compressed. We can’t do anything about their personal situations of course, but we can help them feel better about themselves.”
If outward appearance were the key to character, Charlotte thought, Dr. Sperry’s narrow, thin-lipped mouth and long, pointed teeth put him in the wolf family. The kind that prey on lonely, middle-aged women.
He paused to offer her another cigarette, which she turned down, and then lit one himself from the tip of the one he was smoking.
“Some of our guests are in very bad shape indeed. Like that woman who was just in here. Her biological age is about the same as yours, but she’s actually twenty-four years younger. She doesn’t need a spa, she needs a detox program. We get a lot of guests like her. We ask our guests to refrain from using drugs or alcohol, but we can hardly search their luggage, can we?”
His voice had taken on an intimate tone, as if they belonged to an elite of which Adele was not a member. Charlotte’s mild dislike was progressing to outright hostility. What he said about Adele was no doubt true, but it was unprofessional to be talking with her about it.
“Dr. Sperry, I’m not interested in discussing the medical histories of the other guests,” she said firmly.
She could imagine him telling the next patient: “Oh, yes, Charlotte Graham. Well preserved, I’d say, for a woman of sixty-two. Wouldn’t expect it with the life she’s led. Four husbands would take its toll on anyone. To say nothing of those notorious love affairs.”
“Oh, quite right,” he said, startled at her rebuke. “Well, do you have any questions?”
“What is the pack for my arthritis?” she asked, studying the booklet he had returned to her.
He described the hot pack, and then, their interview at an end, she rose to leave. He walked her to the door, his arm draped familiarly around her shoulders. She wanted to shake it off, like a surly adolescent.
As they reached the door, she felt him gently squeeze the muscle at the back of her neck. “We’ll take care of those shoulders for you,” he said.
After leaving Dr. Sperry’s office, Charlotte crossed the quadrangle to the Bath Pavilion, which was a mirror-image of the Health Pavilion except for the relief on the pediment, which here depicted Asclepius, the Greek god of healing. An inscription read: “A gentle craftsman who drove pain away/Soother of cruel pangs, a joy to men,/Bringing them golden health.”
At the reception desk, she was directed to the women’s wing, where she was greeted by the director of the women’s baths, a middle-aged woman named Mrs. Murray who wore a white nurse’s uniform and the firm expression of someone who was used to dealing with difficult guests. A starched white nurse’s cap floated on the stiff waves of her charcoal-gray hair like a paper boat on a stormy sea. Mrs. Murray introduced her to Hilda, who would be her bath attendant. Hilda was a stocky woman with a round face encircled by the platinum curls of an ill-fitting wig. Her face had a hint of the Tartar about it, with prominent cheekbones and fierce yellow eyes above which eyebrows had been penciled on in a perennial expression of surprise. She bobbed her head and smiled broadly, revealing a wide gap between her protuberant front teeth. Then she shuffled off down the corridor in her corduroy slippers, leaving Charlotte to follow behind.
Charlotte found the bath cubicle to which she had been assigned to be surprisingly utilitarian by comparison with the rest of the spa. It was large, with a high ceiling, glossy white-tiled walls, and a black-and-white-tiled floor. It was simply furnished with a white wicker table and chair and a white-painted metal cot covered by a starched white sheet. The walls above the tile, which looked as if they once had been painted a depressing hospital green, were now papered with a gay floral print. On the table stood a pot of red geraniums. One corner was occupied by the treatment tub, which was both wider
If outward appearance were the key to character, Charlotte thought, Dr. Sperry’s narrow, thin-lipped mouth and long, pointed teeth put him in the wolf family. The kind that prey on lonely, middle-aged women.
He paused to offer her another cigarette, which she turned down, and then lit one himself from the tip of the one he was smoking.
“Some of our guests are in very bad shape indeed. Like that woman who was just in here. Her biological age is about the same as yours, but she’s actually twenty-four years younger. She doesn’t need a spa, she needs a detox program. We get a lot of guests like her. We ask our guests to refrain from using drugs or alcohol, but we can hardly search their luggage, can we?”
His voice had taken on an intimate tone, as if they belonged to an elite of which Adele was not a member. Charlotte’s mild dislike was progressing to outright hostility. What he said about Adele was no doubt true, but it was unprofessional to be talking with her about it.
“Dr. Sperry, I’m not interested in discussing the medical histories of the other guests,” she said firmly.
She could imagine him telling the next patient: “Oh, yes, Charlotte Graham. Well preserved, I’d say, for a woman of sixty-two. Wouldn’t expect it with the life she’s led. Four husbands would take its toll on anyone. To say nothing of those notorious love affairs.”
“Oh, quite right,” he said, startled at her rebuke. “Well, do you have any questions?”
“What is the pack for my arthritis?” she asked, studying the booklet he had returned to her.
He described the hot pack, and then, their interview at an end, she rose to leave. He walked her to the door, his arm draped familiarly around her shoulders. She wanted to shake it off, like a surly adolescent.
As they reached the door, she felt him gently squeeze the muscle at the back of her neck. “We’ll take care of those shoulders for you,” he said.
After leaving Dr. Sperry’s office, Charlotte crossed the quadrangle to the Bath Pavilion, which was a mirror-image of the Health Pavilion except for the relief on the pediment, which here depicted Asclepius, the Greek god of healing. An inscription read: “A gentle craftsman who drove pain away/Soother of cruel pangs, a joy to men,/Bringing them golden health.”
At the reception desk, she was directed to the women’s wing, where she was greeted by the director of the women’s baths, a middle-aged woman named Mrs. Murray who wore a white nurse’s uniform and the firm expression of someone who was used to dealing with difficult guests. A starched white nurse’s cap floated on the stiff waves of her charcoal-gray hair like a paper boat on a stormy sea. Mrs. Murray introduced her to Hilda, who would be her bath attendant. Hilda was a stocky woman with a round face encircled by the platinum curls of an ill-fitting wig. Her face had a hint of the Tartar about it, with prominent cheekbones and fierce yellow eyes above which eyebrows had been penciled on in a perennial expression of surprise. She bobbed her head and smiled broadly, revealing a wide gap between her protuberant front teeth. Then she shuffled off down the corridor in her corduroy slippers, leaving Charlotte to follow behind.
Charlotte found the bath cubicle to which she had been assigned to be surprisingly utilitarian by comparison with the rest of the spa. It was large, with a high ceiling, glossy white-tiled walls, and a black-and-white-tiled floor. It was simply furnished with a white wicker table and chair and a white-painted metal cot covered by a starched white sheet. The walls above the tile, which looked as if they once had been painted a depressing hospital green, were now papered with a gay floral print. On the table stood a pot of red geraniums. One corner was occupied by the treatment tub, which was both wider
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