hours.
I picked up the data-entry form Mrs. Kirkland had been completing for Consuelo. Name, age, height, weight all unknown. The only items completed were sex-they’d hazarded a guess there-and source of payment, which a second guess had led them to list as “Indigent”-euphemism for the dirty four-letter word poor. Americans have never been very understanding of poverty, but since Reagan was elected it’s become a crime almost as bad as child-molesting.
I was inking out the “Unknowns” and filling in real data on Consuelo when Mrs. Kirkland returned with a man about my age. His brown hair was blown dry, each hair lined up with a precision as neat as the stripe in his seersucker suit. I realized how disheveled I looked in blue jeans and a Cubs T-shirt.
He held out a hand whose nails had been varnished a faint rose. “I’m Alan Humphries-executive director out here. Mrs. Kirkland tells me you’re having a problem.”
My hand was grimy from sweat. I rubbed some into his palm. “I’m V. I. Warshawski-a friend of the Alvarado family, as well as their attorney. Mrs. Kirkland here says you aren’t sure you can treat Mrs. Hernandez because you assumed that as a Mexican she couldn’t afford to pay a bill here.”
Humphries held up both hands and gave a little chuckle. “Whoa, there! We do have a concern, of course, about not taking too many indigent patients. But we understand our obligation under Illinois law to treat obstetrical emergencies.”
“Why did Mrs. Kirkland say you were going to move Mrs. Hernandez to a public hospital?”
“I’m sure you and she may have misunderstood each other-I hear you both got a little heated. Perfectly understandable-you’ve had a great deal of strain today.”
“Just what are you doing for Mrs. Hernandez?”
Humphries gave a boyish laugh. “I’m an administrator, not a medicine man. So I can’t tell you the details of the treatment. But if you want to talk to Dr. Burgoyne I’ll make sure he stops in the waiting room to see you when he leaves the intensive-care unit… Mrs. Kirkland said the girl’s own doctor is coming out. What’s his name?”
“Malcolm Tregiere. He’s in Dr. Charlotte Herschel’s practice. Your Dr. Burgoyne may have heard of her-I guess she’s considered quite an authority in obstetrics circles.”
“I’ll make sure he knows Dr. Tregiere’s corning. Now why don’t you and Mrs. Kirkland complete this form. We do try to keep our records in good order.”
The meaningless smile, the well-groomed hand, and he returned to his office.
Mrs. Kirkland and I complied with a certain amount of hostility on both sides.
“When her mother gets here, she’ll be able to give you the insurance information,” I said stiffly. I was pretty sure Consuelo was covered under Mrs. Alvarado’s health insurance-the group benefits were a major reason Mrs. Alvarado had stayed with Meal Service Corporation for twenty years. After signing a space for “Admitter-if not patient,” I returned to the emergency entrance, since that was where Tregiere would arrive. I moved my car to a proper parking space, prowled around in the heavy July air, pushed thoughts of the cool waters of Lake Michigan out of my mind, pushed thoughts of Consuelo attached to many tubes out of my mind, looked at my watch every five minutes, trying to will Malcolm Tregiere’s arrival.
It was after four when a faded blue Dodge squealed to a halt near me. Tregiere came out as the ignition died; Mrs. Alvarado slowly emerged from the passenger side. A slight, quiet black man, Tregiere had the enormous confidence needed by successful surgeons without the usual arrogance that accompanies it.
“I’m glad you’re out here, Vic-would you mind parking the car for me? I’ll head on in.”
“The doctor’s name is Burgoyne. Follow this hallway straight down and you’ll get to a nurse’s station where they can direct
I picked up the data-entry form Mrs. Kirkland had been completing for Consuelo. Name, age, height, weight all unknown. The only items completed were sex-they’d hazarded a guess there-and source of payment, which a second guess had led them to list as “Indigent”-euphemism for the dirty four-letter word poor. Americans have never been very understanding of poverty, but since Reagan was elected it’s become a crime almost as bad as child-molesting.
I was inking out the “Unknowns” and filling in real data on Consuelo when Mrs. Kirkland returned with a man about my age. His brown hair was blown dry, each hair lined up with a precision as neat as the stripe in his seersucker suit. I realized how disheveled I looked in blue jeans and a Cubs T-shirt.
He held out a hand whose nails had been varnished a faint rose. “I’m Alan Humphries-executive director out here. Mrs. Kirkland tells me you’re having a problem.”
My hand was grimy from sweat. I rubbed some into his palm. “I’m V. I. Warshawski-a friend of the Alvarado family, as well as their attorney. Mrs. Kirkland here says you aren’t sure you can treat Mrs. Hernandez because you assumed that as a Mexican she couldn’t afford to pay a bill here.”
Humphries held up both hands and gave a little chuckle. “Whoa, there! We do have a concern, of course, about not taking too many indigent patients. But we understand our obligation under Illinois law to treat obstetrical emergencies.”
“Why did Mrs. Kirkland say you were going to move Mrs. Hernandez to a public hospital?”
“I’m sure you and she may have misunderstood each other-I hear you both got a little heated. Perfectly understandable-you’ve had a great deal of strain today.”
“Just what are you doing for Mrs. Hernandez?”
Humphries gave a boyish laugh. “I’m an administrator, not a medicine man. So I can’t tell you the details of the treatment. But if you want to talk to Dr. Burgoyne I’ll make sure he stops in the waiting room to see you when he leaves the intensive-care unit… Mrs. Kirkland said the girl’s own doctor is coming out. What’s his name?”
“Malcolm Tregiere. He’s in Dr. Charlotte Herschel’s practice. Your Dr. Burgoyne may have heard of her-I guess she’s considered quite an authority in obstetrics circles.”
“I’ll make sure he knows Dr. Tregiere’s corning. Now why don’t you and Mrs. Kirkland complete this form. We do try to keep our records in good order.”
The meaningless smile, the well-groomed hand, and he returned to his office.
Mrs. Kirkland and I complied with a certain amount of hostility on both sides.
“When her mother gets here, she’ll be able to give you the insurance information,” I said stiffly. I was pretty sure Consuelo was covered under Mrs. Alvarado’s health insurance-the group benefits were a major reason Mrs. Alvarado had stayed with Meal Service Corporation for twenty years. After signing a space for “Admitter-if not patient,” I returned to the emergency entrance, since that was where Tregiere would arrive. I moved my car to a proper parking space, prowled around in the heavy July air, pushed thoughts of the cool waters of Lake Michigan out of my mind, pushed thoughts of Consuelo attached to many tubes out of my mind, looked at my watch every five minutes, trying to will Malcolm Tregiere’s arrival.
It was after four when a faded blue Dodge squealed to a halt near me. Tregiere came out as the ignition died; Mrs. Alvarado slowly emerged from the passenger side. A slight, quiet black man, Tregiere had the enormous confidence needed by successful surgeons without the usual arrogance that accompanies it.
“I’m glad you’re out here, Vic-would you mind parking the car for me? I’ll head on in.”
“The doctor’s name is Burgoyne. Follow this hallway straight down and you’ll get to a nurse’s station where they can direct
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