Alan Jacobson - False accusations

As he sat down to eat the leftovers that he had just removed from the microwave, the doorbell chimed its scale of music. He sighed, pushed back from the table, and summoned his remaining energy to lumber down the long hallway toward the front door. He looked through the peephole. Brittany Harding was standing on his porch.

“Brittany,” he said. “You said you couldn’t meet tonight-”

“I know, I’m not here on CCMR business.” She was holding her stomach and bending forward slightly. “I’m in a lot of pain. I went to that Quick Care doc-in-the-box in Fair Oaks, but the doctor was busy and they had me see some useless nurse.” She stood farther forward and took a step to catch her balance.

“Here, here, come in,” Madison said, helping her into the entryway. “Lie down on the couch.” He guided her across the room and she lay on her back. Her satiny hair glistened against the deep blue of the crushed velvet sofa.

The dog came over and sniffed, curious as to what was going on and who this visitor was.

“Scalpel,” Madison said, “go lay down.” The dog complied, settling himself down across the room, in a strategic position to keep an eye on their guest. Madison stuffed a couple of small pillows under Harding’s knees. “Bending your legs should ease the pain a little.” He repositioned them, then asked, “Better?”

Harding shook her head no. She started to open her belt but had difficulty with the buckle. Madison was able to unlatch it.

“Where exactly does it hurt?” he asked, kneeling down in front of the couch.

“Here,” she said, taking his left hand. She placed it over the region of her belly button and then moved it down across the lower abdomen. “The whole area.”

He felt uncomfortable allowing his hand to slide down so low on her stomach. He was a physician, but he was unaccustomed to performing lower abdominal examinations-especially on his couch, with his wife 400 miles away, no one else at home, and no nurse in the room.

Her eyes, an intense brown and gold, caught the light from the overhead spotlights and sparkled. They had a brilliance he’d never seen before. Despite the pain she was in, her face had a pristine look to it.

“Gastrointestinal disorders aren’t my specialty,” he said after gently palpating the area she had indicated.

“It just hurts so much. Can’t you do anything for it? Ease the cramping, maybe?”

“When did it start?”

“Early this evening, around six, after dinner.”

“What did you eat?”

“I had some Mexican food.”

“Ever have this type of pain before?”

“A few times, but nothing this severe.”

He felt around her abdomen again for a moment. “Relax your stomach muscles.” He groped around a bit more. “No rebound tenderness,” he said. “No pain over McBurney’s point, no organomegaly, no palpable aneurysms-”

“What does all that mean?”

“Again, this is not my specialty. But I don’t see anything major.”

“Something’s not right. The pain’s really sharp.”

“Have you been constipated, or have you had any diarrhea lately?”

“Constipation. Why?”

“You could have irritable bowel syndrome. A lot of women in your age group have it. And you’ve had some unusual stress lately, starting a new job, taking on a lot of responsibility.”

“Is it serious?”

Madison laughed. “Irritable bowel syndrome? No, not at all. But it can be painful, and very annoying. Just watch what you eat. Eat lots of fiber and stay away from sweets and caffeine. Increase your fruits, potatoes, cereals, grains.”

“That’s it?”

“You should have a thorough workup tomorrow. Who’s your primary physician?”

She belched. “Excuse me,” she said, covering her mouth. “Dr. Vincente.”

“I’ve heard he’s a good man. Make sure you see him tomorrow.”

“Okay, I will.”

“Is it easing a bit?” He could tell by her face that the sharp pains had subsided.

“I think I can sit up now.” She arose, slowly, grabbing his arm and steadying herself.

“Just a little dizzy.”

“Probably from lying down. You have low blood pressure?”

She nodded. “Mind if I use your phone to make a couple of calls? My battery’s almost dead and people must be wondering where I am.”

They walked into the kitchen and he pointed to the phone on the wall. While she made her calls, Madison let Scalpel into the backyard and then went into his den. He wanted to finish eating, but figured he could wait another couple of minutes for Harding to leave.

A moment later, she appeared in the hallway. “No one’s home. Voicemail both times. Just shows you that when you’re missing, no one’ll even notice.”

Madison smiled and showed her to the door. “You feel okay to drive?”

“I’ll be fine. Sorry for barging in on you like that, I just didn’t know where else to go.”

He opened the door; it was quiet outside. The gardenias were blooming and their pungent scent permeated the entryway. “How’d you find out where I lived?”

“Oh, I got it off the computer at the CCMR. The mailing list.”

“Right,” he said as he started to close the door. “Talk to you soon.”

He stood there in the quiet entryway, thinking. The only address he had ever given the CCMR was their private mailbox at the local Postal Express store. In fact, no one had his street address except for his close friends-he was very cautious about his privacy.

So where had she gotten it from? And why’d she lie?

The next two weeks passed without event. Leeza and the kids returned from Los Angeles, and although Madison did free up some time in his schedule, something always seemed to interfere at the last moment. Any additional time he did have with them was admittedly not enough to make up for all his other absences. He tried to compensate by buying the kids a new video game, but he knew deep down that what they really wanted was more attention from their father, something that couldn’t be bought in a store.

A few days after Harding’s appearance on his doorstep, Madison called her to make sure she had gone to her physician for evaluation of the abdominal pain. She told him that Dr. Vincente had examined her and reached the same conclusion as he had: irritable bowel syndrome. She changed her diet, and the pain and constipation subsided considerably.

Now, a week later, his call to her was strictly business. “We need to schedule a Monte Carlo Night committee meeting,” Madison said, grabbing a moment to phone her between patients.

“I tried to ask Randy Yates what day he wanted the meeting and he just about flew off the handle.”

Madison put down the message slip in his hand and focused his full attention on the conversation. “Why?”

“I don’t know. I told him that we couldn’t meet on the day he wanted because of a planning committee meeting and he started giving me a hard time. He was very abusive. It wasn’t pleasant.”

Madison grabbed a piece of paper and made a note.

“What do you mean by abusive?”

“Using language a woman shouldn’t have to hear, that’s what I mean.”

“I don’t know Randy very well,” he said. “Give me his number, I’ll look into it.”

“Jean, one of the secretaries, said he once cursed at her too, really made her feel awful. I don’t think he likes women. Talks down to them all the time.”

After writing down the number, he tossed his pen onto his desk. “I’ll call him. Don’t worry about it. How are we doing with that seminar-Job Placement for Adults with Mental Retardation?”

“I haven’t been able to get to it, but I’ve got it on my list.”

“It’s only four weeks off-”