Michael Palmer - Silent Treatment

'You're doing fine, Harry. It's thatbirthday coming up that has you rattled. The big five — '

'That's okay, Phil. You don't have to sayit.'

Harry had discussed the Corbett curse withhis brother, but only once. Phil's dismissal of the theory was as emphatic asit was predictable. On a September first their paternal grandfather, just a fewmonths past his seventieth birthday, had dropped dead of a coronary.Twenty-five years later — exactly twenty-five years later — their fatherhad his first coronary. He was precisely sixty years and five weeks oldon that September first. That he didn't die on the spot was both tragicand, to Harry, immaterial. The two years he lived as a cardiac cripple werehell for everyone.

September first. The date had been circled onHarry's mental calendar since his father's heart attack. But after oneparticular lecture at a cardiology review course, he had highlighted it in red.

'It may be due to societalfactors or to genetics,' the cardiologist had said. 'Possibly both. But we frequentlysee a pattern in families which I call the Law of Decades. Simply put, a son'sfirst cardiac event seems often to occur precisely ten years earlier than didhis father's. Obviously, there are exceptions to the Law. But check it out. Ifyou have a fifty-four-year-old man with a coronary and a positive familyhistory, there's a good chance his father will have had his first event at agesixty-four. Not sixty-three or sixty-five. Ten years on the button. .'

'But physically you're feeling all right,Harry,' Phil said. 'Right?'

'Sure. Sure, Phil, I'm fine. It's probablyjust that I haven't had a two-week vacation in almost three years, my car isfalling apart, and — '

'Hey, believe it or not, that's actuallyone of the reasons I stopped by. I have a great deal for you on a new C220.Dealer's cost. Not the dealer's cost we tell everyone we're selling to them at.The real dealer's cost. A new Mercedes. Just think how much Evie'll loveit. Who knows, she might even — '

'Phil!'

'Okay, okay. You said you needed achallenge, that's all.'

Harry opened the door of the roadster andstepped out on to the pavement.

'Give my love to Gail and the kids,' hesaid.

'I'm worried about you, Harry. You'reusually very funny. And even more important, you usually think I'm funny.'

'You're not funny today, Phil.'

'Give me another chance. How about lunchsometime next week?'

'Let's see what happens with Evie.'

'Okay. And don't worry, Harry. If youreally need it, I'm sure something will come along for you to push against.'

After twenty-one admissions to ParksideHospital, Joe Bevins could close his eyes and tell time by the sounds andsmells coming from the hallway outside his room. He even knew some of thenurses and aides by their footsteps — especially on Pavilion 5. More often thannot, he was able to get the admissions people to send him there. The staff onthat floor was the kindest in the hospital and knew the most about caring forchronic renal failure patients who were on dialysis. He also liked the rooms onthe south end of the floor best of any in the hospital — the rooms with viewsof the park and, in the distance, the Empire State Building.

It wasn't a great life, having to getplugged in at the dialysis center three times a week, and having to be rushedto Parkside every time his circulation broke down, or an infection developed,or his blood sugar got too far out of whack, or his heart rhythm becameirregular, or his prostate gland swelled up so that he couldn't pee. But atseventy-one, with diabetes and nonfunctioning kidneys, it was a case of beggarscan't be choosers.

Outside his door, two litters rattled by,returning patients from physical therapy. One of them, a lonely old gal with nofamily, had lost both her legs to gangrene. Now, they were just keeping heraround until a nursing home bed became available. It could be worse, Joereminded himself. Much worse. At least he had Joe Jr., and Alice, andthe kids. At least he had visitors. He glanced over at the other bed in hisroom. The guy in that bed, twenty years younger than he was, was down having anoperation on his intestines — a goddamn cancer operation.

Oh, yes, Joe thought. No matter how badit got for him, he should never forget that it could always be worse.

He sensed the presence at his door evenbefore he heard the man clear his throat. When he turned, a white-coated labtech was standing there, adjusting the stoppered tubes in his square, metalbasket.

'You must be new here,' Joe said.

'I am. But don't worry. I've been doingthis sort of work for a long time.'

The man, somewhere in his forties, smiledat him. He had a nice enough face, Joe decided — not a face he took to all thatmuch, but not one that looked burnt-out or callous either.

'What are you here to draw?' he asked.

Joe's doctors almost always told him whattests they had ordered. They knew he liked to know. All three specialists hadbeen by on rounds that morning, and none had said anything about blood work.

'This is an HTB-R29 antibody titer,' theman said matter-of-factly, setting his basket on the bedside table. 'There's aninfection going around the hospital. Everyone with kidney or lung problems isbeing tested.'

'Oh.' The technician had an accent of somesort. It wasn't very marked, and it wasn't one Joe could place. But it wasthere. 'Where're you from?' he asked.

The man smiled at him as he prepared histubes and needle. The blue plastic name tag pinned on his coat read G.Turner, Phlebotomist. Trying not to be obvious, Joe looked down at hisclip-on identification badge. It was twisted around so that it was impossibleto read.

'You mean originally?' the man responded.'Australia originally. But I've been here in the U.S. since I was a child. Youhave a very astute ear, Mr. Bevins.'

'I taught English before I got sick.'

'Aha. I see,' Turner said, glancingswiftly at the door, which he had partially closed on his way in. 'Well, then,shall we get on with this?'

'Just be careful of my shunt.'

Turner lifted Joe's right forearm, andgently ran his fingers over the dialysis shunt — the firm, distended vesselcreated by joining an artery and vein. His fingers were long and finelymanicured, and Joe had the passing thought that the man played piano, andplayed it well.

'We'll use your other arm,' Turner said.He tightened a latex tourniquet three inches above Joe's elbow, and took muchless time than most technicians did to locate a suitable vein. 'You seem totake all this in stride. I like that,' he said as he gloved, then swabbed theskin over the vein with alcohol.

'All those doctors don't keep me alive,'Joe said. 'My attitude does.'

'I believe you. I'm going to use a smallbutterfly IV needle. It's much gentler on your vein.'

Before Joe could respond, the fine needle,attached to a thin, clear-plastic catheter, was in. Blood pushed into thecatheter. Turner attached a syringe to the end of the catheter and injected asmall amount of clear liquid.

'This is just to clear the line,' he said.

He waited for perhaps fifteen seconds.Then he drew a syringeful of blood, pulled the tiny needle out, and held thesmall puncture site firmly.

'Perfect. Just perfect,' he said. 'Are youokay?'

I'm fine.

Joe was certain he had said the words, buthe heard nothing. The man standing beside his bed kept smiling down at himbenevolently, all the while keeping pressure on the spot where the butterflyneedle had been.

I'm fine, Joe tried again.

Turner released his arm, and placed theused needle and tube in the metal basket.

'Good day, Mr. Bevins,' he said. 'You'vebeen most cooperative.'

With the first icy fingers of panicbeginning to take hold, Joe watched as the man turned and left the room. Hefelt strange, detached, floating. The air in the room was becoming thick andheavy. Something was happening to him. Something horrible. He called out forhelp, but again there was no sound. He tried to turn his head, to find the callbutton. From the corner of his eye, he could see the cord, hanging down towardthe floor. He was paralyzed — unable to move or even to take in a breath. Thecall button was no more than three feet away. He strained to move his handtoward it, but his arm was lifeless. The air grew heavier still, and Joe felthis consciousness beginning to go. He was dying, drowning in air. And there wasabsolutely nothing he could do about it. Nothing at all.