Free Tightrope Walker by Dorothy Gilman Page A

people and rendering people helpless, and I saw no reason to frustrate her. “Oh I do so hope I can see her for just a minute,” I said, turning arch, naïve, and awkward. “I have no right, of course—not at all—but her cousin Robert Lamandale in New York referred me here. It’s a legal matter,” I added, gesturing helplessly. “It’s so important that she identify this photograph of a hurdy-gurdy.”
    This floored her. “A
what
?”
    I produced the snapshots and placed them on the counter. “I wouldn’t for the world want to be a bother and of course you’ve every right—”
    I’ve noticed that if someone is about to tell you that you’ve no right to do something it confuses them no end if you say it first. The hurdy-gurdy confused her, too; I mean, it had the unexpectedness of a
non sequitur.
I do not mean to imply that Mrs. Dawes warmed to me but she blinked, and her gaze changed in quality from flint to steel. “You do know Mr. Lamandale then,” she said.
    “Yes. Robert Lamandale, in New York. The actor.”
    “Dr. Ffolks is in his office,” she said coldly. “I really don’t know—”
    No one seemed to finish their sentences here, but I was content; I often don’t finish them myself. I stood there trying to look poised, since I was here on a legal matter, and at the same time helpless, to placate Nurse Dawes. It was a difficult combination. Presently a man in a white coat accompanied Mrs. Dawes down the hall to inspect me. He looked very tired and all the lines inhis face sagged, including his jowls, which gave him an uncanny resemblance to a St. Bernard dog. He nodded to me curtly. “Nurse Jordan will of course have to accompany you for the visit,” he said, “and it will have to be limited to five minutes. Miss Harrington’s under sedation but she’s quite lucid. Miss Jordan?”
    “Yes, Dr. Ffolks,” said the young nurse. “This way, miss.”
    I was glad I’d decided on the truth since I was to have a witness to my interview. Both Dr. Ffolks and Mrs. Dawes stood and watched us walk to the elevator and then lingered to eavesdrop frankly while we waited for its arrival. I commented breathlessly to Nurse Jordan on the signs of spring in Maine, the greenness of the lawn outside, and then we stepped into the elevator and at once I stopped such nonsense and asked how long Miss Harrington had lived at Greenacres.
    “Oh, practically forever,” said Nurse Jordan cheerfully. “She was here when my mum worked nights, and that was eight years ago when we were all kids.”
    “Weird,” I said, and we exchanged the knowing glances of contemporaries.
    “They say she drank all her money away,” Nurse Jordan added in a lowered voice as the elevator slowed. “They say she’s paranoid, too, but I’ve never—”
    The doors slid open soundlessly at the third floor and we stepped out on a corridor with windows at either end. Miss Jordan knocked on the door opposite the elevator, opened it, and I followed her into a room with its curtains half drawn against the sunlight.
    “I didn’t ring,” said a petulant voice from the left-hand corner of the room, “and if you dare to say are we having one of our bad days I’ll throw a glass of water at you.”
    “But I’ve brought you a guest,” Nurse Jordan said in a neutral, colorless voice.
    In the bed along the left wall of the room a woman stirred, sat up, and peered at me. Adjusting to the semidarkness I could see her now. It was hard to guess how old she was, she could have been thirty or forty; her face was an oval from which all emotion and life had been drained. Only her eyes were alive, and they burned like the eyes of someone who looked frequently into hell. She must have been beautiful once, one of those fragile and very exquisite ash blondes; the bone structure was still there. Her hair, striped now with gray, hung to her shoulders but it looked as if she ran her fingers through it often, and with anger. Seeing me she tilted her head