“She’s still going to be in a nursing home, or having to convalesce someplace,” Carol warned. “It’s way too early to talk about bringing her home.… Do you think you could come see her? Nelle says you have a good effect on her.”

I made a face. “Maybe. I’m not very fit right now—I’ve had a couple of rough days in the detection mines.”

Carol asked for details on last night’s heroics. When I finished she only said, “Gosh, Vic. Too bad they didn’t bring you to County instead of Mt. Sinai. I could have patched you up—it would have been just like old times.”

I shook my head. “Maybe you leaving the clinic was good for me as well as you. It’s time I stopped turning to you and Lotty every time I scrape my knee.”

Carol shook her head. “You and Lotty don’t understand. Leaning on people who love you isn’t a sin. It really isn’t, Vic.”

“Try telling her,” Mr. Contreras jeered. “I been breaking my head on that brick wall long enough.”

I punched him lightly on the nose before seeing Carol to the door.

53

Subterranean Homesick Blues

The next morning Mr. Contreras helped me prepare a wicker basket. We lined its bottom with plastic and put a couple of towels inside. The puppies, almost three weeks old, had their eyes open. With their soft, rich fur they looked adorable. We picked the two smallest and put them in the basket. Peppy watched us intently, but didn’t protest. By now she spent some time away from her brood each day. Their little nails were scratching her stomach and the joys of maternity were starting to wear off.

At County Hospital, Nelle McDowell greeted me with genuine pleasure. “Mrs. Frizell’s making real progress. She’ll never win a Miss Congeniality prize, but it’s wonderful to see someone come back from the edge the way she has. Come and take a look yourself.”

She eyed the wicker basket thoughtfully. One little nose was pushing through a crack. “You know, Ms. Warshawski, I think you may be violating hospital policy. But I’m too busy this morning to have seen you come in. You go on down the hall and talk to the lady.”

The change in Mrs. Frizell was remarkable. The sunken cheeks, which had made her look like a corpse, had filled out, but more impressive was the fact that her eyes were open and focused.

“Who are you? Some damned do-gooder?”

I laughed. “Yeah. I’m your damned do-gooding neighbor, Vic Warshawski. Your dog Bruce got my dog, Peppy, pregnant.”

“Oh. I remember you now, coming around to complain about Bruce. He’s a good dog, he doesn’t roam the neighborhood, no matter what you people say. You can’t prove to me he sired your bitch’s litter.”