Duby's Doctor Read online

  Jean, who had been studying the painting, turned toward the nun and smiled. “Hello,” he said, and went back to examining the picture.

  Sister Elizabeth looked slowly from Jean’s feet to his head and back again. “You said he’s not ... slow.”

  “He isn’t,” said Mitchell. “He just, he’s recovering from a serious accident. He’s learning everything all over again. All the basics. But he speaks fluent French. And he could be a big help if you have to move any heavy objects. Please, Sister, in the name of mercy...”

  Compassion filled Sister Elizabeth’s eyes, but she shook her head. “I’d like to help you, Doctor. Really. I see the need, but ... well, it wouldn’t be fair to the other children. What would their parents say?”

  “Sister, please!” begged Mitchell. “I know how you feel – believe me, I’m practically a nun, myself – but you’ve got to help me!”

  The nun put a comforting hand on Mitchell’s shoulder. “There are government agencies for this sort of thing. Why not try the V.A. Hospital?”

  “We’ll never prove eligibility,” said Mitchell. “I don’t know if he’s a veteran. Heck, he doesn’t even know if he’s a...” Mitchell gave a sigh and admitted, “Frankly, neither one of us is in love with Uncle Sam right now.”

  At that moment, a junior nun blundered through a door behind Sister Elizabeth and, carrying paint can, roller, aluminum step stool, and more, rattled across the hall to another doorway. The junior nun realized that Mitchell and Sister Elizabeth had stopped to watch her noisy progress. She sent them a rueful look and exited the corridor.

  Sister Elizabeth turned her attention again to Mitchell. “Doctor Oberon, whatever your personal political feelings, the fact is there are governmental and civic agencies to whom you can, and should, turn for help. We appreciate your faith in us, but truly there is nothing we could teach him here that he can’t learn better from those agencies.”

  Jean turned from looking at the picture on the wall and said, “Who is this man? Does he work here?”

  Sister Elizabeth looked at Jean, at the painting of Jesus, and then at Mitchell. Jean waited for an answer.

  “I think I’ll let you field that one, Sister,” Mitchell said.

  Sister Elizabeth turned to Jean and answered, “That is our Lord. We like to think His work is done here.”

  A horrendous clanging clatter from beyond a door indicated the junior nun’s ladder and painting gear had collapsed. Silence hung in the air while Mitchell and Sister Elizabeth looked at one another.

  “I’m okay!” the junior nun called from the other room.

  “And painting! Did I mention painting? He’s a whiz at painting,” said Mitchell. “You could use him as a handy man.”

  “We have no budget to pay a handy man,” Sister Elizabeth said.

  “We’d accept payment in kind. You could teach him a little, on the side,” Mitchell gestured toward the painting, “about a lot of things.”

  Sister Elizabeth looked at Jean for a long time. She closed her eyes for a few seconds, and her fingers found the crucifix on the chain about her neck.

  Finally, she opened her eyes and turned to address Mitchell. “He should report for work promptly at seven tomorrow morning. Pack a lunch. We will provide juice or milk.” She glanced at Jean. “A lot of juice or milk.”

  Sedately and with great dignity, Sister Elizabeth turned and left the foyer.

  Behind her, Mitchell pumped the air with a fist and mimed, “Yes!”

  Over the Atlantic Ocean the next morning, cloud edges glowed pink and yellow while the sky around them changed from pale gray flannel to baby blue flannel. In a quarter of an hour, the sun’s fiery eye would peep over the horizon.

  Mitchell’s condo, nestled deep under Coconut Grove’s expansive banyan trees, remained dark on the outside. On the inside, lights glowed and two people radiated excitement as they prepared for the first day of a new life.

  Jean’s room contained a single bed (covered in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle® linens), a three-drawer dresser, two easels, and bookshelves filled with art supplies. Wearing jeans, tee shirt, and sneakers, Jean struggled to make up his bed.

  Mitchell reached around the doorjamb and placed a Transformers® lunch box on the dresser. “Brush your teeth,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  Jean gave up and tossed the Ninja Turtle bedspread loosely across the rumpled bed. He headed for the bathroom.

  Thirty minutes later Mitchell’s was one of a steady stream of cars dropping off preschoolers at St. Luke’s Daycare. Mitchell pulled into the drop-off zone and stopped. Jean clutched his lunch box in his lap. Mitchell put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Want me to go with you?” she said.

  “Non. I can go.”

  “You have the paper I gave you, with the telephone numbers and everything?”

  He touched his pocket and nodded. He watched the children on the playground.

  After a second, Jean opened the car door and got out, still contemplating the children. He shut the door and looked through the car window at Mitchell.

  “These people are very short,” he said.

  “Well, yeah. They’re supposed to be short. You were short, too, once. I think.”

  A horn honked behind them, another parent eager to get into the drop-off zone.

  Mitchell waved goodbye and drove off.

  Jean waved, turned, and walked into the fenced playground.

  He wandered through the playground carrying his lunch box. Around him preschoolers shrieked, laughed, ran, jumped, and played. Chaos reigned.

  In the corner of the fenced play yard, a little girl about four years old stood clutching her Barbie® lunch box tearfully. On the side of the lunch box, Debbie was written in black marker.

  Jean walked to the corner of the yard and squatted down a few feet in front of Debbie. “First day?”

  Debbie nodded.

  “Me, too,” Jean said.

  Together they watched the raucous play of the other children. Sister Elizabeth stepped onto the porch of the school and rang a bell. Children ran toward the building and entered it. Jean and Debbie did not move.

  “Scared?” he said.

  Debbie nodded.

  “Me, too,” he said. “Want a ride?”

  Debbie nodded and stepped toward him. He scooped her onto his shoulder, stood, and together they entered the building.

  CHAPTER 8 – KNIGHT

  Sunshine glinted off the chrome of convertibles and the cameras of tourists. Salt-tanged sea breezes swished among the palm fronds in Peacock Park. Gourmet coffee aromas mingled with the smells of fresh seafood broiling in butter and herbs. Coconut Grove inundated the senses of its denizens on a warm autumn day.

  Inside The Mayfair, Carinne and Trish enjoyed none of the sights and sounds of the Grove outside. As always, Carinne traveled in her climate-controlled, window-tinted limousine directly to The Mayfair’s underground garage, and from there up the secure elevators to The Mayfair’s climate-controlled boutiques.

  Carinne Averell had never walked the Bohemian streets of Coconut Grove. As the only child of a wealthy and paranoid widower, she would never enjoy wending her way like a commoner among street musicians, jewelry hawkers, sidewalk eateries, skaters, cyclists, and Frisbee-carrying dogs.

  Trish, her hired friend, walked beside Carinne through the posh MayFair mall while Rico, the vigilant “chauffeur,” trailed a few yards behind the two girls.

  At the entrance to an exclusive lingerie shop, Rico hesitated. Instead of accompanying the girls into frou-frou territory, he stayed just outside the door. He followed them with his eyes only. Carinne knew his casual stance was a lie. In the same way, she knew his Men-in-Black sunglasses hid the way he watched her even though his face seemed directed elsewhere. And she knew his eyes, even without the sunglasses, revealed nothing of the man behind them.

  Trish lifted a racy hot pink teddy for Carinne to see, shielding it from Rico’s eyes with her body. “How about this?” Trish said
. “Guaranteed to jump-start your fiancé’s heart.”

  “Please, don’t refer to that man as my fiancé.” Carinne moved away from the teddies display.

  Trish dumped the unwanted hot pink number and followed. “That’s what you call the man you’re going to marry, and you are going to marry him. The bride should try to look a little happier about it.”

  “I’m not getting married; I’m going back to school.” Carinne began idly finger-walking along a rack of satin bustiers in bright colors. “Besides, the ‘bride’s’ father is happy enough for both of us.”

  After a moment of feigned interest, Carinne left the bustiers and strolled to a display featuring pen-and-ink drawings of ladies in various states of alluring undress. Carinne looked at the drawings for longer than she had looked at things that were actually for sale. These drawings were not Duby’s work, but they almost could be. The style was nearly the same.

  “Try to see the bright side of it,” Trish was saying. “He’s not too old, not too bad looking, got a lot going for him....” Following Carinne’s gaze, Trish noticed the drawings. “Not bad.”

  “I’ve seen better.”

  “Are we talking about the man or about the art?”

  “Both.”

  Trish broke into the first genuine smile she had been able to produce all afternoon. “So, that’s it!” she whispered, leaning closer to Carinne with a teasing light in her eyes. “Methinks the Lady Carinne doth carry a torch for some other knight. Pray, tell this poor serving maid his name.”

  Carinne flicked a sideways glance at Rico, who was watching her with his shaded eyes and his phony indifference. She ignored the question and moved on to another display. She browsed through the store, seeing nothing and remembering everything.

  On the immaculate lawn of the Averell estate, Carinne took afternoon tea with her father. Lazaro, another bodyguard, served as waiter and umbrella tender, keeping Mr. and Miss Averell supplied with tea and cakes and protected from the sun.

  In the center of the grassy expanse before them, Rico and Dubreau sparred like extras from a martial-arts movie.

  Beyond the fighters, two more henchmen of her father’s, whose names she didn’t care to know, were enjoying the match.

  As usual, Rico was clearly out to prove Dubreau was unnecessary to the team. Rico spun and slammed a vicious kick into Duby’s solar plexus, sending Duby to the ground, hard.

  “Daddy, make them stop,” Carinne said, as casually as she could manage. She must never reveal her emotions, lest they become her father’s strongest weapons against her. “They’re getting too rough. When it’s so crude, it’s not entertaining.”

  “Nonsense, sweetheart,” her father answered, “it’s all a game. Like medieval tournaments, when the knights of old would joust for the entertainment of their queen. Choose your champion, Princess.”

  Carinne had chosen her champion, but she knew better than to say so. She gripped the arms of her peacock chair and forced herself to watch the match without favoritism.

  It seemed that Duby fought a defensive battle, avoiding wicked, treacherous moves by Rico that would have felled a lesser man. Duby had taken a few hard punches to his handsome face, and his nose was bleeding.

  Rico made a serious mistake: he grew cocky in anticipation of an easy victory.

  Duby chose his moment, then erupted like Mount Vesuvius. With a series of rapid, spinning kicks, Duby backed his foe across the lawn and finally sent Rico tush-over-teakettle into the swimming pool.

  The nameless henchmen laughed, increasing Rico’s shame. Even Averell seemed amused when Duby, carrying out the game, presented himself on one knee before Carinne’s chair.

  “Your majesty,” he said with a courtly bow of his head.

  Carinne realized that Trish was watching and waiting for a response.

  “There are no knights in shining armor any more, Trish. And, I’m not carrying a torch for anybody.”

  Trish nodded, watching Carinne’s eyes. “But, there was a guy,” Trish whispered.

  Carinne’s tone was convincingly dismissive. “A mistake. That’s all.”

  Mitchell was among the many parents driving slowly through St. Luke’s Daycare’s drop-off area to collect students at day’s end. When Mitchell’s car inched into the prime pickup position, Jean waved goodbye to Sister Elizabeth and his new (short) classmates. He bounded to the car.

  “Don’t run on the concrete!” shouted Mitchell.

  As they drove away from the school, Jean looked out the car window and rubbed his left knee.

  “Y’see?” Mitchell said. “Don’t run on the concrete. Okay? So, how was the day otherwise?”

  “Pretty good. I met a girl.”

  Mitchell swallowed a weird twinge of jealousy. Who could he have met but nuns and preschoolers? She smiled at him. “Wow, you work fast. What’s her name?”

  “Debbie. It was her first day, too.”

  “And, was she an easy pickup?” Mitchell teased.

  “Oh, yes. Very easy.”

  “Uh-huh. And what did you do besides pick up girls on your first day?”

  Jean sighed. “I learned a lot of rules.” His brow crinkled as he worked hard at remembering. “Put things back where you found them. Say you’re sorry when you hurt somebody. Don’t hit people, even if it’s a accident. Share. Look both ways, and hold hands, when you cross the street. Flush. A lot of rules.”

  Mitchell chuckled at the recitation. She could well imagine the circumstances under which poor Sister Elizabeth had been prompted to mention certain specific rules.

  “Were you a good little Do Bee?” she asked.

  Jean looked startled. He focused on her, rather than his window. “A good what?”

  “Figure of speech,” said Mitchell. “Do Bees are the good little bees, and Don’t Bees are the bad little bees. It’s an old-timey nursery school thing. Don’t worry about it. Sounds like you did okay.”

  He nodded and looked back to the window.

  “Hungry?” she asked.

  “Oui. Can I take an extra sandwich tomorrow?”

  “No problem. How about Wendy’s tonight, huh? You can have the salad bar. The who-o-o-ole salad bar.”

  While Jean and Mitchell enjoyed a fast-food feast, across town at the Averell mansion a glorious buffet displayed silver, crystal, candles, and mind-boggling delicacies. A hundred guests in lavish formal clothing carried gold-rimmed plates mounded with exotic foods.

  In one corner of the huge dining room, a chamber music ensemble played Vivaldi.

  Again and again, Kyle Averell introduced a silver-haired, mustachioed Latin potentate to various guests. With “His Excellency” on his right, Kyle navigated through the gathering, keeping Carinne firmly anchored to his left side by his steel-trap grip on her hand.

  Carinne was striking in a glittering midnight blue couture evening gown. Her upswept hairdo was spectacular, her sapphire jewelry was dazzling, and her smile was perfect. That smile never waxed nor waned, but remained precisely in place, and definitely at odds with the pain behind her eyes.

  Later in the evening, when Mitchell was reading parenting magazines in bed and Jean stood painting at an easel in his room, Carinne would be salsa dancing with the Latin dignitary and maintaining her cover-girl smile. The chamber music ensemble would have been supplanted by a twenty-piece dance band, complete with conga drums and multi-lingual vocalist.

  In the wee hours of the morning, when Mitchell lay awake worrying about her huge responsibilities – the largest of which was sleeping down the hall – Carinne would be on the mansion’s front balcony beside her tuxedoed father, waving hasta la vista to a stream of departing limousines. In a few minutes, the sapphire jewelry would be locked in her father’s vault. In half an hour, Carinne would be locked in her personal suite, dressing for bed and washing her smile away with her makeup. Then she would sleep, but she would not bother to dream. Dreams were worse than useless; they were guarantees of cruel disillusionment and pain.

 
A few days later, in a schoolroom at St. Luke’s Daycare, a dozen preschoolers finger-painted – mostly on the fronts of their smocks, but also on broad sheets of newsprint paper.

  The walls of the schoolroom appeared to have been recently painted as well, but not with fingers. A clean, glossy yellow brightened the walls, accented by glossy white moldings around the doors and the tall windows. The same shades of yellow and white smudged Jean’s white tee shirt and khaki cargo pants.

  On a cork strip affixed to the wall, crayon drawings of crude houses and stick-figure families were tacked side by side across the width of the room. It was a narrow mural of woozy triangles atop rickety-looking rectangles. Some were labeled in childish scrawl, “My House” or “My Family.” The third drawing from the end was almost as clear as a photograph. It depicted a three-story condominium building with mansard roof and wrought iron balconies, the shady grounds lush with umbrella trees, royal poincianas blooming red, and ranks of banana plants. Despite the high quality of the drawing, its label was written as awkwardly as the rest. Tilting, uncertainly drawn letters spelled out, “Mitchell’s House.”

  Beneath the wall-mounted, crayoned condo drawing, Jean painted at an easel – the only full-size easel amidst the room’s kindergarten furniture. The painting was a watercolor. A portrait. It depicted a girl in a pink angora sweater. As if seen through a misty haze, the girl sat cross-legged on a floor, reading a book. Her face was hidden by her long hair, which fell in a luminous cascade between herself and the world.

  The pink angora sweater was Carinne’s favorite. She had sweet memories of choosing it and purchasing it at The Mayfair on a rare afternoon outing alone with Duby. On that day, with no other hangers on, no other observers, the couple had behaved as friends. Carinne forgot her fear of her father’s irrational censure. Duby calculated the risks to his mission and his person, decided the odds were good enough, and gave Carinne a short afternoon’s near-normality, if not total happiness.