It’s one of the old ladies from downstairs. She’s holding a doctor’s bag. “Mrs. Weinbaum.” “Actually it’s Dr. Weinbaum…but since Jerry died, I like to be Mrs. He always wanted me to be Mrs… He didn’t harp on about it, but when you’re married to a man for fifty-three years, you know.” She smiles sadly. “Gladys Jackson says she saw you walking in with a gentleman who might be in need of sutures.”
