Silent Treatment

by Michael Palmer

  “Sure. Sure, Phil, I’m fine. It’s probably just that I haven’t had a two-week vacation in almost three years, my car is falling apart, and—”

  “Hey, believe it or not, that’s actually one 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 love it. Who knows, she might even—”

  “Phil!”

  “Okay, okay. You said you needed a challenge, that’s all.”

  Harry opened the door of the roadster and stepped out onto the pavement.

  “Give my love to Gail and the kids,” he said.

  “I’m worried about you, Harry. You’re usually very funny. And even more important, you usually think I’m funny.”

  “You’re not funny today, Phil.”

  “Give me another chance. How about lunch sometime next week?”

  “Let’s see what happens with Evie.”

  “Okay. And don’t worry, Harry. If you really need it, I’m sure something will come along for you to push against.”

  * * *

  After twenty-one admissions to Parkside Hospital, Joe Bevins could close his eyes and tell time by the sounds and smells coming from the hallway outside his room. He even knew some of the nurses and aides by their footsteps—especially on Pavilion 5. More often than not, he was able to get the admissions people to send him there. The staff on that floor was the kindest in the hospital and knew the most about caring for chronic renal failure patients who were on dialysis. He also liked the rooms on the south end of the floor best of any in the hospital—the rooms with views of the park and, in the distance, the Empire State Building.

  It wasn’t a great life, having to get plugged in at the dialysis center three times a week, and having to be rushed to 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 became irregular, or his prostate gland swelled up so that he couldn’t pee. But at seventy-one, with diabetes and nonfunctioning kidneys, it was a case of beggars can’t be choosers.

  Outside his door, two litters rattled by, returning patients from physical therapy. One of them, a lonely old gal with no family, had lost both her legs to gangrene. Now, they were just keeping her around until a nursing home bed became available. It could be worse, Joe reminded himself. Much worse. At least he had Joe Jr., and Alice, and the kids. At least he had visitors. He glanced over at the other bed in his room. The guy in that bed, twenty years younger than he was, was down having an operation on his intestines—a goddamn cancer operation.

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

  He sensed the presence at his door even before he heard the man clear his throat. When he turned, a white-coated lab tech was standing there, adjusting the stoppered tubes in his square, metal basket.

  “You must be new here,” Joe said.

  “I am. But don’t worry. I’ve been doing this sort of work for a long time.”

  The man, somewhere in his forties, smiled at him. He had a nice enough face, Joe decided—not a face he took to all that much, 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 what tests they had ordered. They knew he liked to know. All three specialists had been by on rounds that morning, and none had said anything about blood work.

  “This is an HTB-R29 antibody titer,” the man said matter-of-factly, setting his basket on the bedside table. “There’s an infection going around the hospital. Everyone with kidney or lung problems is being tested.”

  “Oh.” The technician had an accent of some sort. It wasn’t very marked, and it wasn’t one Joe could place. But it was there. “Where’re you from?” he asked.

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

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

  “I taught English before I got sick.”

  “Aha. I see,” Turner said, glancing swiftly 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, and gently ran his fingers over the dialysis shunt—the firm, distended vessel created by joining an artery and vein. His fingers were long and finely manicured, and Joe had the passing thought that the man played piano, and played it well.

  “We’ll use your other arm,” Turner said. He tightened a latex tourniquet three inches above Joe’s elbow, and took much less time than most technicians did to locate a suitable vein. “You seem to take all this in stride; I like that,” he said as he gloved, then swabbed the skin 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 small butterfly 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 the catheter. Turner attached a syringe to the end of the catheter and injected a small 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 the small puncture site firmly.

  “Perfect. Just perfect,” he said. “Are you okay?”

  I’m fine.

  Joe was certain he had said the words, but he heard nothing. The man standing beside his bed kept smiling down at him benevolently, all the while keeping pressure on the spot where the butterfly needle had been.

  I’m fine, Joe tried again.

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

  “Good day, Mr. Bevins,” he said. “You’ve been most cooperative.”

  With the first icy fingers of panic beginning to take hold, Joe watched as the man turned and left the room. He felt strange, detached, floating. The air in the room was becoming thick and heavy. Something was happening to him. Something horrible. He called out for help, but again there was no sound. He tried to turn his head, to find the call button. From the corner of his eye, he could see the cord, hanging down toward the floor. He was paralyzed—unable to move or even to take in a breath. The call button was no more than three feet away. He strained to move his hand toward it, but his arm was lifeless. The air grew heavier still, and Joe felt his consciousness beginning to go. He was dying, drowning in air. And there was absolutely 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’s panic began to fade.

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

  And after twenty-one hospitalizations at Parkside, most of them on Pavilion 5, he knew that it was exactly eleven-fifteen.

  * * *

  Seven of the ten chairs in Harry’s waiting room were occupied, although three of them were taken by the grandchildren of Mabel Espinoza. Mabel, an octogenarian, graced him with the smile that no amount of pain or personal tragedy had ever erased for long. She had high blood pressure, vascular disease, hypothyroidism, fluid retention, a love affair with rich foods, and chronic gastritis, For years, Harry had been holding her together with the medical equivalent of spit and baling wire. Somehow, the therapeutic legerdemain continued to w
ork. And because of it, Mabel had been able to care for the grandchildren, and her daughter had been able to keep her job.

  Harry reminded himself that there were no Mabel Espinozas connected with the position of Director of Physician Relations at Hollins/McCue Pharmaceuticals.

  Mary Tobin, Harry’s office manager-cum-receptionist, oversaw the waiting room from her glass-enclosed cubicle. She was a stout black woman, a grandmother many times over, and had been with Harry since his third year of practice. She was notably outspoken regarding those subjects on which she had an opinion, and she had an opinion on most subjects.

  “How did the meeting go?” she asked as he entered her small fiefdom to check the appointment book.

  “Meeting?”

  “That bad, huh.”

  “Let’s just say that all these years you’ve been working for a baritone, and from now on you’ll be working for a tenor,” 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 beforehand you always find the right path.”

  “Keep telling me that. Any calls I need to deal with?”

  “Just your wife. She called a half an hour ago.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “I think so. She’d like you to call her at the office.”

  Harry headed past his three examining rooms to his office. In addition to Mary Tobin, he had a young nurse practitioner named Sara Keene who had been with him for four years, and a medical aide who must have been the twentieth he had hired from the nearby vocational tech. One of that group he had fired for stealing. The rest had left to have babies, or more often, for better pay. Sara looked up from her desk and waved as he passed.

  “I heard about the meeting, Dr. C.,” she called 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 at the very back or the once elegant apartment building. In addition to an old walnut desk and chairs, it contained a Trotter treadmill which he had used for cardiac stress tests until the Associated malpractice premiums made performing the tests prohibitively expensive. Now, he used the mill for exercise. The walls of the office, once paneled with what Evie called “Elks Club pine,” had been Sheetrocked over at her request and painted white. They held the usual array of laminated diplomas, certifications, and testimonials, plus something only a few other physicians could put on their walls—a silver star from Vietnam. There were also three original oils Evie had picked out, all contemporary, all abstract, and none that Harry would have chosen had he been left to his own tastes. But the majority of his patients seemed to like them.

  There were three pictures in frames on the desk. One was of Harry and his parents at his medical school graduation; one was of Phil, Gail, and their kids; and one was of Evie. It was a black-and-white, head-and-shoulders publicity shot, taken by one of the city’s foremost photographers. There were several dozen snapshots of her in his desk that Harry would have preferred in the frame, but Evie had insisted on the portrait. Now, as he settled in his chair, Harry cradled the frame in his hands and studied her fine, high cheekbones, her sensual mouth, and the dark intensity in her eyes. The photo was taken just before their wedding nine years ago. Evie, twenty-nine at the time, was then, and remained, the most beautiful woman he had ever known.

  He picked up the phone and dialed her number 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 the struggling monthly for five years. Harry knew it was an unpleasant comedown for her from the network television reporting job she had once held. But he admired her 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 tell him what, but for her even to mention that she was working on a story with big potential was unusual.

  It was three minutes before she came on the line.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting, Harry,” she said. “I had this technician ready to blow the whistle on the dog lab in the basement of a building owned by InSkin Cosmetics, and the bastard just wimped out.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “If you mean do I spend one minute out of every hour not thinking about this damn balloon in my head, the answer is, I’m fine.”

  “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 that job with Hollins/McCue.”

  “Dawn breaks on Marblehead.”

  “Please, Evie. I admitted it. What more can I say?”

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

  “I got a call from Dr. Dunleavy’s office a little while ago,” she said.

  “And?”

  “A bed on the neurosurgical floor and operating room time have become available. He wants me to come in tomorrow afternoon 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 hear you play at the club tonight, but I don’t want to now.”

  “That’s fine. It’s no big deal. I don’t have to play.”

  He took care to keep any hurt from his voice. Throughout their dating and the early years of their marriage she had loved 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 had once shared. But he did understand.

  “Harry, I need to talk to you,” Evie said suddenly. “Can you come home early enough for us to go 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.

  CHAPTER 4

  Kevin Loomis, first vice president of the Crown Health and Casualty Insurance Company, slipped a folder of notes into his briefcase, straightened his desk, and checked his calendar for the following day. He was a meticulous worker and never left for the evening without tying up as many loose ends as possible. He buzzed his secretary and turned on a mental stopwatch. In six seconds she was in his office.

  “Yes, Mr. Loomis?”

  Brenda was fabulous—smart, organized, loyal, and an absolute knockout. She was a legacy to him from Burt Dreiser, now the president and CEO of the company. Kevin suspected she and Dreiser had something going outside the office. But it really didn’t matter. Dreiser had bumped him up to the corner office over a number of others who had more seniority and, in some cases, more qualifications than he did. And as far as Kevin was concerned, if Dreiser was sleeping with Brenda Wallace, more power to him.

  “Do we have anything else we need to take care of?” he asked. “I’m just getting set to leave for the day.”

  “Second and fourth Tuesdays. I know,” she said, a smile in her eyes. “I wish you well.”

  The poker game. For years, Dreiser, who was a legendary workaholic, had uncharacteristically left the office at four o’clock on the second and fourth Tuesdays of every month. Some sort of explanation seemed called for. Brenda was far too efficient and observant not to wonder. The poker game fit the bill perfectly. Now, Kevin had taken over not on
ly Dreiser’s former title, office, and secretary, but, as far as Brenda Wallace was concerned, his seat at the high-stakes card game as well. Second and fourth Tuesdays. Four o’clock. In fact, Dreiser had made a point of corroborating the poker story to Kevin’s wife, Nancy. The necessary rite of passage up the corporate ladder comfortably explained her husband’s twice-monthly overnights in the city. The avowed secrecy surrounding the game’s location explained the need for her to communicate with him by beeper only.

  “I’ve won maybe once in the four months I’ve been playing,” Kevin told Brenda dryly. “I think that might be why Burt invited me into the game in the first place. He could tell I was a greenhorn. Listen, seeing as how Oak Hills has decided to renew with us, I think we ought to do something for them. You have the names of the members of the school board and the head of the union. Send them each some champagne. Better still, make it chocolates. Godiva. About a hundred dollars worth for each should do fine. Put something nice on the cards.”

  “Right away, Mr. Loomis.”

  She left after favoring him with a smile that would have melted block ice. His successes were hers, and the Oak Hills school system renewal was a triumph. The system was huge, one of the largest on Long Island. And by and large its teachers were young and healthy. Young and healthy—the golden words in any group medical coverage. It was a feather in Kevin Loomis’s cap, to be sure. But the victory really belonged to The Roundtable. The Oak Hills system had been apportioned by the society to Crown. Any competition for the contract would come from nonmembers. And of course, dealing with nonmember competitors was what The Roundtable was all about.

  The Oak Hills coup was meaningful on another level as well. Kevin’s first four months as Burt’s replacement on The Roundtable had been marked by controversy. A troubling situation had developed that had resulted in the group’s moving their meetings from the Camelot Hotel to the Garfield Suites, and the situation had involved Kevin. But in truth, nothing that had happened was his fault. Hopefully, the others saw it that way, too. He had no idea what would happen if they didn’t.

  He picked up his briefcase and overnight bag and took some time to survey the panorama of the city, the river, and the countryside beyond. Kevin Loomis, Jr., had risen from gofer to first vice president, from a gerbil-village corkboard cubicle to a corner office. His parents, had they lived, would have been proud—damn proud—of the way he had turned out. He swallowed against the fullness in his throat that memories of them always seemed to bring. Then he headed out toward the elevator bank. His transformation to Sir Tristram, Knight of The Roundtable, had begun.