Robin Cook - Godplayer

“You’re so predictably unpredictable,” said Cassi, smiling. “Your mother and I had a most interesting conversation. Thomas, I never knew about your clubfoot. Why didn’t you tell me?”

She sat down on the arm of his chair, forcing him to swing around into a normal position. He didn’t answer, concentrating on his drink.

“It’s not important,” said Cassi, “but I’m an expert on childhood afflictions. I find it reassuring that we shared such an experience. I think it gives us a special degree of understanding.”

“I can’t remember anything about a clubfoot,” said Thomas. “As far as I know I never had one. The whole thing is some elaborate delusion of my mother’s. She wants you to be impressed by how she suffered bringing me up. Look at my feet: Do they look deformed?”

Thomas took off his shoes and raised his feet.

Looking down, Cassi had to admit both feet looked entirely normal. She knew Thomas had no problem walking and had been something of a college athlete. But she still wasn’t sure who had been telling the truth.

“It seems incredible that your mother would make something like that up?” Her tone was more a question than a statement, but Thomas took it as a statement.

Throwing down the medical journal, he leaped to his feet, nearly knocking Cassi to the floor. “Listen, I don’t care who you believe,” said Thomas. “My feet are fine, have always been fine, and I don’t want to hear anything more about a clubfoot.”

“All right, all right,” said Cassi soothingly. With a professional eye she watched her husband, noting that his equilibrium was slightly off in that he’d overshoot with simple motions that required him to make subtle readjustments. And that wasn’t all. His speech was slightly slurred as well. Cassandra had noticed similar episodes over the previous months but she’d ignored them. He had every right to indulge himself with alcohol now and then, and she knew he liked Scotch. What surprised her was how short a time had passed since he’d fled from the dinner table. He must have tossed off quite a few drinks, one after another.

More than anything, Cassi wanted Thomas to relax. If a discussion about a hypothetical clubfoot was going to upset him, she was perfectly willing to drop the subject forever if necessary. Sliding off the chair, she reached up to place her arm around his shoulder.

He fended her off, defiantly taking another sip of Scotch. He looked contentious and eager to quarrel. At close range Cassi noted his pupils were constricted to mere dots of black in his bright blue irises. Suppressing her own irritation at being rejected, Cassi said: “Thomas, you must be exhausted. You need a good night’s sleep.” She reached up again and this time he permitted her to put her arm around his neck. “Come to bed with me,” she said softly.

Thomas sighed but didn’t speak. He put down his half-finished drink and let Cassi lead him back down the hall to their bedroom. He started to unbutton his shirt, but Cassi pushed his hands away and did it for him. Slowly she undressed him, discarding his clothes in a careless heap on the floor. Once he was under the covers, she rapidly undressed herself, sliding in next to him. It was a delicious sensation to feel the coolness of the freshly laundered sheets, the comforting weight of the blankets, and the warmth of Thomas’s body. Outside the November wind howled and shook the Japanese wind chimes on the balcony.

Cassi began by rubbing his neck and shoulders. Then she slowly worked her way down his body. Beneath her fingers she could feel him relax and respond to her. He stirred and enveloped her in an embrace. She kissed him and gently reached down between his legs. He was flaccid.

The moment Thomas felt Cassi’s hand touch him, he sat up and pushed her away. “I don’t think it’s quite fair to expect that I’d be able to satisfy you tonight.”

“I was interested in your pleasure,” said Cassi softly, “not my own.”

“I’ll bet,” said Thomas viciously. “Don’t try any of your psychiatric bullshit on me.”

“Thomas, it doesn’t matter if we make love or not.”

Throwing his legs over the side of the bed, Thomas grabbed for his discarded clothes with jerky, uncoordinated motions. “I find that hard to believe.”

Thomas went into the hall, slamming the door behind him with such force that the storm windows rattled in their frames.

Cassi found herself engulfed in lonely darkness. The howling wind, which moments before had enhanced her sense of security, now did the opposite. The old fear of being abandoned haunted her. Despite the warmth of the blankets, Cassi shivered. What if Thomas left her? Desperately she tried to put the thought out of her mind because she could not bear the possibility. Maybe he had just been drunk. She recalled his lack of equilibrium and slurred speech. In the short time she’d spoken with Patricia, it didn’t seem possible that Thomas could have absorbed enough alcohol to cause such an effect, but when she thought about it, she had to admit that there had been several such episodes in the last three or four months.

Rolling onto her back, Cassi stared at the ceiling where an outdoor lamp shining through the leafless tree outside created a pattern like a gigantic spider web. Frightened by the image, she turned on her side only to confront the same scary shadow on the wall across from the window. Was Thomas taking some kind of drug? Having admitted the possibility, she recognized that she’d been denying the signs for months. It was further evidence that Thomas was unhappy with her, that their life had drastically changed, and that he had changed.

In the bathroom off his study, Thomas stared at his naked body in the mirror. Although he hated to admit it, he did look older. And more worrisome than that was his shriveled penis. To his own touch it felt almost numb, and the lack of sensation filled him with agonizing fear. What was wrong with his sexuality? When Cassi had been massaging him he’d felt the need for sexual release. But obviously his penis had had other ideas.

It must have been Cassi’s fault, he reasoned halfheartedly, as he returned to the study and got into his clothes. Rescuing his drink, he sat at his desk and opened the second drawer on the right. In the very back, hidden by his stationery, were a number of plastic bottles. If he was going to sleep, he needed one more pill. Just one! Deftly he flipped one of the small yellow tablets into his mouth, then chased it down with his Scotch. It was amazing how quickly he felt the calming effect.

The next morning Cassi took her insulin and ate breakfast without any sign of Thomas. By eight she was concerned. Their usual schedule on Saturday was to leave by eight-fifteen so that Thomas could see his patients before Grand Rounds and Cassi could catch up on her own work.

Putting down the article she’d been reading at her desk and tightening the belt on her robe, Cassi walked from the morning room down the hall and listened outside Thomas’s door. There were no sounds whatsoever. She knocked softly and waited. Still nothing. She tried the door. It was unlocked. Thomas was sound asleep with his alarm clock gripped in his hand. Evidently he’d turned it off and fallen directly back to sleep.

Cassi walked over to him and shook him gently. There was no response. She shook him more forcibly and his heavy-lidded eyes opened, but he looked as if he didn’t recognize her.

“I’m sorry to wake you, but it’s already after eight. You do want to go to Grand Rounds, don’t you?”

“Grand Rounds?” answered Thomas with confusion. Then he seemed to understand. “Of course I want to go. I’ll be down for a bite in a few minutes. We’ll leave here in twenty at the most.”