But if all those other lawyers were William A. Cozzano’s army, then Mel Meyer was the stiletto strapped to his ankle. Mel was the eschatological counselor of the Cozzano clan, drafter of wills, executor of estates, godfather of children, and if the whole world turned to decadence and strife one day and civilization collapsed, and Dad were trapped on a hilltop surrounded by the heathen, Mel would shoot himself in the head so that Dad could use his corpse as a rampart. He was small, bald, rumply, tired-looking, lizard-eyed, and didn’t talk much, because he was always thinking everything out two hundred years into the future.
And now he was standing in her hallway, with a cop, quiet and motionless as a fire hydrant, hands in the pockets of his trench coat, staring at the wallpaper, thinking.
She undid the locks and opened the door. The cop stepped aside, clearing a wide space between Mel and Mary Catherine.
“Your pa needs you,” Mel said. “I got a chopper. Let’s go.”
Springfield Central had started out as your basic Big Old Brick Hospital with a central tower flanked symmetrically by two slightly shorter wings. Half a dozen newer wings, pavilions, sky bridges, and parking ramps had been plugged into it since then, so that looking at it from the window of the chopper, Mary Catherine could see it was the kind of hospital where you spent all your time wandering around lost. The roofs were mostly flat tar and pea-gravel, totally dark at this time of night, though in areas that were perpetually shaded, patches of snow glowed faintly blue under the starlight. But the roof of one of the old, original wings was a patch of high noon in the sea of midnight. It bore a red square with a white Swiss cross, a red letter H in the center of the cross, and some white block numerals up in one corner. Well off to the side, new doors—electrically powered slabs of glass—had been cut into the side of the old building’s central tower.
It made her uneasy. This wasn’t Dad’s style. As the governor of one of the biggest states in the union, William A. Cozzano could have lived like a sultan. But he didn’t. He drove his own car and he did his own oil changes, lying flat on his back in the driveway of their house in Tuscola in the middle of the winter while frostbitten media crews photographed him in the act.
Zooming around in choppers gave him no thrill. It just reminded him of Vietnam. He took this to the point where he probably wouldn’t have known how to get a chopper if he had needed one. Which is why he had to have people like Mel, people who knew the extent of his power and how to use it.
“We have limited information,” Mel said, on the way down. “He suffered an episode of some kind in his office, shortly after eight o’clock. He is fine and his vital signs are totally stable. They managed to extract him from the statehouse without drawing a whole lot of attention, so if we play this thing right we may be able to get through it without any leaks to the media.”
In other circumstances, Mary Catherine might have resented Mel’s talk of media leaks at a time like this. But that was his job. And this kind of thing was important to Dad. It was probably the same thing that Dad was worrying about, right now.
If he was awake. If he was still capable of worrying.
“I can’t figure out what the problem would be,” Mary Catherine said.
“They’re thinking stroke,” Mel said.
“He’s not old enough. He’s not fat. Not diabetic. Doesn’t smoke. His cholesterol level is through the floor. There’s no reason he should have a stroke.” Just when she had herself reassured, she remembered the tail end of the message she’d heard on her answering machine, the one that mentioned Sipes. The neurologist. For the first time it occurred to her that the message might have been about her father. She felt a sick panicky impulse, a claustrophobic urge to throw the helicopter door open and jump out.
Mel shrugged. “We could burn up the phone lines getting more info. But it wouldn’t help him. And it would just create more potential leaks. So just try to take it easy, because in a few minutes we’ll know for sure.”
The chopper made an annoyingly gradual soft descent onto the hospital roof. Mary Catherine had a nice view of the capitol dome out her window, but tonight it just looked malevolent, like a sinister antenna rising out of the prairie to pick up emanations from distant sources of power. It was a tall capitol but not a big one. Its smallness always emphasized, to Mary Catherine, its unnatural concentration of influence.
Springfield liked to bill itself as “The City Lincoln Loved.” Mel always referred to it as “The City Lincoln Left.”
Mel and Mary Catherine had to sit inside for a moment and let the momentum of the rotor spin down a little. When she got the thumbs-up from the pilot, Mary Catherine put her hand on her hair and rolled out onto the white cross in her running shoes. She had thrown a trench coat on over her sweatshirt and jeans, and the buckle whipped back and forth on the end of its belt; the wintry air, traveling at hurricane speed under the rotor blades, had a wind chill factor somewhere down around absolute zero. She didn’t stop running until she had passed through the wide automatic glass doors and into the quiet warmth of the corridor that led to the central elevator shafts.
Mel was right behind her. An elevator was already up and waiting for them, doors open. It was a wide-mouth, industrial-strength lift big enough to take a gurney and a whole posse of medical personnel. A man was waiting inside, middle-aged, dressed in a white coat thrown over a Bears sweatshirt. This implied that he had been called into the hospital on short notice. It was Dr. Sipes, the neurologist.
She was used to being in hospitals. But suddenly the reality hit her. “Oh, god,” she said, and slumped against the elevator’s pitiless stainless steel wall.
“What’s going on?” Mel said, watching Mary Catherine’s reaction, looking at Dr. Sipes through slitted eyes.
“Dr. Sipes,” Sipes said.
“Mel Meyer. What’s going on?”
“I’m a neurologist,” Sipes explained.
Mel looked searchingly at Mary Catherine’s face for a moment and figured it out. “Oh. Gotcha.”
Sipes’s key chain was dangling from a key switch on the control panel. Sipes reached for it.
“Hang on a sec,” Mel said. Since he had emerged from the chopper his head had been swinging back and forth like that of a Secret Service agent, checking out the surroundings. “Let’s just have a chat before we go down to some lower floor where I assume that things will be in a state of hysteria.”
Sipes blinked and smiled thinly, more out of surprise than amusement; he wasn’t expecting folksy humor at this stage in the proceedings. “Fair enough. The Governor said that I should be expecting you.”
“Oh. So he is talking?”
This was a simple enough question, and the fact that Sipes hesitated before answering told Mary Catherine as much as a CAT scan.
“He’s not aphasic, is he?” she asked.
“He is aphasic,” Sipes said.
“And in English this means?” Mel said.
“He has some problems speaking.”
Mary Catherine put one hand over her face, as if she had a terrible headache, which she didn’t. This kept getting worse. Dad really had suffered a stroke. A bad one.
Mel just processed the information unemotionally. “Are these problems things that would be obviously noticeable to a layman?”
“I would say so, yes. He has trouble finding the right words, and sometimes makes words up that don’t exist.”
“A common phenomenon among politicians,” Mel said, “but not for Willy. So he’s not going to be doing any interviews anytime soon.”
“He’s intellectually coherent. He just has trouble putting ideas into words.”
“But he told you to expect me.”
“He said that a back would be coming.”
“A back?”
“Word substitution. Common among aphasics.” Sipes looked at Mary Catherine. “I assume that he doesn’t have a living grandmother?”
“His grandmothers are dead. Why?”
“He said that his grandmother
would be coming too, and that she was a scooter from Daley. Which means Chicago.”
“So ‘grandmother’ means ‘daughter’ and ‘scooter—’ ”
“He refers to me and all the other physicians as scooters,” Sipes said.
“Oy, fuck me,” Mel said. “This is gonna be a problem.”
Mary Catherine had a certain skill for putting bad things out of her mind so that they would not cloud her judgment. She had been trained that way by her father and had gotten a brutal refresher course during high school, when her mother had fallen ill and died of leukemia. She stood up straight, squared her shoulders, blinked her eyes. “I want to know everything,” she said. “This Chinese water torture stuff is going to kill me.”
“Very well,” Sipes said, and reached for his key chain. The elevator fell.
All that Mary Catherine was doing, really, was coming to the hospital to visit a sick relative. The chairman of the neurology department did not have to guide her personally through the hospital. She was getting this treatment, she knew, because she was the Governor’s daughter.
It was one of those weird things that happened to you all the time when you were the daughter of William A. Cozzano. The important thing was not to get used to this kind of treatment, not to expect it. To remember that it could be taken away at any time. If she could make it all the way through her father’s political career without ever forgetting this, she’d be okay.
Dad had a private room, on a quiet floor full of private rooms, with an Illinois State Patrolman stationed outside it.
“Frank,” Mel said, “how’s the knee?”
“Hey, Mel,” the trooper said, reached around his body, and shoved the door open.
“Change into civvies, will ya?” Mel said.
When Sipes led Mel and Mary Catherine inside, Dad was asleep. He looked normal, if somewhat deflated. Sipes had already warned them that the left side of his face was paralyzed, but it did not show any visible sagging, yet.
“Oh, Dad,” she said quietly, and her face scrunched up and tears started pouring down her face. Mel turned toward her, as if he’d been expecting this, and opened his arms wide. He was two inches shorter than Mary Catherine. She put her face down into the epaulet of his trench coat and cried. Sipes stood uncertainly, awkwardly, checking his wristwatch once or twice.
She let it go on for a couple of minutes. Then she made it stop. “So much for getting that out of the way,” she said, trying to make it into a joke. Mel was gentlemanly enough to grin and chuckle halfheartedly. Sipes kept his face turned away from her.
Mary Catherine was one of those people that everyone naturally liked. People who knew her in med school had tended to assume that she would go into a more touchy-feely specialty like family practice or pediatrics. She had surprised them all by picking neurology instead. Mary Catherine liked to surprise people; it was another habit she had picked up congenitally.
Neurology was a funny specialty. Unlike neurosurgery, which was all drills and saws and bloody knives, neurology was pure detective work. Neurologists learned to observe funny little tics in patients’ behavior—things that laymen might never notice—and mentally trace the faulty connections back to the brain. They were good at figuring out what was wrong with people. But usually it was little more than a theoretical exercise, because there was no cure for most neurological problems. Consequently, neurologists tended to be cynical, sardonic, remote, with a penchant for dark humor. Sipes was a classic example, except that he appeared to have no sense of humor at all.
Mary Catherine was trying to make a personal crusade of bringing more humanity to the profession. But standing by her stricken father’s bedside crying her eyes out was not what she’d had in mind.
“Why is he so out of it?” Mel said.
“Stroke is a major shock to the system. His body isn’t used to this. Plus, we put him on a number of medications that, taken together, slow him down, make him drowsy. It’s good for him to sleep right now.”
“Mary Catherine told me that guys of his age, in good shape, shouldn’t have strokes.”
“That’s correct,” Sipes said.
“So why did he have one?”
“Usually stroke happens when you are old and the arteries to your brain are narrowed by deposits. This patient’s arteries are in good shape. But a big blood clot got loose in his system.”
“Damn,” Mary Catherine said, “it was the mitral valve prolapse, wasn’t it?”
“Probably,” Sipes said.
“Whoa, whoa!” Mel said, “what is this? I never heard about this.”
“You never heard about it because it’s a trivial problem. Most people don’t know they have it and don’t care.”
“What is it?”
Mary Catherine said, “It’s a defect in the valve between the atrium and the ventricle on the left side of your heart. Makes a whooshing noise. But it has no effect on performance, which is why Dad was able to join the Marines and play football.”
“Okay,” Mel said.
“The reason it makes a whooshing noise is that it creates a pattern of turbulent flow inside the heart,” Sipes said. “In some cases, this turbulent flow can develop into a sort of stagnant backwater. It’s possible for blood clots to form there. That’s probably what happened. A clot formed inside the heart, eventually got large enough to be caught up in the normal flow of blood, and shot up his carotid artery into his brain.”
“Jesus,” Mel said. He sounded almost disgusted that something so prosaic could fell the Governor. “Why didn’t this happen to him twenty years ago?”
“Could have,” Sipes said. “It’s purely a chance thing. A bolt from the blue.”
“Could it happen again?”
“Sure. But we’re keeping him on blood thinners at the moment, so it can’t happen right now.”
Mel stood there nodding at Sipes while he said this. Then Mel kept nodding for a minute or so, just staring off into space.
“I have eight hundred million phone calls to make,” Mel said. “Let’s get down to business. List for me all of the other human beings in the world who know the information that you just gave me. And I don’t want him being wheeled around this hospital for everyone to look at. He stays in this room until we make further arrangements. Okay?”
“Okay, I’ll pass that along to the others—”
“Don’t bother, I’ll do it,” Mel said.
It was like the old days in Tuscola, when a hot, portentous afternoon would suddenly turn dark and purple and the air would be torn by tornado sirens and the police cars would cruise up and down the streets warning everyone to take cover. Dad was always there, guiding the kids and the dogs down into the tornado cellar, checking to see that the barbecue and lawn chairs and garbage can lids were stowed away, telling them funny stories while the cellar door above their heads pocked from the impacts of baseball-sized hailstones. Now, something even worse was happening. And Dad was sleeping through it.
And Mom wasn’t around anymore. And there was her brother James. But he was just her brother. James wasn’t any stronger than she was. Probably less so. Mary Catherine was in charge of the Cozzano family.
Sipes and Mary Catherine ended up in a dark, quiet room in front of a high-powered Calyx computer system with two huge monitors, one color and one black-and-white. It was a system for viewing medical imagery of all kinds—X-rays, CAT scans, and everything else. This hospital had had them for several years already. The hospital where Mary Catherine worked probably wouldn’t get one until sometime in the next decade. Mary Catherine had used them before, so as soon as Dr. Sipes set her up with access privileges, she was able to get started.
After a while, Mel somehow tracked her down and sat next to her without saying anything. Something about the darkness of the room made people hush.
Mary Catherine used a trackball and a set of menus and control windows to open up a large color window on the screen. “They put his head in a magnet and baloney-sliced his brain,” she said
.
“Come again?” Mel said. It was funny to see him nonplussed.
“Did a series of CAT scans. Had the computer integrate them into a three-dimensional model of Dad’s melon, which makes it a lot easier to visualize which parts of his brain got gorked out.”
A brain materialized in the window on the computer screen, three-dimensional, rendered in shades of gray.
“Is this the way doctors talk?” Mel said, fascinated.
“Yes,” Mary Catherine said, “when lawyers aren’t around, that is. Let me change the palette; we can use a false-color scheme to highlight the bad parts,” she said, whipping down another menu.
The brain suddenly bloomed with color. Most of it was now in shades of red and pink, fading down toward white, but small portions of it showed up blue. “When lawyers and family members are present,” Mary Catherine said, “we say that the blue parts were damaged by the stroke and have a slim chance of ever recovering their normal function.”
“And amongst medical colleagues?”
“We say that those parts of the brain are toast. Croaked. Kaput. Not coming back.”
“I see,” Mel said.
“Been taking a stroll down memory lane,” Mary Catherine said. “Check this out.” She played with the menus for a moment and another window opened up, a huge one filling most of the black-and-white screen. It was a chest X-ray. “See that?” she said, tracing a crooked rib with her fingertip.
“Bears-Packers, 1972,” Mel said. “I remember when they carried him off the field. I lost a thousand bucks on that fucking game.”
Mary Catherine laughed. “Serves you right,” she said. She closed the window with the chest X-ray. Then she used the trackball to rotate the image of the brain back and forth in different ways to reveal selected areas. “This stroked area accounts for the paralysis and this small one here is responsible for his aphasia. In the old days we had to figure this stuff out just by talking to the patient and watching the way he moved.”
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