“I don’t even have a quarter left.”
“Oh, I just want to look in the yellow pages,” Mona replied.
Since cell phones replaced many pay phones, they had to walk a couple of blocks, but they finally found one on a corner by a long-deserted hotel. Rob thumbed through the directory.
“Mona, do you think we should try for a hospital or a doctor?” Before she answered, he showed her a listing. “Look, here’s a doctor right on the street we just passed. Maybe that’s an omen.” The man was a general practitioner, maybe just what they needed.
Mona nodded agreement. “Let’s try him. What have we got to lose?”
It was nearly lunchtime, but neither of them was hungry. That breakfast stayed with them. However, they were really getting tired. The long night without sleep took its toll on their energy. When they reached the street where the doctor’s office was, Rob grumbled, “Damn. Look at that low number. We’ll have to walk a mile.”
Mona bit her lip. Maybe the doctor will be out to lunch. She was so tired that she wasn’t sure she could make it. Her feet dragged already. Since complaining would do no good, without a word, she just kept trudging along.
In a few blocks, they had their third lucky break of the day. Getting two rides had been fortunate, but now when they were exhausted, it gave their spirits a lift when the street curved and the numbers jumped.
Smiling at Mona, Rob said encouragingly, “Good, now we’ll be there in no time.”
Close to their destination, Mona considered the next step of their plan. What were they going to tell the nurse when she asked what Rob wanted to see the doctor about? Mona never went to doctors. She was rarely sick. What complaint did people usually have? A backache? A headache? Whatever Rob gave as his reason for consulting a doctor had to be something that would require testing, probing or whatever it took to discover the implant. Soon, they’d have to settle on a story. Mona shared her thoughts with Rob saying, “Hurry up and make up your mind what to tell him.”
“I’m doing the best I can,” he barked at her. “It’s my body. Let me decide.”
Clasping her hands together so tightly that the whites of her knuckles showed, Mona tried to keep from crying. Exhausted, dirty, and tired of all of this, she did not know whether she was hurt or angry at his outburst. At any rate, she knew she couldn’t afford to indulge in either emotion, so she ignored the insult and let Rob do the talking.
Without verbally apologizing, Rob let Mona know he was sorry by leaning over and giving her a little peck on the cheek. “I think I’ll say we’re both on drugs. He should have no trouble believing that story.”
Looking at his own unkempt clothes, Mona ran her hand over her oily hair. She couldn’t agree more. Once the doctor saw the two of them in their present condition, he’d believe it all right. They could pass for a couple of bedraggled users anywhere.
Satisfied that they had a feasible story put them somewhat at ease. A great deal depended on the doctor’s reaction, however. They had to face facts: he might refuse to treat them.
“Look, Rob. On second thought, he’d see through us being users. Especially if he took some tests. Can you come up with something else?”
Rubbing his temples, Rob told Mona. “Okay. I could tell him that I have a headache — that’s the truth. They told me this would happen. I wonder if it’s a symptom or just brought on by the power of suggestion?”
Neither of them knew the answer to that question.
As they approached the street number that they were seeking, their pulses quickened. On an old house on the right, they saw a sign. In worn off paint it read: Nicholas P. Romano, MD.
“Oh, God,” Rob blurted out. “I just remembered something. The other day I ran into a guy I knew in high school. Hadn’t seen him in years. He worked in Chicago on their police force. Tony’s a plainclothes man on the Mobile force now. I couldn’t think of his last name at the time, but it hit me the minute I saw that sign. It’s Romano. You don’t suppose this doctor’s related to him, do you?”
“Rob,” Mona chided. “You’re getting paranoid. Even if those two are related, what’s the chance of this doctor making a connection to you? Let’s just get inside and get this over with.” She was getting edgy, too.
One little fact they’d deliberately avoided discussing was — not because of its unimportance — money. Finding a doctor who might locate the problem and fix it would be a miracle. But expecting a physician to treat a dead-broke transient was reaching for the moon. By ignoring their inability to pay, they attempted to deny its existence.
Rob was rather adept at the art of negotiating. He planned to get past the nurse by first convincing her that this was an emergency, then he’d tell her he’d rather discuss finances with the doctor.
The reception room was dingy and dark. The old Venetian blinds were closed, and the sixty-watt bulb in the table lamp didn’t provide much light. However, the early American furniture had recently been dusted and the bookshelves on the wall were well stocked. No dust gathered there, either. Somebody in that office was an avid reader.
When Rob and Mona entered, the nurse looked up from the newspaper she read, her eyes expressing surprise at seeing strangers. She was as old as the building looked. With gray hair askew, she peered over thick glasses and asked, “May I help you?” in a clear, concerned and slightly cracked voice.
“Yes, ma’am. You see,” Rob explained in his most convincing manner, “I’ve been having these God-awful headaches. I’m sorry to bother you, but we’re just traveling through and I don’t know where to go. I’ve just got to have some relief.” Anticipating her next question, he added, “We were looking for a hospital when I saw your sign.”
In a movement designed to evoke compassion, he pressed the palms of his hands to his temples. It was an odd coincidence, but his head actually started pounding. He told himself it was imagination, but the throbbing still continued.
The nurse was suspicious. She didn’t know whether to take pity on them or not. Where could these two swamp rats have come from? Their tattered clothes and filthy hands were in direct contrast with her own. The crisp, white uniform she wore matched her overall neat appearance. Except for those few stray hairs, she was the picture of efficiency.
Enough judgment time had passed. Rob had taken all the nurse’s scrutiny he could stand. He opened his mouth to speak but never got a chance. In a gesture of decision, the nurse pushed her chair back. She looked Rob right in the eye and told him very politely, “If you’ll just have a seat, Mr. — I don’t believe you gave your name.”
She waited till Rob told her, “It’s Slingo, Ray Slingo.”
She continued. “Yes, Mr. Slingo, please wait here and I’ll find out if the doctor can see you.”
Rob detected that a little doubt crept into her voice as she repeated the name. But on the spur of the moment, the pseudonym that Mona had given him was the only one he could think of.
Except for the two of them, the office was empty. While they waited for the nurse to return, Mona went over to read the titles of the books on the shelves. There was a large variety. Most of the medical books were old, but the others ranged from War and Peace to ones by Tom Clancy, John Grisham, and some on science fiction — now that tweaked her interest. She held one of those up and whispered, “Look at this, Rob.”
She also surmised that the doctor must have plenty of time to read. Certainly, he wasn’t swamped with patients. Doctor Romano’s appearance in the doorway of his office told her why. With his first words of greeting, she could tell that the very old man was drunk. It was difficult to ascertain whether his age or his condition caused his feebleness. She suspected it was a combination of both. Mona wondered how she and Rob managed to come into contact with so many addicts in one day. Thinking that they’d get no help here, she turned to leave. She noticed that Rob didn’t follow her lead.
After quickly sizing up the doctor’s condition, Rob came up with a different appraisal of the situation. A weak-wil
led degenerate hungry for patients was a lot more likely to give him any time than a prosperous physician with a thriving practice. Besides, who could say that such a man could not rise above his personal imperfections to dispense proper treatment? Rob pulled Mona back. No, he would not leave. This doctor still had his shingle out. Young or old, drunk or sober, he was a doctor. His license was on the wall for the current year — in force. If for no other reason, Rob stayed because he believed it would take a drunk to accept as truth any, or all, of the story he had to tell.
With a finger twisted by arthritis, the elderly man motioned Rob into his office. Mona sat in the waiting room. Expecting Rob’s visit to take some time, she picked up a dog-eared magazine with last year’s date and flipped its pages.
In the inner office, pulling off his thick glasses, Dr. Romano peered deep into Rob’s eyes. Saying not a word, he lifted Rob’s right hand and studied it. He took his vital signs.
With the coming of a patient, the old man had changed miraculously. He put his papers on his desk, then sat down. He sat straight up in the ancient tall-backed swivel chair when he very clearly asked the patient, “How often are you having these headaches, young man?”
Rob surveyed the transformation. The doctor’s posture suggested an air of authority — no, more than that — professionalism. He wasn’t the same man who had come to the door. Even some of the redness had gone from his eyes. There was no way that he could remove the undesirable odor from his breath, however; it was too heavy for the mints he’d popped into his mouth. But he no longer sounded drunk. He’d sobered quickly.
Answering the question, Rob said, “A couple of weeks,” and he now felt ill at ease.
His advantage over an inebriated man was gone. Now, he had to be on the defensive and alert. Suddenly, he felt like a first-grader faking illness to skip school who had his bluff called by being taken to the doctor by his mother. Rob also couldn’t think straight. His head ached constantly now. The uncomfortable pounding turned into a full-fledged, blinding headache. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed the edges of the desk and squeezed with both hands to help him bear the pain.
“You really are in pain, aren’t you, son?” Reaching into his desk, the doctor produced a couple of tablets and handed them to Rob. “Now don’t take these if you’re on anything.” He squinted. “But you aren’t, are you? You look like an addict, but you don’t act like one. You’re sick. I can tell by your eyes.”
Rob was amazed. He washed the tablets down with a glass of water the doctor got for him and looked at the man who sat facing him, thinking how remarkable humans beings can be. Here was a man, a doctor, still at least half drunk, old, debilitated and yet at a glance, he’d sized up a patient accurately. Many a specialist wouldn’t have done as well. Realizing that, Rob decided to take a chance and level with this doctor. What did he have to lose?
With a sigh, he looked straight into the doctor’s eyes. It wasn’t going to be easy. The man was sharp. Convincing him of what happened was a challenge. Rob carefully chose his words.
“Doctor, I’m going to tell you the whole truth, because I must have your help if I’m going to have a chance for survival. Whether or not you believe me can determine my fate. I hope I can convince you. Anyway, here goes.”
Rob held the doctor’s attention throughout the entire narration. He explained that he and Mona were the missing Mobile reporters and, luckily, the doctor had heard of them. Leaving nothing out, Rob related the minute details, praying the whole time that the doctor believed in U.F.Os.
When he finished, Dr. Romano puffed on a cigar he’d lit during the first sentence. It was down to a nub, but a tiny flame still peeked from its tip. Snuffing it out in an ashtray, he summoned the nurse and asked her to send Mona into his office. When she came in, Dr. Romano listened intently while Mona told what happened to her and then verified Rob’s story.
Leaning back in the creaky old chair, the doctor allowed his thoughts to wander a few minutes. “All right, you two,” he said, “you’ve come to the right person. Let me tell you about my own experience with an unidentified flying object about five years ago.”
He was completely honest. He said it was around that time that his drinking problem had gotten bad — he was up to almost a fifth every twenty-four hours, and with each passing day, it took a little more whiskey to inebriate him. Still, he felt justified in drowning his sorrows.
Nick Romano had been a good doctor, and he’d delivered almost an entire generation of babies in the Pensacola area. Then came the experts, the specialists who stepped into his territory and took over most of his business. With their fancy methods and persuasive smooth talk, they converted most of his young patients to the need of an obstetrician for prenatal care. Even some of his older lifelong patients and friends sought medical aid from the new specialists in all areas of medicine coming to town fresh out of their internships.
“My practice fell off considerably,” Nick said as Mona looked at this sensitive, dedicated, and loyal doctor who probably treated many elderly patients long after they lost the ability to pay. “I even lost my patients on Medicare and Medicaid,” he said with a sigh.
“What kept me going for a while was the love and attention of my wife, Ellen. She was a nurse, and we worked together right here in this office. We were married forty-six years.” He took a deep breath, and the lines in his face deepened. “She took great care of me. We wanted children of our own, and I think I took it harder than she did that all three of ours were stillborn.”
Stiffening, he added, “I thought that was the worst time of my life. I’d delivered all those babies alive and well, and I couldn’t do anything to keep my own children alive. It was awful, but the worst was yet to come.”
Rob shifted in his chair, wondering when the doctor was going to get to the point — to the U.F.O. sighting — but he didn’t think rushing this man would help. He might even clam up altogether, so he acted attentive.
Not sensing Rob’s impatience, in his own world of reminiscence, Doctor Romano continued. “You see, one day Ellen found a lump in her breast. Oh, she had a mastectomy right away, but it was too late.” He curled the corner of his mouth. “All the Johnny-come-lately experts that I consulted couldn’t do anything for her. I watched her go down, down, down until she was so weak and helpless that I prayed for her death. When it came after all those long days and nights of agony, I just couldn’t cope. I broke down completely and turned to the bottle to salve my intense bitterness at the inadequacy of the science of medical care.”
Now, Rob wondered, is he finally coming to the U.F.Os?
No, not yet. Nicholas Romano rambled on about how Ellen was gone but she remained with him. He said he’d talk with her during the day and on rarer and rarer occasions when he was lucky enough to have a patient, he consult with her regarding the diagnosis — just as he had when she was alive.
Half closing his eyes, he admitted to his failings. “By nightfall, when I’d consumed most of a fifth of whiskey, I’d drive out to the graveyard where she was buried and talk to her. I’d tell her how much I missed and needed her. It was on one of those nights, close to midnight, when I saw the U.F.O. But I was in a drunken stupor, so I wasn’t at all sure that my eyes weren’t deceiving me — at first. I quickly sobered up enough to know that it was real, though.” He held up fingers and made a cone. “That huge cone-shaped thing appeared in the air just as I happened to look toward the sky. I watched it come and go at will. For a minute, I was convinced that it was going to land right on top of my head. But it swiftly changed course and moved away. Left me blinking in disbelief, I can tell you.”
Doctor Romano scratched the almost white hair behind his ear. “It’s so strange. Somehow I wasn’t afraid. And I’ve seen a lot and been frightened by a whole lot less in my lifetime. But this, well, somehow it seemed almost like a reassurance that a Superior Being existed. I guess I took it as a sign that there is a God and a Heaven above. Oh, I know you’re going to think I’m crazy when I te
ll you this,” he leaned forward, “but I went right back and said to that marble headstone, ‘Ellen, nobody’ll ever believe a drunken fool like me. So I won’t tell a soul what I saw. But I saw it. Somehow it makes me think I’ll be with you soon.’ I felt a peace in my soul that I haven’t felt in a long time.”
The doctor seemed so far away and so absorbed in his story that Mona asked, “Doctor, does that mean you really believe us? Do you understand that we saw the same thing?”
“Yes, yes,” Romano replied emphatically. “I believe you. Our stories are similar, but you experienced even more. You actually talked with the outer space beings. Up until now, the only person I ever told was Miss Croft, my nurse. I’m not sure she was convinced. In fact, she once told me that she thought that if that really happened, it would’ve made me stop drinking. Since it didn’t, I guess it just gave me another reason to escape into the bottle.”
“Well, now,” the doctor abruptly shifted the course of the conversation, “since I’ve qualified my reasons for treating you, let’s get back to your case. Except for the headaches, have you had any other symptoms?”
Rob replied negatively. So far, he’d had no sign that anything physical or mental was wrong.
“All right. Miss Croft,” he called to the nurse and rapidly issued orders. “Put this man on the table for an examination. I want to do a complete physical. Also run blood tests. Is my X-ray equipment still working? Yes, I know it is,” he answered his own question. “We’ll do a complete set.”
The doctor was elated at the opportunity to use the treasured X-ray machine. He’d paid a small fortune for it, hoping to compete with other physicians in Pensacola who had all the latest technology. At first, it did seem to renew his patients’ confidence, but gradually they drifted away again. When his overindulgence in alcohol became known, his practice dwindled so much that he could barely pay Miss Croft’s meager salary. But she’d been with him since she was seventeen years old, since Ellen only worked a couple of days a week. She wasn’t going to desert him now. Besides, she was on Social Security. Not yet seventy, if she earned too much money, she’d have to pay some back. She was content with a limited salary. Being needed satisfied her. Unmarried and alone, she enjoyed the responsibility of knowing that she had to go to a job. So, the office remained open nine a.m. to five p.m. as it had for many decades. And today, for the first time in quite a while, she had important work to do.
Time Will Tell Page 14