“A check would be fine, Mr. Dutchy.”

“And the fee itself?”

I quoted him my hourly rate.

“Very good, Doctor. Goodbye, Doctor.”

The next morning, a legal-size manila envelope arrived at the office by messenger. Inside was a smaller, rose-colored envelope; within that, a sheet of rose-colored stationery folded over a check.

The check was for $3,000 and was annotated Medical treatment for Melissa. At my ’78 rate, over forty sessions’ worth. The money had been drawn on a savings account at First Fiduciary Trust Bank in San Labrador. Printed in the upper left corner of the check was:

R.P. DICKINSON, TRUSTEE

DICKINSON FAMILY TRUST UDT 5-11-71

10 SUSSEX KNOLL

SAN LABRADOR, CALIFORNIA 91108

The stationery was heavy stock, folded in half, with a Crane watermark. I opened it.

At the top, in embossed black script:

Regina Paddock Dickinson

Below that, in a fine, graceful hand:

Dear Doctor Delaware,

Thank you for seeing Melissa.

I’ll be in touch.

Faithfully yours,

Gina Dickinson

Scented paper. A mixture of old roses and alpine air. But it didn’t sweeten the message:

Don’t call us, plebe. We’ll call you. Here’s a juicy check to suppress any protests.

I dialed the Dickinson residence. This time a woman answered. Middle-aged, Gallic accent, voice pitched lower than Dutchy’s.

Different pipes, same song: Madame wasn’t available. No, she had no idea when Madame would be available.

I left my name, hung up, looked at the check. All those digits. Treatment hadn’t even begun and I’d lost control. It wasn’t the way to do business, wasn’t in the best interests of the patient. But I’d committed myself to Eileen Wagner.

The tape had committed me.

… a doctor who can help me. Without shots.

I thought about it for a long time, finally decided I’d stick it out long enough to do an intake at least. See if I could get a rapport with the little girl, get some sort of progress going- enough to impress the Victorian princess.

Dr. Savior.

Then, I’d start making demands.

During my lunch hour I cashed the check.

Dutchy was fiftyish, mid-size and plump, with slicked-down too-black hair parted on the right, apple cheeks, and razor-slash lips. He had on a well-cut but old-fashioned double-breasted blue serge suit, starched white shirt, linen pocket square, Windsor-knotted navy tie, and mirror-bright black bluchers with extra heel. When I came out of the inner office he and the girl were standing in the middle of the waiting room, she looking down at the carpet, he examining the artwork. The look on his face said my prints weren’t passing muster. When he turned to face me, his expression didn’t change.

All the warmth of a Montana hailstorm, but the girl clutched his hand as if he were Santa Claus.

She was small for her age but had a mature, well-formed face- one of those children endowed early with the countenance they’ll grow old with. An oval face, just this side of pretty, beneath bangs the color of walnut shells. The rest of her hair was long, almost to her waist, and topped with a pink flowered band. She had big round gray-green eyes with blond lashes, an upturned nose lightly freckled, and a pointy pixie chin under a narrow, timid mouth. Her clothes were too formal for school: puffed-sleeve dress of pink dotted swiss sashed with white satin tied in a bow at the back, pink lace-topped socks, and white patent-leather buckle shoes. I thought of Carroll’s Alice encountering the Queen of Hearts.

The two of them stood there, immobile. A cello and a piccolo, cast in odd duet.

I introduced myself, bending and smiling at the girl. She stared back. To my surprise, no terror.

No response at all, other than flat appraisal. Considering what had brought her to the office, I was doing great, so far.

Her right hand was swallowed by Dutchy’s meaty left one. Rather than have her relinquish it, I smiled again and held out my hand to Dutchy. He seemed surprised by the gesture and took it with reluctance, then let go at the same time he released the girl’s fingers.

“I’ll be off now,” he announced to both of us. “Forty-five minutes- correct, Doctor?”

“Correct.”

He took a step toward the door.

I was looking at the girl, bracing myself for resistance. But she just stood there, staring down at the carpet, hands pressed to her sides.

Dutchy took another step and stopped. Chewing his cheek, he turned back and patted the girl’s head. She gave him what appeared to be a reassuring smile.

“ ’Bye, Jacob,” she said. High, breathy voice. Same as on the tape.

The rose tint spread from Dutchy’s cheeks to the rest of his face. He chewed his cheek some more, lowered his arm stiffly, and mumbled something. One last glare at me and he was gone.

After the door closed I said, “Looks like Jacob’s a good friend.”

She said, “He’s my mother’s retainer.”

“But he takes care of you, too.”

“He takes care of everything.”

“Everything?”

“Our house.” She tapped her foot impatiently. “I don’t have a father, and my mother doesn’t leave the house, so Jacob does lots of things for us.”

“What kinds of things?”

“House things- telling Madeleine and Sabino and Carmela and all the service people and the delivery people what to do. Sometimes he makes food- snacks and finger food. If he’s not too busy. Madeleine cooks the big hot meals. And he drives all the cars. Sabino only drives the truck.”

“All the cars,” I said. “Do you have a lot?”

She nodded. “A lot. My father liked cars and bought them before he died. Mother keeps them in the big garage even though she doesn’t drive them, so Jacob has to start them and drive them so they don’t get sticky inside the engine. There’s also a company that comes to wash them every week. Jacob watches them to make sure they do a good job.”

“Sounds like Jacob keeps busy.”

“He does. How many cars do you have?”

“Just one.”

“What kind?”

“It’s a Dodge Dart.”

“Dodge Dart,” she said, pursing her lips and thinking. “We don’t have one of those.”

“It’s not very fancy. Kind of beat-up, actually.”

“We have one like that. A Cadillac Knockabout.”

“Cadillac Knockabout,” I said. “Don’t think I’ve ever heard of that model.”

“It’s the one we took today. To here. A 1962 Cadillac Fleetwood Knockabout. It’s black and old. Jacob says it’s a workhorse.”

“Do you like cars, Melissa?”

Shrug. “Not really.”

“What about toys? Do you have any favorites?”

Shrug. “Not really.”

“I’ve got toys in my office. How about we go check them out?”

She shrugged a third time but allowed me to usher her into the consult room. Once she was inside, her eyes took flight, darting and alighting upon desk, bookshelves, toy chest, back to the desk. Never settling. She knitted her hands, pulled them apart, and began a curious rolling, kneading motion, turning one set of tiny fingers over the other.

I walked over to the toy cabinet, opened it, and pointed. “I’ve got lots of stuff in here. Box games and dolls and clay and Play-Doh. Paper and pencils, too. And crayons, if you like to draw in color.”

“Why should I do that?” she said.

“Do what, Melissa?”

“Play or draw? Mother said we were going to talk.”

“Your mother was right. We are going to talk,” I said. “But sometimes kids who come here like to play or draw before they start talking. While they get used to this place.”

The hands kneaded faster. She looked down.