Only the Strong (20 page)

The acclaimed children's hospital on the city's South Side had received far more attention for its own mural, which had as its centerpiece a lollipop “tree” that dispensed real lollipops when children pressed a button. Artinces had been offended by the very notion of giving out cavity-causing treats to kids the hospital treated. Youngsters who endured her examinations and treatments with admirable poise never received anything as wildly inappropriate
as candy. Instead, they were rewarded with pencils, bright-colored erasers, crayons, and other school supplies. Occasionally she even gave out copies of
The Snowy Day
, one of the few children's books she could find with illustrations of dignified black characters.

After a bit of easy banter with Lucius, Artinces hopped in the Malibu and pulled onto her parking lot. Her coffee was still steaming when she walked through her door and nodded at Jennifer, her receptionist. The placard on the front desk, also painted by Black Swan, declared,
Every day is black day
.

“Nine appointments and two walk-ins already,” Jennifer called as her boss breezed by.

By lunchtime, Artinces had administered four vaccinations, conducted two well-baby examinations, issued a prescription for a sinus infection, pierced a pair of ears, and given three lectures on the virtues of breastfeeding. She'd see one more patient before having a sandwich at her desk.

The young woman wore tight cornrows that curled neatly against her neck, just below her ears. She held her baby, a toddler, as if she was afraid she'd crush her. The baby had consumed nothing besides water and juice over the past 24 hours. The mother feared the worst, but Artinces could see that the child was in the bloom of health. Clad in a dark purple jumper, little Paulette wore her hair in tight, shiny pigtails divided by sharp parts that revealed a gleaming scalp. Artinces made sure to examine the child carefully, moving as slowly as possible so that the mother could see how thorough the procedure was. “Oh, you're plenty feisty, aren't you? A real handful,” she said as she pressed gently on Paulette's stomach. She'd already learned from the mother that Paulette's bowel movements were regular and normal.

“Wanna know something? I used to be a handful too. My daddy used to call me his little Pepper Pot.” Artinces turned to the mother, who hadn't breathed since the exam began. “She's fine, Mom,” she said. “She's just not hungry. When she decides she wants something, she'll it gobble it down. Trust me, hungry children eat.”

The mother exhaled, a long dramatic sigh that brought with it a trickle of tears. “Praise God,” she said. “I was so worried.”

“It's okay to be worried,” Artinces said. “It means you're paying attention.”

“Bless you, Doctor. Your kids must be so lucky.”

Artinces's reassuring smile briefly faltered, just long enough for Paulette's mother to notice. She frowned.

“Did I say something wrong? You do have kids, don't you?”

“No, in fact I don't.”

“I'm sorry.”

“No need to be sorry,” Artinces said quickly. “Not your fault. Billie will be in to finish up with you. Then talk to Jennifer about Paulette's next check-up.”

She left the room, mad at herself. The question was not a new one, after all. Her response hadn't made sense either. “Fault” implied an error, a transgression. She'd never wanted a child of her own—not after Brady. After seasons of great pain, she was at peace with the choices she'd made and the choices that had been made for her. Maybe she was just out of sorts because of the ghosts. Back in her office, she spun around in her chair and looked at the picture on the wall. It showed her standing on the steps of Abram H., a newly anointed intern clad in a modest white dress and a long white lab smock. By her side stood four nurses, similarly dressed.

Taken in 1945, that same photo had accompanied her throughout her career. It had also graced a wall at her first private practice, launched 20 years ago in a rundown office suite above a steakhouse on Easton Avenue. When she moved to Kingshighway 10 years later, the photo was one of the first items she hung in her office, along with her diplomas and a quote from Dr. Rebecca Crumpler, author of one of the earliest medical books published by an African American. “There is no doubt,” Crumpler had written, “that thousands of little ones annually die at our very doors, from diseases which could have been prevented, or cut short by timely aid.”

Artinces realized she could no longer remember the names of three of the nurses in the photo. She conceded to herself that she'd probably forgotten them on purpose. They had been resentful, she recalled, because she expected them to get off their rear ends and work. She required them to bathe every child every morning
before she made rounds. She also made a nurse accompany her on rounds and take notes on her observations.

“You're not gonna save every baby,” one of them had the nerve to say. Artinces had stared at her, intensely, for several long minutes until the woman, a good four inches taller, visibly shrank under her gaze. “No,” Artinces replied, finally, “we are not going to save every baby. But we are going to try.”

Those nurses were gone by 1948, when she became chief resident. All of them except for Billie, who was still with her today. It was Billie's voice that broke through her momentary funk.

She stuck her head in the door.

“There's a man out here wants to see you.”

“Another walk-in? What's the trouble with his child?”

“He's by himself. Says he's got something for you. Says his name's Playfair.”

“All right, tell him to come in.”

“He wants you to come outside.”

Artinces stepped briskly through the door, prepared to brush him off. She would be polite and quick, cite her busy schedule. She'd been more than generous with him, after all. What more could he want?

Playfair didn't want a thing. The doctor's unfortunate collision with his Buick had proved to be a merely temporary setback, and business continued to be brisk. The transactions he'd conducted that morning on the lot of the Gateway Cab Co. had been reliably lucrative and he'd come to share a portion of his bountiful trade. In addition, his conversation with Guts had left him in buoyant spirits. When he entered the big man's office, he had known right away that something was different—something besides the gleaming scalp and neatly trimmed beard, and the crisp white shirt that had replaced his well-worn tees.

“Cufflinks,” Playfair decided. “That's what's different about you. Check
you
out.”

In his chair behind his desk, Guts raised his forearm and studied his sleeve as if he'd never seen it before. Sunlight slid through the
window over his shoulder and appeared to dance directly on the gleaming link.

Playfair leaned over and squinted at it before sitting down. “Onyx? Man, you got 'em shining like diamonds. Black diamonds.”

“Pearl's doing,” Guts said sheepishly. “She rubs them until they sparkle.”

“I didn't take you for a cufflinks man.”

“They belonged to my father. He liked to dress up.”

Playfair stared. Guts had never mentioned family.

The big man shifted in his seat. “I had been saving them for a special occasion,” he said. “Mostly, I just kept them in a box. Pearl told me every day's a special occasion.”

“I can see she's got you looking at things differently.”

Guts nodded. “I suppose.”

“That's what happens when you let a woman get ahold of the family jewels.”

Guts grunted amiably. “Listen, speaking of jewels.”

“Right, right,” Playfair said, hunching forward. “I went by Crusher's gym like you asked me to. It's true—PeeWee clocked some glass-jawed sucker while wearing a big ring. He got out of Dodge while the getting was good. Funny, I see him at Stormy Monday's a lot, but he never eats in. Lately, though, he's been scarce.”

Guts raised his forearm again, turning it this way and that in the sunlight. “At first I couldn't see why Crenshaw could get so wound up over a ring,” he said. “Turns out I'm not so different. I've been carrying around a box of cufflinks since I was a kid. They might not mean much to anybody else, but I can't picture not having them.” He looked up at Playfair. “That's how Rip is with that ring. I get it now.”

“My guess is PeeWee's still holding on to it.”

“I wonder why he hasn't tried to move it?”

“Doing what you used to do, maybe.”

“What's that?”

“Saving it for a special occasion.”

Playfair was leaning against a shiny Electra 225, his arms folded comfortably across his safari vest. Sunglasses rested atop his head. He jumped when he saw the doctor.

She couldn't help admiring the Buick. It looked brand-new. “How did you manage to get your car fixed so fast?” she asked. “That Mr. Cherry really is a wizard.”

Playfair, now standing at attention, smiled patiently. “That he is, ma'am, but he didn't work on this. This here's a different car.”

Artinces looked at the gleaming maroon, the shiny chrome. She cast a quizzical glance at her visitor.

“See the top? It's black. The other was white,” Playfair explained.

“Oh, yes. Still, how…?”

“I've got resources, ma'am. Connections.”

Artinces considered the meaning of that. “Well, and I've got a full schedule, Mr. Playfair. How may I help you?”

“Actually, I came to help
you
. To bring you something.” He opened the rear door on the driver's side and carefully retrieved a large object with a light fabric draped over it. He set it on the trunk and slid the covering off, revealing a birdcage with a parrot inside.

“Say hello to Shabazz.”

Artinces stared. “A bird?”

“A parrot, African Grey. Mostly I deal in parakeets, but every once in a while something special comes through.”

“No thank you, Mr. Playfair. A bird could contaminate my office.”

“I thought of that. That's why I asked them to bring you out here. Shabazz is for your house.”

“That's very kind of you, but I'm not interested in a pet.”

Playfair laughed. “You thought Shabazz was a pet? This here is a guard bird.”

“A guard bird?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“I didn't know there was any such thing.”

“Oh, yeah, birds respond to training. Allow me to demonstrate.”

Playfair turned to the bird. “Watch yourself,” he said.

The bird said nothing.

“Watch yourself,” Playfair repeated.

Dr. Noel coughed softly.

“Just a little shy,” Playfair explained, “an affliction someone in your profession might attribute to performance anxiety.”

Dr. Noel looked at Playfair as if noticing him for the first time. “Are you an educated man?”

“No, ma'am, I just know how to talk to people. Dropped out of Sumner as soon as I was old enough. Couldn't sit still.”

Artinces suppressed a chuckle.
Sounds like Charlotte
, she thought.
The girl flits from the counter to the chair to the window as if her rear end's on fire.
Maybe the bird could be a welcome distraction, something to keep her occupied.

She looked at Playfair. “I close my office at six,” she said. “Bring him back then.”

Playfair grinned. “Yes, ma'am. I'll bring you up to speed on how to take care of him.”

Charlotte wasn't impressed when Artinces told her about the parrot later that evening. She rolled her eyes, sucked her teeth, and refused even to look in the backseat where the bird sat quietly in its covered cage.

“Tell me again who gave it to you?”

“A friend.”

“Another friend. First flowers, now birds. What kind of name is Shabazz anyway?”

“I think it's Arabic. Muslim.”

“Right, like El-Hajj Malik. Just what we need, the official pet of the Nation of Islam.”

Artinces laughed. “What do you have against the Nation? You don't like bean pies?”

“I used to. I would buy them from the man who stands in front of Katz Drugs. They were good. But then I heard about the Pie Lady and that was that. I'm tired of her too, though.”

Artinces wasn't fond of Charlotte's complaining, but she wanted to encourage her when she showed a willingness to talk.

“Why's that? She seems nice enough.”

“Yeah? Maybe she doesn't get all in your business. When I go in there, it's just question after question. Like I'm not entitled to a private life.” Charlotte looked pointedly at Artinces, who kept her eyes on the road. “Everybody's got a private life. Right?” The
girl acted like she knew something. But Artinces knew it was just bluster. At least she hoped as much.

The next day, Charlotte's sly insinuation still resonated while Artinces sat through a meeting of the Harry Truman Boys Club board of trustees. There weren't many items on the agenda, and board chair Virgil Washburn handled old and new business with his customary dispatch. The board formally renewed club director Gabe Patterson's contract and thanked him for his exemplary service to the underprivileged youth of North Gateway. Washburn's baseball team was playing a home game and Washburn was eager to get to his owner's box by the seventh-inning stretch. Rip Crenshaw was closing in on the club home-run mark and, barring any more injuries, would surely match it by August.