Medicine Men (28 page)

“You’re so nice—”

“Well, okay! Let’s go.” They both stood up.

But at that moment the phone rang, and Felicia made two somewhat odd choices: one was that she answered it at all, and the other was that she did so in her bedroom, rather than right there in the kitchen. Later she was to think: Maybe I sort of knew it was something private, and bad?

Five or so minutes later she came back from the phone, not quite knowing how to tell Matthew what had happened. But she started in. Looking at him very directly as she spoke, she said, “That was about Will. A man I knew in Seattle. His sister was on the phone—she told me he’d shot himself, and she thought I’d want to know. Well, I didn’t exactly want to know but I guess that’s what people say, they think you’d want to know.

“He had this huge gun collection—we pretty much fell out
over that. He even belonged to the NRA. I knew he was unhappy, that things weren’t working out for him, but I guess I didn’t see
how
depressed he was. With all his guns.” She shivered a little. “It’s scary, you know? To tell you the truth, now I don’t much feel like a walk. I think about guns, and whoever it is that comes into the garden—”

Matthew said, “Of course,” and came over to pat and then to enfold her in a brief, unsexy, but reassuring hug. “If you don’t mind I’m going out for a little while,” he said. “I’ve got an idea about this guy in the garden.”

She should have been thinking about poor Will, Felicia thought, in her bathroom, getting ready for bed. But she was not; she was washing and drying herself, brushing and lotioning, here and there the tiniest touch of perfume. Silk and lace on her clean smooth naked skin, and then the cool touch of fresh linen sheets. She was thinking of Matthew, thinking happily of love, and pleasure.

Matthew came back into the house, and he too was thinking of love, but first he said, with a small pleased laugh, “I think I’ve fixed that guy. But good.” And then, “Oh God! what a lovely woman—everywhere—lovely.”

About an hour later, half dozing in the happy aftermath of love, they were awakened by a shout—a scream of surprise and pain from the garden. Terrible, and to Felicia identifiable.

“Jesus!” she whispered to Matthew. “It’s Sandy.”

“ ‘Embarrassing’ is barely the word for it,” Felicia told Molly. “Except that all three of us were more than a little out of focus. Matthew and I were still a little—well, you know, half-asleep—and we had had a lot of wine. And Sandy was really in pain. Matthew’d grabbed up his shoes and pants and sweater, and I just had a robe and slippers, so it was all pretty obvious. Jesus! I had to introduce them. Of course they didn’t shake hands or anything, just sort of grunted, both of them—and
Sandy stuck out his elbow and he said, ‘Don’t touch me,’ or something like that. ‘Just call 911.’ Matthew asked if he wanted a brandy or anything, and Sandy said no, and then he said, ‘I’m a doctor.’ As if that explained anything.”

“Actually explains quite a lot,” said Molly.

They both laughed.

“When I think of how we looked!” Felicia went on. “Remember that fancy pink silk robe that Sandy brought me from New Orleans? Well, it sort of matches the nightgown I’d uh, started out in, put on after my bath, and so that was what I just grabbed up. Oh, I forgot to say that Sandy was in
black tie.
God knows where he’d been, some fancy doctor do. But there the three of us were in our costumes. And poor Sandy, really in pain. His face all screwed up. But he insisted on just lying there until the ambulance came, he wouldn’t let either of us touch him. God, talk about glowering. And then when the ambulance pulled up and the guys got out, you would have thought he was R. Milhous Nixon, with his troops. Giving orders. In fact that’s what he said, ‘Take me to the General.’ It was a minute before I realized that he meant San Francisco General, the hospital. That’s where he always said you should go for emergencies. Well, anyway. What a night!”

“Indeed,” agreed Molly.

“So odd,” Felicia mused. “If it hadn’t been for that terrible phone call, poor Will’s sister, I would have gone for the walk with Matthew, and Matthew wouldn’t have set the trap that made Sandy trip and sprain his ankle.”

“What kind of a trap was it?”

“Really simple. Just one of my little gardening benches across the path. But actually it’s lucky he didn’t get hurt worse. Poor man, lying there in his fancy clothes. His black tie. I guess I should call and see how he is.”

“Maybe,” Molly reluctantly said.

“Matthew’s gone to some sort of diving meet out at Ocean
Beach. It’s interesting how unlike they are, isn’t it? Matthew and Paul.”

“Yes,” said Molly, hoping this to be the truth.

As she walked up the hill toward her building a little later, Molly reflected on several not quite related topics. One, on the whole she felt that she was pleased with the way things had worked out with Dr. Macklin. He was a very nice man and a very good doctor, and his wife was obviously what he most wanted, so it was good that he should get her back. Also, good doctors were not all that easily come by—she guessed.

She thought too that she was much more tired than she should be, and for just an instant a familiar panic touched her.
Had
her green-golf-ball tumor come back, or maybe a new one, more virulent, more aggressive?

But then she thought: It’s only a year since all that surgery. In fact, as she recalled the date, which was also that day’s date, she saw that this was the anniversary. And, as a present, she let up on herself a little, assuring herself (as she might have a friend), You’ve been through a lot this year. It’s not surprising that you’re not entirely recovered. It’s okay to be tired.

Knowing she should not, though, Molly imagined that time a year ago. The weeks and days just before surgery when she had thought that any change, even death, would be an improvement.

She remembered the anesthetist in that frightful green OR saying to her, “Good night, now, sleep well,” heavily ironic. The Recovery Room, then Intensive Care. The doctors, including Dave, saying over and over, “The size of a golf ball, how lucky you are!” Doctors asking the other women in the room, who was really only one poor crazy woman, “Do you know where you are?” The double clock.

And then radiation. Nausea, endless nausea—thinking again
that any change would be an improvement. And Alta Linda, the bottom of the world.

There in the brilliant, clear winter sunshine, Molly shuddered a little; she tried to reassure herself that none of that could happen again, not ever. And in the meantime she stopped for a minute to rest, halfway up that very steep hill, with its glorious view of water, and boats, and farther hills of promising bright grass.

She was struck by a vision, or a fantasy: for a euphoric moment she imagined that she and Felicia would rent some space down in the Tenderloin, say (or even buy a building; with all this money Molly could afford to do that), and make it into a warm bright clean new shelter, with beds and food and baths and privacy for homeless people, men and women, children, anyone. A crazy idea (she imagined what Dave would say), impractical, probably, but nevertheless it made her smile with pleasure. She would call Felicia right away, when she got home. At least Felicia would be enthusiastic. Forgetting fatigue, Molly began to hurry up the hill.

Dr. Raleigh Sanderson wheeled along expertly in his chair, his injured, bandaged ankle riding ahead like a banner, a signal that he was of a breed apart; he was not related to all the other men in wheelchairs who, less skillfully and less aggressively, maneuvered the long corridors, often with the help of attendants, or who sat about in the bright self-consciously cheery waiting rooms. Just as Dr. Sanderson’s bright-white hair signaled otherness: although he and many of these men were about the same age, and some were even younger, he had the best head of hair in the bunch, white but strong and full. Alive, and vigorous.

The other men, the patients, had looks of defeat and shame. (Of impotence.) They were embarrassed to be in this place at all; they had let it get them down. Even, this morning one old guy in cords and one of those old-timey camel-hair cardigans—this bald guy actually asked, “Does this here particle stuff work on ankles too?”

Jesus H. Christ! Laymen. Sandy started to explain but then he thought, Oh, why the fuck bother? Let this stupid prick assume whatever he wanted. So he just said, “Sure, these fifty-million-buck machines can do anything.” And he laughed, as though he had paid for them himself. (Come to think of it, he
wouldn’t mind owning a piece of this action, not at all. He wondered who did—he would have to investigate. Even post-divorce he’d have a few bundles around.)

“You headed for the room?” this jerk asked next.

“Oh no, I’m heading out. I’ve got a car coming.” Not saying, I’ve already been to the room, I’ve had my jolt for the day.

And he certainly did not tell the story of how he had been railroaded down here. How he went to the General in the ambulance, thanks to that slut Felicia and her boyfriend. His terrible attack of groin pain, and the smart-ass resident who said, “That’s sure a long way from your ankle. Sounds like a prostate problem to me. Should we call your regular doctor?” And so on, until he, Raleigh, had been convinced that at this place, this Alta Linda, he might, just might, get radiation that would shrink the tumor. Avoid surgery. If only what he had said to that stupid guy (and impotent: Sandy could tell from his eyes) turned out to be true, that these fifty-million-buck machines could do anything.

The car he had ordered turned out to be a limo, an old one, not a stretch; still, it looked long and sleek and black and conspicuous among the old clunks or new Jap cheapos that most of these people, these
patients
drove or were driven in by relatives, not chauffeurs. Moving toward the car—of course it was his—Sandy wished he did not need crutches. But his ankle did furnish a kind of disguise for him; no one would guess that he too had the big P problem. He might even be just a visiting doctor—which, in a way, he was. Or a big investor, looking things over.

The driver was dark and fat—Mexican, probably—and not in uniform, but what can you do? He could call the company and complain about sloppiness (maybe even refuse to pay); on the other hand, why bother?

And the streets they were driving through looked like Mexican slums, and probably were. Ugly bright small stucco houses, lots of small failing businesses: auto parts, computer parts, dirty-looking restaurants. Sandy’s pure Cedar Falls Presbyterian soul
revolted, and he tapped on the glass. “Couldn’t we get more out into the country? Leave the city?”

“Yes sir. As you say!”

Well, the guy was black, no Mexican, but how in hell could you tell? They’re all so dark, those people.

Then, very quickly, they were actually up in some mountains, large rounded bright green ones, bulbous, like something diseased. The ugliest scenery, ugliest countryside Raleigh had ever seen. He closed his eyes and thought of New England. He remembered driving to Maine with Connie about a hundred years ago, the narrow twisting bad black roads, back then, the fields and stone fences. Birches and lakes everywhere, and how beautiful Connie said it was. But then silly Connie even thought it was beautiful in Cedar Falls; she loved the river and the falls, all that. Felicia too was always saying how beautiful something was, her garden, her flowers (even, he smiled briefly to remember, his cock). Were all women basically superficial and silly, after all? And, except for screwing, did he really not like them much? Oh shit, he thought as he looked at the monstrous swollen extrusions of earth, these mountains—oh shit, who cares? Who cares if anything is beautiful or not?

Sandy did wonder if either Connie or Felicia, those scenery-enthusiasts, would have anything good to say about these hills, this horrible landscape. God, probably they would.

Quite suddenly, then, Raleigh Sanderson, who did not believe in intuition, nor certainly in visions—suddenly he knew with a terrible clarity that all these treatments would not work for him; he would have to have the surgery, and after that he would be—useless. No more Felicia, no more nurses, no more even Connie.

Horrible! but also unreal,
untrue.
Layman’s superstitious thinking.

He forced himself to concentrate instead on the idea that he had earlier had about investments, investing in particle therapy
(of course it would work for him; it would shrink—if not remove entirely—his prostate tumor). Those guys with money in dialysis really screwed up, did a lousy job and let it get out publicly that they owned the fucking machines.

He tapped on the glass. “Turn around, I want to go back.”

With a quick screech the driver did just that—Jesus, lucky they both weren’t killed right here.

He would call his brother Durham, the stockbroker, first thing when he got back to the hotel. With that thought Raleigh thought too, for the thousandth time, what a total jerk their mother had been. Raleigh and Durham, good Christ! What a really dumb broad.
Belle.

Back in his room, Sandy ordered a martini, which he did not really want but he thought that if he could at least get it down he might feel better. More like himself.

Waiting there, looking out the room’s long narrow window, he observed the scruffy palm trees, ragged, tattered fronds that rattled in the ominous November wind, which also swung the large black creaking hotel sign: SUNDAY CHAMPAGNE BRUNCH, ALL YOU CAN EAT. $18.95.

And he thought, as Molly Bonner had before him, This is the worst place I’ve ever been. This is hell.