Michael Palmer: Silent Treatment

'Hey, you okay?' he asked.

Still staring down at the banked corktrack, Harry took a deep breath. The pain was gone, just like that. Gone. Hewaited a few seconds to be sure. Nothing. The smidgen of remaining doubtdisappeared. Definitely not the ticker, he told himself again.

'Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine, Steve,' he said.'You go ahead and finish.'

'Hey, you're the zealot who goaded me intothis jogging nonsense in the first place,' Josephson said. 'I'll take anyexcuse I can get to stop.'

He was sweating more profusely than Harry,although he had probably run half as far. Like Harry, Steve Josephson was ageneral practitioner — 'family medicine specialists,' the bureaucrats haddecided to name them. They were in solo practice, but shared night and weekendcoverage with four other GPs. It was just after six-thirty in the morning — earlier than usual for their run. But this would be a busy and important day.

At eight, following morning rounds and anemergency meeting of the family medicine department, the entire MMC staff wouldbe convening in the amphitheater. After months of interviews and investigation,the task force charged with determining whether or not to reduce the privilegesof GPs in the hospital was ready to present its findings. From the rumors Harryhad tapped into, the recommendations of the Sidonis committee would be harsh — the professional equivalent of castration.

With a portion of Harry's income and asignificant chunk of his professional respect on the line, the impendingpresentation was reason enough for the ulcers or muscle spasms, or whatever thehell had caused the strange ache. And even the committee report was not theforemost concern on his mind.

'We've been running together three or fourtimes a week for almost a year,' Josephson said, 'and I've never seen you stopbefore your five miles were up.'

'Well, Stephen, it just goes to showthere's a first time for everything.' Harry studied his friend's worriedface and softened. 'Listen, pal, I'd tell you if it was anything. Believe me Iwould. I just don't feel like running today. I've got too much on my mind.'

'I understand. Is Evie going in tomorrow?'

'The day after. Ben Dunleavy's herneurosurgeon. He talks about clipping her cerebral aneurysm as if he wasremoving a wart or something. But I guess it's what he does.'

They moved off the track as the only otherrunners in the gym approached.

'How's she holding up?' Josephson asked.

Harry shrugged. 'All things considered,she seems pretty calm about it. But she can be pretty closed in about herfeelings.'

Closed in. The understatement of the week,Harry mused ruefully. He couldn't recall the last time Evie had shared feelingsof any consequence with him.

'Well, tell her Cindy and I wish her well,and that I'll stop by to see her as soon as that berry is clipped.'

'Thanks,' Harry said. 'I'm sure she'llappreciate hearing that.'

In fact, he doubted that she would. Aswarm, bright, and caring as Steve Josephson was, Evie could never get past hisobesity.

'Did you ever listen to him breathe?' shehad once asked as Harry was extolling his virtues as a physician. 'I felt likeI was trying to converse with a bull in heat. And those white, narrow-strappedtees he wears beneath his white dress shirts — pulleese …'

'So, then,' Josephson said as they enteredthe locker room, 'before we shower, why don't you tell me what really happenedout there.'

'I already — '

'Harry, I was halfway around the trackfrom you and I could see the color drain from your face.'

'It was nothing.'

'You know, I spent years learning how toask non-leading questions. Don't make me regress.'

For the purpose of insurance applicationforms or the occasional prescription, Harry and Josephson served as oneanother's physician. And although each persistently urged the other to schedulea complete physical, neither of them had. The closest they had come was anagreement made just after Harry's forty-ninth birthday. Harry, alreadyobsessive about diet and exercise, had promised to get a checkup and a cardiacstress test. Steve, six years younger but fifty pounds heavier, had agreed tohave a physical, start jogging, and join Weight Watchers. But except forJosephson's grudging sessions on the track, neither had followed through.

'I had a little indigestion,' Harryconceded. 'That's all. It came. It bothered me for a minute. It left.'

'Indigestion, huh. By indigestion do youperhaps mean chest pain?'

'Steve, I'd tell you if I had chest pain.You know I would.'

'Slight correction. I know you wouldn't. How many men did you lug back to that chopper?'

Although Harry rarely talked about it,over the years almost everyone at the hospital had heard some version of theevents at Nha-trang, or had actually composed one themselves. In the stories,the number of wounded he had saved before being severely wounded himself hadranged from three — which was in fact the number for which he had beendecorated — to twenty. He once even overheard a patient boast that his doctorhad killed a hundred Vietcong while rescuing an equal number of GIs.

'Stephen, I am no hero. Far from it. If Ithought the pain was anything, anything at all, I'd tell you.' Josephson wasunconvinced.

'You owe me a stress test. When do youturn fifty?'

'Two weeks.'

'And when's the date of that familycurse?'

'Oh, come on.'

'Harry, you're the one who told me aboutit. Now, when is it?'

'September. September first.'

'You've got four weeks.'

'I … Okay, okay. As soon as Evie'ssituation is straightened out I'll set one up with the exercise lab. Promise.'

'I'm serious.'

'You know, in spite of what everyone saysabout you, I always thought that.'

Harry stripped and headed for the showers.He knew that Steve Josephson, in spite of himself, was staring at the patchworkof scars on his back. Thirty-one pieces of shrapnel, half a kidney, and a rib.The design left by their removal would have blended into the pages of a RandMcNally road atlas. Harry flashed on the incredible sensation of Evie'sbreasts gliding slowly over the healed wounds in what she used to call herpatriotic duty to a war hero. When was the last time? That, heacknowledged sadly, he couldn't remember.

He cranked up the hot water until he wasenveloped in steam. Two weeks until fifty. Fifty! He had neverexperienced any sort of midlife crisis that he could think of. But maybe thedeep funk he had been in lately was it. By now the pieces of his life shouldhave fallen into place. Instead, the choices he had made seemed to be underalmost constant attack. And crumbling.

He thought about the day halfway throughhis convalescence when he had made the decision to withdraw from his residencyin surgery and devote his professional life to general practice. Something hadhappened to him over his year and a half in Nam. He no longer had any desire tobe center stage. Not that he minded the drama and intensity of the operatingroom. In fact, even now he truly enjoyed his time there. But in the end, he hadrealized, he simply wanted to be a family doc. Simply. If there was oneword that was most descriptive of the life Harry had chosen for himself, simply might well be it. Get up in the morning, do what seems right, try to help afew people along the way, develop an interest or two outside of work, andsooner or later, things would make sense. Sooner or later, the big questionswould be answered.

Well, lately things weren't making muchsense at all. The big answers were just as elusive as ever. More so. Hismarriage was shaky. The kids he had always wanted just never happened. Thefinancial security that he had expected would gradually develop over the yearswas tied to a brand of medicine he was not willing to practice. He neverallowed his office to become a medical mill. He never sent a collection agencyafter anyone. He never refused anyone care because the patient couldn't pay. Henever moved to the suburbs. He never went back for the training that would havemade him a sub-specialist. The result was a car that was seven years old and aretirement fund that would last indefinitely — as long as he didn't try toretire.