Майкл Коннелли - The Best American Mystery Stories 2018

She was smiling at him now. Nothing too gaudy, the lightest pearling of teeth.

“I’ve got loads of appointments,” he said.

“Of course.”

“Can’t be bothered to write them all down. I’d be doing nothing else.”

“Shall I sit here?” she asked, lowering herself decorously onto his bed. His face pinked, but just as he began to protest, he recalled there was nowhere else in the apartment for anyone to sit.

“We’ve met before,” said Dr. Landis.

“I meet a lot of people.”

“Well, to refresh your memory…” She gently dragged the coffee table into the space between them. “I’m the head clinician. And one of my jobs is to track the—the cognitive function among our residents.”

“Why?”

“Because we want to make sure everyone at Morning Has Broken is healthy and happy and ready to roll.” The words were chirpy, but the voice was cool, and the eyes were softly appraising. “So if it’s all right, Mr. Hank, we’re just going to run a few simple tests.”

He said nothing.

“We’ll be done before you know it,” she said, “and you can get on with your afternoon.”

“I hope so,” he answered gruffly, wondering in the same breath how many times he had met this woman. How long had she even been working here? A month… a year…

“Mr. Hank? May we proceed?”

He curled his lip and folded his arms across his chest. “Get on with it.”

She reached into her leather satchel, drew out three cards, and laid them on the coffee table.

“Now, Mr. Hank, each card has a word printed on it.”

“I have eyes.”

“Can you please read the words for me? Left to right.”

“Banana. Triangle. Six.”

“And again?”

“Oh, for… Banana. Triangle. Six. ”

“Very good,” she said, sweeping the cards back into the bag.

“That wasn’t so hard,” he muttered.

“No, it wasn’t. Now in a few minutes I’m going to ask you to repeat them back to me, all right?”

“Fine.”

Quickly and with minimum fuss, she took out a clipboard, lined with gridded paper, and uncapped a ballpoint pen.

“Mr. Hank, can you tell me what day it is today?”

“What do you mean, day?”

“Day of the week.”

Normally the question would have panicked him, but it so happened that the smell of corned beef was still on his skin, and from there the inferential chain was startling in its efficiency. Corned beef was boiled beef. Boiled beef was boiled food. Boiled food was…

“Friday!”

He spit the word out with such force she actually drew back an inch. But the look of self-possession never wavered.

“That’s correct. Now maybe you can tell me the date.”

“Maybe I can.”

“As in month and date.”

“Let me think about that and get back to you.”

“Okay.”

Her hand sloped across the clipboard, leaving a trail of words in its wake.

“Do we do this every month?” he asked.

“Yes indeed.”

“So the next time you come… that’ll be Friday.”

Pathetic, he knew. Clinging to his sole triumph.

“I’ll be back on the twenty-fifth,” she said. “Which will beee…” Her fingers once more set to dancing across her phone screen. “Sun day. But I take your point, Mr. Hank. Hey, can you tell me the name of our president?”

He blinked at her. “President?”

“Yes.”

“Of what?”

“The United States.”

“Ohh…” His mouth contracted to a point. “So many to choose from. I mean, there was Nixon and Reagan. Kennedy.”

“That’s true.”

“What’s to separate one from the other? They’re all crooks.”

The tiniest flutter on Dr. Landis’s lips. “But only one of those crooks is currently our president.”

“Well, you can…” His hands made a shooing motion. “You can take the whole lot, for all I care. And don’t even ask me who my congressman is. I haven’t voted in ten years. Bunch of shysters.”

Dr. Landis’s pen hovered gently over the paper.

“What state do you live in, Mr. Hank?”

“Virginia.”

“What town?”

“Falls Church.”

“I believe that’s where you last lived.”

“They may be calling it something else. I still call it Falls Church.”

She contemplated him for a brief time, then set her pen down.

“Now, Mr. Hank. Just a few minutes ago I showed you three words. Can you tell me what they were?”

“Three words,” he said noncommittally.

“That’s right.”

“I’m sure you said a lot more than three words.”

“I didn’t say them, Mr. Hank. I showed them to you.”

“Sure you did.”

“I’ll give you the first word. It’s banana. ”

“Banana,” he said. “That’s ridiculous. Why would you… there’s not a banana in sight.”

“I didn’t show you an actual banana. I just showed you the word.”

“Well, what good is a word if it—if it doesn’t have a thing attached to it? That’s just crazy talk.”

He felt her dry, light, unsurprisable gaze. “The next word was triangle, ” she said.

“Well, I mean, these are not words I use in daily conversation. I mean, I don’t eat bananas. I don’t… I don’t come into contact with triangles. I mean, if you’d said rectangles …”

He was conscious that every word that came out of his mouth dug him in deeper. Yet wouldn’t silence do the same? His hands, for want of instruction, began to rake the arms of his chair, leaving little furrows in the corduroy.

“I’m kind of tired, you must know.”

“Oh, I’m sure you are, Mr. Hank, and I do appreciate how hard you’ve been working. I just had one last question for you.”

“Make it quick.”

“What’s your wife’s name?”

“My…” His breath lodged just shy of his larynx. “My wife.”

“That’s right.”

His hands spidered around his knees.

Very deliberately now, he angled his eyes away from her.

“Take your time,” she said.

“I don’t need to. I don’t need to take my time. Asking me about my wife. That’s goddamn rude is what it is. Why don’t I ask you about your husband?”

“I’m not married, Mr. Hank.”

“Well, there you are,” he said, with an air of finality.

The silence fastened around them now like manacles.

“I know the name of my wife,” he said. “I just don’t care to share it with you.”

“Do you know if she’s alive or dead, Mr. Hank?”

“Well, she’s not here, is she?”

That much he was sure of. If she were here, she’d be here, in this fifteen-by-fifteen square. But no matter where his eyes darted, there was no sign of another. He interrogated the remote control resting by his foot. The pair of reading glasses, slightly bent, on the bedside table. The row of tan Sansabelt slacks hanging in his closet. Over by the door, the pair of galoshes that sat waiting for him day after day (though he rarely went outside and never in the rain). Each object irretrievably and ruinously his.

Hank palmed his eyes shut. He thought, If I concentrate hard enough, I can make this woman go away. I can make this whole thing stop. I can…

“Silly me!”

Her voice in that moment was so different from what it had been—so sweet and disarming—that his eyes immediately sprang open, as if seeking reprieve. And there she was, smiling as sweetly as any woman had ever smiled.

“You didn’t get a fighting chance, Mr. Hank.”

“How… how’s that?”

“You didn’t take your meds.”

Instinctively his gaze swerved back to the medication dispenser on the coffee table. There, in Friday’s chamber, lay the usual troika: white, yellow, and blue. Untouched. Unconsumed.