by Ross Pennie
When he figured he could manage a few words, he crossed the waiting room and slumped against the receptionist’s counter. “Max Szabo? Gotta see him.”
“Are you all right, sir? Your breathing. Should I call nine-one-one?”
He flicked his hand. “I’m okay — gotta see — Max.”
“Excuse me. Are you a relative?”
“Friend — colleague.”
“Then you’ll have to take a seat. Max won’t be long. In fact, Dr. Margolis is running early this morning.”
Hamish clutched the edge of the counter as his stomach somersaulted. “His father sent me — must cancel injection.”
“Cancel it?” said the young woman, clearly miffed at his intrusion into her ordered sphere.
He nodded vigorously.
“You can’t just . . .” She looked at his name badge. There was a softening of the indignation in her face. Less authority, more respect. She rubbed at her ear. “I’m afraid you’re probably too late,” she said, the confidence now drained from her eyes. “But if you wait just a moment, I’ll get the nurse.” She rose from her seat and scurried into the hallway behind her desk.
“Hurry. Life ’n’ death,” Hamish croaked after her. He leaned on the counter. Please God, wherever You are, spare Max that injection.
Three clocks on the walls of the inner office said Swiss Made and ticked off the seconds, as if mocking his predicament. After thirty-seven ticks a scowling middle-aged nurse, her hips overfilling a pastel-blue pantsuit, opened the inner-office door. She motioned Hamish inside.
In her sturdy white shoes she stood three inches taller than Hamish. “What’s going on?” she asked, clutching a clipboard to her ample chest.
“Dr. Szabo sent me.” Though he felt like a schoolboy, he was relieved he could finally speak in sentences. “To stop his son’s injection. We’ve discovered a problem. The Extendo-Tox. It might be lethal.”
Her face stiffened. “Lethal? Heavens, no.” Her hand massaged the wattle beneath her chin. “We’ve injected dozens of kids —”
“Has Max had his yet?”
She studied her clipboard. “Max Szabo? Oh yes. All done. Dr. Margolis is observing the effects right now.” She scanned Hamish’s name tag then searched his eyes. “You have to be mistaken about the Extendo-Tox.”
“I must see Max.”
The woman moved to the centre of the corridor, leaving no doubt that Hamish would have to push her out of the way to get any farther. “I can see you’re upset, Dr. Wakefield. But the procedure was completed a good ten minutes ago, and it won’t help Max if you barge in there now.” She gave Hamish a confidential pat on the forearm. “And you know what doctors are like — very definite about how things are done.” She looked again at her clipboard as if figuring out the best way to handle such a sticky situation. “Tell you what — I’ll take you to Dr. Margolis’s study. He’ll join you there in a couple of minutes.”
The hallway spun. Hamish steadied himself against the wall, managed a nod, and followed the woman down the hall to an oakpanelled den and dropped into a padded leather armchair. Ten minutes! The time bomb had begun ticking in Max’s brain ten minutes ago. How long before the boy forgot which buttons to push on his game gadget? Dear God. If only Zol had called sooner. Hamish could have been the hero instead of the wheezing wuss, the useless fool who’d barged into a room jammed with people who couldn’t wait to tell everyone about the crazy doctor. It would be all over the medical centre in a flash.
His ears burned.
He stared at a knot in the pinewood panelling and pictured prions and Extendo-Tox swirling deep into Max’s brain.
As his head spun, a voice Hamish didn’t recognize intruded into his thoughts. It spoke with conviction but without harshness. Hell’s bells, the voice said, what does it matter that those tight-assed mothers watched you gasping, red-faced and nearly barfing? Why should you give a shit how ridiculous you looked to them? Ten minutes from now those women will be telling their friends what they witnessed in the waiting room, but ten weeks from now they’ll have forgotten all about it. But you, Hamish, maybe you won’t forget this day. Not if it’s the day you finally risked liberating yourself from your bogeyman, risked throwing off your self-imposed fear of criticism. It’s time you put a stop to the tyranny of humiliation that makes you constantly look over your shoulder. Stop fretting that hints of disapproval are going to add to the warehouse of rebukes hurled at you in loneliness by your mother and harboured in bitterness by your father.
At the approach of heavy footsteps, Hamish felt the tightness grip his chest again. Any second Zol would thunder into the room. What in God’s name was Hamish going to say to him?
I did my best, but hell’s bells, you should have called me sooner. Anyway, you should have cancelled the damn injection.
No. Not harsh candour.
Max is a great kid. You’re strong. You can take it one day at a time.
No. Not platitudes.
Zol deserved the unembroidered truth, free of anger and recrimination.
I’m sorry, Zol. I’m so sorry.
CHAPTER 28
Max strode ahead through the parking lot beside the children’s tower. If he wondered who’d been yelling in the doctor’s office while he sat with Ermalinda in the waiting room, he showed it only in the stiffness of his gait. No skipping, no running, just the business of getting to the car with Zol’s keys at the ready. He pressed the fob twice and slid open the rear door, then stared at his left hand. He held his tongue between his teeth and grinned as his palm opened, closed, opened again. He shuffled his feet and planted his toes, then plucked the keys from his right hand and tossed them with his left, yelping at the strength and precision of his throw.
“Terrific!” Zol forced himself to say as he caught the keys. He glanced at Ermalinda but got no response. She’d clamped her face into that neutral facade she wore whenever she didn’t want to show what she was thinking. And she’d wrapped herself in a parka of worry. Or perhaps it was anger. Or was it shame? Of course she’d heard the shouting and noticed the tears bloating Zol’s face. But in fairness, she had no idea what she’d done by bringing Max in for that needle. And why should she? She would have been thrilled when the nurse called from Margolis’s office this morning with the offer of a last-minute appointment. Zol and Max had been talking about the needle for weeks; it was supposed to be a sort of Christmas present.
Zol leaned into the minivan and tousled Max’s hair, then planted a kiss on the youngster’s forehead. Max made a face and looked out to be sure no one was looking. Zol lingered there a moment. He needed a strong dose of hope more than anything, right now. Hope that there was substance to the promises the neurologist had made a few minutes earlier. Margolis had bristled when Zol and Hamish had exploded with their suspicions about Extendo-Tox. He’d insisted he knew of no childhood cases of CJD, not even in the United Kingdom where kids were mad for bangers and burgers. Kids’ meals were loaded with more prions than anything else in the food chain, yet youthful brains were resilient, he’d said, like plastic. And resistant to CJD.
Zol wanted to believe him. But after Wyatt Burr, he’d lost his trust in experts.
Hamish dawdled through the corridors of the medical centre. There was no premium on the fastest route from the children’s tower to his office, and he strolled through a fog. As he’d watched Zol, Max, and Ermalinda walk in sombre silence away from Dr. Margolis’s office, he’d felt resolutely out of place. Excluded from the intimacy of the family circle. He’d done his best, but it wasn’t enough. Not by a long shot. And where was he left when his best wasn’t good enough? The answer was simple: tongue-tied, and alone.
His fingers unlocked the door to his office, his arms shrugged out of his lab coat, his hands hung the coat on the corner rack. His eyes strayed to his agenda. He shuddered. He couldn’t imagine facing students this afternoon. What was the topic of their seminar? Congestive heart failure. Broken hearts. How fitting. The keys to the Saab beckoned
from his desk, urged him to seek the noisy peace of the car wash.
As the Saab approached the entrance to its sudsy second home, his foot came off the accelerator. His toes hovered above the brake but refused to touch it. Obstinate, they jerked to the gas pedal, gunned it, and propelled the car into the stream of noontime traffic. His hands steered the vehicle into a right turn at the next traffic light, then through two dozen city blocks.
At the underground parking lot his right arm set the handbrake. His fingers pushed the button to call the elevator for the ascent to the fifth floor. His feet carried him toward the reception desk where a young woman was talking on the phone. It was clearly a personal call, and she managed to fit the word like into every sentence. Her hair hung partway across her left eye, and every few seconds she flicked the strands to the side with a toss of her head.
She put down the phone, tossed her head, and granted Hamish a look of utter boredom. “Help you?”
“Um, yes.”
Although she didn’t quite roll her eyes, it was clear she deemed him yet another pest in a long morning of nuisances. “Well?”
“I need to see Mr. Cheung.”
She rubbed her thumb over a manicured cuticle. “Like, I have two Mr. Cheungs. The lawyer or the handyman?
“Kenyon Cheung. The lawyer.”
“What time’s your appointment.”
“Ah . . . actually, I don’t have one.”
“Mr. Cheung only sees people, like, by appointment.”
“But this is an important matter. It’s medical.”
“Well,” she said, tossing her head, “give me the file number and, like, I’ll see what I can do.”
“File number?”
Her shoulders heaved a dramatic sigh. “Like, every malpractice case has a file number. If you give me the number I can ask Mr. Cheung if he has time to discuss the case with you.”
“This isn’t malpractice.” Not yet, anyway. “But it’s urgent. And personal.”
She seemed suddenly interested. She flicked the hair from her eye and studied Hamish closely. Swept him up and down. Her gaze was so piercing, so judgemental that it shook him out of his stupor.
His pulse quickened. What was she looking at? He inspected his tie. Was there something wrong with it? Was there something wrong with him?
Oh, no. She could tell he was gay. She would know that Ken was gay; he didn’t hide it. She must be thinking Hamish had picked Ken up in a bar and was coming to tell him he’d got an STD. Oh God, was Ken into the bar scene?
He took another deep breath. Remember, he told himself, what she thinks of you doesn’t matter.
The young woman waved her ballpoint. “Sir? I need your name.”
“Sorry. Hamish Wakefield. Dr. Wakefield. From the health unit.” Why had he mentioned the health unit? That was stupid. Now she was really going think he was here about an STD. “And, uh, I’m also at the university.”
She shrugged, then lifted the phone. A moment later she motioned toward a plush armchair and a matching loveseat. “He won’t be long.”
Too restless to sit, he grabbed a copy of the New Yorker from the coffee table. An ad pictured an enormous chrome and granite kitchen. It was obscene and frivolous on the heels of the heartache in Margolis’s office just minutes ago. Still, he found the magazine a welcome distraction. He’d only thumbed as far as the table of contents when he heard Ken’s voice.
“Hamish. What a surprise.” Ken’s dark eyes sparkled as he shook Hamish’s hand and added a reinforcing squeeze to his arm. “Good to see you. Come on in.” He pointed to a brightly lit corridor lined with original oils. “My office is just down here.” He shot a glance sideways and tightened his lips as he lowered his voice. “I see you met our Tiffany.”
With the office door closed behind them, Ken patted Hamish’s shoulder and asked, “So, what’s up? Some breaking news about the case? I can’t believe all the uproar.”
“A lot of smoke and mirrors.” The butterflies were having a heyday as they rose and fell inside Hamish’s stomach. “But I do have two important things to tell you. The first one is easy, and . . .” Hamish looked at his brogues and noticed they could do with a polishing. “The second is more complicated.”
“Have a seat.”
Hamish found it easier to give important news — good and bad — standing up. He could pace away his nervousness and make a quick exit if he needed to. “I’d rather stand.”
“You look anxious,” said Ken. He forced a smile. “Maybe I need to sit down.”
“No,” said Hamish. “There’s no bad news.”
“Start with the easy part.”
“You know how Owen used to get Extendo-Tox for his voice-box problem?”
“Sure.”
“Have you . . . have you ever been injected with it?”
“With Extendo-Tox?” Ken touched his forehead, as if feeling for wrinkles. “Why? Do I need it?”
Hamish’s legs felt weak, as if the only thing holding them up was the dread that — somehow, somewhere — Ken had been injected with Extendo-Tox. “Please. Tell me. Yes or no.”
“No. Never. Not even close.”
“Oh, I can’t tell you what a relief that is.”
“Why? What’s all this about?”
Hamish scanned the room for a glass of tea, or even water. Nothing. He swallowed hard. “All seven victims got injections of Extendo-Tox.”
“What?”
“It can’t be a coincidence. Extendo-Tox is a toxin. It affects the nerves. It’s not supposed to affect the brain but it must be causing the CJD.”
“Wait a sec. What about the mink in Krooner’s sausages? You said —”
“It takes both. The prions in the sausages and the Extendo-Tox in the injections. Together, they are causing rapid-onset CJD, I’m almost sure of it.”
Ken crossed his arms, and his face grew pregnant with suspicion. “But I thought you said it’s genetics that makes the difference. Owen’s bad gene made him get CJD from Krooner’s prions. You told me I’m okay because I have the good gene.” He ground his foot into the carpet. “Are you changing your story?”
Hamish stepped back and clasped his hands in front of his chest. He felt sick, unnerved by Ken’s unexpected skepticism. Ken should be thrilled at such good news. “No, no,” Hamish pleaded, “I’m strengthening the scenario. In your favour. We’ve discovered that both agents — prions and toxin — are essential. It takes Lanny Krooner’s prions and the Extendo-Tox to trigger this new form of CJD.”
Ken narrowed his eyes. “Are you certain? Or is this just another theory?”
“We’re waiting for a couple of confirmatory tests, but our data are watertight so far.”
Ken shoved his hands into his pockets and looked toward the ceiling.
“Let me put it this way,” Hamish continued, still pleading, “Extendo-Tox is essential to the case, not a coincidence.” He reached forward and touched Ken’s upper arm. “This time I’m willing to bet my career that you’re in the clear.”
Ken pursed his lips and let out a deep groan as he leaned heavily against his desk. He pondered the situation for several moments then pulled himself upright. “That’s quite the ante,” he muttered. “Between favourable genetics and this news about Extendo-Tox, you haven’t left much room for reasonable doubt.” He stepped forward, extended his arms, and folded them around Hamish. “I’ve been thinking about little else these past few days.”
Hamish’s shoulders stiffened at the unexpected gesture, but he quickly found himself savouring the wonder of Ken’s male body, warm and firm, wrapped tightly around his own.
They broke their embrace, and each man showed the other an awkward, incomplete smile. “You said there were two things,” Ken said, and stabbed at the corners of his eyes.
“Yes, Extendo-Tox by injection and prions in the sausages.”
“I got that. But you started out by saying you had two things to tell me. You’ve told me the easy one. What about the complicated one?�
�
Hamish studied the patterns in the Oriental carpet at his feet. Birds, lilies, pomegranates all entwined on a tree of life. “I also came to tell you that . . . that . . . oh, this is so . . .”
“Tell me what?”
“That your friendship means a great deal to me.” His eyes remained glued to Ken’s face. If it scowled in disdain, he could be out of there in a flash.
A smile began to bud at the corners of Ken’s eyes.
Emboldened, Hamish continued, “But no, that’s not quite right.”
Ken’s smile stalled.
It was now or never. Hamish’s heart pounded. His tongue grated like sandpaper against the roof of his mouth. “Let me put it this way — I’ve . . . I’ve fallen for you.” He stepped back. “There, I’ve said it.”
Ken’s face beamed a fully ripened smile. He clasped Hamish’s face and looked into Hamish’s eyes as if peering into his soul. A long moment passed, then he pressed his lips against Hamish’s. At first his touch was dry. It didn’t feel like much. Then the softness of Ken’s tongue found its mark inside Hamish’s mouth. He couldn’t believe what was happening, how wonderful it felt.
They pulled apart and studied each other’s faces, both men smiling broadly. Ken locked the door. They embraced and kissed again.
“I was hot for you,” Ken said, “that Saturday you first came to my place. But . . .” His gaze dropped, then found Hamish’s eyes again. “It was too soon.”
Hamish nodded and raised his index finger. “For both of us.”
As Hamish stood there, drinking in Ken’s presence, he realized he was basking in the thrill of a validation that had always eluded him. They said opposites were supposed to attract, but he knew he revelled in the similarities he shared with Ken. He took comfort not only in the equality in their heights but in the shared scent of their colognes and the firmness of their bodies. In the similarities in their haircuts, their clothing, their appreciation of order and neatness.
“You know,” Ken said, “I love the way you raise your index finger whenever you’re saying something important. It’s so phallic.”