Рита Браун - Hiss Of Death

“So it’s not a safety thing?”

“No. Most cars have roll bars that pop up. If they don’t, they’re usually built in so that if you flip, for instance, you won’t land flat up, which means you’ll be dead. There might be a kind of lip, which keeps you intact. I’m not being precise. Okay, I answered your question. Answer mine.”

“When we played lacrosse in high school, that complete shithead from Saint Anne’s whacked me right across the boob when no one was looking.”

“Thadia Martin. She was a bitch. There’s a great lesson in karma.”

“That she is. And it wasn’t a league game, either. We weren’t on Saint Anne’s schedule, since we’re a public school and they’re private. They’ve always been the big dog in lacrosse, and we were good. They thought they’d teach us a lesson.” Susan smiled broadly. “Wiped the field up with them.”

“Yeah, we really did. She’s out of prison now, and I heard she’s a rehab counselor. I think Paula mentioned her once with distaste.”

“Actually, she runs the entire drug counseling program, and Harry, I think they were smart to hire her. Who else knows how drugs can blow up your life but someone who’s served time for selling, for armed robbery?” Susan shook her head. “Crazy.”

“This country is crazy.” Harry looked ahead. “Turnoff. Route Three-forty.”

“I know.”

“I know you know. I just wanted to sound smart.”

The friends ate at South River Grille in Waynesboro. Coop, on her day off, enjoyed them all enormously and was very entertaining with her stories of the dumb stuff a sheriff’s officer sees, like picking up a fellow walking into the Mud House, a coffee shop, in red lace panties, brassiere to match.

• • •

That afternoon, when Susan dropped off Harry, the rain continued, though lessening in intensity.

Opening the kitchen door, Harry beheld kitty wrath.

“Wasn’t me.” Tucker glanced up, her big brown eyes radiating honesty.

“Brownnoser,” Pewter spat.

“Who did this?” Harry surveyed the broken vase knocked off the kitchen table, her lovely pink and white tulips still fresh.

Harry picked them up, snipped off the ends, put them in another vase, and filled it, adding a little sugar to the water. Slipping her fingers into heavy work gloves, she picked up the big pieces of glass. She’d learned the hard way never to pick up glass with bare hands. The fragments were dropped in a small cardboard carton, and she swept up anything she might have missed. Next came the mop. Finally done, she sat down to stare at Pewter, who pointedly sat next to the refreshed tulips with her back turned. Mrs. Murphy, head leaning on the table, sat opposite on a chair.

“Pewter, you could at least turn around and look at her.”

“She smells funny,” Pewter said, justifying her pointed inattention.

“Maybe it’s her new perfume. I’ve noticed it, too.”

Tucker, the olfactory expert, pronounced judgment. “Not the perfume. It’s a little different odor, not bad, just something different.”

“Pewter, I’m not fooled. You did the damage.”

“Mrs. Murphy chased me. I couldn’t help it.”

“What a fib.” Mrs. Murphy climbed up on the table now and boxed Pewter’s ears.

Harry grabbed the vase. “This is how it happened in the first place. You two.”

“It’s a rainy day.” Pewter knocked Mrs. Murphy upside the head, but she didn’t unleash her claws.

“You jumped on the table, and I followed. How was I to know you’d slipped sideways to take out the vase? You’re like a Porsche, Pewter, sixty percent of your weight is in your rear.”

“How do you know that?”

“I listen to everything Mom says about cars.”

“I’m not fat. I’m not built like a car. I have big bones.”

“Oh la.” Tucker rolled her eyes.

“I can jump down there and bloody your nose, Bubble butt.” Pewter leaned over the table, looking convincingly menacing.

“Calm down,” said Harry. “I’d like to sit here in peace.”

“You should have taken us with you,” Pewter sagely advised.

“That’s the truth.” Mrs. Murphy agreed with Pewter, which meant now they were best friends.

The phone rang. Harry checked the old railroad clock. Three-thirty. Could be the feed store. She’d ordered sweet feed. Usually they deliver. If they called, it meant they had run out.

“Hello. Crozet zoo,” Harry answered.

“The question is, is it a petting zoo?” Dr. Regina MacCormack, Harry’s general practitioner, laughed on the other end of the line. “Now, there’s a thought.”

“Harry, come into the office tomorrow. I want to go over your mammogram with you.”

Harry hesitated. “That means it isn’t good.”

“No point in keeping you worried. There is a peculiar small mass in the back of your right breast. Let’s look at it together, and I’ll tell you what I think and what comes next. Can you make it at ten?”

“I can. Thanks for not being evasive.”

“I know you too well. And no one wants a call like this. Is it cancerous? I don’t know. Come in tomorrow. Let’s talk. There is a test that I’ll recommend. You’ll have to think about it.”

“See you at ten.” Harry hung up the phone and looked at her three friends. “Dammit to hell.”

D r. MacCormack’s office, along with many other physicians’, was located along the outer road belt of the new enormous Central Virginia Hospital.

The old hospital, the main brick building constructed in 1930, could no longer meet the demands of a wealthy county. Like the other doctors who had worked at the old hospital, Dr. MacCormack rejoiced in the new one.

Two years ago, Central Virginia Medical Complex, west of Charlottesville, opened to great fanfare. The cost of the hospital, outbuildings, and equipment staggered the imagination and probably exceeded the gross national product of Namibia.

Flanked by Regina and Jerome Neff, as well as the hospital administrator and the county commissioners, Dr. Isadore Wineberg, sixty-one, had cut the ribbon.

The old-timers wondered what those who practiced at the old hospital and who had since passed away would make of the building, with its gleaming wings radiating off the main hub. In particular, Izzy and Regina thought of Larry Johnson, a general practitioner who often took vegetables and even chickens in payment for his services. It was a sure bet the doctors at Central Virginia Hospital would take no chickens. They were a different breed from Larry Johnson, a different breed from Izzy and Regina, too.

The new generation, in thrall to technology, forgot to study the patient as an entire organism. The focus was on scans, blood tests, numbers, numbers, numbers. The flaw in this overreliance on technology was an underreliance on common sense. This misstep was most apparent in the dispensing of drugs, the ordering of batteries of unnecessary tests. The unnecessary tests covered the physician’s ass from lawsuits, mostly. Meanwhile, the bills spiraled ever upward, and if the patient wasn’t horribly sick before treatment, the depletion of funds contributed to malaise afterward.

Rehabilitation also underlined the difference between older and younger doctors. How did the patient live? Was he or she a horseman? Not an idle question in central Virginia, for horsemen are stoics. They might hurt like hell, but they won’t tell you. And if you don’t pay attention to them, they will launch into rehabilitation in ways the young doctor never imagined. Horsemen with kidney transplants would climb up on a horse’s back three weeks after surgery. A person leading a sedentary life in front of a computer would be walking and little more at three weeks.