That’s good, Raymond said. That’s just fine. Now you go on out to the pickup.
Why? Aren’t you coming?
Go ahead, if you would. It won’t be long.
She went outside and the McPheron brothers walked back, one after the other, past the middle-aged woman who was seated as before at the window. She stood up at once when they started unannounced down the hall and she rushed after them, calling to them, asking what they meant by this, they weren’t allowed back there, didn’t they know that much, and they went on regardless, as though they couldn’t hear her or else didn’t care even a little what she was saying, sticking their heads in any doors that were open along the way and opening two or three closed ones upon unsuspecting waiting patients who afterward came out into the hallway too, watching after them in shock and amazement. At the end of the hall the McPherons came upon a closed door behind which they could hear old Dr. Martin consulting with a female patient. They listened briefly, their heads cocked in an attitude of concentration under their silver-belly hats. Then Raymond knocked one time and shoved the door open.
Come out, he said. We got to talk with you.
What in the name of God! the old doctor cried. Get the hell out of here.
The woman whose heart he’d been listening to hurriedly pulled her paper shirt together and looked over at them, her pendulous breasts pressing against the thin material.
Come on out here, Raymond said again. Harold stood behind him, looking over his shoulder. The woman from the front counter stood back of Harold now, still objecting and remonstrating, talking quite loudly. They paid her no attention whatsoever. The doctor stepped out of the room and shut the door. His eyes were fiery glints behind his rimless glasses, above his good blue suit and immaculate white shirt and his neat hand-tied bow tie.
Just what is it you think you’re doing? he said.
We’re going to talk to you, Raymond said.
It won’t wait?
No sir, it won’t.
All right then. Talk. What’s this about?
This don’t concern her, Raymond said, indicating the woman from the front desk.
The old doctor turned to her and said, You can go back, Mrs. Barnes. I’ll take care of this.
It’s not my fault, she said. They came barging back here by themselves. I didn’t let them back here.
I know. You can return to the front desk now.
She wheeled and marched away, and the doctor led the McPheron brothers into the vacant examination room next door.
I don’t suppose you want to take the time to do anything so civil as to sit down, he said.
No.
No. I didn’t think so. Very well. What did you want to talk about?
Is she all right? Raymond said.
Who?
Victoria Roubideaux.
Yes, she is, the doctor said.
That boy didn’t do her any good.
You’re talking about the boy in Denver, I take it.
Yes. That miserable son of a bitch.
She told me about him. She said what happened there. But she seems all right.
He better not of hurt her permanent, Raymond said. You better be sure.
There’s no use threatening me, the old doctor said.
I’m telling you. You better make this come out right. That girl’s had enough trouble.
I’ll do everything I can. But it isn’t all up to me.
Some of it is.
And you better not get so wrought up, the doctor said.
I am wrought up, Raymond said, and I’m going to stay that way till this baby is born good and healthy and that girl is okay. Now you tell us what you told her.