in his armchair, looking quite pleased with himself.
After Augie left I sat alone in the gallery and imagined discreetly contacting Horace Gleason and seeing if he had thoseviews of Maggie. If I couldn’t trust young Gleason, who’d been upstanding enough to keep my name on his business after my disgrace, whom could I trust?
My answer came quickly and harshly; I was prosperous, well-respected, and suspected of nothing, after years of fear and penury. Wagering my liberty, my neck, and my hard-won money on Gleason’s good nature was out of the question, no matter how badly I wanted those pictures back. I would continue to call them forth, imperfect, from memory, and be glad I could do that.
It was nearly noon, and I hadn’t yet read the morning newspapers, and I thought I’d seek out the News to read with my midday meal. I put on my hat and started to leave, and as I started down the steps the front door opened to reveal my young assistant standing in the center of its frame, appearing even smaller than usual. My first inclination, having spent most of the morning angry with him, was to yell, but his face was so pallid and drawn I stopped myself before a sound came out. He held the door open with his left leg instead of his hand, which dangled strangely at his side, and over his right shoulder he carried a bindle tied to the end of a stick. Without undue harshness I asked what had kept him.
“Sorry, Mister,” he said, and his voice broke on the first syllable. “I think I’ll be having to quit on account of my arm.” It broke again on “arm.”
“What’s the matter with your arm?” I asked, and I took hold of the door and motioned him inside.
“It’s pretty sore,” he said when we got to the top of the stairs. It certainly looked that way from where I stood.
“How’d that happen?”
He looked down at the parquet. “It was the smell’s what it was.”
“What smell?” I asked, exasperated at his lack of eloquence.
“The farting. My old man got tired of it after a while and he cracked me a couple good ones.”
“Jesus. Your pa did that over a little gas?”
“It was a lot of gas,” he said.
I called for Mrs. Fenster and she waddled in carrying a rag. She scowled at the sight of the boy, as though his unreliability reflected poorly on her.
“The lad’s hurt his arm,” I said.
She sniffed and threw her rag over her shoulder and roughly tugged his sleeve upward. “You’re long past due for your bathing, young man,” she said, and if she was about to add some other insulting comment, she stopped at the sight of his arm, which displayed a nascent rainbow of skin tones from red to black, with orange predominating, the yellows and purples yet to add themselves to the ghastly palette.
“Lay that bindle down there and we’ll go see Ernie Stickhammer down the street.” I beckoned him to follow me down the stairs.
“Sawbones costs money,” Mrs. Fenster yelled from the top of the stairs, as though fearing that any moment I mightcome to my senses and leave her or the boy responsible for Stickhammer’s fee.
“Don’t trouble yourself, Mrs. Fenster,” I called up to her. “Stickhammer’s the cheapest doctor in Colorado.”
E RNIE S TICKHAMMER WAS an unmarried native of Montreal, Canada, and lived in a small room in the back of his office, which occupied three rooms six doors down the street from the gallery, up a comically narrow flight of stairs.
“You sure about seeing the doc?” the boy asked, as though I had suggested an audience with the president or the pope of Rome and not a dipsomaniac provincial sawbones. We waited in a small antechamber for him to be done with another patient, and after a few minutes Stickhammer came out in his shirtsleeves in the company of a man with a nose the size of a gherkin, the texture of a cauliflower, and the queasy purplish gray hue of an eggplant. The man left without any words exchanged between him and the doctor, who shook his head sadly
After Augie left I sat alone in the gallery and imagined discreetly contacting Horace Gleason and seeing if he had thoseviews of Maggie. If I couldn’t trust young Gleason, who’d been upstanding enough to keep my name on his business after my disgrace, whom could I trust?
My answer came quickly and harshly; I was prosperous, well-respected, and suspected of nothing, after years of fear and penury. Wagering my liberty, my neck, and my hard-won money on Gleason’s good nature was out of the question, no matter how badly I wanted those pictures back. I would continue to call them forth, imperfect, from memory, and be glad I could do that.
It was nearly noon, and I hadn’t yet read the morning newspapers, and I thought I’d seek out the News to read with my midday meal. I put on my hat and started to leave, and as I started down the steps the front door opened to reveal my young assistant standing in the center of its frame, appearing even smaller than usual. My first inclination, having spent most of the morning angry with him, was to yell, but his face was so pallid and drawn I stopped myself before a sound came out. He held the door open with his left leg instead of his hand, which dangled strangely at his side, and over his right shoulder he carried a bindle tied to the end of a stick. Without undue harshness I asked what had kept him.
“Sorry, Mister,” he said, and his voice broke on the first syllable. “I think I’ll be having to quit on account of my arm.” It broke again on “arm.”
“What’s the matter with your arm?” I asked, and I took hold of the door and motioned him inside.
“It’s pretty sore,” he said when we got to the top of the stairs. It certainly looked that way from where I stood.
“How’d that happen?”
He looked down at the parquet. “It was the smell’s what it was.”
“What smell?” I asked, exasperated at his lack of eloquence.
“The farting. My old man got tired of it after a while and he cracked me a couple good ones.”
“Jesus. Your pa did that over a little gas?”
“It was a lot of gas,” he said.
I called for Mrs. Fenster and she waddled in carrying a rag. She scowled at the sight of the boy, as though his unreliability reflected poorly on her.
“The lad’s hurt his arm,” I said.
She sniffed and threw her rag over her shoulder and roughly tugged his sleeve upward. “You’re long past due for your bathing, young man,” she said, and if she was about to add some other insulting comment, she stopped at the sight of his arm, which displayed a nascent rainbow of skin tones from red to black, with orange predominating, the yellows and purples yet to add themselves to the ghastly palette.
“Lay that bindle down there and we’ll go see Ernie Stickhammer down the street.” I beckoned him to follow me down the stairs.
“Sawbones costs money,” Mrs. Fenster yelled from the top of the stairs, as though fearing that any moment I mightcome to my senses and leave her or the boy responsible for Stickhammer’s fee.
“Don’t trouble yourself, Mrs. Fenster,” I called up to her. “Stickhammer’s the cheapest doctor in Colorado.”
E RNIE S TICKHAMMER WAS an unmarried native of Montreal, Canada, and lived in a small room in the back of his office, which occupied three rooms six doors down the street from the gallery, up a comically narrow flight of stairs.
“You sure about seeing the doc?” the boy asked, as though I had suggested an audience with the president or the pope of Rome and not a dipsomaniac provincial sawbones. We waited in a small antechamber for him to be done with another patient, and after a few minutes Stickhammer came out in his shirtsleeves in the company of a man with a nose the size of a gherkin, the texture of a cauliflower, and the queasy purplish gray hue of an eggplant. The man left without any words exchanged between him and the doctor, who shook his head sadly
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