The Clinics Box
“Steven, would you please go downstairs and get the clinics box for me?” The request came from aged Mrs. White, a tiny white-haired Southern belle. Cindy and I, early in our marriage, were working for her in exchange for free rent in the apartment above her garage. As the lazy afternoon Southern sun drifted through the gauzy windows, illuminating dust motes floating in the air, Cindy and I were vacuuming the floors and wiping down her antiques—in a futile effort to conquer those same motes when they came to rest. Mrs. White was an easy person to work for. She wasn’t demanding or demeaning or unreasonable. Her wants were generally few. “Steven, would you please go downstairs and get the clinics box for me?” “Sure, Mrs. White. What kind of box did you say?” “Clinics. A clinics box.” She seemed a bit frustrated, which was unusual for her, so I didn’t press it any further. Clearly a clinics box must be some kind of first-aid kit, filled with items you might find at doctors’ ...