It’s Harlin, flat on his back. A sheet covers him from the waist down. He looks like he’s sleeping.
Jacob hurries to Harlin’s side to see if he’s breathing. He looks so alive. His cheeks are flush, his hair is combed, his lips half parted as if he has just lain down. For a moment, it’s as if Jacob has only turned over in bed to see Harlin sleeping. He has done that so many times, just to watch the man breathe. He often thinks of that breath as keeping rhythm with the night, a way of knowing that everything is secure. Jacob is such a light sleeper; if the breath stops, or if Harlin turns his head, Jacob wakes. Is he afraid of losing the man? Or is he just . . . afraid?
“Harlin,” he says.
But Harlin doesn’t answer.
Jacob feels a pulse in his neck and, most importantly, finds no needle holes. No one has gotten to Harlin yet, but there are two lines marked on his neck. His chest moves up and down, slowly but steadily. “I got the body of a thirty-year-old,” Harlin often said. “From hard work and good livin’. I’m gonna live to be a hundred and twenty.”
“You’re gonna live,” Jacob says to him now, pats him on the chest.
He moves to the computer in the desk. He saw how the nurse pulled up files; he searches for Moybridge and finds Harlin’s records. He needs an ace in the hole. If the Redcoats are afraid of Harlin—if he doesn’t have such perfect blood—they won’t want him so badly. And they will let him go.
The file opens, and Jacob creates a disease. He adds a note at the end of Harlin’s records, as if a doctor added it.
It’s not so different than a press release, really, just subtler.
Medical records are scripture. He just hopes that Harlin will forgive him for messing up the scripture as it pertains to him. Muddying up his reputation, his perfection.
Finished, it’s time to get Harlin and himself out of there.
Quickly, he reaches the gurney and begins to unlock the wheels. He is busy covering Harlin to his neck with the sheet when suddenly lights come on all around him.
Jacob finds himself standing in the middle of a surgical theatre. Above him, surrounding him, are windows, and at those windows are Redcoats. Fifty, seventy-five, a hundred. All peering down at him, watching him, as if he is a drop of blood on a slide.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce you to Dr. John Lake from St. Mary’s Hospital in Omaha, Nebraska,” a familiar voice booms through the speakers. The Redcoats clap. As the clapping dies, Dr. Gontard continues. “We are indeed privileged that Dr. Lake is with us. Today, he is going to tell us a bit about a new donor that we discovered among the pool of applicants that have come to the hospital. And, I believe,” and Dr. Gontard smiles, “he is going to show us a new transfusion technique. Is that correct, Dr. Lake?”
Though initially frightened, Jacob suddenly feels at home. This is a press conference. Instead of being the communications man behind the scenes, whispering the strategies, the lines, every second, he is now the minister himself.
“Thank you, Dr. Gontard,” he says broadly, “and to the staff of Sanctuary Hospital for your generosity, and for the honour of demonstrating to you the Omaha method of transfusion, popular at our clinic, but also a technique that is becoming popular in other hospitals.”
He stalls, looks around the room. “I wish we had this kind of staff at St. Mary’s.”
The crowd murmurs their pride and approval. It’s a cheap shot, but it gives him time to think. “I would like to tell you about this donor; first I’m going to need his records.”
Dr. Gontard taps the window twice and small screens appear at intervals around the glass. A projected holographic display, shoulder height, appears in front of Jacob. The report is two pages, which include his additions at the bottom.
Dr. Gontard begins. “With your permission, Dr. Lake, I’ll give an overview of the patient.”
Jacob nods, even as sweat runs down his back. He sees the door behind him, and knows that most of the Redcoats are close by, too close; he might have only minutes to escape, if that. He can’t be too obvious.
“As you can see,” Dr. Gontard begins dramatically, “the patient, Harlin Moybridge, is in peak physical condition. Even at fifty-six years, he is as healthy as a man half his age.”
Oh how Jacob wishes Harlin could hear this. It would stroke his ego.
“Harlin Moybridge has never had any man-made chemicals invade his body. He made a point to list on the patient application that he has only eaten organic foods all of his life, drank purified water, that he’d never taken antibiotics, and only employed homeopathic remedies. He is chemical-free, and therefore chemically unaltered. His blood cells possess the ability to regenerate at an astonishing rate. He could be a universal donor, and the answer to our own dilemma, even as we are the answer to theirs.”
What did he mean? Jacob suddenly remembers the doctors talking in the morgue. “Jardin’s sick”; another doctor was “gone.”
Someone calls out, “What is SVD?”
“Excuse me?” Dr. Gontard asks. There is general curiosity.
“At the end of the record: evidence of SVD. Patient not safe to transfuse.”
“But the top of the form has him approved.”
Curiosity becomes confusion as they each check the records.
“I don’t know SVD. And who is the doctor listed? Esterhazy.” Dr. Gontard looks up. “Dr. Esterhazy. What do you mean by SVD?”
“I didn’t put that there!”
“It’s on the records.”
“But, I don’t even know what SVD is.”
There is now rumbling among the Redcoats. Jacob knows he has only seconds to convince people. They are so much like reporters hearing something they can’t believe, something they fear. You can calm that fear. Or not. He watches the slow chaos forming, wants to wait till it hits a peak. But Jacob hears a murmur from behind him. Harlin moves his head and grunts.
“May I address the doctors?” Jacob asks.
They quiet down. Jacob continues. “It is what I feared I might find at Sanctuary. Something only recently discovered in other hospitals. SVD, or Shanghai Ventricular Disease, has started appearing in our patients in the heartland of America. It is not confirmed yet, so WHO doesn’t want rumours spread.
“First discovered one week ago, SVD is responsible for three deaths at our hospital, two of those doctors. Harlin Moybridge, it appears, carries this disease.”
He keeps his face as straight and convincing as possible. “Which means that anyone who transfuses him will contract SVD.”
The silence tells him they are waiting for one last word.
“This man is no longer of use to us.” He moves to the head of the gurney and begins pulling it backwards. “Gentlemen, for your own safety, please keep back. I’ve already been exposed and will take this man to isolation. Thank you.”
He moves quickly toward the door.
“Jake?” says Harlin. “Jake. That you?”
He tries to place a hand over Harlin’s mouth.
“Jake,” he’s slurring. “Got me strapped down, buddy.”
“Dr. Lake?” says Dr. Gontard. “Please stop.”
The door behind him opens and two Redcoats stand just outside it, blocking his exit.
The gig is up. But the spotlight is still on. What would he say to a minister caught in a lie? No comment, no comment, no comment. He doubts that will work here.
“It’s not Dr. Lake, is it?” Dr. Gontard says. “Convenient that you come on the day we find a universal donor. That the universal donor has a mysterious disease no one else has heard of, and that you are able to, equally conveniently, provide us with a definition, and a history of the disease. No, I think not. He called you Jake.”
“He said Dr. Lake, but he’s sedated and is slurring,” Jacob says.
“Jake, where am I? Who’s talkin’?” Harlin asks.
“It’s okay, Mr. Moybridge.” Jacob turns to him. “We’ll have you fixed up and back in your room soon. Don’t worry.”
He places a hand on Harlin’s arm. Not great timing, Harlin.
“Ah!” Dr. Gontard says, smiling, as if he holds all the cards now. His voice has a lilt. “You’re listed as next of kin. Jake Moybridge, husband. Well, that makes sense.”
No comment. No Comment. No comment. These are the rules of politics and media.
“My name is Dr. Lake and I have come from St. Mary’s in Omaha, Nebraska.”
“Mr. Moybridge . . . Jake, there’s no need to play any roles now. It’s valiant, trying to save the life of your husband. We’re doctors. We hold to the same values. We want to save lives. Your husband is a universal donor.” He pauses, looking around at the Redcoats.
“Dr. Gontard, we can argue over my identity all you want, but this patient is a health risk to this hospital and I must insist that this be our priority.”
Dr. Gontard smiles. “By all means.” He waves to the men in the doorway. They step to either side of the gurney.
“No!” Jacob says instinctively. He pulls one of the doctors away, hitting him across the face with the back of his arm.
“See?” Dr. Gontard says through the speakers. “The actions of a husband, not a doctor.” He waves again and the two Redcoats back away to the door.
“Mr. Moybridge, you are standing at the edge of the greatest opportunity you will probably ever have to make a difference in this world. Your husband has impeccable blood—a kind of blood that will save our lives, even as we save yours. We are filters. We take out disease and give you back better blood. But there are so many of you, so many people with BBD, that we filter too much. We finally succumb to it ourselves. And who is here to save us? No one. We are discovering our own limits.”
He turns to his right and begins to walk the length of the circular room, as if he’s in a lecture hall and Jacob is his only student.
“But Harlin Moybridge has a chance to change that. His blood—with its purity and exceptionally rapid regenerative quality—will give us the ability to transfuse without consequence. We’ll save more lives, and be under less risk ourselves. Thousands of people, Jake, will benefit from Harlin’s blood.”
“You want to do a transfusion of his blood?” Jacob asks.
The doctor stops walking. “Jake, we need all of Harlin’s blood. We can’t give any back. It’s not a transfusion so much as a donation that we need—a donation for humankind. Harlin’s blood, combined with our skills, may allow us to duplicate his blood type and strength for all doctors.”
“Did you ask Harlin?”
Silence.
“No.” Jacob steps more into the light. “You listed him as dead. You didn’t consult his husband. Where are the patient’s rights, Dr. Gontard? You didn’t want to bother with someone saying no. How many people have you done this to already?”
Dr. Gontard snaps, “Don’t look at us with disgust, Mr. Moybridge. Surely you can empathize. We were just like you once—a minority no one cared about. We were forced to feed in the dark, forced to put who we were into a back alley. We cleaned up your poor, your diseased, your refuse from your streets. And now we hold respectable positions. We save lives. We don’t often take a life on purpose anymore—but we could. We could still feed off of you, you know. But we don’t, because society gave us a chance. And we rose to the occasion. The world needs us. And we need your husband. And when you are that badly needed, what is one sacrifice for millions?”
“Then sacrifice yourselves if it’s that important to you,” Jacob says.
Dr. Gontard places his hands against the glass. His fingers elongate, becoming needles again. “Who is looking out for us, Mr. Moybridge? Can you honestly say that you would sacrifice the lives of other people to save your husband? Can you make that choice?”
Jacob drops his head, feels like his feet are taking root, but it’s just because he’s pressing them into the floor. “First of all,” he says, “you and I have nothing in common. Gays as a group do not kill people, nor feed off anyone. You were a minority that had a skill, and you volunteered that skill. Your choice. You benefited from that skill and from your choice. Second, Harlin Moybridge has a choice to become or not become your saviour. You have to obey the same law that gave you benefit and power. You can’t say you’re saving lives when you decide who gets to be saved. Hospitals are obligated to heal everyone. It’s part of the Hippocratic Oath to ‘Do no harm’—even if harming might save millions.”
“One interpretation of a law,” says Dr. Gontard. “You want to ask Harlin Moybridge? Let’s ask him.” Dr. Gontard calls out, “Harlin Moybridge!”
Jacob’s voice rises. “He’s half asleep. He’s sedated. You can’t ask him to give up his life for whatever reason if he can’t understand the question.”
“Harlin Moybridge, would you like to save the world?”
“Harlin, don’t listen to him,” Jacob tells Harlin. His fear, his real fear is that Harlin would love to save the world. It is the kind of question he has been waiting for his entire life. He loves swooping in with a heroic, helpful hand. Sacrifice is something he would do if given the shot. To be the Messiah . . . what if he says yes?
“What’s he saying? Saving people?” Harlin asks.
Jacob looks up at Dr. Gontard, walks towards him. “You can’t believe that his answer is binding in any court of law. He’s drugged!”
“Harlin, you have perfect blood,” says the doctor.
Harlin smiles, slurs his words. “I know. I got a helluva pedigree.”
“Harlin, we need you to help us.”
“What? What do you need? Just ask. Jake, tell him he can have what he wants.”
Jacob turns to the crowd of Redcoats, pleads with them. “How is this right? You can’t be doing this. I’ll expose you to every news media outlet. I know everyone in the media, everyone.” He realizes he’s just threatened people with needles on the ends of their fingers and tries to calm down. “You’re still taking innocent lives.”
“Harlin,” Dr. Gontard continues, “we need your blood.”
“You want my blood, don’t ya? It’s good, damn good blood.” Harlin is smiling. Eating up the attention.
“We need that damn good blood, Harlin. We need you to donate your blood for sick people everywhere. Your blood will save millions of people, Harlin. Do you want to save millions of people?”
Harlin grins, looks at Jacob. “Millions of people?”
“Yes, millions of people. But we need all that blood. You have to give us your life, Harlin, for the lives of millions.”
Jacob grabs hold of Harlin’s bare shoulders. “Harlin, they want to kill you.”
“Harlin,” the doctor says. “We want you to volunteer.”
Jacob starts to cry. He can’t help it. He’s powerless. Harlin reaches out and touches Jacob’s face, traces his right eye. He cups his chin in the palm of his hand and stares into Jacob’s eyes.
Then he turns his head to address Dr. Gontard. “All these sick people you’re talking ’bout . . .” He looks around at the Redcoats standing above. He sounds almost awake, but slightly drunk.
The Redcoats silently wait to hear what he will say. Jacob waits, scared that if Harlin gives his permission, that Jacob will have no power to do anything about it.
Harlin frowns. “Why should I give up my blood for them? People don’t take care of themselves today.” He throws an arm into the air. “Lazy assholes. Let ’em get their own selves better. Sheesh! How many times you gonna drain one of us to save one of them? Get your own damn blood! I made mine myself, took good care of it, stayed healthy—and now I gotta die to save millions? You’re full of shit, that’s what you are. And I mean that, from the bottom of my bloody, damn-good bloody heart. You bastards!”
He lolls his head back. “Sheesh. W
hat do they think I am now—a bloody blood bank?”
Jacob smiles, barely able to suppress it, and looks up at the doctors. “Satisfied?”
The doctors murmur. Someone speaks up. “Mr. Moybridge is right. Perhaps we should ask Harlin Moybridge when he comes out of the sedative. I think if he understood the question—”
Jacob laughs a little to himself. They don’t know Harlin. And he realizes that, for a moment, he didn’t know Harlin. He looks at his husband, who is rubbing his eyes, complaining about the strong light in the room. Jacob loves him for being a damn curmudgeon at the right moments.
Jacob glances at the Redcoats standing at the windows above, at the way the doctors are looking at them, at how their fingers elongate, sharpen into needles.
Jacob reaches for Harlin’s hand and holds onto its warmth. Harlin squeezes, using the leverage to sit up, then stand.
Redcoats pour into the room through the door, surrounding them. A red river. “There’s only a hundred of ’em,” Harlin says. “We can take ’em, buddy!”
Bondsmen
What if Tom were sitting at the end of a green-lawned casino table, martini to the left of him, girls to the right of him, across from a fat man in a red fez with a cat on his arm? What if he smiles, turns and stirs the martini, and everyone gasps because they know him better than he knows himself?
And what if that simple stirring sets off a small panic, no bigger than a small plastic exploding device, enhanced by the waiting at the table, the crowd that has gathered, and the fans that are spinning overhead in a slow-moving rhythm on a cream-coloured, high-vaulted ceiling, where Tom could make an escape using a small gyrocopter if he had one in his pocket, but he doesn’t.
And maybe the crowd cannot possibly know, but they do, that this man isn’t the man he claimed to be when he entered just an hour ago, sauntered over to the table in his impeccable tuxedo, stunningly exotic woman on his arm (who never spoke, but purred), manoeuvred casually into a seat and challenged the fat man to twenty-one, and ordered a drink, which was the same as announcing his name to the world, down to the very directions by which it would be made.
The Angels of Our Better Beasts Page 12