Alison Lurie - Last Resort

“Uh-huh.” Wilkie’s frown deepened. He despised religious cant and managing women, and in their only meeting he had formed an aversion to Myra Mumpson, who had asked if he were the author of “that sweet little old book about the mouse.”

“Only the thing is, when I think of going back to Washington, I just can’t bear it. But if I don’t, it’s like I’m no use to anybody in the world, and I should just go down to Higgs Beach and drown myself, you know?”

“For Christ’s sake,” Wilkie said. Was everyone in Key West planning to imitate him in this farcical way? He gave Barbie Mumpson a look of great irritation, which she missed because she was staring out the window into the hot, pale sky.

“It’d be easy,” she went on, “because there’s no lifeguard. So I thought I’d go real early some morning, like five or six, when it’s still pretty dark and nobody’s around.”

“I hope you’ve given up that stupid idea,” Wilkie said as strongly as he could. “You’re a healthy young woman; you have your entire life ahead of you.”

“Yeah, well, you can have my life. All it is is one big mess.”

“So? You can change it.”

“I d’know,” Barbie replied vaguely, not admitting this. “Anyhow I’m sorta glad I didn’t drown myself yet, or I wouldn’t have been home today.”

“No,” Wilkie agreed.

“I mean, that kinda made me feel like there was something I could do, you know? Usually I just think, I’m alive, but what for?”

Wilkie turned his head on the stiff hospital pillow to look at Barbie. Her thick untidy yellow hair, her plump shoulders slumped in the pink T-shirt, her expression of confused despondency. It would be just like her to go and drown herself at Higgs Beach before he could do it. Then when he did, he would be part of a trend.

“There are plenty of things you could do,” he muttered crossly, casting about for examples.

“I d’know,” Barbie muttered, raising her head a little.

“For example, you could stay in Key West and get some kind of useful job.”

“Like what?” She snuffled up tears and stared hopefully at Wilkie. Feeling exhausted and incapable of further encouragement, he shut his eyes.

“Maybe I should try Mrs. Walker again?” Barbie said finally. Wilkie, feigning sleep, did not answer; and after a while he could hear her leaving the room.

The sooner I get out of here the better, Wilkie thought as he lay there. He had a long-standing hatred and distrust of hospitals. Under a pretense of public service, the system was infantilizing and commercial. When you were too weak and frightened and in too much pain to protest, they took away your clothes and forced you into a wrapper that reminded him of the baby clothes his children had worn in the first months of their life: flimsy limp cotton garments tied with tapes. And the hospital bottom line was money. Though he was obviously in agony when he arrived, possibly dying, before anyone would even speak to him they had to see his insurance card.

“Well-well, Professor Walker.” Halfway to sleep, Wilkie opened his eyes again reluctantly. The sissy little doctor stood looking down at him. “How are you doing?”

“Not bad,” Wilkie admitted.

“Well-well. You know, I was absolutely correct. There’s no cardiac trouble. No sign of anything of the sort. In fact, your heart should be good for another twenty years.”

“Really,” he mumbled skeptically.

“My guess is, you’ve had a gallstone attack. That’s what the tests suggest.”

“Really?” Wilkie frowned, unconvinced. “But the pain—”

“Oh, that’s standard. Gallstones can be really nasty. Famous for it.” The doctor smiled, showing small, even, yellowish teeth. “But nobody ever died of them.”

“Ah?”

“You’ve never had an attack like this before?”

“No. I told you that already.”

“Well-well. If you’re lucky, you might never have another. And incidentally, Professor Walker, you’ll be glad to know that the barium X ray shows a very healthy digestive system.”

“How do you mean?” In spite of himself, Wilkie’s voice rose.

“All clear. No sign of any obstruction.” The doctor paused, checking Wilkie’s face for comprehension and apparently not finding it. “No sign of a malignancy, for instance,” he added, lowering his voice as he pronounced the dreaded word. “We were a little concerned, naturally, because of the rectal bleeding.”

“Bleeding?” Wilkie bleated. I have been found out, he thought.

“You hadn’t noticed it?”

“No,” he lied. “You mean, you’re telling me,” he said slowly, trying to clear his head, “that I have rectal bleeding, but in your opinion I don’t have, for instance—” He took a breath “—cancer of the bowel or colon?”

“That’s correct.” The little doctor positively smirked. “But it wouldn’t hurt to do something about those hemorrhoids when you get home, especially if you see any more blood in your stools. You should be checking for that regularly at your age.”

“Ah,” Wilkie muttered, trying to evaluate the information he had just received. Keys Memorial was a nowhere provincial hospital, and this doctor was a wimp and an asshole. Possibly he was too dumb to read test results correctly and realize that Wilkie was terminally ill with heart disease or cancer of the bowel or probably both. “So I can go home now, right?” he asked.

“Well-well, no, I wouldn’t recommend that. I would strongly recommend that you stay here overnight and get a good rest.”

“Hmph,” Wilkie said, marveling again at the belief of the medical profession that anyone could get a good rest in a hospital. But he did not waste time on the paradox. What he had to consider was that possibly he was not going to die of a heart condition, at least not immediately. He could get on with his life; that is, with his death. But not today. It was already late afternoon, and after what he had been through he doubted that he had the stamina to swim out far enough. There was no hurry, after all.

“So I’ll look in again early tomorrow morning,” the little doctor was saying. “Oh, and before I forget, Professor Walker. Could I have an autograph? My nurse is a great fan of yours, it seems.”

“What? Uh, certainly.”

“Great.” The doctor produced a pen and a prescription pad. “Her name is Bessie.”

Awkwardly, Wilkie raised himself on one elbow, causing his head to spin. He scribbled the name as he had done so many times before, and now perhaps for the last time, adding the usual meaningless phrase, “With best wishes” and his signature.

“Thank you,” the little doctor told him, removing the pad and pen. “She’ll be thrilled.”

13

AT ARTEMIS LODGE, THE following day, Lee Weiss sat behind the desk trying to match guests and rooms for the months of April and May. Ordinarily this was easy, since by then the rush of refugees from winter began to slacken, and after mid-April it was mostly only Canadians who still wanted to come.

Now, though, Lee was finding it hard to concentrate. Every few minutes she raised her eyes from the schedule to stare out the window into the green jungle beyond, and think of Jenny. Sometimes, remembering her cool, soft voice, her cool, soft skin and the sudden warmth of her last kiss, she smiled. Then she frowned, recalling Jenny’s panic on the phone when she’d called an hour ago.

“I should have been there with him,” she had kept on saying, just as she had when she called from the hospital last night, “and I wasn’t.”

“No,” Lee told her. “You were with me. Are you saying that makes it worse? Would it be better if you’d been at the grocery?”

“No—yes—I don’t know.” Jenny laughed nervously.