by Harry Kraus
He found the nuts without a problem, but settled for an American brew when he discovered that the store didn’t sell imported beer. He placed a case of Michelob on the counter and smiled at the woman behind the counter. He knew she had been admiring his new vehicle, and he had dressed the part of a professional, so he opened his wallet and told her it handled a little rough, but was much more fun than his Mercedes at home.
The woman appeared to be in her forties, fifties maybe, pretty well preserved for a hardworking country woman. She eyed the beer.
“Want to see an ID?” Billy winked and lifted his hand to his temple. “Prematurely gray.”
The woman smacked her chewing gum. “Whatever.” She smiled back and whistled between the gap in her front teeth. “I earned every gray hair I own.”
Billy Ray stared at her big hair for a moment before asking, “Ever heard of a town called Stoney Creek?”
She eyed the man suspiciously. “Are you a reporter?”
Billy Ray pushed his shoulders back. “Me? No.” He snickered. “Why?”
“'Cause just last week some feller driving a vehicle just like yours came through asking about Stoney Creek. Said he was writing about solving the curse or something. Seems our little Stoney Creek has caught the eye of some of the doctors over at Brighton University.”
Billy Ray leaned forward to study the gap in her front teeth. Every time she said an “S” sound, it came spraying right through her front teeth, whistling as it sailed past her ruby red lipstick.
“Hmmm. So you know of it?”
“Sure. Just take this road south to bypass Brighton. Then head west on Highway 2 toward the Apple Valley. First town is Fisher’s Retreat. The second is Stoney Creek.”
He paid for his purchases and settled back into the rental. He opened the nuts and buried his bulbous nose into the foil container. After inhaling deeply, he moaned. The heartburn would be worth it. He tossed his first handful into his mouth and pulled back onto the road.
He reviewed what he could remember about the extraordinary woman he knew only by name and the data he’d collected. Born a twin, Elizabeth Claire McCall had risen above the normal dismal heights of her small-town roots. Billy Ray had focused his early search on Claire’s academic records, hoping to find something that could be exploited to their advantage, hoping to uncover a fact that could paint a picture of the young doctor as less than studious, less than dedicated to her craft or the patients she served. But, so far, every academic rock he overturned revealed her to be a stellar example of what every patient wanted. She was consumed with excellence, and her nose seemed to be pointed straight toward her goal. If he could find a flaw, it wouldn’t be in the grade book.
Ramsey had made him tail her for a week, back in Lafayette, hoping to find a drinking problem, or a tawdry affair with a married attending, or anything which could make a jury understandably concerned about her judgment. But other than one stop at a grocery store, the young intern spent all of her waking hours at the hospital. If there was a weakness, it was that the poor girl never got out. Maybe the overworked, sleep-deprived angle would work to their advantage. It had worked for Ramsey in the past. Maybe it could work again.
Billy Ray sighed. The nuts were burning the back of his throat. He eyed the Michelob. Maybe just one on the road wouldn’t be so bad. He checked the rearview mirror and carefully screwed off the cap of a cold beer. He took a long swallow before shoving the bottle between his legs to hold it steady. He turned right on Highway 2, and soon discovered that he needed both hands for adequate control on a road he swore was designed by an engineer with a tremor.
Why couldn’t Ramsey just be content to play the sleep-deprived intern angle again? No, Ramsey always had to have a backup plan. “There are skeletons in everyone’s closet, Billy Ray,” the attorney proclaimed. “It’s our job to bring them out so the jury has a chance to judge for themselves.” It seemed relevancy to the case had little to do with Ramsey’s exhaustive searches. Anything and everything which could create an environment of mistrust of the accused would be used to his advantage.
On the first straight stretch of road, Billy Ray grabbed the rearview mirror and adjusted it so he could see his face. He smiled at himself, then picked a nut fragment from between his teeth.
“Hello, ma’am,” he practiced. “I’m Harvey Bridges with the Great South Health Plan. May I have a moment of your time to show you our policies?”
That evening during attending rounds, Dr. Rogers treated Claire as if their encounter earlier in the day had never happened. She followed his example, obviously meant to instruct her that she was never to mention the suit outside a carefully monitored situation.
After rounds, she sent Pepper home and proceeded to slog through the scut list. There were two central lines to change, one new admission from clinic to pre-op for a gastric resection, and a few X rays to follow up. She changed the first central line and talked a medical student through the second one. She had been brought up at Brighton University Medical School to observe the philosophy “see one, do one, teach one.” It made her extremely popular with students who were normally relegated the lowest scut jobs on the ward.
By seven, she made it to the cafeteria for a bowl of cooling vegetable soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. She sat at a table with Beatrice Hayes and her senior resident on the neurosurgery service, Dave Barnum. “Hi, guys,” she offered with a smile.
“Evening, Claire,” Dave responded.
Beatrice looked up and moved her tray an inch closer to Dave’s. “Oh, hi, Claire.”
Claire stared at her plate for a moment and thought about praying. I feel like such a hypocrite, God. I’m not pious at home. Why should I pretend to be here? She picked up her spoon and lifted the soup to her lips.
Dave looked like so many neurosurgery residents; working long hours was taking its toll on his demeanor. He tapped his fingers against his furrowed brow. “Whose service are you on?”
“Oncology.”
Beatrice lifted her eyebrows. “Ooh. Getting a chance to impress the chairman?” She pushed back from the table and crossed her legs. “I hear he’s been in a bear of a mood lately. I hear he’s in a funk about a lawsuit.”
Claire didn’t flinch. “Really?”
Claire watched them exchange glances. Obviously they expected something else. They must know about the suit. They were just baiting her.
“Come on, Claire, I know you’ve heard something.”
She held her ground. This was just a test. “I really shouldn’t say,” she responded quietly. She locked eyes with Bea’s. “Just what do you know?”
“Nothing, really. I just heard someone is suing the university over some resident screwup. Pity the poor resident that has to take the fall for a department that Dr. Rogers heads up. He’s not likely to let the blame get too close to him or his department.”
Claire tried to swallow the bite of grilled cheese sandwich in her mouth, but she seemed suddenly short of saliva. She reached for a soda for assistance. She stayed quiet for a minute, focusing on sipping her soup, but not really appreciating its taste. Her mind was on a little girl with a purple bicycle.
After a few more minutes, she watched Beatrice brush a few crumbs from Dave’s thigh and smile. “I guess we should go. I hope you have a quiet night.”
“Thanks. You too,” Claire responded. She watched the duo walk out, shoulder to shoulder, barely a molecule of space between them. Watch out, Dave. She only wants to climb the pyramid.
After supper, Claire made post-op rounds on the patients who had undergone surgery that day and retired to a call room for a date with her Sabiston text. By eleven her eyes were heavy and she drifted into a fitful slumber. At one, she responded to the emergency room to see a colon cancer patient with a bowel obstruction. It had been twenty-four hours since the patient had passed any flatus and the X ray showed dilated small intestine. It was time to summon the chief resident.
They had the patient in surgery by three, finished b
y five, and had an hour and a half to sleep before rounding again. Drew Tripp, the chief resident, looked whipped. He’d had two nights in a row in the OR. Claire studied his unshaven chin for a moment and pondered her own plight. At least an intern got every other night off. The chief residents, with the exception of the trauma service, had to respond to their service’s demands every night.
After rounds, Claire helped with the daily notes, missed lunch while pulling on an abdominal retractor during a gastrectomy, and attended an afternoon tumor conference. During the gastrectomy, she wedged her slender frame between the operating surgeon, Drew Tripp, on her right, and the board supporting the patient’s arm, on her left. Surgical procedures, she had learned, forced the team together, bodies in close contact in order to concentrate on the same small field. Right Guard, peppermint gum, and a tolerance to having your body pressed against your assistant’s were prerequisites. Whenever she relaxed her grip on the hoe-shaped metal retractor lifting the abdominal wall out of the surgeon’s way, the chief resident would repeat, “Ski, baby, ski,” making reference to the leaning-back motion used while holding a water-skiing towline. She must have heard it thirty times. Every time she changed her position to relieve her forearms of the cramps, the phrase was the same. “Ski, baby, ski.”
She thought Drew was acting sexist until he repeated the same phrase to a male medical student who stood on the other side of the table. Then she just thought he was boring.
After the tumor conference, she assisted with the remaining scut, plodded through attending rounds, left Pepper the on-call pager, and fled from the hospital. She was weary of the hospital, sick people, and bloody socks. She was weary of medicine. Even baseball players destined for the Hall of Fame needed a break from the game once in a while.
Mechanically, she guided her Toyota to her rented brownstone. The sun had set on another day of internship, and she was glad to be a survivor. She was too tired to worry about HD, too tired to worry about making it up the pyramid, and too tired to care about the lawsuit. She opened her front door with two things on her mind: food and a bed.
She tossed her white coat on a chair and headed for the kitchen. She stared blankly into her refrigerator. The middle shelf was empty. The top shelf housed a quart of milk and a head of lettuce. She sniffed the milk and scowled. As she dumped it into the sink, the phone rang. Her heart lifted. One voice could satisfy her more than sleep or food: John Cerelli.
Be John. Be John. Be John.
“Hello.”
The voice was distant, almost like it was coming from the inside of a box. It was male and gravelly. “I’m going to make sure you pay for what you did.”
A shiver passed over her back and arms. “Who is this?”
“Doesn’t matter. I hear you killed a baby.”
“What? Who is this?”
“You’re going to pay. Might as well admit what you did. It’s gonna come out. You know it will.”
“Wh–what?”
“Don’t call the police, Doctor. I’m watching. And don’t run away. I can follow you.” She heard a low laugh. “I can see your pretty face now.”
Instinctively, she looked up to the window over the kitchen sink. Seeing only her reflection, she quickly backed away and pawed frantically at the light switch next to the refrigerator. Darkness greeted her. Was someone really watching? Or just playing a cruel game?
She squinted toward the window and the side yard beyond. From where she stood, she could just see a short section of the street. She could see her neighbor’s van parked against the curb. Was there a vehicle on the other side, in the shadow of the van? She pressed her face against the window for a better look. It was no use. The van obscured her view. She realized she still held the phone and could hear an insidious laugh. “Yeah, baby, I think I’ll watch you all night.”
Claire slammed the phone onto the counter as the screech of tires peeling against the pavement outside echoed through the neighborhood. A vehicle was speeding into the night with the headlights off.
Her heart pounded in her chest as she ran from the kitchen to the front door, and then to the back. The locks were secure. She selected the largest butcher knife from the utensil drawer and retreated to her bedroom with the phone. As she did so, she imagined how silly she looked. Just what protection would a kitchen knife offer? And did she really think that the man on the phone was about to attack? Still, the phone call had unnerved her, and no amount of reasoning made her feel better than the feel of her firm grip on the butcher knife. She slowly opened her closet door and checked under her bed. Then, satisfied that she was alone, she locked her bedroom door and called John Cerelli.
After two rings, his answering machine picked up, and her heart sank. After a beep, she left a frantic message. “John, this is Claire. I need you to answer.” Her voice cracked with a sob. “We need to talk.” She didn’t exactly feel like explaining her predicament to an answering machine. She prayed he was home and would pick up when he heard it was her. After a moment’s silence, she quietly put down the phone and cried, “Oh, God, what should I do?”
She walked from her bedroom to the stairs, acutely aware of the quiet of the old house around her. She paused and listened. Then, hearing nothing, she descended the stairs. Her auditory senses were on alert, and every sound seemed magnified. The stairs creaked beneath her, and her footfalls seemed like hoofbeats. Even the refrigerator emitted a low hum, an irritating noise that Claire had not previously noticed. At her desk, she paused and traced the butcher knife over the calendar to today’s date. She read, “John in Baltimore.”
She’d written the note a month ago when her fiancé gave her his business travel schedule. A knot in her stomach tightened. John wouldn’t be home until the following evening to get Claire’s message.
She paced a path between the front living room and the kitchen, contemplating a course of action. She could leave and go sleep in the hospital. She could call the police, but the thought that her caller might see them and retaliate scared her more than doing nothing. She could try to ignore the phone call and sleep in her house alone. Or she could call Brett. No, that was out. After yesterday, she couldn’t exactly ask him to sleep over. She’d be driving the boy crazy. Maybe even driving herself crazy.
She paced the house for a few minutes more, listening to every sound. This was crazy. She’d never get any sleep here. As much as she hated going back to the hospital, at least she could find a safe call room to sleep.
She walked back to her bedroom and unfolded her whitened fingers from the butcher knife. She placed it on the dresser by the door. She pulled a fresh outfit from her closet and packed her on-call bag. She’d have to be ready to spend two nights in a row back at the hospital. What to do after that would have to be decided later. Fatigue was catching up with Claire, and she didn’t want to think that far ahead. What mattered was now, and her first priority was a safe place to get a night’s rest before the next day’s call.
She finished her packing and was just zipping her bag when the doorbell rang. She froze for a moment, then picked up the knife and ran to the bathroom window which overlooked the front stoop. Who could be ringing her doorbell at this hour? Was it her caller, trying to further convince her of his ability to get close to her? She eased her head up to the window and gently lifted the white curtain. Expecting to see no one, she gasped with relief. It was Brett!
She stumbled down the stairs, knife still in hand. She jerked open the front door and pulled Brett into the house.
“Whoa!” He stood back and laughed at her enthusiastic reception. “Uh, hi.” He leaned forward and wrinkled his forehead. “Are you okay?”
Claire slammed and locked the door behind him. “Am I glad to see you!”
“C—Claire?” Brett stammered and backed away, looking at the knife.
She glanced at her hand and thought about telling him she was just working in the kitchen. Instead, she smiled sheepishly and shrugged. “I thought you were threatening me.”
&n
bsp; “Me?”
“Well, not you,” she said, still waving the knife. “I mean I thought the person at the door might be someone who just threatened me.”
Alarm spread across his face. “Threatened you? Would you mind telling me what’s going on?” He paused, his eyes still on the knife. “And would you mind putting down your weapon? You’re making me nervous.”
Claire’s cheeks felt hot. “Sorry.” She put the knife on her desk. “Someone just called here.”
“Who? Someone threatened you?”
Claire slumped to the couch and spilled her story.
Brett’s eyes widened. “Did you get a look at the vehicle?”
“No. It was hidden by the van.” She felt her eyes begin to sting. “Brett, who would do this?”
He shrugged. “Someone who really wants to win a lawsuit is my bet.”
She sat quietly for a minute while Brett looked around the apartment. She watched him as he sauntered back into the room. “By the way, what are you doing here?”
He sat down in an old easy chair across from the couch and leaned forward. “I came to apologize for being such a jerk yesterday. I had no right to treat you like I did.” He opened his arms, palms up. “Sorry, Claire.”
The simple act touched her. He’d come to apologize, yet he sat quietly listening to her entire story first. Part of her wanted to jump right into his arms again and let him tell her everything was going to be all right, just like he’d done the day before, after she’d shared all of her fears about HD. But she refrained, telling herself that she’d just complicate their relationship with unnecessary temptation. She smiled. “It’s okay, Brett. I’m glad you came over. Thanks for apologizing.”
She twisted her engagement ring and inspected the setting. “It’s hard to keep this thing clean at the hospital. I’m constantly getting glove powder down beside the stone.”
“Let me see,” Brett responded, leaning forward and taking her hand. He held it up to the light and nodded. “I can clean it for you in the ultrasonic tub in Dr. Rogers’ lab. It’s great for jewelry.”