Terminal Therapy

by Daniel Reinharth

  “We want to be your friends. Participants in your wonderful way of life. As proof of our commitment we’ll place community representatives on our Board. And plow back a portion of our profits into Cape environmental projects, such as seashore preservation.”

  My parents looked at me. “Good arguments,” I whispered, with a half-nod.

  “We've given the Board our detailed, written proposal. We're happy to answer any and all of your questions.” He turned to face the audience. “And the same goes for the community. We brought brochures for anyone who's interested. And we have a website full of details and links, as well.”

  He turned back to face the Board, thanked them for their consideration, and resumed his seat. The Board chair permitted brief hissing and applause while he patted his forehead with a handkerchief, before regaining control with a sweep of his arm. My own shirt was damp with perspiration. I'd forgotten about the room's heat in my focus on the action. The chairman introduced the next speaker, who would represent the anti-wind turbine side.

  The man who took the podium next could have been Thomas Haydock's older, smarter brother. Weather-beaten face, short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, muscular arms with a T-shirt, jeans, and hiking boots. But he was clean-shaven, and the clothes looked clean, even pressed. I recognized him as one of the placard-bearing protesters. His T-shirt proclaimed his anti-wind turbine position. A wind turbine surrounded by a red circle, and a red slash across the turbine.

  “My friends,” he began. Smart to emphasize that he was a true resident, rather than a carpet-bagger. “Our friend and neighbor, Dr. Jonathan Singer, was supposed to speak. Due to his unfortunate illness I've been drafted. I'll do my best. This is not about being for or against wind turbines. Wind turbines are a good thing. The only problem is that they don't belong here, bespoiling our beautiful and beloved Cape.”

  The Green Panthers, including my parents--but not me--stood up all at once. Uh-oh. Clearly a prepared action. My mother clung to my father's arm, probably combining giving spiritual support and receiving physical support. The audience and Board chair shifted their attention to the Panthers, but the speaker continued, seemingly unfazed. I held my breath.

  “Let me explain-”

  “Wind is green. No to NIMBY. Wind is green. No to NIMBY.” The Panthers began their chant, drowning out the speaker. I understood what the Panthers were saying, but wasn't sure if the audience did. The Panthers needed better speech-writers. The speaker stopped talking, and turned to face his interrupters. He raised his eyebrows, then shook his head.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  “That's enough,” the Board chairman said, slapping the table. He beckoned toward the back of the room with his right hand. I looked around, and saw three uniformed security guards approach us. The Panthers were still chanting, oblivious or uncaring. Or even happy to play out the final scene of their stereotypical skit; the drama is the message.

  I wondered if they'd complete the sixties flashback by sitting on the floor and linking their arms, requiring the guards to drag them out by force. But to their credit, in my opinion, they allowed themselves to be escorted out peacefully. Albeit maintaining their chanting until outside the exit door.

  Before leaving, my mother whispered to me. “Take notes.”

  I suddenly remembered that they'd provided my ride. “Please wait for me out there. I don't have a car,” I shouted at their backs, not certain that they'd heard me. The speaker resumed:

  “That's one group of outsiders out of the way.” He gave a long look at the gaggle of gray-suits, then back at the Board. “As I was saying, wind turbines are a good thing. But not here. They will drive fish away, which will hurt our economy and ecology. They'll force birds to change their migratory patterns, another blow to our ecological balance. They're an eyesore, and will get in the way of boats, which will discourage tourists from coming. And don't let these fine folks fool you. People like this never deliver on their promises. It'll cost more, and they'll deliver less, and more slowly, than they say.”

  He scratched his forehead. “That's all I've got to say. Oh, just one more thing.” He peered at each Board member, one at a time. “When all is said and done, do you want those wind turbines to be your legacy to the Cape? Would you be proud to stand before your grandchildren and take credit for them?”

  He retreated to his seat accompanied by applause, which the Board chair waved off. I'd wanted to take notes for my parents, but I had pen but no paper. So I did the best I could with my sieve-like memory to retain his arguments. Both sides had made good points, I thought.

  The Board opened the floor to community members for brief individual statements. Some arguments were cogent, some hopelessly incoherent. Many had to be cut short by the chairman to keep the meeting running. At 8:30 PM he stopped the discussion segment to allow the Board to confer. They drew their chairs closer, and spoke quietly to each other for only a minute.

  “We thank everyone for attending and participating tonight. We know it's been educational for all. But we've decided that with one major voice missing it would be inappropriate for us to make a final ruling. Let's wish Dr. Singer a speedy recovery. His will be the last word on the matter. Meeting adjourned.”

  Audience members turned to their neighbors, spoke and gestured. No one seemed happy with the inconclusive outcome. The Board disappeared off the stage through a side exit. So much for elected officials being responsive to their constituents. As my thoughts cleared, my empty stomach reminded me to head over to Mitchell Singer's get-together as soon as possible. It took me a few minutes to get outside, as the crowd had to exit single-file through the two bottleneck doors.

  My parents were, fortunately, waiting for me at the foot of the steps. “So people are saying that the Board chickened out,” my father said. “Typical. Now fill us in.”

  “Can we talk in the car?” I asked. “I'm in kind of a rush.”

  My father frowned, but my mother's mothering instinct rose to my rescue. “Let's go, Moshe,” she said. “He hasn't eaten yet.” I didn't question how she knew that.

  In the car, I recited as many of the anti-wind turbine speaker's arguments as I could remember.

  “Are you on their side?” my father asked.

  “No. I hope I didn't sound that way. I'm still undecided. Both sides had good arguments, and I'm still sorting them out.”

  “That's my David. Always on the fence.”

  “Moshe.”

  “I'm sorry I don't always measure up to your standards, Dad. First of all, my opinion hardly matters here-”

  “It matters to us,” my mother said.

  “Thanks, Mom. Secondly, a lot of issues are too complicated for me to rush to judgment. This is one where a lot of questions haven't even been asked, to my knowledge. Much less answered.”

  “Oh?” my father asked. “How about a for instance?”

  “OK. For instance, who are these wind turbine people? Are they legitimate? Are they fly-by-night? Will they go bankrupt half-way through the job, and leave taxpayers holding the bag? Who are their contractors? Will they hire the most skilled workers, or the best-connected? Will they use reliable or flimsy materials? Are their designs and methods the best available, or are they pushing out-of-date technologies?”

  I took a breath, expecting to be interrupted, but I evidently had their attention. “How did they win this job? Was the bidding fair? Has anyone checked all the claims about effects on the Cape's economy and environment? I could go on and on, but you get the idea.”

  It was dark in the car, but I saw my mother turn to my father. “So what do you say now, Moshe?”

  He laughed, and lifted his hands off the steering wheel and into the air for a scary moment. “You win, David. I surrender. Sometimes you do make a little bit of sense. We'll just have to wait, for...”

  For Dr. Singer to get better, I finished in my head. But if he didn't?

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  My parents dropped me off at Jonathan Singer's house at
9 o'clock and left. Paula would have to drive me back to the hotel. Hot as it had been in the Town Hall only minutes earlier, the later hour and a change in weather had rendered it positively chilly. Singer's house loomed large in the artificially-lit darkness. Lightning and a thunderclap completed the Gothic mansion picture, chasing me inside.

  “Good timing!” Mitchell's booming voice greeted me as I was wiping my shoes on the doormat. “I'm so glad you could make it. Paula said you'd be here eventually. Come in and help yourself. There's plenty of food and drink left.”

  He finished his bottle of Sam Adams, and set it on a solid wood side-table in the foyer. I winced at the thought of the water ring it would leave, but of course it was none of my business. The chewed end of a cigar peeked out of the front pocket of his shirt, a dip-stick for his stress level.

  “Thank you, Mitchell. I am hungry. Beautiful place you and your father have.” What a master of small-talk I am.

  Mitchell approached, and put his arm around my shoulders. I flinched, afraid that the odor of my dried-up sweat would repel him. But the smell of alcohol oozing from his breath and pores easily overshadowed my fragrance. The beer I'd seen him finish had clearly not been his first.

  “David, David, David. I need your help.”

  “Of course.” I hate agreeing to help someone before knowing what they want. I know that for most people such promises are just figures of speech. But for me a promise is something I’d rather not break.

  He steered me to the side table, which was flanked by matching antique wooden chairs. When we sat I wondered if his chair would hold his weight. It seemed OK as long as he didn't rock. He covered his face with his hands before resting them on his thighs.

  “Stephanie was here earlier this evening. She washed up and changed clothes, and did whatever women do. But she'd also come to speak to me, she said. She took me to my bedroom--I thought for a minute she was going to try to seduce me!--although with the mess in my room...Where was I?”

  He pulled out his cigar, placed it, unlit, in his mouth, then pulled it out. “You don't mind if I chew, do you?”

  “No,” I replied, before he laughed. Just call me straight man.

  He stopped laughing. “Anyway, we pushed my stuff over and sat on my bed. She talked to me about my father's condition.” Now I could guess where he was heading. “She wanted me to know that she's considering pulling his plug.”

  “That must be a tough thing to hear.”

  “Sure is. The topic shouldn't have taken me by surprise, though. I guess I didn't want to face reality. Maybe that's why I've devoted so much time to salvaging the conference. I mean, he's not just my father. He's Jonathan Singer! He epitomizes the expression ‘larger than life’.”

  He put his cigar back in his shirt pocket, and picked up his beer bottle. Wasn't it empty? He jiggled the bottle, then turned it upside-down--no, don't do that! A single drop dripped before he gave up and set it down. Right-side up. I considered offering to fetch us drinks, but didn't want to interrupt his flow.

  “Even in the years we weren't talking to each other,” Mitchell continued, “I knew that he was there. It never occurred to me that he might not be around someday. Boy, saying it out loud, I sound like such a child. Me, a seasoned psychologist. And no Spring chicken.”

  “We can't escape being human.” I meant what I said, platitude though it was.

  “You're so right. Can you give me the medical pros and cons, so I can make an educated decision? Actually, so I can give educated advice. It's really Stephanie's decision.”

  I gave him a run-down similar to what I'd previously told Stephanie. He listened and nodded. Speaking for a few minutes dried out my throat, which reminded me that I was thirsty. And hungry.

  “Thanks, David. That's very helpful.” I shifted in my seat and placed one hand on the table, preparing to stand. “Just one more thing,” he said. I leaned back again. “While Stephanie and I were in my room talking, some unpleasant thoughts crossed my mind. I couldn't help it.”

  More unpleasant than his father's condition? He seemed to read my mind, or expression. “I'm not talking about my father's illness,” he said. “I still don't buy it, but I know that most people think that he's the victim of foul play. I know that the police are investigating. They even questioned me. And I've heard that you're investigating, too.”

  “Well, yes.” I didn't see how I could deny it. Or why I should.

  “Is it true that they've arrested your father?”

  “Almost. They brought him in for questioning-”

  He looked up, raised his hands in the air, beseeching the ceiling. “What's wrong with people-”

  “But they released him this afternoon.”

  He brought his hands down and tented them. “Thank goodness for something.” His hands fell to his thighs, apparently tired of praying positions. The gaze he fixed on me showed no sign of inebriation.

  “So maybe with all this negative karma floating around, that's what made me wonder. What if Stephanie's involved? In a bad way, I mean. And now she's talking about pulling the plug. I couldn't help thinking. Should she be allowed to make this decision? What if she wants him dead?”

  This conversational turn surprised me. He was suspicious of Stephanie, whereas she had recently defended him. “Do you know something about her?” I asked. “Something that I--or the police--should know?”

  “No. I didn't mean to imply that.”

  “Well, there is some truth to what you said. But remember the old cliché: at this point everyone's a suspect. Which includes her.”

  “What should I do?”

  “I don't know,” I said. “I don't think that there's much you can do. As I understand it, she's your father's legal guardian until that status is taken away. If there's anything at all you know about your father's case you should tell the police.”

  He shook his head. “No, that doesn't help me. I already did that. And there's one more thing. Something about the bedroom setting, or what she was saying, or maybe my own feelings for her--you know our history, I'm sure--made another awful thought cross my mind. What if Stephanie wants my father out of the way so she can get back with me?”

  I had no idea what to say. Paula and I had already batted around the Stephanie as suspect scenario, but it was all speculative. Maybe Mitchell--no, he'd already said that he had no concrete evidence to contribute.

  Mitchell broke the silence. “I guess we can't answer that question yet. It's a crazy question, I know. But the whole situation is crazy. And there's so little I can do.”

  I wanted to comfort him. “You're right,” I began, but he didn't seem to be listening.

  “All I can really do is to hope he gets better,” he said. “And soon.” He sighed. “I've got to get over there to see him. I know that. But when? Maybe late tonight, or early tomorrow.”

  He slapped his thigh and stood up. Whew. I stood up, too. He put his arm around my shoulders again--a true bear hug. “Thanks for listening, David. You were a big help. Have you ever considered a career in psychology?” He relinquished me and laughed. “You and Paula are a good match.” (Could I quote him on that?). “Now let's go find other forms of nourishment.”

  As I followed him to the party the detective in me couldn't help wondering. Mitchell had shared thoughts and proto-accusations about Stephanie. How would I interpret those statements if Mitchell were the guilty one?

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Mitchell's party sprawled through the adjoining living and dining rooms. There were more people than I'd expected, considering the pall over the conference--but that may have been the precise reason people had come. The atmosphere was redolent with food, alcohol, and perspiration. Apron-clad servers fought the good fight, clearing tables with varying success. The dominant theme, though, was noise, the treble of conversation competing with the bass of pumped-in rock music.

  Mitchell having veered off to a bathroom, I was on my own. My nose drew me to the buffet tables on the right, but my heart told m
e to look for Paula first. I saw Tracey Shanley circulating, acting the hostess. Still serving Jonathan Singer, even outside the office.

  Andrea Peterson was sitting hunched over a table, downing the last of a Cosmopolitan. Uh, oh. A waiter was clearing away two empties from in front of her. Before I could think she looked up and spotted me. She then smiled, and raised her glass and waved it in my direction.

  I'd have to speak to her eventually, but much preferred to party with Paula. So I waved back and walked away, choosing to interpret her wave as a greeting rather than an invitation.

  There she was. Paula was sitting at a table on the left, cradling a half-drunk Martini, smiling while chewing what I assumed was an olive. I recognized the dark green velvet top that I love on her. My heart quickened as I took a step in her direction.

  And then a man with long dark hair bent over her from behind. It had to be Rafael Rincon. I stopped, and clenched my fists. Paula inclined her head and laughed, as though reacting to being tickled. I couldn't watch anymore. But before I could turn away Paula's head motion brought me into her line of sight. She started, her Martini glass wobbling, but called out and motioned to me to join her.

  I hesitated, considering how to react, but decided that I had no choice. The smile I put on as I approached wouldn't fool Paula, I knew. Nor did I want it to.

  “Join us, David,” Rafy said. He pulled over a chair and placed it next to him, with Paula on his other side.

  I sat in it without acknowledging Rafy, and without giving Paula my customary kiss. “Hello, Paula.”

  “I've been getting to know your Paula better,” Rincon said. I'll bet you have, I thought. “I can see why you've been keeping her to yourself,” he continued. “But she's too much of a woman for one man.”

  Who the hell do you think you are? I nearly spat out. Aren't you married? Sure it was a party--a little drink, a little disinhibition. But he'd picked the wrong woman to play party tricks with.