Page 62 of Meet Me on Greenwood

"Donna has been with the practice since the beginning. No one manages my schedule the way she does."

"I bet," he said, smiling. He took another slow pull of his cigar. “Funny thing—a man came around the bank last week asking questions about you. Where you are from. Who your people were.”

It took everything in me not to react. “What was his name?”

He leaned his head back. “I don’t rightly remember. Steven? Stan? Do those names sound familiar.”

Stanton. That was the man pushing the peanut cart weeks ago. His features had changed but his low, nasal voice was unmistakable. I tried to remain calm realizing Larry had talked to Stanton, a boy I’d grown up with who surely knew my identity. What was he playing at? Was he going to tell everyone who I really was. “Doesn’t ring a bell,” I managed. “You didn’t tell him who I was did you. He seems like an unsavory person.”

He took a deep drag. “Maybe. I told him it was none of his business.” Larry watched me carefully. “But it does make one curious why a man like that has his sights set on you.”

I sat up straighter, keeping my expression still. "This can’t be why you are here. How can I help you today, Mr. Page?"

"So formal." He slapped my shoulder. "We're going to be family soon."

"I just have a great deal to get through before I head to the hospital this evening."

He leaned back, rolling the cigar between his fingers. "I won't keep you. Actually, I wanted to invite you out. A man needs a proper bachelor party. Me and a few of the fellows from the bank. It'll be fun."

"I'm not sure I have the time to—"

"The man who arranged that very generous loan for this place." He gestured around the office with the cigar. "Well. It's hard to say no to a man like that. Especially when he only did it because his daughter asked him to."

My heart raced, as the memory of the loan I’d secured a bit too easily for a man with no capital and no connections. I’d only had my credentials and the promise to pay it back which was worth nothing I now realized. It was my connection to Sarah, to this family that had made the difference.

Larry smiled again. The same easy smile that brimmed with an unspoken threat. "I think we understand each other."

He owned me, I realized and he was letting me know.

I stayed silent as he stood, replaced his jacket, and smoothed the front of it.

"I'll meet you here Friday after work. Have yourself a good time—every man should, before his wedding day," Larry said, moving to the door. "But Sunday, I expect to see you at brunch. My Sarah misses you."

Then he was gone.

I sat in the silence he left behind. The room smelled of his cigar, so I got up and opened the window even wider. What Stanton was up to I had no idea. All I could do was keep up appearances and in the event he did reveal who I was, no one would believe him. These men were nothing but arrogant, never believing that the race they despise so much was right under their nose treating their wounds, building a practice, or courting one of their women.

Standing with my hands on the sill, I looked out at the street below, and the building across the way where Larry Page ran his bank and got everything he wanted.

I needed to think. I had Donna cancel my last two appointments for the day and wandered the streets until I arrived at Frissel Hospital. There was a line of people waiting outside, hoping to be seen before the doors closed. Volunteers were out providing water and triaging. One of the intake nurses, Becky, gave me a warm smile.

"Here to do the evening shift? We haven’t seen you in a while."

"The practice has gotten busier. It looks like you all have too."

She nodded. "Tuberculosis. Too many cases to count. They are wearing Dr. Brown to the bone," she said, handing me a set of gloves. "He does have a new assistant, Dr. Cross. She is sharp. I have never met a female doctor before, let alone a Black one."

My heart beat faster. "Dr. Cross is here?"

"Yes, she’s doing rounds right now. Do you want me to let them know you are here?"

"No, I should get started. I’ll see them later."

I moved into ward. It was a large room with secondhand iron beds and mattresses so thin, no one could get comfortable. It was already busy when I pulled my first chart. A six-year-old boy with pneumonia was running a fever that had peaked and broken twice in three days. His mother sat up beside him as I approached.

"Has he been assessed yet?" I asked.

"The lady doctor," she said. "She spent a lot of time with him." She replaced the wet cloth meant to break the fever with a fresh one. "Most of them don't sit."