Silent Treatment

Chapter3

It was midmorning when Harry finisheddictating two discharge summaries and left the hospital for the six-block walkto his office on West 116th Street. The day was cloudless and just cool enoughto be invigorating. Still, despite the weather, he sensed the return of thepersistent flatness that had been dogging him for months. It was a feelingunlike anything he had ever experienced before — even during his year of painand disability. And his failure to simply will it away was becomingincreasingly frustrating. Distracted, Harry stepped on to Lexington Avenueagainst the light and narrowly missed walking into a Federal Express truck.

'Hola, Doc, over here!'

The cabby, dropping off a fare, waved tohim from across the street. It took a moment, but Harry recognized the husbandof one of his obstetrics patients — one of his last obstetrics patients,he thought grimly.

'Hola, Mr. Romero. How's the baby?' heasked once he had made it across.

The man grinned and gave an A-okay sign.

'You need a ride anyplace?'

'No. No, I don't, Mr. Romero. Thanksanyway.'

The man smiled and drove off.

The brief exchange gave Harry a boost. Hestarted walking again, picking up his pace just a little.

The canary yellow Mercedes convertible wasparked by the hydrant in front of the building where Harry had a ground-flooroffice. Phil Corbett was grinning at him from behind the wheel.

'Shit,' Harry whispered.

It wasn't that he disliked his youngerbrother. Quite the contrary. It was just that Phil was harder for him to takeon some days than on others. And today was one of those days.

'A mint condition vintage 220SL withsixteen thousand miles on her,' Phil said, motioning him in. 'I just picked herup at my midtown showroom. Do you have any idea what this baby's worth?'

Phil's formal education had ended onemonth into community college, when he gave up trying to compete with Harry andjoined the Navy. Three years later he was back in civilian clothes, sellingcars. The profession was tailor-made for his ingenuous smile, unclutteredpsyche, and perpetual optimism. Five years after his first sale, he bought outthe owner of the agency. After that, he began to expand. Now, six agencieslater, he had two daughters and a son in private school, a lovely wife whocouldn't spend what he made even if she wanted to, and a three handicap at oneof the most exclusive country clubs in New Jersey. He also had no troubledealing with life's big questions. He never asked them.

'Eight hundred and seventy-three thousand,four hundred and ninety-two dollars and seventy-three cents,' Harry said. 'Plustax, destination, and dealer preparation charges. You been to see Mom?'

'Tomorrow. How do you know how much thiscost?'

'I don't. That's my total lifetime grossincome. I went down to the home last Tuesday. She didn't know who I was.'

'I guess that's the upside of having all thosestrokes.'

'Very funny.'

Phil studied his older brother.

'Harry, you okay? You look terrible.'

'Thank you.'

'Well, you do. Bags under your eyes. Thatthumbnail chewed down again.'

'I've got a lot on my mind, Phil.' Heglanced at his watch. 'Listen, I've only got a couple of minutes before I'vegot to see patients.'

'So what are you so worried about? Evie?When's she going to have that operation?'

'In a few days.'

'She'll do fine. She's made out of… um… ah … steel.'

'Don't start, Phil.'

'I didn't say anything bad.'

'You were about to.'

'Why should I have anything bad to sayabout my sister-in-law? She calls and asks me to help her talk my brother intoaccepting this pharmaceutical-house job he's been offered. I tell her that eventhough it's a grand-sounding title, and maybe more money, I think my brotherought to decide for himself if he wants to give up his medical practice to pushpills and design magazine ads. She calls me a selfish bastard who's threatenedby my brother's moving up in the world. And she says maybe a dozen words to mesince. Why should I have anything bad to say about her?'

'She was right, Phil. I should have takenthe position.'

'Harry, you see people when they're sickand you help them get well. Do you know how wonderful that is?'

'It's not enough anymore.'

'Hey, you're forty-nine. I'm forty-four.It's my turn for a midlife crisis. You're supposed to be through yoursalready.'

'Well, I'm not. I don't know, Phil, it'slike … I spent too much time just accepting things as they were in my life. Ididn't set enough goals or something. Now it seems like I don't have anything,to push against. I should have taken that job. At least there would have beensome new challenges.'

'You're doing fine, Harry. It's thatbirthday coming up that has you rattled. The big five — '

'That's okay, Phil. You don't have to sayit.'

Harry had discussed the Corbett curse withhis brother, but only once. Phil's dismissal of the theory was as emphatic asit was predictable. On a September first their paternal grandfather, just a fewmonths past his seventieth birthday, had dropped dead of a coronary.Twenty-five years later — exactly twenty-five years later — their fatherhad his first coronary. He was precisely sixty years and five weeks oldon that September first. That he didn't die on the spot was both tragicand, to Harry, immaterial. The two years he lived as a cardiac cripple werehell for everyone.

September first. The date had been circled onHarry's mental calendar since his father's heart attack. But after oneparticular lecture at a cardiology review course, he had highlighted it in red.

'It may be due to societalfactors or to genetics,' the cardiologist had said. 'Possibly both. But we frequentlysee a pattern in families which I call the Law of Decades. Simply put, a son'sfirst cardiac event seems often to occur precisely ten years earlier than didhis father's. Obviously, there are exceptions to the Law. But check it out. Ifyou have a fifty-four-year-old man with a coronary and a positive familyhistory, there's a good chance his father will have had his first event at agesixty-four. Not sixty-three or sixty-five. Ten years on the button. .'

'But physically you're feeling all right,Harry,' Phil said. 'Right?'

'Sure. Sure, Phil, I'm fine. It's probablyjust that I haven't had a two-week vacation in almost three years, my car isfalling apart, and — '

'Hey, believe it or not, that's actuallyone of the reasons I stopped by. I have a great deal for you on a new C220.Dealer's cost. Not the dealer's cost we tell everyone we're selling to them at.The real dealer's cost. A new Mercedes. Just think how much Evie'll loveit. Who knows, she might even — '

'Phil!'

'Okay, okay. You said you needed achallenge, that's all.'

Harry opened the door of the roadster andstepped out on to the pavement.

'Give my love to Gail and the kids,' hesaid.

'I'm worried about you, Harry. You'reusually very funny. And even more important, you usually think I'm funny.'

'You're not funny today, Phil.'

'Give me another chance. How about lunchsometime next week?'

'Let's see what happens with Evie.'

'Okay. And don't worry, Harry. If youreally need it, I'm sure something will come along for you to push against.'

After twenty-one admissions to ParksideHospital, Joe Bevins could close his eyes and tell time by the sounds andsmells coming from the hallway outside his room. He even knew some of thenurses and aides by their footsteps — especially on Pavilion 5. More often thannot, he was able to get the admissions people to send him there. The staff onthat floor was the kindest in the hospital and knew the most about caring forchronic renal failure patients who were on dialysis. He also liked the rooms onthe south end of the floor best of any in the hospital — the rooms with viewsof the park and, in the distance, the Empire State Building.

It wasn't a great life, having to getplugged in at the dialysis center three times a week, and having to be rushedto Parkside every time his circulation broke down, or an infection developed,or his blood sugar got too far out of whack, or his heart rhythm becameirregular, or his prostate gland swelled up so that he couldn't pee. But atseventy-one, with diabetes and nonfunctioning kidneys, it was a case of beggarscan't be choosers.

Outside his door, two litters rattled by,returning patients from physical therapy. One of them, a lonely old gal with nofamily, had lost both her legs to gangrene. Now, they were just keeping heraround until a nursing home bed became available. It could be worse, Joereminded himself. Much worse. At least he had Joe Jr., and Alice, andthe kids. At least he had visitors. He glanced over at the other bed in hisroom. The guy in that bed, twenty years younger than he was, was down having anoperation on his intestines — a goddamn cancer operation.

Oh, yes, Joe thought. No matter how badit got for him, he should never forget that it could always be worse.

He sensed the presence at his door evenbefore he heard the man clear his throat. When he turned, a white-coated labtech was standing there, adjusting the stoppered tubes in his square, metalbasket.

'You must be new here,' Joe said.

'I am. But don't worry. I've been doingthis sort of work for a long time.'

The man, somewhere in his forties, smiledat him. He had a nice enough face, Joe decided — not a face he took to all thatmuch, but not one that looked burnt-out or callous either.

'What are you here to draw?' he asked.

Joe's doctors almost always told him whattests they had ordered. They knew he liked to know. All three specialists hadbeen by on rounds that morning, and none had said anything about blood work.

'This is an HTB-R29 antibody titer,' theman said matter-of-factly, setting his basket on the bedside table. 'There's aninfection going around the hospital. Everyone with kidney or lung problems isbeing tested.'

'Oh.' The technician had an accent of somesort. It wasn't very marked, and it wasn't one Joe could place. But it wasthere. 'Where're you from?' he asked.

The man smiled at him as he prepared histubes and needle. The blue plastic name tag pinned on his coat read G.Turner, Phlebotomist. Trying not to be obvious, Joe looked down at hisclip-on identification badge. It was twisted around so that it was impossibleto read.

'You mean originally?' the man responded.'Australia originally. But I've been here in the U.S. since I was a child. Youhave a very astute ear, Mr. Bevins.'

'I taught English before I got sick.'

'Aha. I see,' Turner said, glancingswiftly at the door, which he had partially closed on his way in. 'Well, then,shall we get on with this?'

'Just be careful of my shunt.'

Turner lifted Joe's right forearm, andgently ran his fingers over the dialysis shunt — the firm, distended vesselcreated by joining an artery and vein. His fingers were long and finelymanicured, and Joe had the passing thought that the man played piano, andplayed it well.

'We'll use your other arm,' Turner said.He tightened a latex tourniquet three inches above Joe's elbow, and took muchless time than most technicians did to locate a suitable vein. 'You seem totake all this in stride. I like that,' he said as he gloved, then swabbed theskin over the vein with alcohol.

'All those doctors don't keep me alive,'Joe said. 'My attitude does.'

'I believe you. I'm going to use a smallbutterfly IV needle. It's much gentler on your vein.'

Before Joe could respond, the fine needle,attached to a thin, clear-plastic catheter, was in. Blood pushed into thecatheter. Turner attached a syringe to the end of the catheter and injected asmall amount of clear liquid.

'This is just to clear the line,' he said.

He waited for perhaps fifteen seconds.Then he drew a syringeful of blood, pulled the tiny needle out, and held thesmall puncture site firmly.

'Perfect. Just perfect,' he said. 'Are youokay?'

I'm fine.

Joe was certain he had said the words, buthe heard nothing. The man standing beside his bed kept smiling down at himbenevolently, all the while keeping pressure on the spot where the butterflyneedle had been.

I'm fine, Joe tried again.

Turner released his arm, and placed theused needle and tube in the metal basket.

'Good day, Mr. Bevins,' he said. 'You'vebeen most cooperative.'

With the first icy fingers of panicbeginning to take hold, Joe watched as the man turned and left the room. Hefelt strange, detached, floating. The air in the room was becoming thick andheavy. Something was happening to him. Something horrible. He called out forhelp, but again there was no sound. He tried to turn his head, to find the callbutton. From the corner of his eye, he could see the cord, hanging down towardthe floor. He was paralyzed — unable to move or even to take in a breath. Thecall button was no more than three feet away. He strained to move his handtoward it, but his arm was lifeless. The air grew heavier still, and Joe felthis consciousness beginning to go. He was dying, drowning in air. And there wasabsolutely nothing he could do about it. Nothing at all.

The pattern on the drop ceiling blurred,then darkened, then faded to black. And with the deepening darkness, Joe'spanic began to fade.

From beyond the nearly closed door to hisroom, he heard the sound of the cart from dietary being wheeled to the kitchenat the far end of the hallway. Next he caught the aroma of food.

And after twenty-one hospitalizations atParkside, most of them on Pavilion 5, he knew that it was exactlyeleven-fifteen.

Seven of the ten chairs in Harry's waitingroom were occupied, although three of them were taken by the grandchildren ofMabel Espinoza. Mabel, an octogenarian, graced him with the smile that noamount of pain or personal tragedy had ever erased for long. She had high bloodpressure, vascular disease, hypo-thyroidism, fluid retention, a love affairwith rich foods, and chronic gastritis. For years, Harry had been holding hertogether with the medical equivalent of spit and baling wire. Somehow, thetherapeutic legerdemain continued to work. And because of it, Mabel had beenable to care for the grandchildren, and her daughter had been able to keep herjob.

Harry reminded himself that there were noMabel Espinozas connected with the position of Director of Physician Relationsat Hollins/McCue Pharmaceuticals.

Mary Tobin, Harry's officemanager-cum-receptionist, oversaw the waiting room from her glass-enclosedcubicle. She was a stout black woman, a grandmother many times over, and hadbeen with Harry since his third year of practice. She was notably outspokenregarding those subjects on which she had an opinion, and she had an opinion onmost subjects.

'How did the meeting go?' she asked as heentered her small fiefdom to check the appointment book.

'Meeting?'

'That bad, huh.'

'Let's just say that all these yearsyou've been working for a baritone, and from now on you'll be working for atenor,' Harry said.

Mary Tobin grinned at the image.

'What do they know? You'll make do, Dr.C.,' she said. 'You've been through tough times before, and you always find theright path.'

'Keep telling me that. Any calls I need todeal with?'

'Just your wife. She called a half an hourago.'

'Is she okay?'

'I think so. She'd like you to call her atthe office.'

Harry headed past his three examiningrooms to his office. In addition to Mary Tobin, he had a young nursepractitioner named Sara Keene who had been with him for four years, and amedical aide who must have been the twentieth he had hired from the nearbyvocational tech. One of that group he had fired for stealing. The rest had leftto have babies, or more often, for better pay. Sara looked up from her desk andwaved as he passed.

'I heard about the meeting, Dr. C.,' shecalled out cheerily. 'Don't worry.'

'If one more person tells me not to worry,I'm going to start worrying,' he said.

His personal office was a large space atthe very back of the once elegant apartment building. In addition to an oldwalnut desk and chairs, it contained a Trotter treadmill which he had used forcardiac stress tests until the associated malpractice premiums made performingthe tests prohibitively expensive. Now, he used the mill for exercise. Thewalls of the office, once paneled with what Evie called 'Elks Club pine', hadbeen Sheetrocked over at her request and painted white. They held the usualarray of laminated diplomas, certifications, and testimonials, plus somethingonly a few other physicians could put on their walls — a silver star fromVietnam. There were also three original oils Evie had picked out, allcontemporary, all abstract, and none that Harry would have chosen had he beenleft to his own tastes. But the majority of his patients seemed to like them.

There were three pictures in frames on thedesk. One was of Harry and his parents at his medical school graduation; onewas of Phil, Gail, and their kids; and one was of Evie. It was ablack-and-white, head-and-shoulders publicity shot, taken by one of the city'sforemost photographers. There were several dozen snapshots of her in his deskthat Harry would have preferred in the frame, but Evie had insisted on theportrait. Now, as he settled in his chair, Harry cradled the frame in his handsand studied her fine, high cheekbones, her sensual mouth, and the darkintensity in her eyes. The photo was taken just before their wedding nine yearsago. Evie, twenty-nine at the time, was then, and remained, the most beautifulwoman he had ever known.

He picked up the phone and dialed hernumber at Manhattan Woman magazine.

'Evelyn DellaRosa, please,' he said,setting her likeness back in its spot. 'It's her husband.'

Evie had been the consumer editor for thestruggling monthly for five years. Harry knew it was an unpleasant comedown forher from the network television reporting job she had once held. But he admiredher tenacity and her commitment to making it back into the spotlight. In fact,he knew something good was going on in her professional life. She wouldn't tellhim what, but for her even to mention that she was working on a story with bigpotential was unusual.

It was three minutes before she came onthe line.

'Sorry to keep you waiting, Harry,' shesaid. 'I had this technician ready to blow the whistle on the dog lab in thebasement of a building owned by InSkin Cosmetics, and the bastard just wimpedout.'

'Are you all right?'

'If you mean do I spend one minute out ofevery hour not thinking about this damn balloon in my head, the answer is, I'mfine.'

'They had that meeting at the hospital.'

'Meeting?'

'The Sidonis committee report.'

'Oh. . oh, yes. . How did it go?'

'Let's just say I should have taken thatjob with Hollins/McCue.'

'Dawn breaks on Marblehead.'

'Please, Evie. I admitted it. What morecan I say?'

He knew there was, in fact, nothing hecould say that wouldn't make matters worse. His decision a little over a yearago to turn down the offer had nearly been the final nail in the coffin oftheir marriage. In fact, considering that he could count on one hand the numberof times they had made love since then, the fallout was probably continuing.

'I got a call from Dr. Dunleavy's office alittle while ago,' she said.

'And?'

'A bed on the neurosurgical floor andoperating room time have become available. He wants me to come in tomorrowafternoon and be operated on Thursday morning.'

'The sooner the better.'

'As long as it's not your head,right?'

'Evie, come on.'

'Listen, I know I had promised to come hearyou play at the club tonight, but I don't want to now.'

'That's fine. It's no big deal. I don'thave to play.'

He took care to keep any hurt from hisvoice. Throughout their dating and the early years of their marriage she hadloved his music, loved hearing him play. Now, he couldn't recall the last time.He had been looking forward to this small step back toward the life they hadonce shared. But he did understand.

'Harry, I need to talk to you,' Evie saidsuddenly.

'Can you come home early enough for us togo out to dinner?'

'Of course. What gives?'

'I'll. . I'll talk to you tonight,okay?'

'Should I be worried?'

'Harry, please. Tonight?'

'All right. Evie, I love you.'

There was a pause.

'I know you do, Harry,' she said.