Рита Браун - Hiss Of Death

Within minutes, the two sat at Susan’s kitchen table, tea in front of them, as well as Harry’s problem.

“You’re going to have the procedure, aren’t you?”

“I am, but I’m not looking forward to it. I have to lie on a table, drop my boob through it, and they go in with a tiny, tiny scalpel with a little fishhook, sort of, pull out some tissue, then test it.”

“They’ll put some numbing cream on. That will help.”

“There isn’t going to be any numbing cream at the back of my boob. It’s going to hurt like hell.”

Susan put both hands around her beautiful bone china cup. One’s chinaware, silver, and crystal still counted in these parts. Susan had inherited delicate china from her paternal line going back to 1720.

“Harry, I’m sorry. You have to do it.”

“Will you go with me?”

“Of course I will. Tell me when.”

“I’ll know tomorrow. Dr. MacCormack is making the appointment. She says she just won’t know anything until we have tissue. A mammogram can miss a lot or sometimes just get it wrong. Obviously, she’s worried, or I wouldn’t have to do this.”

Susan took a deep breath, stared straight into Harry’s light brown eyes. “Okay. What if it is cancer? You aren’t going to ignore it, which I know you can do. For one thing, I won’t let you, and neither will your husband.”

Tears misted over Harry’s eyes. “What if it is? I mean, what if I lost my breast? How will I look to Fair?”

Susan reached over and placed her manicured hand over Harry’s hand. “He loves you. Do you think he loves one of your breasts more than you?”

Harry sighed deeply. “No, but still.”

“Okay. Let me ask you this. If he had to have one of his testicles removed, would you love him any less?”

“Oh, Susan, that’s not a fair question. I don’t go around looking at his parts and getting a buzz. But you know as well as I do, take off your blouse, take off your bra, and they go crazy.”

Susan paused. “Well, you got a point there. I can’t say as I find Ned’s lower regions beautiful. I’m delighted everything functions properly, and I tell him how wonderful it is, but—”

“It’s the difference between women and men.” Harry smiled. “I should amend that. It’s the difference between most women and most men. I don’t want to look ugly to him.”

“Harry, for God’s sake. Fair will be with you every step of the way. He isn’t going to stop loving you, and he isn’t going to stop being sexually attracted to you. Give the man some credit.”

This lifted Harry’s spirits. “Well, what if the worst happens and they lop off my right boob. Does that mean I’ll list to port?”

Susan laughed because it was funny but mostly because Harry was picking up again. “If you do, I’ll hold your left arm and prop you up.”

“Ha!”

“Look, don’t jump to conclusions. One, it may not be cancerous. Two, if it is, they will probably remove the tumor but not your whole breast. Three, if the worst does happen and they remove your breast, you’ll have reconstructive surgery. But I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Harry, silent for a time, finally said, “You know, I’m being shortsighted. The worst would be if it is cancer and it has spread.”

“Don’t even say that!”

“Wouldn’t you think that if it were you?”

A silence followed from Susan, who then broke it. “Yes.”

Harry fingered the lilies in the violet-glass vase on the table. “Sucks. But I won’t know until I get hooked, so what good does it do to worry?” She looked up at Susan, her eyes misting again. “Do you think I’ll smell funny to Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker? Do you think they’ll stay away from me? Hospitals have such strange odors.” She then added, “I need them with me.”

Owen, sitting at her feet, piped up. “My sister loves you, and those awful cats love you. Doesn’t matter how you smell.”

The two humans looked down into the dog’s expressive brown eyes.

Susan, not really knowing what Owen said, replied, “He’s telling you all will be well.”

P ud Benton held up a graceful ruby wineglass. The light streamed through, creating a shaft of ruby light that fell on the wall.

Harry noticed that Paula’s mother twirled the glass in her fingers, but she didn’t pack it away in the carton.

“Mrs. Benton, would you like me to help with the glasses? I’m almost finished with the stuff in the kitchen closet.”

The sixty-five-year-old woman—attractive, with gray hair—blinked. “I must have spaced out.”

Harry closed her carton, walked over to Pud, and began wrapping ruby glasses in tissue paper, stuffing more paper in the glasses, then rolling them in Bubble Wrap. “Happens.”

Mrs. Benton softly said, “I so appreciate all of Paula’s friends helping John and me to pack up.”

Paula’s house, not huge at three bedrooms, still contained enough goods to keep people busy. Packing is always a pain, and under these circumstances it was very difficult for Paula’s parents.

Fair, Cory, Ned, Rev. Jones, and Paula’s father packed up her garage, not as crowded as the house. In the barn, Annalise carefully placed the potted plants and dried bulbs in a large carton. She carefully dug up the bulbs coming up on the shelves in the warm light, placing each one in a plastic cup. She wrote on the cup the flower’s name—tulip, hyacinth, jonquil—for Paula had tacked small signs on the shelf’s lip. Pud didn’t want the plants, but she and John had decided each helper should get one.

Most of the people in the house had worked either at Central Virginia Hospital with Paula or on the 5K run.

Harry kept her news to herself except for her husband. Why blab until she had the biopsy results?

“Mrs. Benton, how did you get the nickname Pud?” Harry hoped a different kind of conversation might help Paula’s mother.

She reached for a fluted champagne glass. “Well, first off, my grandmother’s name was Paulette, my mother’s name was Paula, and I was named Paulette. So Grandmother and Mother called me Pud. Then, of course, I named Paula after my mother. Too many P’s, but you know how families are. Or maybe you don’t.”

“I know.” Harry smiled.

“Paula’s nickname was Pooch. When she went off to Michigan State, she made her girlfriends swear not to use her nickname. They did anyway. Burned her up. So finally when she moved south, she was able to be Paula again. No one knew her as Pooch. It’s all silly.”

“Pretty funny, really. I can’t imagine calling her Pooch.”

“And I can’t imagine anything else.” Mrs. Benton paused, her hand dangling over the open carton. “When we had the service back home, her pastor referred to her as Pooch. I console myself with the hope that she suffered no pain, it was quick. John and I spoke to Annalise Veronese, the pathologist. She was so kind. Everyone has been so kind. Dr. Veronese assured us that Pooch was in good health. One never knows.”

“No, ma’am.”

Mrs. Benton finally put the glass in the carton. “I can’t get used to being called ma’am. Makes me feel like an old lady.”

“You look just like Paula, or I should say she looked just like you. You two could have passed for sisters.”

“Aren’t you sweet? Come on, now, the gray hair gives me away.”

“There are rock stars that dye their hair so blond it’s gray. Say, have you seen photos of the DJ in England called Mamy Rock? She’s seventy-five, close-cropped gray hair. She looks fabulous.”

“Haven’t. I’ll look her up on the Internet.” Mrs. Benton saw her husband, with Ned, Fair, and Rev. Jones, pushing a riding mower up a makeshift ramp into the rented U-Haul. “John will get a hernia.”