Private Eyes

I phoned the Dickinson household and got Dutchy on the third ring.

“Hello, Doctor.” That same formality, but no irritation.

“I’m calling to confirm Melissa’s appointment on Monday.”

“Monday,” he said. “Yes, I have that. Five o’clock, correct?”

“That’s it.”

“Is there anything available earlier, by chance? The traffic from our side of-”

“That’s all I’ve got, Mr. Dutchy.”

“Five it is, then. Thank you for calling, Doctor, and good eve-”

“One second,” I said. “There’s something you need to know. Melissa got upset today, left the office in tears.”

“Oh? She seemed in fine spirits when she got home.”

“Did she say anything to you about not wanting to come on Monday?”

“No. What was the trouble, Doctor?”

“Nothing serious. She wanted to stay past the appointed time, and when I told her she couldn’t, she burst into tears.”

“I see.”

“She’s used to having her way, isn’t she, Mr. Dutchy?”

Silence.

I said, “I’m mentioning it because that may be part of the problem- lack of limits. For a child it can be like drifting in the ocean without an anchor. Some changes in basic discipline may be in order.”

“Doctor, I’m not in any position to-”

“Of course, I forgot. Why don’t you put Mrs. Dickinson on the phone right now and I’ll discuss it with her.”

“I’m afraid Mrs. Dickinson is indisposed.”

“I can wait. Or call back, if you can let me know when she will be disposed.”

Sigh. “Doctor, please. I’m not able to move mountains.”

“I wasn’t aware I was asking you to.”

Silence. Throat clear.

I said, “Are you able to deliver a message?”

“Certainly.”

“Tell Mrs. Dickinson this is an untenable situation. That although I have compassion for her situation, she’s going to have to stop avoiding me if she wants me to treat Melissa.”

“Dr. Delaware, please- this is quite- You really mustn’t give up on the child. She’s so… such a good, smart little girl. It would be a terrible waste if…”

“If what?”

“Please, Doctor.”

“I’m trying to be patient, Mr. Dutchy, but I’m really having trouble understanding what the big deal is. I’m not asking Mrs. Dickinson to leave her house- all I want to do is talk. I understand her situation- I did my research. March 3, ’69. Does she have a phobia of the telephone, too?”

Pause. “It’s doctors. She had so many surgeries- so much pain. They kept taking her apart like a jigsaw puzzle and putting her back together again. I’m not denigrating the medical profession. Her surgeon was a magician. He nearly restored her. Externally. But inside… She just needs time, Dr. Delaware. Give me time. I’ll get her to see how vital it is she contact you. But please be patient, sir.”

My turn to sigh.

He said, “She’s not without insight into her… into the situation. But after what the woman’s been through-”

“She’s afraid of doctors,” I said. “Yet she met with Dr. Wagner.”

“Yes,” he said. “That was… a surprise. She doesn’t cope well with surprises.”

“Are you saying she had some sort of adverse reaction just to meeting with Dr. Wagner?”

“Let’s just say it was difficult for her.”

“But she did it, Mr. Dutchy. And survived. That could be therapeutic in and of itself.”

“Doctor-”

“Is it because I’m a man? Would it be easier for her to deal with a female therapist?”

“No!” he said. “Absolutely not! It’s not that at all.”

“Just doctors,” I said. “Of any gender.”

“That’s correct.” Pause. “Please, Dr. Delaware”- his voice had softened-“please be patient.”

“All right. But in the meantime someone’s going to have to give me facts. Details. Melissa’s developmental history. The family structure.”

“You deem that absolutely necessary?”

“Yes. And it needs to be soon.”

“All right,” he said. “I’ll fill you in. Within the limitations of my situation.”

“What does that mean?” I said.

“Nothing- nothing at all. I’ll give you a comprehensive history.”

“Tomorrow at noon,” I said. “We’ll have lunch.”

“I don’t generally have lunch, Doctor.”

“Then you can watch me eat, Mr. Dutchy. You’ll be doing most of the talking anyway.”

I picked a place midway between the west side and his part of town, one I thought sufficiently conservative for his sensibilities: the Pacific Dining Car on Sixth near Witmer, just a few blocks west of downtown. Dim rooms, polished mahogany paneling, red leather, linen napkins. Lots of financial types and corporate attorneys and political backstagers eating prime beef and talking zoning variances, sports scores, supply and demand.

He’d arrived early and was waiting for me in a back booth, dressed in the same blue suit or its twin. As I approached he half-rose and gave a courtly bow.

I sat down, called for the waiter, and ordered Chivas straight up. Dutchy asked for tea. We waited for the drinks without talking. Despite his frosty demeanor he looked out of his element and slightly pitiable- a nineteenth-century man transported to a distant, vulgar future he couldn’t hope to comprehend.

Caught in an awkward position.

My ire had faded since yesterday and I’d pledged to avoid confrontation. So I started by telling him how much I appreciated his taking the time to see me. He said nothing and looked thoroughly uncomfortable. Small talk was clearly out of the question. I wondered if anyone had ever called him by his first name.

The waiter brought the drinks. Dutchy regarded his tea with the inherently disapproving scrutiny of an English peer, finally raised his cup to his lips, sipped, and put it down quickly.

“Not hot enough?” I said.

“No, it’s fine, sir.”

“How long have you worked for the Dickinson family?”

“Twenty years.”

“Long before the trial, then.”

He nodded and raised his cup again but didn’t put it to his lips. “Being assigned to the jury was a stroke of fate- not one that I welcomed, at first. I wanted to apply for exemption, but Mr. Dickinson preferred I serve. Said it was my civic duty. He was a civic-minded man.” His lip trembled.

“When did he die?”

“Seven and a half years ago.”

Surprised, I said, “Before Melissa was born?”

“Mrs. Dickinson was expecting Melissa when it-” He looked up, startled, and swung his head to the right. The waiter was approaching from that direction, bearing the blackboard. Imperious and well-spoken and black as coal; Dutchy’s African cousin.

I chose the T-bone steak, bloody rare. Dutchy asked if the shrimp was fresh that day and when informed that it certainly was, ordered shrimp salad.

When the waiter left I said, “How old was Mr. Dickinson when he died?”

“Sixty-two.”

“How did he die?”

“On the te

The lip trembled some more but the rest of his face remained impassive. He fumbled with his teacup and tightened his mouth.

“Did your serving on the jury have anything to do with getting them together, Mr. Dutchy?”

Nod. “That’s what I meant by a stroke of fate. Mr. Dickinson came with me to court. Sat in during the trial and was… entranced by her. He’d followed the case in the papers before I was impaneled. Had commented several times- over his morning paper- on the profoundness of the tragedy.”

“Had he known Mrs. Dickinson before the attack?”

“No, not in the least. His concern, in the begi

I said, “I’m not sure I understand what you mean by thematic.”

“Grief for beauty lost,” he said, like a teacher a