hut. “Come tomorrow. Bring the man,” he continued without turning back. “Not you, Hattie. Good-bye.” Then, he closed the door.
The women stood frozen in place. Then, smiling cautiously, they turned to each other. Hattie took Elsen by the arm and slowly guided her back down the hill and around the bend, where the driver and his taxi were still waiting by the sapodilla tree.
“What do you think, Hattie?” Elsen asked when they were back in the car.
Hattie Sinclair was certain of only one thing. The way in whichMatthew Perch had examined the sick woman was exactly the way he had looked at her when they had first met. She knew that he had diagnosed the frail white woman and that he knew all he needed to know about her condition. But Hattie believed it would be wise for her to keep that thought to herself. “I don’t want to speak too soon about what I think. I’m just gonna pray hard for you for tomorrow,” she said, putting her arm around Elsen.
Elsen reached up and patted Hattie’s hand while their taxi rumbled on.
The next morning, when Matthew Perch opened his door, a perspiring white couple was breathing deeply before him. Holding each other, they squinted through the blazing sunlight at the silhouetted figure of the black man standing in the darkened hut.
“Hello,” said Elsen, managing to smile through her exhaustion. “This is my husband, Dr. Howard Mozelle.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Perch, and thank you for seeing us.” Howard Mozelle extended his hand.
Perch remained silent but stepped to one side of the door, clearing the entrance while ignoring the doctor’s gesture. The Mozelles hesitated, not sure that they had received an invitation to enter. Perch waited. Finally, Howard Mozelle led his wife into the hut.
Perch closed the door and remained standing by it like a sentry. Moments passed before the Mozelles’ eyes adjusted to the semidarkness. The large one-room interior was plain and sparse: There was a bed, two chairs, one table, all handmade from native wood, and in one corner a chest of drawers from which most of the varnish had long since peeled away. In another corner stood an old, battered steamship trunk. Beneath a window at the southern end of the hut was an open fireplace with piles of wood neatly stacked beside it. On the other side were several rows of shelves on which could be found tin plates, spoons, a few tin cups, clay jars, and a box of matches. Underneath the shelves were a variety of inexpensive cooking utensils. But what caught Howard Mozelle’s attention most were the two-foot-square pieces of artwork that were suspended on the hut’s east and west walls. Each piece was attached to the wall by a string that hung on a nail driven into the mud plaster.
Dr. Mozelle guessed that Perch had made the hangings; though he himself was a man trained in the science of medicine, for years he had relieved the stress of his profession through sculpting and painting. How intriguing, he thought—their worlds seemed to be light-years apart from each other’s, and yet he may not have been all that different from Matthew Perch; they were both physicians of one kind or another, healing themselves through art. He was trying to determine whether he was looking at abstract carvings or sculptures when Perch spoke again and interrupted his thoughts.
“She must eat here, sleep here, live here with me in this room night and day. You cannot,” Perch said directly to Howard Mozelle. “She will relieve herself in the woods. She will wash herself in the stream. If she is unable to wash herself, I will wash her. You may come in the afternoons at three and leave at four. No one else must ever come; and you may bring only clothing, toothpaste, and soap as she needs them. You may leave now. Tomorrow, bring her sleeping clothes, toothpaste, and soap. Good day.”
13
T HE HIGH-PITCHED WAIL OF FIRE ENGINE SIRENS ALONG 67 TH Street invaded Dr. Mozelle’s office, forcing him to pause while
The women stood frozen in place. Then, smiling cautiously, they turned to each other. Hattie took Elsen by the arm and slowly guided her back down the hill and around the bend, where the driver and his taxi were still waiting by the sapodilla tree.
“What do you think, Hattie?” Elsen asked when they were back in the car.
Hattie Sinclair was certain of only one thing. The way in whichMatthew Perch had examined the sick woman was exactly the way he had looked at her when they had first met. She knew that he had diagnosed the frail white woman and that he knew all he needed to know about her condition. But Hattie believed it would be wise for her to keep that thought to herself. “I don’t want to speak too soon about what I think. I’m just gonna pray hard for you for tomorrow,” she said, putting her arm around Elsen.
Elsen reached up and patted Hattie’s hand while their taxi rumbled on.
The next morning, when Matthew Perch opened his door, a perspiring white couple was breathing deeply before him. Holding each other, they squinted through the blazing sunlight at the silhouetted figure of the black man standing in the darkened hut.
“Hello,” said Elsen, managing to smile through her exhaustion. “This is my husband, Dr. Howard Mozelle.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Perch, and thank you for seeing us.” Howard Mozelle extended his hand.
Perch remained silent but stepped to one side of the door, clearing the entrance while ignoring the doctor’s gesture. The Mozelles hesitated, not sure that they had received an invitation to enter. Perch waited. Finally, Howard Mozelle led his wife into the hut.
Perch closed the door and remained standing by it like a sentry. Moments passed before the Mozelles’ eyes adjusted to the semidarkness. The large one-room interior was plain and sparse: There was a bed, two chairs, one table, all handmade from native wood, and in one corner a chest of drawers from which most of the varnish had long since peeled away. In another corner stood an old, battered steamship trunk. Beneath a window at the southern end of the hut was an open fireplace with piles of wood neatly stacked beside it. On the other side were several rows of shelves on which could be found tin plates, spoons, a few tin cups, clay jars, and a box of matches. Underneath the shelves were a variety of inexpensive cooking utensils. But what caught Howard Mozelle’s attention most were the two-foot-square pieces of artwork that were suspended on the hut’s east and west walls. Each piece was attached to the wall by a string that hung on a nail driven into the mud plaster.
Dr. Mozelle guessed that Perch had made the hangings; though he himself was a man trained in the science of medicine, for years he had relieved the stress of his profession through sculpting and painting. How intriguing, he thought—their worlds seemed to be light-years apart from each other’s, and yet he may not have been all that different from Matthew Perch; they were both physicians of one kind or another, healing themselves through art. He was trying to determine whether he was looking at abstract carvings or sculptures when Perch spoke again and interrupted his thoughts.
“She must eat here, sleep here, live here with me in this room night and day. You cannot,” Perch said directly to Howard Mozelle. “She will relieve herself in the woods. She will wash herself in the stream. If she is unable to wash herself, I will wash her. You may come in the afternoons at three and leave at four. No one else must ever come; and you may bring only clothing, toothpaste, and soap as she needs them. You may leave now. Tomorrow, bring her sleeping clothes, toothpaste, and soap. Good day.”
13
T HE HIGH-PITCHED WAIL OF FIRE ENGINE SIRENS ALONG 67 TH Street invaded Dr. Mozelle’s office, forcing him to pause while
Similar Books
