but at five-eight she was six inches taller,
and everything about her was queenly. Her chestnut-brown hair swept
back from her face in a perfectly feathered cut. If her facial bones
had been more exquisitely chiseled, she would have looked severe.
However, beauty and warmth were assured by her luminous gray eyes,
translucent skin, and generous mouth. Rita was wearing a gray St.
John's suit, pearls, pearl earrings, and a broad-brimmed black hat.
To Ginger, the amazing thing was that Rita's fashionable appearance did
not seem planned. One had no sense that she had spent hours getting
ready. Instead, she seemed to have been born with impeccable grooming
and a fashionably tailored wardrobe; elegance was her natural condition.
"You look sma,.hing!" Rita said.
"Next to you, I feel like a frump in blue jeans and a sweatshirt."
"Nonsense. Even if I were twenty years younger, I'd be no match for
you, dear. Wait and see who the waiters pamper
the most at lunch."
Ginger had no false modesty. She knew she was attractive. But her
beauty was more that of a pixie, while Rita had the blueblood looks of
one who could sit upon a throne and convince the world she belonged.
Rita did nothing to cause Ginger's newfound inferiority complex. The
woman treated her not like a daughter but like a sister and an equal.
Ginger's feelings of inadequacy were, she knew, a direct result of her
pathetic condition. Until two weeks ago, she had not been dependent on
anyone in ages. Now she was dependent again, not entirely able to look
after herself, and her self-respect slipped a bit further every day.
Rita Hannaby's good humor, carefully planned outings, woman-to-woman
shmoozing, and unflagging encouragement were not enough to distract
in the frustrating role of a child.
Together, they descended to the marble-floored foyer, where they got
their coats from the closet, then went out the door and down the steps
under the portico to the black Mercedes 500 SEL in the driveway.
Herbert, who was sort of a cross between a butler and a Man Friday, had
brought the car around five minutes ago and had left the engine running,
so the interior was a toasty-warm haven from the frigid winter day.
Rita drove with her usual confidence, away from the old estates, out of
quiet streets lined with bare-limbed elms and maples, through
ever-busier thoroughfares, heading to Dr. Immanuel Gudhausen's office on
bustling State Street. Ginger had an eleven-thirty appointment with
Gudhausen, whom she had seen twice last week. She was scheduled to
visit him every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday until they got to the
bottom of her attacks of fugue. In her bleaker moments, Ginger was sure
she'd still be lying on Gudhausen's couch thirty years from now.
Rita intended to do a bit of shopping while Ginger was with the doctor.
Then they would go to lunch at some exquisite restaurant in which, no
doubt, the decor would seem to have been planned to flatter Rita Hannaby
and in which Ginger would feel like a schoolgirl foolishly trying to
pass for a grownup.
"Have you given some thought to what I suggested last Friday?" Rita
asked as she drove. "The Women's Auxiliary at the hospital?"
"I don't really think I'm up to it. I'd feel so awkward."
"It's important work," Rita said, expertly slipping the Mercedes out
from behind a Globe newspaper truck, into a gap in traffic.
"I know. I've seen how much money you've raised for the hospital, the
new equipment you've bought . . . but I think I've got to stay away
from Memorial right now. It'd be too frustrating to be around the
place, too constant a reminder that I can't do the work I've been
trained for."
"I understand, dear. Don't give it another thought. But there's still
the Symphony Committee, the Women's League for the Aged, and the
Children's Advocacy Committee. We could use your help at any of those."
Rita was an indefatigable charity worker, ably chairing committees or
serving on them, not only organizing beneficent societies but getting
her hands dirty in the operation of them. "What about it?" she pressed.
"I'm sure you'd find working with children especially rewarding."
"Rita, what if I had one of my attacks while I was with the children? It
would frighten them, and I-"
"Oh, pish posh," Rita said. "Every time I've gotten you out of the
house these last two weeks, you've used that same excuse to try to
resist leaving your room. 'Oh, Rita,' you say, 'I'll have one of my
awful fits and embarrass you." But you haven't, and you won't. Even if
you did, it wouldn't embarrass me. I don't embarrass easily, dear."
"I never thought for a moment you were a shrinking violet.
But you haven't seen me in this fugue state. You don't know what I'm
like or-"
"Oh, for goodness' sake, you make it sound as if you're a regular Dr.
Jekyll and Mr. Hyde-or Ms. Hyde-which I'm sure you're not. You
haven't beaten anyone to death with a cane yet, have you, Ms. Hyde?"
Ginger laughed and shook her head. "You're something else, Rita."
"Excellent. You'll bring so much to the organization."
Although Rita probably did not think of Ginger as another charity case,
she had approached this recuperation and rehabilitation as a new cause.
She rolled up her sleeves and committed herself to seeing Ginger through
the current crisis, and nothing on earth was going to stop her. Ginger
was touched by Rita's concern-and depressed by the need for it.
They stopped at a traffic light, third car from the intersection, with