I also gave Freeman Carter a call. I wasn’t sure I wanted him representing me in the trials and suits that lay ahead. Freeman was at home, but he’d heard a pretty complete version of events from some of his old associates. He brought up the representation issue before I did.
“I was too close to that situation, Vic. I let my own anger over what Yarborough was doing to the firm cloud my mind, and I took it out on you—which is inexcusable between a lawyer and a client. But the real problem is a potential conflict of interest. You need someone speaking for you who is unimpeachable, because Yarborough may be firing some pretty big rockets. I’ll come up with a few names. And I’ll see that the bills don’t get out of hand. And after that—I don’t know—you can take your time to decide whether you want me to work for you in the future or not.”
“Thanks, Freeman,” I said quietly. We left matters at that for the present.
I was moving restlessly around my living room, wanting to talk to Lotty, not wanting another painful conversation, when Mr. Contreras showed up unexpectedly. He’d gone to the corner for a pizza, the kind we both like, thick with vegetables and topped with anchovies. And he’d picked up a bottle of the Ruffino I often serve him.
“I know I should’ve called, make sure you wasn’t planning on—on doing anything else for dinner, but I could see you didn’t have much food left. And we had a pretty good adventure. I thought we ought to celebrate.”
Carol Alvarado showed up unexpectedly when we were close to the bottom of the bottle. She was taking the graveyard shift tonight, filling in for someone else, she explained, and was just stopping for a minute on her way to the hospital. She’d read the brief story in this morning’s Herald-Star, but wanted to talk to me specifically about Mrs. Frizell.
She turned down an offer of wine. “Not when I’m going on duty. You remember I told you I thought I might have the answer for Mrs. Frizell?”
So much had happened in the last few days, I’d forgotten our conversation at the hospital. I hadn’t thought much of her secretive optimism then, but I made polite noises.
“It was her meds. I talked it over with Nelle McDowell, the charge nurse, and she agreed: too much Valium can have that effect on an old woman—make her restless and at the same time appear senile. And when it’s combined with Demerol it’s almost a recipe for senility. So we stopped the drugs for seventy-two hours and today she’s definitely better—not totally over it, but able to answer simple questions, focus on who’s talking to her, things like that. Only, she keeps asking about her dog Bruce. I don’t know what we’re going to do about that.”
“Neither do I,” I said. “But it’s wonderful news. Now, if only I can get the Picheas out of her life, she can move back home one of these days.”
“She’s still going to be in a nursing home, or having to convalesce some place,” Carol warned. “It’s way too early to talk about bringing her home… Do you think you could come see her? Nelle says you have a good effect on her.”
I made a face. “Maybe. I’m not very fit right now—I’ve had a couple of rough days in the detection mines.”
Carol asked for details on last night’s heroics. When I finished she only said, “Gosh, Vic. Too bad they didn’t bring you to County instead of Mt. Sinai. I could have patched you up—it would have been just like old times.”
I shook my head. “Maybe you leaving the clinic was good for me as well as you. It’s time I stopped turning to you and Lotty every time I scrape my knee.”
Carol shook her head. “You and Lotty don’t understand. Leaning on people who love you isn’t a sin. It really isn’t, Vic.”
“Try telling her,” Mr. Contreras jeered. “I been breaking my head on that brick wall long enough.”
I punched him lightly on the nose before seeing Carol to the door.
Chapter 47 - Subterranean Homesick Blues
The next morning Mr. Contreras helped me prepare a wicker basket. We lined its bottom with plastic and put a couple of towels inside. The puppies, almost three weeks old, had their eyes open. With their soft, rich fur they looked adorable. We picked the two smallest and put them in the basket. Peppy watched us intently, but didn’t protest. By now she spent some time away from her brood each day. Their little nails were scratching her stomach and the joys of maternity were starting to wear off.
At County Hospital, Nelle McDowell greeted me with genuine pleasure. “Mrs. Frizell’s making real progress. She’ll never win a Miss Congeniality prize, but it’s wonderful to see someone come back from the edge the way she has. Come and take a look yourself.”
She eyed the wicker basket thoughtfully. One little nose was pushing through a crack. “You know, Ms. Warshawski, I think you may be violating hospital policy. But I’m too busy this morning to have seen you come in. You go on down the hall and talk to the lady.”
The change in Mrs. Frizell was remarkable. The sunken cheeks, which had made her look like a corpse, had filled out, but more impressive was the fact that her eyes were open and focused.