Michael Palmer - Silent Treatment

The pattern on the drop ceiling blurred,then darkened, then faded to black. And with the deepening darkness, Joe'spanic began to fade.

From beyond the nearly closed door to hisroom, he heard the sound of the cart from dietary being wheeled to the kitchenat the far end of the hallway. Next he caught the aroma of food.

And after twenty-one hospitalizations atParkside, most of them on Pavilion 5, he knew that it was exactlyeleven-fifteen.

Seven of the ten chairs in Harry's waitingroom were occupied, although three of them were taken by the grandchildren ofMabel Espinoza. Mabel, an octogenarian, graced him with the smile that noamount of pain or personal tragedy had ever erased for long. She had high bloodpressure, vascular disease, hypo-thyroidism, fluid retention, a love affairwith rich foods, and chronic gastritis. For years, Harry had been holding hertogether with the medical equivalent of spit and baling wire. Somehow, thetherapeutic legerdemain continued to work. And because of it, Mabel had beenable to care for the grandchildren, and her daughter had been able to keep herjob.

Harry reminded himself that there were noMabel Espinozas connected with the position of Director of Physician Relationsat Hollins/McCue Pharmaceuticals.

Mary Tobin, Harry's officemanager-cum-receptionist, oversaw the waiting room from her glass-enclosedcubicle. She was a stout black woman, a grandmother many times over, and hadbeen with Harry since his third year of practice. She was notably outspokenregarding those subjects on which she had an opinion, and she had an opinion onmost subjects.

'How did the meeting go?' she asked as heentered her small fiefdom to check the appointment book.

'Meeting?'

'That bad, huh.'

'Let's just say that all these yearsyou've been working for a baritone, and from now on you'll be working for atenor,' Harry said.

Mary Tobin grinned at the image.

'What do they know? You'll make do, Dr.C.,' she said. 'You've been through tough times before, and you always find theright path.'

'Keep telling me that. Any calls I need todeal with?'

'Just your wife. She called a half an hourago.'

'Is she okay?'

'I think so. She'd like you to call her atthe office.'

Harry headed past his three examiningrooms to his office. In addition to Mary Tobin, he had a young nursepractitioner named Sara Keene who had been with him for four years, and amedical aide who must have been the twentieth he had hired from the nearbyvocational tech. One of that group he had fired for stealing. The rest had leftto have babies, or more often, for better pay. Sara looked up from her desk andwaved as he passed.

'I heard about the meeting, Dr. C.,' shecalled out cheerily. 'Don't worry.'

'If one more person tells me not to worry,I'm going to start worrying,' he said.

His personal office was a large space atthe very back of the once elegant apartment building. In addition to an oldwalnut desk and chairs, it contained a Trotter treadmill which he had used forcardiac stress tests until the associated malpractice premiums made performingthe tests prohibitively expensive. Now, he used the mill for exercise. Thewalls of the office, once paneled with what Evie called 'Elks Club pine', hadbeen Sheetrocked over at her request and painted white. They held the usualarray of laminated diplomas, certifications, and testimonials, plus somethingonly a few other physicians could put on their walls — a silver star fromVietnam. There were also three original oils Evie had picked out, allcontemporary, all abstract, and none that Harry would have chosen had he beenleft to his own tastes. But the majority of his patients seemed to like them.

There were three pictures in frames on thedesk. One was of Harry and his parents at his medical school graduation; onewas of Phil, Gail, and their kids; and one was of Evie. It was ablack-and-white, head-and-shoulders publicity shot, taken by one of the city'sforemost photographers. There were several dozen snapshots of her in his deskthat Harry would have preferred in the frame, but Evie had insisted on theportrait. Now, as he settled in his chair, Harry cradled the frame in his handsand studied her fine, high cheekbones, her sensual mouth, and the darkintensity in her eyes. The photo was taken just before their wedding nine yearsago. Evie, twenty-nine at the time, was then, and remained, the most beautifulwoman he had ever known.

He picked up the phone and dialed hernumber at Manhattan Woman magazine.

'Evelyn DellaRosa, please,' he said,setting her likeness back in its spot. 'It's her husband.'

Evie had been the consumer editor for thestruggling monthly for five years. Harry knew it was an unpleasant comedown forher from the network television reporting job she had once held. But he admiredher tenacity and her commitment to making it back into the spotlight. In fact,he knew something good was going on in her professional life. She wouldn't tellhim what, but for her even to mention that she was working on a story with bigpotential was unusual.

It was three minutes before she came onthe line.

'Sorry to keep you waiting, Harry,' shesaid. 'I had this technician ready to blow the whistle on the dog lab in thebasement of a building owned by InSkin Cosmetics, and the bastard just wimpedout.'

'Are you all right?'

'If you mean do I spend one minute out ofevery hour not thinking about this damn balloon in my head, the answer is, I'mfine.'

'They had that meeting at the hospital.'

'Meeting?'

'The Sidonis committee report.'

'Oh. . oh, yes. . How did it go?'

'Let's just say I should have taken thatjob with Hollins/McCue.'

'Dawn breaks on Marblehead.'

'Please, Evie. I admitted it. What morecan I say?'

He knew there was, in fact, nothing hecould say that wouldn't make matters worse. His decision a little over a yearago to turn down the offer had nearly been the final nail in the coffin oftheir marriage. In fact, considering that he could count on one hand the numberof times they had made love since then, the fallout was probably continuing.

'I got a call from Dr. Dunleavy's office alittle while ago,' she said.

'And?'

'A bed on the neurosurgical floor andoperating room time have become available. He wants me to come in tomorrowafternoon and be operated on Thursday morning.'

'The sooner the better.'

'As long as it's not your head,right?'

'Evie, come on.'

'Listen, I know I had promised to come hearyou play at the club tonight, but I don't want to now.'

'That's fine. It's no big deal. I don'thave to play.'

He took care to keep any hurt from hisvoice. Throughout their dating and the early years of their marriage she hadloved his music, loved hearing him play. Now, he couldn't recall the last time.He had been looking forward to this small step back toward the life they hadonce shared. But he did understand.

'Harry, I need to talk to you,' Evie saidsuddenly.

'Can you come home early enough for us togo out to dinner?'

'Of course. What gives?'

'I'll. . I'll talk to you tonight,okay?'

'Should I be worried?'

'Harry, please. Tonight?'

'All right. Evie, I love you.'

There was a pause.

'I know you do, Harry,' she said.

Kevin Loomis, first vice president of theCrown Health and Casualty Insurance Company, slipped a folder of notes into hisbriefcase, straightened his desk, and checked his calendar for the followingday. He was a meticulous worker and never left for the evening without tying upas many loose ends as possible. He buzzed his secretary and turned on a mentalstopwatch. In six seconds she was in his office.

'Yes, Mr. Loomis?'

Brenda was fabulous — smart, organized,loyal, and an absolute knockout. She was a legacy to him from Burt Dreiser, nowthe president and CEO of the company. Kevin suspected she and Dreiser hadsomething going outside the office. But it really didn't matter. Dreiser hadbumped him up to the corner office over a number of others who had moreseniority and, in some cases, more qualifications than he did. And as far asKevin was concerned, if Dreiser was sleeping with Brenda Wallace, more power tohim.