A Thorn in the Bush Read Online Free PDF Page B

witch signal of disaster.
    Mrs. Ross swallowed a bite of her food, took a deep breath, composed herself. She recalled a similar argument during her previous illness. But she had learned even before that how to meet such situations. One did not lunge into them head on: one rolled with the punch.
    “If I must see the doctor to get my coffee, then I must,” said Mrs. Ross. “Send the fool in, then bring me the coffee.”
    “If the doctor says it is permitted,” countered Serena.
    Mrs. Ross closed her eyes, held her temper. The effort showed in the tightness of her voice: “I will see Dr. Herrera.”
    “Yes, Señora.” Serena bowed herself out of the room backward, as though withdrawing from the presence of royalty.
    Dr. Herrera replaced her in the doorway, strode into the room, calling out: “Ah, ha, what have we here?” His Spanish was full of dropped endings, short vowels—the Mexico City accent.
    “Indisposition, no more,” snapped Mrs. Ross. She took a final bite of the toast, put the tray beside her on the bed.
    The doctor put his bag on the floor, pulled up a cane chair. It creaked under him. Dr. Herrera was a large man—both tall and broad—with a square, heavy-jowled face, Indian-black hair touched by grey at the temple. He radiated a confidence that soothed sick tourists. Beyond a few medical terms, the doctor spoke perhaps fifteen words of English. Among them: “Hello there.” “Goodbye now.” and “Take this as directed.”
    “No malaise of the stomach?” he asked. (Dr. Herrera was convinced, with some justification, that most North Americans’ medical problems originated in the stomach or intestines.)
    “I’m not a tourist!” barked Mrs. Ross.
    “But, of course,” said Dr. Herrera. “Was I not in the courtroom on the day you became a citizen of our beloved country?”
    “Maybe you were,” agreed Mrs. Ross. Then: “You’ll notice they didn’t expropriate my properties!”
    “To be sure.” Dr. Herrera put a hand to her forehead, looked thoughtful. “The appetite is good?”
    “Yes! If that fool Serena would only fix me some decent food.”
    The doctor took his hand away, patted the edge of the bed. “The indisposition: does it pain you in any particular place?”
    Mrs. Ross felt that she was being bullied. She pushed back into the pillows, muttered almost against her will: “A little soreness of the throat, no more.”
    “Ah, but one must not leave these things unattended.” One of Dr. Herrera’s ape-like arms reached down to the floor beside him. He unsnapped the bag, removed a tongue-depressor. “Let us observe the throat, eh?”
    “It’s not that bad,” protested Mrs. Ross. And, indeed, she could barely feel the soreness that had kept her wakefully irritated during the night.
    “All the same,” insisted Dr. Herrera. He moved the depressor toward her mouth.
    Mrs. Ross found herself going through the ridiculous routine of saying, “Ahhhhh.” It made her cough.
    When the coughing spell subsided, Dr. Herrera said: “I will send the girl with an injection. You have picked up a little virus. There is some around here just now.”
    “No injections!” protested Mrs. Ross.
    Dr. Herrera ignored the interruption. He removed a glass tube of pills from his bag. “And here is some Viotalidina, just in case there is an involvement of the stomach, eh? I will leave these with Serena. One little pastilla every four hours. And you must increase your intake of liquids.”
    “Let Serena take the pills,” growled Mrs. Ross. Then: “Oh, and tell her it’s permitted for me to have coffee.”
    Dr. Herrera grasped the bag, lifted his bulk out of the cane chair. He smiled, a tourist-soothing, confident expression that made him look like a Buddha with hair. “But of course. You will drink the coffee to wash down the pastillas.” He bowed. “I will look in on you in two days.”
    Mrs. Ross, seeing that she would pay for her coffee by swallowing the pills, started to protest, then