Regeneration

by Max Allan Collins

  For their second date, he suggested another expensive restaurant (men never learned), so Joyce had carried the ball, by saying, “Do you know what would just hit the spot?”

  “What?”

  “A hot dog down at Santa Monica pier. With ketchup and relish. And onion rings. The greasier the better.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  A little hurt, she stuttered, “Well, if, uh …”

  “Mustard, not ketchup! Have you no refinement, woman?”

  That evening, walking along the sand, the wonderfully gaudy lights of the pier dancing in the darkness, a full moon watching high from a star-flung sky and a balmy California breeze running its fingers through her hair—and his—they kissed, tentatively, like teenagers, as if it were the first kiss either had experienced.

  Over the next two weeks they saw each other often—more walks on the beach, evenings at coffeehouses, and matinees at neighborhood second-run theaters and classic-movie houses.

  “You know, a client of mine gave me a couple of tickets to the Smashing Pumpkins concert, Saturday,” he said over coffee at a vintage diner. “It’s sold out … it’s a hot ticket, everyone says they’re great….”

  She stirred creamer into her coffee. “Can I share a secret, Jack?”

  “Well, of course.”

  “I think their music sounds like their name.”

  “Oh. Well, so do I, actually … I just thought….”

  “I saw in the paper something about an outdoor oldies concert, up the coast….”

  “I read about that,” he said. Almost to himself, he said, “I think I know somebody I can sell these tickets to….”

  That seemed a slightly peculiar comment, from someone as well off as Jack. After driving her back from the concert—at which the Turtles, the Grass Roots and Bobby Vee performed—he was about to leave her at her door, when she asked him in.

  “I don’t think anybody famous ever lived here,” she said apologetically. She’d hidden the Hobbit house from him long enough. “Except maybe Bela Lugosi.”

  He had his brown attaché with him—the plan, or anyway the pretense, had been, after the early evening concert, to work on the list (a list they actually had been adding to)—and he set the slim briefcase near the small desk in one corner of her tidy living room with its secondhand furniture.

  “I like it,” he said. “Funky in the best sense.”

  At least he didn’t comment on the place being “retro.”

  They sat on the gold sofa (the only non-secondhand piece she owned) in front of her small fake fireplace and began to pet. There was no other word for it: It was as if they were in the backseat of a Chevy at a drive-in movie, as he caressed her breasts through her blouse, taking forever to slip his hand under and around to undo her bra strap.

  Her new breasts had never been too responsive before; under rougher hands, they had seemed lifeless lumps, but Jack’s sensitive touch brought them alive, and when his lips found their erect tips, he nuzzled them with such loving tenderness that she shimmered with delight, wept with bittersweet happiness. He seemed surprised when she got down before him, on her knees, and unzipped him and took him into her mouth, and he liked it all right, but he wanted more to be inside her, and soon he was, the two of them half-dressed, fumbling on the couch like kids, washed in the artificial glow of the fake fireplace, as masterfully atop her, he brought her to a slow, endless climax that sent youth radiating through her.

  When she returned from freshening up in the bathroom, she found Jack asleep on the couch, sprawled out in an ungainly masculine fashion that only made her more fond of him. She went to the desk, hauled his attaché up on it, snapped it open and took out the rather thick manila folder.

  But something caught her eye, tucked away in the top snapped-shut compartment—something strangely familiar….

  She unsnapped the compartment and there it was: a silver-capped plastic bottle.

  Frowning, Joy popped open the cap and familiar clear capsules within confirmed a suspicion she had never allowed her mind to form.

  Joy returned the plastic bottle to its hiding place in the attaché, put the file folder back inside too, placed the briefcase on the floor, where Jack had left it.

  And, in the dim light of the desk light, she looked down at her reflection in the glass protecting the desktop: Her face stared back at her, the young face with the old eyes. The face had no expression at first; but then, slowly, a smile formed.

  “What the hell,” she said to the two women in the glass.

  Then she returned to the living room, where Jack was rousing, looking pleasantly rumpled.

  “You look like the cat that ate the canary,” he said.

  “Not a canary exactly,” she smiled, then leaned closer to him, a hand stroking his thigh.

  She snuggled with him on the couch, wondering if she should tell him—or would that spoil his fantasy of being with a younger woman? She had already shared her secret with Susan, a violation of the X-Gen contract. Perhaps she should keep what she knew about Jack to herself … at least for now….

  “What are you thinking about?” he asked.

  “Nothing. Nothing. Just reflecting on …”

  “What?”

  “How much nicer it is to be with an older man. All that experience …”

  This time she was on top, and as she rode him, they were ageless, not young, not old, two passionate people in love, screwing their brains out.

  The following Saturday marked the first time Joy would not spend most of her weekend with Jack.

  “Kafer isn’t my only client, you know,” he’d told her over the phone, midweek, when she was at work.

  “Just so your other ‘clients’ aren’t getting the same TLC I am, buster,” she said.

  He laughed. “It’s just a quick couple of days in the Midwest for some insurance checks. I’ll be back by Sunday evening—I’ll call you.”

  “Okay. Stay away from those corn-fed cuties, all right?”

  “I’ll try to resist. There’s something about the scent of hog-slop on a girl that drives me wild.”

  “Go away, you goof,” she laughed. “Fly away! See you Sunday.”

  And she made a smooch sound for the phone to pick up, so far gone she didn’t feel foolish doing so.

  Now it was Saturday morning and Joy was sitting on the edge of the examination table in Dr. Green’s office. Wearing snug blue jeans, a white designer T-shirt and silver futuristic-looking jogging shoes, she kicked the air like an impatient kid, waiting for the doctor to come in.

  She hoped he wouldn’t be long, because she wanted to get home with a walnut plant stand she’d found discarded in an alley on the way to her appointment; her Jaguar, cruising the realm of the rich and famous, was never looked upon with suspicion.

  It was amazing what some people considered useless and just threw the hell out! The stand would look perfect in her living room with the right plant on it … a little worse for wear, perhaps, but still functional. Besides, old-and-distressed had become fashionable—too bad that didn’t apply to how her generation was viewed.

  So she was pleased when the door opened and Dr. Green stepped in, her medical file in his hands.

  She flashed him a bright smile, because today she was feeling happy.

  “Well, aren’t we chipper,” he commented, returning the smile.

  “Yes, we are.”

  “Ah, well. Good … good.” He studied her a moment, as if to determine whether she was telling the truth, before setting her file folder on the white countertop next to the examination table where she perched.

  “And how have you been?” he asked. “Any complaints at all?”

  “None.”

  “Excellent.”

  He proceeded to check her blood pressure, her ears and throat, looked in her eyes with a bright light, tested the strength of her fingers, and her reflexes, by tapping her knees with a little hammer.

  Then Dr. Green reached for her file and, pulling a
three-legged stool over in front of her, sat down.

  “Last month,” he commented, reading her file, “you had some depression about your personal life.” He looked up. “Is that any better?”

  She didn’t want to tell him she was madly in love—it was none of his business—so she said casually, “I have a friend whose company I enjoy. But we’re not serious.”

  Her words came out stilted, sounding false; like the time she’d fibbed to her father about having “just a platonic relationship” with one of their married neighbors. She was never good at lying, except in the context of her work.

  Dr. Green was jotting something in her folder. Was everything she had ever uttered to the baby-faced physician recorded in there?

  After a moment, he said, “We need a bone density test so we can adjust your estrogen replacement as time goes on. You can make the appointment with the nurse.”

  “Is that for osteoporosis?”

  He nodded. “But not to worry—you’re in fine fettle.”

  Not to worry? Fine fettle? Green wasn’t old enough to be spouting phrases like that … or was he?

  Green gave her the perfunctory smile that signaled the end of their appointment. “Anything else?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then the nurse will be in with your monthly pills.” He patted her knee. “You’re doing fine, Joy.”

  Like she’d gotten an “A” on a test. “Thanks.”

  He stood.

  “Doctor? I guess I do have a couple questions. That is, if you have the time.”

  “For you, always.” He seemed sincere enough, returning to the stool. Behind that blank professionalism, did an actual human being lurk?

  This was her first checkup since she and Susan had shared their secret—and since she’d learned of her secretary’s health problem.

  Joy cleared her throat. “I have a client who gave me some samples of herbal supplements. Are they okay to take? I mean, with the capsules.”

  The query was a smoke screen for what she really wanted to ask. She wasn’t really interested in taking much, if any, of that garbage; she only promoted it.

  “What kind of supplements?” he asked.

  “Valerian.”

  “Ineffective, in my opinion.”

  “Ginkgo.”

  “There’s something wrong with your memory?”

  “No, I just understand it’s a good source of Vitamin B.”

  “We can give you a monthly shot of B if you feel you need that extra zip.”

  “Maybe next month. How about ginseng?”

  A short laugh vibrated his plump lips. “Poppycock.”

  Poppycock? Again, an expression at variance with his unformed, bisque-baby face.

  “Anything else?” Dr. Green asked patiently.

  “What can you tell me about rheumatoid arthritis?”

  “I can tell you you don’t have it.”

  She forced her own little laugh. “Well, I know I don’t have it. I just want to know about it.”

  He raised his eyebrows, shrugged, and launched into a clinical description of the disease, followed by the prognosis in layman’s terms.

  It wasn’t anything she already didn’t know from recent research on the Internet in her office.

  “And there’s no cure?” she asked after he’d finished.

  “No.”

  “Nothing … at all?”

  Now he seemed to understand. He cleared his throat. “There is a drug that’s been successful in stopping its advancement—and in some cases even reversed the effects of the disease—but it’s not available here.”

  “In the States, you mean.”

  “Correct.”

  “But it could be obtained,” she ventured.

  He nodded slowly, then said, “But you won’t be needing it, Joy, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “I just … it’s just … I’ve had a little stiffness of my joints. Nothing serious, but when it gets damp….”

  “In this dry climate, I wouldn’t worry.” He gestured with one hand. “Oh, as you get a little older, you’ll get the common type of arthritis that most everyone has. And when that happens, I’ll give you something that works a lot better than anything that’s been FDA-approved today.”

  Dr. Green stood, clutching her file folder to his chest. “Just let me know when your joints begin to really get stiff—when it’s chronic, not just on rare occasions.”

  “You’ll be the first to know.”

  His eyes hardened; they seemed to bore through her. “I’m here to help you,” he said. “We’re on the same team. My job is to see that you can do your job … and I can only do that if you’re honest with me about your aches and pains and any health-related concern.” His eyes softened, his voice, too. “Understood?”

  She nodded. “Understood.”

  “All right, then. See you next time.”

  An hour later, in Studio City, with another month’s supply of the clear capsules tucked in her purse, Joy pulled her car into the narrow driveway adjacent to her bungalow. She got out and, with some difficulty, removed the heavy walnut plant stand from the back seat of the Jaguar. She set it down on the cement, marveling at her find. The piece, which stood about four feet tall, was shaped like two hourglasses on top of each other, with a thick round top, and a matching round base that had three little claw feet to hold it steady.

  To be sure, some of the wood, especially on top, was badly weather-damaged; but with a little mothering, it could be brought back to life and serve a useful purpose.

  Joy carried the furniture in through the front door and put it on the carpet to one side. She was looking forward to an afternoon of dragging the piece from one room to the next, one corner to another, until she found the most aesthetically pleasing spot for her newfound treasure.

  But before she could fully enjoy this simple furniture ritual, she had to take care of another piece of business, something she’d been thinking about on her drive back from the doctor’s office.

  Removing her appointment book from her purse, she leafed to the back of it and found her secretary’s home number. Then, using the phone on the end table by the couch, Joy placed a call to Susan. She wanted to tell her secretary about her conversation with the doctor.

  On the sixth or seventh ring, an answer machine picked up, and Susan’s voice, sounding work-like efficient, told Joy to leave her name and number, which she did.

  With that in motion, Joy’s attention returned to the plant stand.

  The California sun, now low in the sky, shone through the open blinds in the living room, cascading in yellow ribbons across the walnut plant stand, which stood proudly before the front windows. It was the first place Joy had tried it several hours ago, before moving it around the entire house, just to be sure.

  Joy was sitting cross-legged on the couch, sipping a rich cup of Starbucks French roast—she’d be damned if she’d cut costs on her coffee—admiring the stand, basking in her luck, when the phone rang shrilly next to her.

  “Joy, it’s Susan,” her secretary said.

  For a moment, Joy forgot why she’d called her. “Oh, hi,” she responded, then remembering said, “Listen, I went to see Dr. Green this morning, and he told me something interesting about your type of disease.”

  “I know. I just got back from seeing him, myself.”

  Joy was shocked. “Susan … I never mentioned your name—I never specifically said …”

  “I told him,” Susan interrupted. “I got to thinking about what you’ve been advising, when we go out to lunch …”

  Lunching together had become a ritual for these two who shared a secret.

  Susan was saying, “… how I needed to level with Dr. Green, and get some help. So I made an appointment for this afternoon.”

  “What did he say?”

  There was a sigh over the phone. “You mean after he bawled me out for not disclosing rheumatoid arthritis was in my family, when I filled out my original questio
nnaire?”

  Something made Joy clutch the phone receiver, tight. “You’re not in trouble with X-Gen?”

  “No, no, not in the least. Dr. Green was nice enough about it. Said he had a new drug I could take.”

  “Oh! Well, that’s what I was going to tell you about. That’s great news, isn’t it?”

  “Beyond great. I’m so relieved not to have to hide it anymore. You can’t imagine the weight that’s off my shoulders …” And Susan added sheepishly, “I guess I was foolish to wait.”

  “Well, you’ve done the right thing now.”

  There was a pause.

  “Look,” Joy said suddenly, “would you like to come over for dinner? Jack’s out of town, and I make a great veggie salad: It’s more than I can eat.”

  “Oh, that’s sweet of you,” Susan responded, “but I’m driving to Bakersfield tonight. Sort of a date.”

  “Really?” Susan had never mentioned any man in her life, other than the mythical husband, Jerome (that bastard); and Joy had never really been interested enough to ask. Until now.

  They were sisters of a sort, weren’t they?

  “We met in a chat room,” Susan explained gaily.

  Joy suppressed a groan. “You’re going to see a man you met on the Internet? Get real, Susan!”

  If it had been Susan questioning Joy’s judgment, Joy would have gotten testy; but Susan’s enthusiasm continued unabated. “Oh, Paul and I have been trading E-mails and chatting online for weeks, Joy. He really is nice. And, besides, we’re just friends … for now, anyway.”

  When had she heard that one before? “Get a grip, Susan— your on-line ‘friend’ is gonna be married, with a wife just made for Jerry Springer and a horde of bratty kids….”

  Light laughter came over the line.

  Joy kept at it: “Or he’s really a twelve-year-old kid, holding his one-inch pecker in his sweaty palm.”

  “You’re terrible!” Susan said, but she was laughing. “I’ll tell you what, you can have Jack check him out, top to bottom, dental records, family tree, whatever…. But could I please just meet him first?”