“Okay then, get in!” Dr. Cone nodded at the front seat of the car. The passenger side was covered with piles of paper and a brown file folder. I stacked them neatly and slid them down the bench seat toward Dr. Cone so I could sit.
Izzy immediately scooted up and leaned her head over the front seat. She talked the whole way to Little Tavern and I tried to listen, but my brain was stuck on question after question. Had Mrs. Cone been in the attic all day, and was she converting it into a guest room? Why hadn’t she come downstairs to make dinner? How did the Cones eat dinner normally? Who went grocery shopping and why wasn’t there fresh milk in the fridge? Did they not get their milk delivered like everyone else in the neighborhood? We got two cartons of whole milk every week. My mother said one was for baking and cooking and the other was for her and me. My father was never poured milk at dinner and instead had a glass of orange soda. I was allowed orange soda on weekends, and only at lunchtime. My mother said that sugary drinks were less harmful if they were consumed before the dinner hour. In the Cone house there wasn’t even an option of soda. Just clotted milk.
We drove into Hampden, a little neighborhood of narrow row houses with marble stoops and dogs chained in front yards that were either dirt or cement. Dr. Cone parked the car at Little Tavern, and Izzy and I followed him in.
Dr. Cone ordered two bagfuls of burgers and four boxes of large fries. “What do you want to drink?” he asked Izzy.
“Orange soda,” Izzy said.
“Mary Jane?” Dr. Cone asked.
“Orange soda,” I repeated, and then I glanced behind me to see if my mother was somehow there.
Once we had the food, we returned to the station wagon. Izzy ran ahead of me and Dr. Cone. She opened the passenger-side door and climbed into the front seat.
“We’ll eat in the car,” Dr. Cone said. “It’s more fun that way and we can all fit up front!” He placed the burger bags and his soda on the roof of the car, opened his door, and then pulled out all the papers and the folder and moved them to the back seat. Then he waved his arm at me to slide in.
We handed the bag of burgers back and forth. The burger was oily and salty, and sweet, too, from the ketchup. It was one of the best things I’d ever eaten.
“So, we’ve got some big stuff coming up. . . .” Dr. Cone chewed down his burger and swallowed. Izzy had emptied her orange soda and was sucking out the last bits with a bubbling sound.
“Do you want the rest of mine?” I asked, and she kissed me on the cheek and took it.
“One of my patients and his wife are going to move into the house this weekend.” Dr. Cone unwrapped another burger and lopped off half in one bite.
I nodded. I wasn’t sure why he was telling me this and if I was allowed to ask questions.
“Can I trust you, Mary Jane?” Dr. Cone asked.
I nodded again.
“Doctor-patient confidentiality is very serious in psychiatry. No one can know who I’m treating or why or even where.”
“I understand.” I was no longer hungry, but I was nervous, so I reached into the bag and removed another burger. If Dr. Cone was treating someone, didn’t that mean that someone was crazy? So would a crazy man and his wife be in the house where I was working all summer? And did I have to turn my face away and not look at the crazy man to preserve doctor-patient confidentiality? The whole thing felt big and scary and as much as I enjoyed Izzy Cone, the barefoot and sideburn nature of Dr. and Mrs. Cone, and the cluttered kaleidoscope of the Cone home, I wondered if maybe this wasn’t the job for me.
“So, this patient, well, he’s an addict—even the press knows by now, which is why I’m telling you.” Dr. Cone tossed the other half of his burger into his mouth and took a big swill of his orange soda. Izzy handed my orange soda back to me and I took a sip and then returned it to her. “And the wife needs lots of support too. You know, it’s hard when your spouse, or anyone in your family, is addicted.”
Why would the press know this man was an addict? Did the Baltimore Sun print lists of local addicts? I swallowed hard and said, “Will it be safe for me and Izzy to be in the house if an addict is there?”
Dr. Cone burst out laughing, releasing a small spray of food. “It’s entirely safe! He’s a smart, interesting, creative man. His wife is too. Neither of them would ever harm anyone. No one chooses to be an addict, and my job is to help out those who are unfortunate enough to be struck with it. I treat drug addicts, alcoholics, sex addicts . . . the whole shebang.”