by Phil Paterson

Originally published in Mediphors; a literature journal of the health professions. Spring/Summer 1998

The buzzer in the dispatcher’s office shrieks. I freeze.

The intercom squawks: “Dr. Nelson. Move out. Heart attack. Gateway district.”

I hear Vito fire up the rig in the garage as I grab the black bag and put my shoulder to the splintered swinging doors of the emergency entrance. It’s a gorgeous May day, 1948. The black top radiates the warmth of the sun. I glance at my watch: 11:40 a.m.

Vito swings in, slows, and pushes the door open. I jump in, pull the bag onto my lap and yank the door shut. Vito guns the motor and accelerates, flattening me against the back of the big leather seat. We leave the driveway in a tire-screeching turn, siren gaining pitch and red lights flashing.

I eye Vito Morino, a swarthy Sicilian and veteran driver of Minneapolis General Hospital ambulances. He says he’s 54 but looks younger. His slick black hair is combed straight back, and bushy eyebrows flecked with gray mark the edge of his prominent forehead. Beneath the overhanging eyebrows, beady brown eyes dart from side to side. Tough as a boot on the outside, he’s all heart inside especially for green, insecure interns. To survive the ambulance service at General, one has to earn Vito’s approval.

His big hands turn the wheel lightly and we move onto Nicollet Avenue, siren screaming, and thread our way through noon-hour traffic. Vito separates cars, trucks and pedestrians like a Chris-Craft parts water.

I pull my Zippo and pack of Lucky Strikes out of my white intern’s jacket. Shaking loose a fag, I jam it between my lips, flame and inhale. I’m more confident, now.

“So… another heart attack, eh Vito?”

“Yeah, Jack. But dis one dif’rent.”

“Wha’ ya mean?” I blow smoke through my nose.

“Dis one in cat house.”

“Cat house? You mean a house of ill repute?”

“Jeeheesuus, doc. Cut the goat shit.” He turns his dark face toward me, each eyebrow an inverted V. “Whorehouse, doc. Whorehouse.” He pushes the word out with a blast of garlic.

“OK, OK.” I flick the ash. Vito slows as we approach the decrepit Gateway area.

“One thing you gotta know, Jack.” Vito cuts the siren and brings the rig curbside in front of a two-story warehouse-type building. It’s close to the Great Northern depot.

“I’m listening, Vito.”

He kills the motor and the lights. “If the John’s dead, you don’t do nutt’in. We move him to da street. Then, Jack, on the street you pronounce dead.”

Drifters begin to clog the sidewalk. We jump out, slamming the doors in unison. Vito runs interference through the gawkers toward the building entrance.

“But why…”

He whispers hoarsely in the direction of my ear, “Jeeheesus, Nelson. You waaanta tell da wife he die inside? Only on the street he dies. Remember.”

I nod and follow him into the building.

My eyes slowly adjust to the dim light. The air hangs heavy with a sickly sweet scent; there’s a hint of ammonia sort of like my wet, sticky night shorts after a dream.

A shapely form approaches. “Hello, Vito,” she purrs, rising on her toes to embrace him and kiss his cheek. “Hello, Mabel,” Vito responds, pushing his crotch against her and rubbing her thigh with his big hand. As they disengage, Mabel dabs at the shimmering red lipstick mark on his cheek with her lace-trimmed white handkerchief.

“Follow me, doctor.” Mabel sashays down the narrow aisle between the cubicles, their doors closed. Her ring-bedecked fingers with scarlet nails tuck blond hairs up into her bun. Her switching buttocks, under a violet, tight fitting skirt, hold my eyes like magnets. “Mr. Crandon, one of our regulars…” she tosses over her shoulder, “…aIways asked for Sally. Never gave her or me no trouble.” She stops, then points to the open cubicle. “Sally’s waiting.”

I edge inside, Vito follows. There’s barely enough room to wiggle around the stained, sagging mattress, partially covered with a wrinkled white sheet. Sally sits on the opposite side of the mattress in a black slip, her back to us. Her shoulders shake. There’s an overpowering smell of lily-of-the-valley. My eyes take in the cubicle: unpainted plywood walls and a chicken wire ceiling from which dangles a naked low-wattage bulb at the end of a frayed cord. Vito jabs my ribs, hissing, “Move it.”

Mr. Crandon is spread-eagled on his back. He’s big, over six feet and probably in his late 50s. His lips and ear lobes are bluish gray, the color of his socks. His pupils are two black holes.

Sally stands and turns to face us. She’s a slender, attractive woman in her late 30s with reddish hair. Her mascara has run and her ruby lipstick is smeared. Vito offers his white folded handkerchief. “No thanks, Vito,” she says, sniffling. She looks down at the dead man and mumbles, “He just went limp… a groan… gone.”

She looks at me with blood-shot eyes. “A good man, Kendall. Treat me good.” She gives her head a sideways Shake, then bends over and, using both hands, gives his unbuttoned dark trousers an upward tug. She tries to button his fly without success, gives up and starts to button his coral shirt. I spot brown oxfords, a tan sport coat and a garish necktie on the floor in a corner.

“Here, Sal, letta me help.” He bends forward, gives Sally’s arm a squeeze and completes the buttoning.

I open my bag and pull out my stethoscope. Instantly, Vito’s by my side and whispering in my ear. “To da street, Jack. You take’a the feet; I grabba the shoulders.”

Grunting and sweating, Vito and I lug Mr. Crandon out of the cubicle. He must weigh more than 200. Sally lays his jacket, with shoes, socks and necklie rolled inside, on top of his broad chest. Trying to help, she grabs his sagging buttocks. “Sal,” grunts Vito, “let go. Grab the doc’s bag.”

Vito and I lower Crandon onto the sidewalk just outside the entrance to the brothel. Two policemen have left their squad car with motor running, blue lights flashing and doors ajar. They push the gawkers back to make a larger circle for me. Sally drops the black bag by Crandon’s head and ducks back inside.

I open my bag and go through an elaborate charade of pronouncing Mr. Crandon dead. Vito lights up a Lucky Strike, reaches through the open window of the ambulance for the microphone and calls the coroner’s office. Then he walks over to one of the policemen and speaks to him, his hand shielding his mouth. The officer nods. Vito and I climb back into the ambulance and drive slowly back to General, in silence.

. . . . .

Three days later I walk out to the garage, looking for Vito. There he is, smoking and polishing the chrome on the ambulance. He tosses his butt onto the floor, grinds it under his heel and looks expectantly at me.

“What’s up, doc?”

“Crandon’s widow called.”

“Yeah?”

“She wants his hat.”

“What hat? I seen no hat.”

“The way she tells it, he always wears a gray felt hat.”

“Jeeesus, doc. What she want with a Goddamned hat?”

“Christ, how’m I supposed to know? But I can tell she really wants it. Can you call Mabel?”

“Sure, Jack. I call.”

. . . . .

Vito calls me out to the garage. “I gotta his hat, doc.” He shoves a brown paper bag into my hands. I pull out a gray felt hat with a large brim. The leather hat band is embossed with three gold letters: K. Z. C. Suddenly I’m aware of the overpowering odor of lily-of-the-valley, emanating from the hat.

“Christ, Vito.” I pinch off my nose with my fingers. “The hat’s higher than a kite.”

“Mabel did the best she could. Dry cleana two times. Says beeeg bottle of toilet water Sal keep under da bed tip over and spill in’ta his hat. Maybe for best, tossa the hat?”

“No, Mrs. Crandon wants it. I’ll take it to her.”

“Lots’a luck, Jack.”

. . . . .

I walk up to the ranch-style house in the middle-class neighborhood. A worn wooden ramp runs up to the cement stoop. I push the button over the name plate which reads: Kendall Z. Crandon.

The door is opened by a middle-aged colored woman. She wears a warm smile and a white uniform. “Dr. Nelson?” I nod. “I’m Missy. Follow me, please.”

We stop in the living room before a gaunt, white-haired lady in a wheel chair. Her dull, blue, unmoving eyes are set off by rouged cheeks. Prominent blue veins run like rivers over the backs of her clasped hands which rest in her lap on a colorful Hudson’s Bay blanket. The blanket runs to the floor. A half-full urine bag hangs from the arm rest of the wheel chair.

“Dr. Nelson’s here, Gertrude.”

I lean toward her and extend my hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Crandon.” She raises her head and smiles. “It’s an honor to make your acquaintance, Dr. Nelson.” Her hands do not stray from her lap.

Missy nudges me toward an empty chair and whispers, “She’s blind.”

I sit down and adjust my chair so I am directly across from the elderly woman. “I’ve brought your husband’s hat, Mrs. Crandon. Like you asked.”

She smiles. “That’s most gracious of you, Dr. Nelson.” I open the brown bag, withdraw the hat and extend it toward her.

Missy guides her left hand to the hat’s wide brim. Mrs. Crandon presses it against her flat chest. All three of us are enveloped by a lily-of-the-valley miasma.

She searches the inside of the hat band with her right forefinger.

“I wrote Kendall a love note on blue hotel stationery on our wedding night.” There is a lilt to her voice. She withdraws a folded piece of white paper. “Kendall treasured this love note. He carried it inside every hat he had through all the years.” She rubs the paper between her thumb and forefinger. A frown creases her forehead; she purses her lips.

Handing the paper up to Missy, she says: “Please, Missy, open it and read it. So we can hear.”

“Yes, Gertrude.” Missy unfolds the crisp paper and glances at the scripted note. Her lips are compressed into a thin line. An uneasy pause fills the room.

“Please, Missy. Read.”

Missy begins to read, slowly and hesitantly. “Dear Kendall. I…” She takes a deep breath. “…These years was good. I…” She pauses and sniffs. “I adore you much and…” Her voice fades. I strain to hear. “…will always love you lots. Gertrude.”

Missy lowers her hands, still clutching the paper. Her chin drops to her chest.

I hear the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.

Gertrude, chin raised at an angle, breaks the silence. “Now, Missy, read what the note says. Every word.”