Free The Black Marble by Joseph Wambaugh Page B

imprudent as a breast cancer which spread to the bone and eventually devastated his widow, her property, her hospital insurance, her Medicare, and the trust fund which was to sustain Madeline Whitfield forever.
    The medical bills had been truly unbelievable. That was the word. Until you’d been visited by a relentless cancer and all it entailed—chemotherapy, radiotherapy, four years of extensive hospitalization, outpatient nursing—the expense was not to be believed.
    It was legally difficult, hence expensive, even to break the trust so that the money could be used. Lawyers had to be paid so that Madeline could pay doctors. She often thought bitterly that a physician like Dr. Corey Dills should have known how “imprudent” a raging disease could be, and how a healthy trust fund could decompose like the bones of Madeline’s mother.
    Toward the end, Madeline’s lawyer tried to persuade her to apply, on her mother’s behalf, for Medi-Cal. Welfare. A word used in Old Pasadena with words like leftist and Socialist. It was so unthinkable it would have killed the old woman swifter than the disease. The idea of it sent Madeline Whitfield off on the worst Scotch and sedative binge of her lifetime. She continued to pay for a private room and the best medical care possible until the very end. Mercifully, the old woman’s bones mortified before the withering trust fund. But the trust was itself terminally afflicted. One more year.
    There had been a few humiliating attempts to confront the inevitable. Madeline would never forget fearfully approaching the personnel desk of a women’s shop on Lake Avenue.
    â€œMay I help you?” She was an overdressed woman with green eyelids.
    â€œYes, I… this is a résumé. I understand you have a position available. I’d like to apply.”
    â€œA position.”
    â€œYes, as a saleslady. I happen to have a great deal of time on my hands lately and I … I’d like to keep busy.”
    â€œYou’d like to apply as a part-time saleslady?”
    â€œYes. Or full time, perhaps. Actually, I have a great deal of time on my hands these days and … yes, full time.”
    The woman glanced at the résumé and looked up curiously.
    â€œYou live in the San Rafael district?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œIt’s lovely up there,” she smiled deferentially. “Some of our best customers live in those big lovely homes.”
    â€œYes,” Madeline said nervously.
    â€œI see you have a master’s degree in history, ma’am,” the overdressed woman said. “And these character references, well, some of the most prominent members of the community!”
    â€œYes, do you think I might …”
    â€œTell me, Mrs. Whitfield, have you done this before? Sales, I mean? There’s absolutely nothing here about work experience.”
    â€œI haven’t been in sales, no, but I think I’d be suitable,” Madeline said, face flaming.
    â€œWhat kind of work have you done, ma’am?”
    â€œWell, I was married, you see, and … well, I’ve been awfully busy over the past twenty years. Awfully busy running my home, and of course there was a great deal of charitable work, and so forth.”
    â€œYes. Tell me, Mrs. Whitfield, have you ever … worked? I mean at a job?”
    â€œNot exactly at a job, but…”
    â€œYes, well we have a store policy, ma’am. We, uh, only hire ladies with experience. Actually, ma’am, I wonder if you couldn’t fill up this spare time in some other way. A lady of your background, I don’t think you’d like being a salesperson. I certainly know what it’s like to have free time on your hands. When my children grew up …”
    â€œYes, perhaps you’re right,” Madeline said, voice breaking. “One gets restless. Yes. Probably I should just increase my involvement in the Junior