Forcing himself not to look over at the trailer, he backed up in the driveway and drove away.
Two hours later he stepped into the cool, pine paneled private office of Doc Henry Plant. The trip from Orangedale in Satsuma County three counties over and up to Doc Plant's office in Spring City had cooled his anger. Now there was only a deep sadness and resignation remaining of the fire that had burned inside him.
Doc Plant gestured to him to sit in the plush, overstuffed easy chair on the other side of the old fashioned huge oak desk that occupied the center of the office.
Doc had to be 55, if he was a day, and hadn’t aged much in the 20 years Samms had known him. Samms had been going to him for so many years, since a stubborn case of pneumonia had caused Samms' old doc to refer him to that "new nigger doc in Spring City," that it surprised him each time he noticed anew that Plant was black. But it didn't matter. Plant was one of the few blacks Samms had ever had close, continuous contact with over the years and the fact that he was black didn't matter anymore, hadn't for years.
He stared at Plant's face, the partially shut venetian blinds casting lines of light and shadow across the doctor's face, shading his eyes with darkness. Something, something about those eyes sent a sudden shiver through Samms.
Plant reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a bottle of Southern Comfort and two glasses. Pouring a finger's worth of liquid into one glass, he shoved it across the desk at Samms, then poured a drink for himself.
"You look like somebody beat the hell out of you, Clifford," Plant said as he took a sip from his glass. "Your daughter-in-law and her husband again?"
When Samms nodded, Plant being aware of what was happening said, "I've heard bad things about what's going on in Satsuma, Clifford. Why don't you let me bring in the local law. The Old Chief has been here a long time. He might be able to help you. He's a good man."
Samms shook his head. "No, it's out of his jurisdiction and the Sheriff in Satsuma is a powerful and vindictive man. A police chief wouldn't be able to tangle with him. Anyway, you didn't call me in here to talk about my problems with Alma. What is it? Did the tests come back? Is it an ulcer? What?"
Plant looked down at his desk, traced the circle left by the glass of whiskey on the wood.
"You and I have known each other for how long, Clifford?"
"Going on 20 years now, I guess. What is it, doc? You're starting to scare me, you know?"
Plant leaned back in his chair, rubbing his lower lip with two fingers.
"This is the hardest part of my job, Clifford, and it's the only part I've ever really hated."
The traitor pain in his side seized that moment to sear his insides, and it was as if it were speaking with a voice of fire that he could now understand.
"It's cancer, isn't it, doc? That's the only thing that could make you like this."
Plant finally met his gaze.
"I'm afraid so, Clifford. I sent the samples off and that, along with the symptoms, makes it clear that you're suffering from an advanced case of liver cancer. There's a large tumor occupying perhaps half of your liver. What's worse, it's metastasized into your lungs. Both of them show small tumors."
Samms took his drink then, enjoying this fire as it raced down his throat.
"That's pretty bad, I guess. That's one of the ones you don't walk away from, isn't it?"
"No, you don't, my friend."
Holding the glass out for a re-fill, he asked, "How long?"
"Difficult to say exactly. But in your case, judging from the advanced size of the tumor and the spread, I'd say no more than three months, maybe six at the outside. Radiation and chemotherapy might increase it from three to six months, or it might not. Liver cancer is just about the most intreatable of the cancers."
The two men were silent for what seemed a long time. Samms watched tiny dust motes pirouetting in the air as they were transfixed by glancing sunbeams. His mind seemed to be racing out of control, thoughts and feelings cascading through his consciousness. He wasn't really sure what he was feeling.
"Tell me straight, doc, no fairy tales. Does anybody ever survive this, have miraculous recoveries, remissions?"
"No," Plant said softly. "There's no hope of recovery. I have almost never said that to a patient because I'm not God. But you're a good man, and I think we've become friends over the years and I don't want you to harbor any false hopes. You're going to die, Clifford, and I wish to God I didn't have to say that. But saying something else won't make it so."
Swallowing the second medicinal dose of Southern Comfort, Samms felt a strange sense of comfort and - yes - joy sweep through him. He felt somehow as if he were standing outside his body watching himself and he wondered if this were merely shock at the news.
But, as the death sentence sank in, he realized what it meant and slowly a smile spread across his face. He leaned back in the easy chair, enjoying the soft sensual feel of the warm, weathered fabric against his neck, the after taste of the sweet liquor on the back of his throat.
"Thank you, Doc, thank you," he said finally, feeling happier than he had in a long, long time.
Plant stared at him wonderingly.
"You know," he said finally, "I have been in general practice for 40 years and I have got to say I have never had anybody react to that news the way you have."
"Hit me again, Doc," he said, holding his glass out. "I don't know if you'll understand, but I feel like a weight has been lifted off my chest. Have you ever wondered what it would feel like to be able to jump into the air and leave the ground behind, to float like a cloud in the sky. That's the way I feel."
Seeing the confusion on Plant's face he added, "I'm free, Doc. You've set me free, and that's what I'm thanking you for. Or maybe I should be thanking God, because he's really responsible."
Samms stood up after draining the last sip of Southern Comfort and held his hand out to Plant. After a moment Plant followed suit and stood up, taking his hand.
"Goodbye Doc," Samms said, adding, "you'll be hearing from me."
Three days later near the close of business on a Friday evening, Plant opened the Spring City Gazette for the first time that day and saw the lead story. Doing something he almost never did, he told his nurse to tell the last two patients he'd have to reschedule them, sent her home early, and sat behind his desk, face marked by alternating lines of light and shadow from the late afternoon sun shining through his office blinds.
Opening up the bottle of Southern Comfort, he poured himself a round as he read again the news story flanked by grainy photos of Lenny and Alma Fargo and Clifford Samms and a better headshot of Satsuma Deputy Sheriff Robert Hogshead.
The glaring headline underneath the photos read, “Four Die In Orangedale Shooting.”
Turning his gaze from the opened newspaper, he glanced again at the letter that had sat in his "to read" pile all day until he had opened it a few moments earlier.
"...and I ask you as a friend, Doc, to honor my wishes. I have put you down in my will to be the executor of my estate. I'm not a wealthy man, but between my house, my insurance policy and a few other things, I figure I'll leave $70-$80,000 for Johnny.
“You watch over my money, please, and see to it that Johnny gets what he needs as he grows up. I know this is a lot to ask, and I won't be around to see if you do or not, but I know deep down that you're a good man and I trust you to do the right thing.
“I also filed papers naming you as my choice to be guardian for Johnny. You’re a respected man and Johnny has no close family left. Fargo and Alma had no brothers or sisters. Alma has an aunt, but I authorize you to pay her $10,000 under the table to let him go to you. She will. She doesn’t think about anything beyond her next drink. You are a respected man and with my will and the Old Chief’s backing, I believe you can get custody. You can find a good family to give him a home and help them out financially with my money.
And now, before I go out to do what I've got to do, thank you again for the gif
t you've given me. I never realized what a blessing losing all hope could be. Until we meet again..."
Plant sat there looking at the newspaper and the letter well into the evening, long after the light had faded.
CHAPTER SEVEN: ANSWERS IN PLAIN SIGHT
November 8, 2005
Tuesday, 5 P.M.
“I think I’m going crazy.”
“That’s a strong statement, Ms. Bascomb. Why do you say that?”
Debbie sat on the familiar couch and rubbed her plump lips with one finger on which Teller noted she still wore her wedding ring.
She proceeded to describe her weekend and the episode after watching “The Portrait Of Dorian Gray.”
“I lost it, Doctor. I was actually afraid of what I might do. If I hadn’t known that BJ was in the house….I don’t know.”
“Tell me again what you were feeling.”
“It’s – I don’t know. I was weeping and almost wailing. I was frightened and confused and angry and….”
“And what?” he asked almost gently as he leaned forward toward her, the ever present pipe with the good smelling tobacco in it clutched in his right hand.
“And….I don’t know. That’s part of what’s so frightening. I don’t know how or what I felt.”
“Are you sure?”
“Why do you keep asking me that? What do you think I’m not telling you?”
“You remember one of the first things you said it reminded you of? What were you thinking about as you burst into tears and tried not to scream and frighten your son.”
“I don’t- Clarice. I thought about Clarice the day I found her.”
“Why would THAT movie bring to your mind the day you found your aunt? What possible connection could there be between her death and an old – but classic – horror movie?”
She watched the fragrant white smoke rise from the pipe. There was something about him, the look on his face of – expectancy – like a teacher waiting for a student to shout out the answer to a question. He KNEW. Somehow, she knew that he knew the answer to what was haunting her. But if she asked him, he’d just blandly say that he wasn’t sure of anything.
“I don’t know. I’ve thought about it. But I can’t imagine what there was about the movie that would have disturbed me in the first place. Much less…”
“What effect did it have on you.”
“Grief,” she said quickly, knowing what the prime emotion that had swept through her mind first had been. “Grief. As if – as if – someone I love had died. I felt like it had been BJ or Kelly. Or my mother. Or father. Or…” but she would not say his name. “Terrible, unutterable grief as if my heart was breaking.”
“Hmmm. That is a strange reaction to have to that particular movie, at the very least. Tell me in your own words. What is the movie about?”
“About a man. He came to Paris, I think or maybe London, I’m not sure, as a young man. A beautiful young man. And an artist painted a full-length portrait of him. And, he got caught up in – some bad things. Drugs and alcohol and debauchery, wild sex and orgies. You know, doctor, all the things that make life fun when you’re young.”
He gave her a small smile.
“Anyway, the painting was enchanted, or bewitched. He kept it hidden away while he lived his hard life. And he stayed just as young and just as handsome and untouched as ever for years and years and years while everyone around him aged. Finally someone uncovered it. And….it was just as old and diseased and horrible as Dorian Gray should have been. When the painting was destroyed, all the age and corruption that the painting had held at bay was unleashed. And Dorian Gray died in torment”
“Pretty good summation. What do you think the meaning or theme of the movie would be?”
“It’s an allegory. About the fact that you can’t escape your sins. Dorian Gray thought that his magic painting would allow him to mess around forever and he’d never get sick or old or catch a venereal disease. It’s just another way of saying you can’t run away from what you are forever.”
Teller looked at her with a teacher’s appreciative smile.
“Very good summation. Like any work of art, there are a multitude of ways it can be interpreted, but I’d have to say that’s one that many scholars would agree with. Which leaves us with the question, what feelings could that possibly arouse in you to create the kind of overwhelming grief you describe?”
She just shook her head.
“Honestly…I can’t imagine. Maybe…I don’t know…I was unhappy with Bill, with my marriage and I was doing things that I was ashamed of behind his back. But, that wouldn’t explain how terrible it made me feel. It doesn’t feel like that’s it.”
“If that’s not it, then why don’t you keep thinking about it and see if there’s any other interpretation you could take from that movie that might apply to your life. Because, it obviously had a strong personal meaning to you to affect your emotions in that way. And that interpretation wouldn’t explain why your aunt’s death was one of the first things it brought to your mind.”
“And you won’t tell me, will you?”
He shook his head gently.
“I might not be right and telling you my opinion could very well make it harder for you to finally understand what is going on inside you. You’d try to shape your thoughts to follow mine. Besides, my telling you what is causing these feeling in you won’t help you to deal with them. You have to understand it on your own before you can ever take ownership of those feelings and move on beyond them.”
She reached out and took a glass of water off a coaster atop the coffee table in front of her, sipped it and then grinned as she said, “Tell me the truth, Doctor. You’re stringing this out to make more money off me, aren’t you?”
“You’ve seen right through me. That’s it.”
They shared a companionable silence.
“Is that general feeling of sadness that you mentioned a few times previously still there?”
“Pretty much. I started taking those pills for depression you prescribed. I honestly have to say I can’t tell much of a difference,”
“Your son is back living with you. You told me you have made good progress in repairing the relationship with your daughter, even though she’s still living with your parents. What about Bill?”
She described the meeting with him over the weekend.
“It’s what I’ve wanted for eight months. I didn’t want it right at the beginning because he pissed me off so badly. But I’ve wanted to have that talk with him for a long time. Maybe for 20 years.”
“Do you think you’ve managed to reach closure with him. That you’re ready to move on with your life…without him?”
“I think so. He’s obviously not missing me much. I walked in on him with that….Myra Martinez.”
“He’s seeing her?”
“All of her, obviously.”
“And how do you feel about that? What do you feel about it?”
“I was a little upset. But…I don’t know quite how to explain it, but I’m not angry like I was. I still believe he’s responsible for everything that’s happened. We could have had a life and watched our kids grow up. We could have been my parents. But he wanted to be the Great Avenger of Crime and Protector of Victims. It meant more to him than me or his children.”
She leaned back and looked at the painting over the wall. It always seemed to hold secrets that you could decipher if you could look closely enough. She knew it was just her imagination.
“I wanted him to hurt. And he did. I know he did. I’ve gone through some bad stuff. You know how bad it’s been. But he got hurt worse because I hit him in his weak spots, his vulnerable spots. I hit him in his manhood. But I think he’s coming through it. He’ll be alright.”
She stopped for a moment, wondering why that made her feel good. He was still a selfish son of a bitch. He had still destroyed her career in a moment of anger.
“The only thing is…I hope that one day, a long time from now, when
he’s remarried…maybe started a second family. I don’t know, maybe found one with another woman. I hope when he’s old and happy and he’s retired….I hope that one day when he’s sitting and thinking about what a good life he’s had…that he remembers what we had. I hope he remembers me…and what we were like – at the beginning. And I want him to hurt like hell.”
November 8, 2005
Tuesday, 6 P.M.
Teller sat back in his chair and refilled his pipe as the tall man in the charcoal gray business suit shambled into the office and folded himself down onto the couch beside the table. At least, Teller noted, Martin Cassell wasn’t as stoop shouldered as he’d been for the past three years. He carried himself with a more erect posture, courtesy of the classes he’d been encouraged by Teller to enter.
“Martin,” he said in a neutral tone as he lit the pipe and puffed, “I’ll admit I’m curious why you asked for an after-hours meeting. But we’ve been doctor and patient for a long time and I was curious as to what was so important to break our regular appointment time.
Cassell met his gaze with an unusual steadiness.
“I wanted to tell you in person, Doctor, that this will be our last meeting.”
“Yes? Could you explain?”
“I’m quitting analysis and moving on with my life.”
Teller puffed and after a moment said, “Of course I accept your right to cease analysis at any point, but I’ll have to admit I’m curious as to your thinking. Would you mind talking to me about what led you to make this decision.”
Cassell leaned forward to the doctor, his body language indicating his desire to communicate. He smiled and Teller realized it had been years – literally – since he’d seen Cassell smile in his office.
“Of course doctor, but I think you already know exactly what I’m going to say. When you told me nearly five months ago that I needed to take action toward my wife and that I couldn’t keep putting off for years the inevitable confrontation with her, I guess I knew deep down what the end would be.
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