Mrs. Wladek stood up carefully--her old bones creaked, and she could
feel them creaking. She looked around the tiny living room, covered with
dust. One should have the money to hire a maid. But the case workers had
never understood that. Young things, of course they knew nothing of the
troubles facing an old woman.
An old woman needed a maid.
She laughed briefly to herself at the idea, and realized at the same
time that she had been hiding her own thoughts from herself.
Today was her appointment day, and the new one would be there, blond and
young and smiling at her with the innocent face. There was something
wrong with the new one; she could see that. In the old country there
were stories--
_Are you, Marie Wladek, afraid of a young woman? Does your age count for
nothing? Does your experience and knowledge count for nothing?_
And yet, she had to admit to herself that she was afraid, and that she
was afraid of giving a name to her fear. Only a fool could mock at the
stories told in the old country, and Mrs. Wladek knew of such a fool; he
had died with mockery on his lips, but all had known what had killed
him.
_Can you not battle a young woman, and win, Marie Wladek?_
And yet the young woman had something strange about her, and Mrs. Wladek
remembered the old stories, and thought of witchcraft.
Who could fight witchcraft?
Even when the witch was a young girl without experience, and with an
innocent face and blond hair--
Mrs. Wladek looked at the mantel clock she had brought with her across
the ocean. It told perfect time; it was as good as everything from the
old country. Here in America they had no such clocks. Here everything
ran by electricity, and when you touched it there was a shock, which was
unnatural.
The old clock told the time: nine-thirty. Appointment hour was
approaching. Mrs. Wladek did not want to leave the house. She did not
want to face this new case worker.
But, all the same, one had to have money to live.
That they should force an old woman to travel across the city and to
speak with a girl, by appointment, solely in order to get the money
which should have been hers by right!
Cossacks! Monsters!
_Name:_ GIRONDE, JOSE R.
_Address:_ 1440 Hamilton Street
_Borough:_ New York
_Phone:_ None
_Complaint:_ Client is over fifty, without work for eight months--last
worked in October--due to recurrent difficulty regarding back. Sole
support wife and wife's sister. One child (Ramon, 27), living on West
Coast. Preliminary inquiries fail to locate child.
_Remarks:_ NPH. Examination needed. Is back injury chronic?
There was a great deal of paper work needed, Gloria realized. At first
she hadn't liked the paper work at all, but she could see now how
necessary it was. After all, everybody wasn't like her; the other
workers, she knew, didn't have her particular talent, and they had to
write things down for fear they'd forget.
Sometimes Gloria felt very sorry for the other case workers. But she
knew they were doing their very best, and they were, after all, helping
people. That was the only important thing: to help people, to make them
better members of society.
Now, Jose Gironde's back injury was certainly chronic. Gloria tried to
remember the medical term for it: it was something to do with a
lordosis. She'd paid no attention to that, since she had been trying to
fix up the back instead.
But now a doctor had to be called, and a thorough examination had to be
given, all so that the records would show what Gloria knew already. A
case worker couldn't fill out a medical report; you had to be a doctor
to do that.
And it didn't matter, Gloria knew, if you had all the information at
your fingertips, and even knew more than the doctor. (Gloria could have
cured Jose Gironde's back easily; a doctor couldn't do that.)
Examination was the doctor's job.
It was like being a member of a team, Gloria thought.
That felt good.
She got out the list of doctors which all the case workers used, and
followed it down with her finger. Dr. Willmarth was free, she knew, on
Thursday morning at eleven.
Luckily, Jose Gironde was free at the same hour. She made a note to call
the doctor and make an appointment, and to clear the appointment with
Jose Gironde, and made a duplicate note on the report sheet.
That would take care of that.
The paper work, after all, wasn't so very hard. All she had to do now
was to make the actual calls, and then wait for the written result of
the examination. When that had come through, she would be able to
recommend Jose Gironde for permanent relief, as was obviously indicated
in his case.
The back injury could not be corrected by medical science. And if Gloria
were to correct it--
"Your job as a case worker is clearly defined," a teacher had said.
"Meddling in another's province, without the permission of your
supervisor, is always uncalled-for."
In other words, Gloria thought, the _status quo_ has to be kept. And
that, too, made sense when you thought about it.
She looked up to see Harold Meedy smiling across the room at her. She
smiled back, very briefly, and went back to her own work.
"Interpersonal relationships within the office framework," a
teacher--Mr. Greystone?--had said, "are fraught with danger, and should
be handled with the greatest care."
If Harold Meedy wanted to get acquainted with her, that was his affair.
She didn't feel that she could conscientiously encourage him in the
slightest. Not only was he a fellow worker, which made the whole
situation more complicated than it would ordinarily have been, but he
was a small pudgy man with pimples and an earnest expression. He looked
as if he would be a bore, and a difficult person to get rid of.
He was.
Gloria just didn't think he was exactly her type.
And if he went on trying, she thought regretfully, she would be forced
to do something about it. Of course, Meedy would never know the
difference, but even so, Gloria didn't like to do any unnecessary work.
Changing someone's mind was a delicate job, and a responsible one, not
to be undertaken for a small motive.