Timothy Culver - Power Play

Brad snorted. “Why isn’t it called stuttering?”

“I’ve never been quite sure, to be honest with you. Nevertheless, you had a brief period of stuttering.”

“Is it ano — whatever if I don’t remember that?”

“Do you remember it?”

Brad hesitated, then shrugged in brief annoyance and said, “No.”

“That’s anosognosia.”

“But I was fuzzy-minded,” Brad said. “I know that for the first few minutes after the faint I had the devil of a time concentrating my mind on things. I had a problem to discuss with Harrison, and I never did get back to it. If I did stutter, and I suppose you got that from Evelyn so I must have, couldn’t it just have been a part of the fuzzy-mindedness?”

“It could have been,” Holt agreed. “At this stage, we have alternate explanations for everything. But we have enough symptoms pointing in the same direction to make it worth our while to try to make sure.”

“What about the leg? That isn’t a symptom, is it?”

“Definitely it is.”

“My head is up at this end,” Brad said, pointing at it.

“Of course it is. But it affects the running of the rest of your body. If there was a temporary blood clot in the left hemisphere of your brain, it would be quite natural for it to have an effect somewhere on the right side of your body. If you have no sign of a physical injury to your leg, then we have to include that among your symptoms.”

“I see.” Brad turned his head to frown out the window at the snow and the bare trees and the sunshine, and Holt said nothing more, just letting him gradually get used to it at his own pace. Holt was truly very hungry, having breakfasted before eight o’clock, so he went back to work on his salad, and the main course — haddock, in a butter sauce — came before he’d finished the salad or Brad had finished his musing.

The maid had a large portion for Holt and a small, token portion for Brad. She wasn’t sure whether to take Brad’s uneaten salad or not, and her hand hovered uncertainly over it until he became aware of her and made an abrupt nodding motion and a dismissing wave of his hand. He was frowning more deeply now, and when the girl had left the room he looked at Holt and said, “You called it coming attractions. A dress rehearsal.”

“They frequently are, yes. If that’s what this was, a transient ischemic attack.”

“Let’s assume that for the moment,” Brad said. “I’ve always taken it for granted you know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m flattered,” Holt admitted, “but I don’t necessarily agree.”

“Yes, I know, you downgrade yourself, it’s probably hurt your career more than once. But for the moment, let’s talk about me.”

Holt was taken aback once more. Every once in a while Brad threw one of those pocket analyses of his into the middle of a conversation, like a comic throwing away a one-liner, and Holt never knew quite what to do at those moments. Fortunately, Brad wasn’t one to linger with that sort of topic, so it was only afterward, when alone, that Holt would be able to study the latest message and take from it what he could of succor or advice.

In the meantime, he said, “Of course we talk about you. You’re the patient.”

“And my question is, dress rehearsal for what? Coming attractions for what?”

“For a stroke. For the real thing, I mean, and of a specific kind. A cerebral thrombosis.”

Brad frowned. “I’ve heard of coronary thrombosis,” he said.

“Yes. A blood clot in the heart. This is a blood clot in the head. Not quite as fast, but just as sure.”

“And they come with practice sessions?”

“Frequently.”

“How many?”

“Any number, one to a hundred, even more.”

“For how long?”

Holt shook his head. “No set time. Usually a few months.”

“Then the real thing.”

“Usually. Sometimes there is no real thing, just a series of these temporary attacks. They come to an end, and nothing else happens at all.”

Brad offered a thin smile. “I’ve never bet the long shots,” he said. “Eat before it gets cold.”

“Right.”

The haddock was delicious, but already starting to cool. There was white wine on the table, and Holt poured himself a glass, then raised an eyebrow at Brad, who said, “Can I now?”

“Certainly. The only illness where wine is contra-indicated is alcoholism.”

Brad laughed, and watched Holt pour. “In that case,” he said, “I’m glad I’m not an alcoholic. I like to drink too much.”

Holt ate some more of the fish, washed it down with wine, and said, “I’ll want to do some tests.”

“Naturally. You always want to do tests anyway, this is a perfect excuse.”

“You’re probably right. When can you enter the hospital?”

“Hospital? What sort of tests are we talking about?”

“EEG, ECG, possibly a spinal tap. I have my bag in the car, remind me to take your blood pressure before we go. If it’s high, and it may well be, we’ll want to do something about bringing it down. We may also want to give you some anti-coagulants, see if we can keep that blood of yours flowing.”

“Remind you to take my blood pressure.” Brad was smiling and shaking his head. “You’d be likely to forget, you would,” he said.

“You’ve never heard of medical miracles?”

“That’s what it would be, all right,” Brad agreed, then said, “Is that what it would take, Joe?”

“What, to keep away from a stroke?”

“Yes.”

“Not at all.” Holt swallowed wine and said, “I’d guess we’ve caught it about as early as we can, and that’s in our favor. Have you had any other attacks like this recently?”

“Not that I remember,” Brad said doubtfully. “But if I have — dammit, give me the word again.”

“Anosognosia?”

“That’s it.” Brad repeated the word aloud three times, reminding Holt once again of the reputation Brad had won during his Presidency for always having done his homework, for carrying off ad-lib press conferences with at least as much assurance and factual command as any other President, and possibly more. Brad had always hated the thought that there were things he didn’t know, and he’d always read voraciously, pumping facts into himself like a McCormick reaper gathering wheat. Now, after having finally committed anosognosia to memory, he said, “If that’s what I have, I wouldn’t remember any other attacks, would I?”

“You’d remember if you fainted. You might remember if you’d had problems with your right leg before.”

Brad shook his head slowly. “I don’t believe so,” he said. “Ask Evelyn, she knows everything about me there is to know.”

“I shall. And when do I book you into the hospital?”

“Christ, Joe, I hate that hospital routine. Turn on the television set and see nothing but bulletins about my own condition. That can get creepy after a while.”

Holt laughed, saying, “I bet it can. If you want, this time we’ll let you announce the statements yourself. Then, when you go back and turn on the news, you can watch yourself telling you how you are.”

“What an idea! Joe, you’ve been reading that fellow Whatsisname, the Canadian. You know.”

“McLuhan?”

“That’s the one.” Brad was beaming, shaking his head, pleased, and then he stopped and frowned and said, “Is that another symptom? Forgetting that man’s name?”

Holt paused with a final forkful of haddock halfway to his mouth. “Let’s not worry about any more symptoms,” he said. “We have enough to keep us going for a while. And will you give me a hospital date? Stall all you want, but I won’t forget it.”

Brad grimaced, and shook his head. “You get much above fifty, Joe,” he said, ignoring the fact that Holt was above fifty, “a hospital becomes a grim place. Any time you go into it, you can’t help but feel this is the time you come out feet first.”