A. Homes - This Book Will Save Your Life

"It's a guest room," Richard says.

"Twin beds, two doubles, or a king? You tell me."

"One double and a desk," he says.

The decorator attaches paint chips to an unfolding aluminum ruler and waves them around the room — picking up the light. She opens her kits, does a little mixing, and paints swatches of four different colors on the walls. She waits a few minutes — to see what hums — and then decides on a purplish white. "It's clean," she says. "Bright but not aggressive, which is important. I can have the painter here by the end of the week."

"Good. Let's do it right away — before things change."

"I'M LEAVING," he tells Cecelia, "I have an appointment." As he's pulling out of the driveway, he can see the depression, the dip, like a lunar crater, almost perfectly round, and about ten feet across. The perfection of the circle makes him nervous, he thinks of signs he's seen pinned to telephone poles near the bottom of the hill. UFO? You Are Not Alone… Talk to Me.

"WOULD YOU like me to validate you in advance?" the receptionist asks. Sure.

"You look very nice today." The receptionist smiles as he hands her his parking ticket. "I like your shirt. One time I was in Neiman Marcus and I went up to the counter and slapped my ticket down and said to the girl, 'Violate me.' Scared the hell out of both of us." She laughs, licks a couple of square stamps, and presses them onto the ticket. "You're valid, for one hour," she says, handing the ticket back. "Follow me." She leads him into a room, weighs him, takes his blood pressure and temperature, and tells him to hop up onto the table. "Go ahead and make yourself comfortable. Would you like a magazine?"

"I'm OK," he says.

"I know you are." She winks. "The doctor will be right with you."

"WHAT CAN I do for you?" Dr. Lusardi asks, sweeping into the room, his white coat following him.

"I was in pain, incredible pain. They took me to the hospital, they thought I was having a heart attack."

"And how are you feeling now?"

"Fine. I feel fine, and then I remember the pain. I'm not sure if I'm remembering the pain or am still in pain."

Lusardi flips through his chart. "You were last seen seven years ago for pneumonia." The doctor gestures for him to take off his shirt. "What's your life like? Everything under control? What's a typical day?"

"Up early," Richard says. "On the treadmill, trainer comes to the house, nutritionist a couple of times a week, maybe a massage. I try to stay healthy. I read four newspapers. I never go out."

"That's one way to avoid things," Lusardi says. "I want to get an EKG, even though I'm sure you had one last night." With his foot, he drags the machine towards Richard, peels open a package of electrodes, and puts them on Richard's chest.

The EKG feels like a lie-detector test: it's running while the guy is quizzing him. It's distracting, difficult to perfect his heart rhythm while Lusardi is asking him questions.

"Were you suddenly in pain, or did it creep up on you?"

"I don't know; it was as though I'd been in pain and then, sort of, suddenly, it was too much."

"Describe it."

"Deep, unending, a root with tentacles spreading out from the center, a hard knot through my shoulders down my hands."

The EKG is flickering. Lusardi wiggles the machine; it stops.

"How far does it go?"

"All the way down."

"Married, divorced, kids, custody?"

He's never had a doctor ask him such personal questions. "A son, in New York, with my wife."

The doctor nods. He sits and crosses his legs. "Just rest for a minute, and let's see what the tape looks like."

"It hurt so much I cried. And I cried again this morning. I never cry."

"Any trauma or abuse as a child?"

"Just my parents — they're Jewish," he says. "I spoke with my mother this morning, and she thinks I'm a failure because I'm retired."

"Depression mentality."

"Do you think that's it, depression? Is depression physically painful?"

"I meant that your parents were children of the Depression. I'm going to draw some blood. I want to look at everything."

SOMETHING ABOUT Lusardi is unusual. He has more hair than most men, he looks like a guy who has to shave a couple of times a day, a heavy beard, a thick head of hair, almost like a helmet protecting his head. And he seems too young.

"What kind of doctor are you?"

"Psychological internist — it's new. They realized that people want to be not just examined but listened to. So — they made it a specialty, there's a fellowship at Yale. I was in the first group; there are eight of us in the country, four in New York, three in Los Angeles, and one in Florida."

"Do you have a particular point of view — a way of life, something you want others to do as well?"

"It changes all the time."

"I need to know that I'm not just making it up."

"What do you mean, 'making it up'? That you invented the idea of being in pain? You're not 'making it up.' "

"Why am I in so much pain?"

"I don't know — we just met. Would you like to come back and see me again?"

"Do I need to?"

"It's up to you."

"Do you see something? Something I should know? Is there something wrong?"

"You're in pain."

"What should I do in the meantime?"

"Live."

He leaves, feeling uncomfortable; he both liked Lusardi and felt taken advantage of, all at once. In his mind, he calls him Lizard. After the visit with the lizard, he drives without knowing where he's going, just that he can't go home — not yet.

He drives back down the hill, down Sunset; he will take himself out for a drink, for dinner.

At the Four Seasons, he gives his car to the valet and heads for the bar.

"What can I get for you?"

What did he used to drink? "Vodka martini," he says.

"How would you like it — dry, dirty, twist, olives, onions, atomic mushroom cap?"

"Neat," he says, "neat and clean, nothing floating in it. No debris."

"And what kind of vodka?"

Now he's wishing he'd just said something simple — like beer.

"I've got Ketel One, Grey Goose, Absolut, Stoli, a potato vodka, a new electric vodka, which has energized particles."

"You pick," he says. "Bartender's choice."

The man nods as if charged with enormous responsibility. While he's waiting, Richard pops a nervous handful of salted nuts into his mouth. The drink arrives, strong, like rocket fuel. He sips, he picks through the nut dish, now eating them one at a time, cashew, hazelnut, walnut, pecan, peanut, filbert. The nuts are greasy, salty, and quickly gone. As it gets to be close to the same time as it was yesterday when the trouble began, Richard worries: will the pain come back, will it be as bad as before, more than he can handle?

"A glass of water, please."

"Bottled or tap?"

So many questions. He looks around at the businessmen having meetings, the d-girls chatting up screenwriters, the movie star and his entourage. The rocket fuel is sending him on a loopy ride. He is getting drunk. The mixed nuts are gone, and he doesn't want to ask for more. He puts down ten dollars, picks up his glass, and heads for the dining room.

The bartender runs after him. "Sir, the drink is sixteen dollars."

"Really?" He is embarrassed, annoyed — whoever heard of a drink costing sixteen dollars? He takes out a five and a few ones and slaps them into the man's hand. "Let's call it even."

"Party of one?" the dining-room hostess asks.

"That's an old joke if there ever was one."

"Just one?" the hostess asks again.

He nods.

"This way," she says, leading him into the empty dining room.

Someone hands him a menu, someone else pours him a glass of water, another puts a dinner roll on his bread plate and some butter beside it. He immediately eats the roll. He hasn't been eating bread — it's not part of his program. The roll is warm, yeasty sourdough. He eats it with cold butter — he closes his eyes — good. It cleans his palate, clears the salt, the sting of the alcohol. He eats the roll, and the bread man comes around again and offers him another, which he eats.