aspirin.”
“Vik
better
do a good job of our pills,” Professor Crabtree said. “Thanks to Gloria, he’s got this place sewn up. Steeltown Apothecary has a nice little monopoly running here. Funded by the government, through Ontario’s drug benefit program for seniors. Not bad for a guy who escaped from Sarajevo with not even a dime in his pocket.”
“Speak of the devil . . . here’s Phyllis,” said Mr. Greenwood, looking in the direction of the reception desk at the other end of the room. “Better watch out. Looks like she’s in high dudgeon.”
Phyllis Wedderspoon stamped the slush from her boots on a mat near the entrance, then breezed into the common room like a ship in full sail. Her full-length fur coat glowed with the sheen and flow of real mink. Her dark felt hat, a cloche, was festooned with an extravagant yellow feather. The well-worn handbag dangling from the crook of her forearm looked like real crocodile, probably purchased long before Greenpeace and World Wildlife. But her plastic galoshes screamed Wal-Mart.
“There you are, boys,” she called as she approached. “Take these, will you, Earl?” She handed him a cardboard tray supporting three Tim Hortons coffees with the red-and-yellow insignia of the chain’s famous spring promotion. It was the season for Roll Up the Rim, the company’s annual lottery that had everyone in Canada unwinding the rims of their cups to see what they’d won. Usually it was just an invitation to
Please Play Again
.
The professor took the coffees, set them on the table, then helped Miss Wedderspoon out of her coat. She draped it over the back of a nearby sofa, along with her purse. Mr. Greenwood made the introductions, and the sprightly woman dropped her slim frame into the wingback chair that Professor Crabtree pushed into their circle.
Miss Wedderspoon scrutinized her mud-spattered galoshes and seemed to find them wanting. “I hate the slush that March brings,” she tsked. “But better than a blizzard, I suppose.” She turned to Natasha. “Sorry, Miss Sharma, I only brought three coffees.” She paused, then lifted the cup in front of her and held it out. “Here . . . If you can stand it with double cream, no sugar, take this one.”
“I’m fine,” said Natasha. “Thank you. You go ahead.”
“Are you sure? You’re welcome to it.”
Natasha smiled and shook her head.
Professor Crabtree pried the lids from all three cups with his gnarled fingers in what seemed to be an expected ritual.
“Did you see Melvin off?” Miss Wedderspoon asked.
The light in the eyes of both men faded for a moment. Their lips tightened.
“Yes,” said Mr. Greenwood. “The dear fellow’s gone. They’re going to hold his service on Friday afternoon. Wentworth United. His daughter was here earlier but she got called away.”
“Her BlackBerry again, I suppose?” said Miss Wedderspoon.
The look on Mr. Greenwood’s face said he was reluctant to admit the answer was yes.
“Don’t knock them till you try one,” the professor said.
“Don’t tell me
you’ve
got one.”
Professor Crabtree teased her with the sparkle in his eyes and didn’t answer.
“Enough of that,” said Miss Wedderspoon. “How’s Betty?”
Mr. Greenwood’s shoulders slumped. He stared into his coffee as though hoping it might portend better news. “Not much change. Still on IV fluids.”
“She has to keep drinking,” Miss Wedderspoon said. “I was reading on the Internet that the worst thing you can do with gastro is to stop eating and drinking. The bowel gets lazy if it’s not stimulated. Just like the rest of the body, it needs exercise.”
“I think Dr. Wakefield has everything in hand,” said Professor Crabtree.
“He’s sending her tomorrow to that clinic on Ottawa Street for X-rays of her stomach,” Mr. Greenwood added.
“Emergency at Caledonian won’t accept any of us over eighty with diarrhea,” the professor told Natasha. “Something to do with practising
“Vik
better
do a good job of our pills,” Professor Crabtree said. “Thanks to Gloria, he’s got this place sewn up. Steeltown Apothecary has a nice little monopoly running here. Funded by the government, through Ontario’s drug benefit program for seniors. Not bad for a guy who escaped from Sarajevo with not even a dime in his pocket.”
“Speak of the devil . . . here’s Phyllis,” said Mr. Greenwood, looking in the direction of the reception desk at the other end of the room. “Better watch out. Looks like she’s in high dudgeon.”
Phyllis Wedderspoon stamped the slush from her boots on a mat near the entrance, then breezed into the common room like a ship in full sail. Her full-length fur coat glowed with the sheen and flow of real mink. Her dark felt hat, a cloche, was festooned with an extravagant yellow feather. The well-worn handbag dangling from the crook of her forearm looked like real crocodile, probably purchased long before Greenpeace and World Wildlife. But her plastic galoshes screamed Wal-Mart.
“There you are, boys,” she called as she approached. “Take these, will you, Earl?” She handed him a cardboard tray supporting three Tim Hortons coffees with the red-and-yellow insignia of the chain’s famous spring promotion. It was the season for Roll Up the Rim, the company’s annual lottery that had everyone in Canada unwinding the rims of their cups to see what they’d won. Usually it was just an invitation to
Please Play Again
.
The professor took the coffees, set them on the table, then helped Miss Wedderspoon out of her coat. She draped it over the back of a nearby sofa, along with her purse. Mr. Greenwood made the introductions, and the sprightly woman dropped her slim frame into the wingback chair that Professor Crabtree pushed into their circle.
Miss Wedderspoon scrutinized her mud-spattered galoshes and seemed to find them wanting. “I hate the slush that March brings,” she tsked. “But better than a blizzard, I suppose.” She turned to Natasha. “Sorry, Miss Sharma, I only brought three coffees.” She paused, then lifted the cup in front of her and held it out. “Here . . . If you can stand it with double cream, no sugar, take this one.”
“I’m fine,” said Natasha. “Thank you. You go ahead.”
“Are you sure? You’re welcome to it.”
Natasha smiled and shook her head.
Professor Crabtree pried the lids from all three cups with his gnarled fingers in what seemed to be an expected ritual.
“Did you see Melvin off?” Miss Wedderspoon asked.
The light in the eyes of both men faded for a moment. Their lips tightened.
“Yes,” said Mr. Greenwood. “The dear fellow’s gone. They’re going to hold his service on Friday afternoon. Wentworth United. His daughter was here earlier but she got called away.”
“Her BlackBerry again, I suppose?” said Miss Wedderspoon.
The look on Mr. Greenwood’s face said he was reluctant to admit the answer was yes.
“Don’t knock them till you try one,” the professor said.
“Don’t tell me
you’ve
got one.”
Professor Crabtree teased her with the sparkle in his eyes and didn’t answer.
“Enough of that,” said Miss Wedderspoon. “How’s Betty?”
Mr. Greenwood’s shoulders slumped. He stared into his coffee as though hoping it might portend better news. “Not much change. Still on IV fluids.”
“She has to keep drinking,” Miss Wedderspoon said. “I was reading on the Internet that the worst thing you can do with gastro is to stop eating and drinking. The bowel gets lazy if it’s not stimulated. Just like the rest of the body, it needs exercise.”
“I think Dr. Wakefield has everything in hand,” said Professor Crabtree.
“He’s sending her tomorrow to that clinic on Ottawa Street for X-rays of her stomach,” Mr. Greenwood added.
“Emergency at Caledonian won’t accept any of us over eighty with diarrhea,” the professor told Natasha. “Something to do with practising
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