by Ann B. Ross
“Come in, Julia,” Mildred said, as she motioned me to a chair beside her. “Forgive me for not rising, but I’m so emotionally drained from worrying about Horace that . . . well, you understand, I know.
“Here,” she said, offering the cake plate to me. “I’ve been urging Mr. Pickens to have a drink, but he keeps turning me down. Says he honors Sundays by refraining from spirits on the Lord’s day.” She laughed appreciatively. “I think he’s been around you too long.”
“That’s probably it,” Mr. Pickens said, his black eyes glinting.
“So,” I said, taking the chair beside Mildred, “have you two decided anything?” Worried about Sam’s back, I was ready to move things along and get back home.
“Oh, we’ve just been visiting,” Mildred said, clearly enjoying Mr. Pickens’s presence and in no hurry to conclude, or even begin, our business.
Since I thought that business of little moment and nothing more than time away from my ailing husband, I was in no mood for a couple of hours of chitchat.
So, after mentioning that Sam wasn’t feeling well, I pushed things along by saying, “Mr. Pickens, do you have any suggestions about the best car for Horace when, and if, he can drive again?”
He hunched forward, his forearms on his knees, which were spraddled out in a typically masculine position, and said, “It’s obvious enough that any of the luxury sedans will be roomier and easier to drive than his Boxster, although, I warn you, he may not think so. That car’s a jewel, and I don’t know a man alive who’d give it up easily. But if you’re going to buy something, you should look at the high-end sedans that have the new electric steering system. It’ll probably be an option, but if you get it Horace will be able to turn the steering wheel with one finger. Mercedes offers it, I know, so the others probably do, too.”
“One finger?” Mildred asked, clearly impressed. “That’s exactly what Horace needs.”
“And,” Mr. Pickens went on, “they all come equipped now with a camera for reversing, and be sure to get the blind spot assist, which is probably standard, but might not be. With that, you don’t have to twist your neck around to see if anybody’s coming up on the left. I’d definitely get that on any new car I bought.”
“Well,” Mildred said, “that sounds good, too. But what about those cars that drive themselves? I’ve been thinking that’s what Horace needs. He could just sit behind the wheel and feel like he’s driving, but he wouldn’t be at all.”
Mr. Pickens almost laughed, but quickly straightened up and said, “I wouldn’t recommend that—too experimental. Besides, they’re not available to consumers yet and, from the results I’ve heard, it’ll be some time before they are.”
“That’s too bad,” Mildred said. “I was hoping that I could get a driverless car and he’d never have to strain himself again.”
Having had enough of Mildred’s fanciful ideas and wanting to get back to Sam, I said, “You can accomplish that easily enough, Mildred. Just get him a roomy car and hire a driver.”
“I’ve been thinking of that, too,” she said, any hint of sarcasm drifting past without recognition.
“Well, I’d be careful,” Mr. Pickens said, “if I were you and not do anything rash.”
“Like what?” Mildred asked.
“Like getting rid of that Porsche. Buy him another car if you want to, but let that one sit in the garage. I know if it was mine, and it suddenly went missing, I’d have a heart attack on the spot. A man and his car are not easily parted.”
Chapter 30
*
Mr. Pickens was thoughtful enough to walk me home in the dark, so I did the conventional thing and invited him in.
“Thanks, but no,” he said. “It’s been a long day, and I need to get home. Tell Sam we sure appreciated his help on the house today. You need to come by and see what we’re doing. Things are moving right along.”
“I’m glad to hear it, but, Mr. Pickens, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep Sam from doing any heavy work. He’s thrown his back out as it is.”
“Oh? Sorry about that. A heating pad and a couple of aspirin ought to put him right.”
I knew that, so I thanked him again and went inside.
* * *
—
Sam was already in bed, but not asleep. He had the extension cord of the heating pad strung across the room to an outlet.
“Don’t trip on that cord,” he cautioned as I entered the bedroom.
“I see it, but how’re you feeling?”
“I’m okay.” He smiled, then grimaced as he tried to turn over. “Can’t seem to get comfortable, though, and I think this cord is wrapped around me a couple of times.”
I went straight to the bathroom and brought back two aspirins and a glass of water. “Here, take these, then get yourself settled, and I’ll fix the heating pad for you.”
He could barely sit up to take the medicine, and I wished we had something stronger in the house.
“How in the world,” I asked, “did you get up the stairs to bed? You can hardly move without pain.”
“Well, you would’ve laughed to see me, but I crawled up the stairs, then crawled into bed, thinking it would ease off if I could lie down. It hasn’t.”
“Oh, Sam,” I said, wondering aloud if I should call the doctor.
“No,” he said. “It’s just a pulled muscle, and a few hours of rest will do the trick.”
He didn’t have a comfortable night, nor did I. He moaned and groaned at each movement, so I was up before dawn. Something had to be done and, whether Sam liked it or not, he was going to see the doctor.
Calling Dr. Hargrove’s office as soon as it opened, I spoke with Libbie, his longtime receptionist, telling her that Sam needed to be seen as soon as possible.
“He’s in severe pain, Libbie, and I know Dr. Hargrove would have him come in. So I’m sure that Dr. Crawford will want to see him, too. What’s a good time?”
“Well,” she said, “Dr. Crawford likes his appointments to stay on schedule, so he wants walk-ins to come about five.”
“No, that won’t do. Sam’s in a bad way, and he needs to be seen right away.”
“I tell you what,” Libbie said, “y’all come on, and I’ll work him in. We don’t want Mr. Sam to be in pain.”
“Oh, thank you, Libbie. We’ll be there just as soon as he can get out of bed. But will you get in trouble?”
“Probably,” she said airily, “but I can’t be fired—at least not till Dr. Hargrove gets back.”
“And certainly not then, either,” I said, determined, just as soon as Bob Hargrove got home, to speak to him about the arrogance of putting off emergency cases till late afternoon and the resultant lowering of office morale, as well. And I intended to mention a few other things, too.
It turned into a production to get Sam to the doctor’s office. Every movement created such agony that just getting him dressed was a trial, even though Sam tried to hide it. Lillian and I helped him downstairs and into the car, but he was sweating by the time he was seated for the ride.
We waited almost an hour before Sam was called in to see Dr. Crawford—an hour of pain for Sam and of agitation for me. I stayed in the waiting room, waiting for Dr. Crawford to call me in, as Dr. Hargrove would have, to tell me what was wrong with Sam and what would be done for him.
Instead, Sam, still unable to straighten up, was helped by a nurse back to the waiting room. “He has a prescription,” the nurse said. “I’d get it filled right away, and get him started on it.”
Half insulted by not being told this by the doctor himself, I got Sam in the car and headed for the drugstore. “What did the doctor say?” I asked.
“A pulled muscle,” Sam said, “just as I thought. That’ll teach an old man not to do a young man’s job.”
“Oh, shoo,” I said, “LuAnne Conover pulled her back out just by
leaning over to make up a bed. It’s just the way it happens.” I drove into the lot at the drugstore and parked. “You stay here, and I’ll get the prescription filled. Just think, in about fifteen minutes, you’re going to have relief.”
Sam bravely smiled. “If I can stand it that long.”
Carrying the prescription, I walked through the drugstore to the pharmacy in the back and handed it in. They knew us there, and I was greeted with warmth by Dave Daniels, the pharmacist.
“I’ll wait,” I said. “We need it filled right away, if you can.”
“For you, Miss Julia, that’s right now.” And it was after only a few minutes that I was handed an amber vial of white tablets. “Uh, now,” Dave said, leaning over the counter, “this is strong stuff, so I’d dole it out carefully.”
Turning the vial around, I read Oxycodone on the label and underneath it the words, “Take one caplet every 3 to 4 hours for pain.”
“Oxycodone?” I asked, holding the vial at a distance, as I recalled hearing a lot about this particular medication, and none of it good. “How many did you give us?”
“Dr. Crawford ordered sixty.”
“Sixty? I’ve yet to meet a pulled muscle that lasted that long.”
“Well,” Dave said, lowering his voice, “I’d try giving Sam only half a tablet at a time. Then switch to something over the counter as soon as he gets relief.”
“Good advice,” I said, and headed out in high dudgeon. Even I knew that sixty tablets or caplets or doses of that fearsome drug handed out like candy was a recipe for disaster. In this case, the cure was most certainly worse than the disease.
As soon as we got home, I sliced a caplet in half and gave one of the halves to Sam. Almost in minutes, he was able to straighten up and move around without pain. For the rest of the day, he rested, napping occasionally, until about four o’clock, when he began to show signs of discomfort again.
I gave him—although hesitantly—the other half, then at bedtime I suggested he take some Tylenol. He slept well all night and the next morning, he was virtually without pain. Another dose of Tylenol had him on his feet and back to normal.
“Lillian,” I said as we discussed it in the kitchen, “I don’t know what to think about that new doctor. The idea of giving Sam so much of such a strong drug makes me question his judgment. I mean, what if he took every one of these tablets? Why, by the end of the week, he could’ve been a drug addict.”
Holding up the offending vial, I went on. “I’m going to hide these things and hold on to them a few days, just to be sure that Sam won’t need them. Then I’m getting them out of the house.”
“Yes, ma’am, I would, too,” Lillian said. “An’ we better not tell a soul they in here. Bad people be breakin’ in to steal ’em.”
I hadn’t even thought of that, but it was a real possibility, so that was another thing to tell Bob Hargrove. In the meantime, though, every month or so the sheriff held a Drop Off Your Unused Drugs Day, and I would drop off the remaining fifty-nine tablets, relieved to have them out of the house. To tell the truth, as long as those tablets were on hand, even up high and in the back of a cabinet, they seemed to emit an alluring call to come get them and just try a few.
So there was another great black mark against Dr. Crawford. Why had he been so generous with a drug that had caused so much suffering? Had he not read the literature or listened to the news? What if he had turned my beloved Sam into a shambling addict who roamed the streets looking for what he could no longer live without?
I shuddered to think that I could’ve had a hand in it by blindly following the doctor’s orders to dole them out for the least little twinge.
Chapter 31
*
There was, however, no doubt about it—we were living in a drug-taking culture, and I’m not talking about what was bought on the street. Just listen to the television advertisements, all aimed at your average hard-working, stressed-out person resting on a sofa after supper. Every other ad on the screen pushed some wonder drug—possibly made from jellyfish, of all things—that would turn you into a new and vibrant person. Just start on some pills or drink some high-powered potion every day or rub something on your skin and all of a sudden your golf putt would drop into the hole, you’d ace your tennis opponent, or you’d blossom into the life of the party. All you had to do was talk your doctor into prescribing this wonder drug that would change your life.
Did people really fall for that? Obviously they did or drug companies wouldn’t spend millions on advertising their wares. One advertisement that really disturbed me was the one that made a rational case by saying something like, “You take something for your heart, and you take something for your joints, why not take something for your brain?” If anyone fell for that, I’d think he really did need something for his brain. I’d recommend a heavy dose of Scripture every morning rather than a slug of some mind-altering drug concocted in a laboratory and tested on a rodent.
Well, I sighed, as these thoughts flitted through my unmedicated brain, maybe that’s why doctors were so free with their prescriptions—it would be futile to argue with self-diagnosed patients. I expect patients came in already knowing what they needed for their complaints, already fully prepped by television advertisements. Maybe busy physicians had given up trying to explain that a decent diet, a full night’s sleep, and reasonable exercise would be better than a prescription for some synthetic remedy. Even though some of those patients were people who wouldn’t put a synthetic thread on their bodies.
And maybe ordering sixty tablets for what was cured by two halves of one was the result of doctors’ having been awakened too often in the middle of the night by someone else who couldn’t sleep.
I didn’t know the answer. All I knew was that I would from now on question whatever Dr. Crawford prescribed either for me or for mine. And that was a crying shame, because I had always put my wholehearted trust in every physician under whose care any of us had ever been. But from now on, I would look askance at whatever any of them recommended, suggested, or prescribed.
But, then, given my natural skepticism, that’s pretty much what I did with everyone I knew. Except Sam, of course.
* * *
—
He came to the breakfast table the next morning looking like a new man. Gone was the frown, the look of pain, the stiff back, and the careful movements.
“Julia,” he said as I poured coffee into his cup, “I don’t know what Dr. Crawford prescribed, but it’s worked a miracle. He certainly knows his business.”
“So it appears,” I said, keeping my concerns about pill-peddling doctors to myself. “Just don’t get too rambunctious or you’ll pull that muscle again.”
“That’s right, Mr. Sam,” Lillian said, putting a plate of biscuits on the table. “You got to be careful how you walk, an’ how you set down, an’ you can’t be doin’ no heavy liftin’. Least till you know it’s all healed up. An’ even then,” she went on with a laugh, “you got a good excuse to get outta doin’ anything you don’t want to do.”
“Good thinking, Lillian,” Sam said as we laughed.
We all turned in surprise as Lloyd walked in, closing the back door behind him.
“You’re not in school?” I asked.
“Spring break.”
“You’re not driving alone, are you?” Sam said. “I didn’t hear a car turn in.”
“No, sir,” Lloyd said, taking his usual place at the table as Lillian fixed a plate for him. “I’m back on two wheels. Temporarily, I hope. Both my sisters have real bad colds, and Mama feels like she’s getting one, and Miss Granny didn’t come in because she’s sick, and James is sneezing his head off, so I thought I’d better get out while the getting was good.
“And all that,” he went on, “means that Mama can’t ride with me ’cause she doesn’t want to take the girls out, and J.D. is gone for a few days, so I’ve got
time on my hands.”
“Maybe,” I said, “you can work on your house.”
“No’m, we’re waiting on the drywall crew. J.D. decided that it’s too big a job for us to try to tape, mud, and sand all those seams. Especially since neither of us knows how to do it. So we’re at a standstill.” He buttered a biscuit, took a bite, then said, “But I’m on my way over there now to unlock for the drywall men. I’ll probably sweep and straighten up a little while I wait, but J.D. said I didn’t have to stand around all day while they work.
“Actually, I’m kinda glad to have a few days off, except I sure do miss getting to drive. I might get rusty while I wait for somebody to ride with me.”
“Well,” I said, hoping that I wasn’t offering what I couldn’t deliver, “how would you like to drive my car?”
“Your car?” Lloyd’s eyes got big. “Oh, wow, you mean it?”
“If your mother says it’s okay, then, yes, I mean it. It seems I’m committed to driving Mrs. Allen out in the countryside every afternoon to visit Mr. Horace. And I’m bored to tears with the same old thing every day. I figure you’ll give us something else to think about.”
“Uh-huh,” Lillian said, half under her breath, “I ’spect he will.”
“The only thing, though, Lloyd,” I said, “is that those roads are very curvy and narrow—only two lanes, you know. And there’re ditches on both sides and no shoulders to speak of. Still, it’s worth having experience with all kinds of road conditions.”
Lloyd’s eyes were shining with the possibilities, but then he seemed to rethink them. “And we’d have Miss Mildred with us?”
“Yes, that’s the only reason I’ll be going. She says she’s too nervous to drive herself.” I tried not to let any skepticism creep into my words, but it was hard.