Her Thirties Part 53

The next day was summery, a Xerox copy of that sunny Sunday I spent playing football with Abe.

At lunch, I phoned Marilyn to check in on her—see how she was feeling.

I had managed the day before to talk her into taking some cold medicine.

But when she answered the phone, she sounded really stuffed up.

“Did you take the decongestant?”

“No,” she said in a shy, little girl voice.

“Look,” I said sternly, “I want you well on Sunday for Cam’s Thirties party. I promise you the medicine will help. Just try it—take one daytime capsule.”

“Okay, Joe—let me go.”

That joke again—that made my stomach flip every time she said his name—or was it my name?

I got off the phone feeling worried, but forced myself to back off and give her space. She was a big girl and could look after herself—or could she?

I couldn’t help feeling she was a waif from the Thirties lost in a time where she didn’t belong—but the more I thought about it, I realized that also accurately described me.

I spent the next two hours searching through the directory of Toronto Parks and finally gave up. There were over 1400 parks in Toronto the Good—no wonder they called it The City of Parks.

About four in the afternoon, I began packing my things to leave early when Nancy, the receptionist, buzzed in.

“Just a reminder, Professor Lennox about your five o’clock appointment.”

Damn! —The meeting with Dr. Lambert—Marilyn’s psychiatrist. I forgot all about it and wished I hadn’t been reminded.

I couldn’t keep my appointment with Abe at the car dealership, so I phoned him immediately and confessed my stupidity in forgetting.


“That’s all right, Pal,” he laughed, “Sounds like you’ve got a lot on your mind right now—not to mention having to deal with Lambert. The guy creeps me out. I’ll phone you back with a new time.”

I hung up the phone feeling apprehensive. If the psychiatrist intimidated Abe, then how would I fare with him?

My spirits sagged but I resolved to see the man regardless for Marilyn’s sake.

I Googled his name on my computer and found his office—a trendy duplex in the Annex. Why wasn’t I surprised?

I drove straight to the address on Saint George Street, hoping he’d see me early, but no luck—he was closeted with a patient and I had to wait.

For some reason, Lambert chose the second floor of the house for his reception area and office. That seemed peculiar.

I had a forty-minute wait, so I amused myself by glancing out the widow at the street. I love old houses and St. George Street had some of the city’s finest—many destroyed in the building of the Robart’s Library back in the early 60’s.

The architectural style of the modern building was called Brutalist—a fitting epithet for the monstrosity that destroyed a full city block of graceful Victorian homes.

I sat back and closed my eyes trying to imagine how the street would have looked in the 1880’s. The closest I could come was to envision a girl in a long dress and enormous hat carrying a parasol and walking very dignified past the Gooderham mansion—one of the early manses that still survived.

“Ahem.”

I opened my eyes and glanced up at a slim, pleasant-looking man in his mid-forties smiling at me.

“Professor Lennox?”

“I am,” I said rising, “and you must be Doctor Lambert.”

He looked at me with a slightly bemused expression, and motioned with his hand toward the half-opened door of his office. “Won’t you please come in?”

He seemed friendly enough, but why did I feel like a fly being smilingly invited into a spider’s web?

To be continued...


© 2018, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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