Justin Tussing - Vexation Lullaby

The developer had finished a model unit on the fourth floor. The water didn’t work and the appliances were still clad in their protective film, but couldn’t Peter see Lucy emerging from the elevator after a hard day’s work? On the counter, a three-ring binder contained an artist’s interpretation of what the building would look like once the renovation was complete. Women in cocktail dresses and guys wearing suits without ties mingled in a stark lobby. Sparkling drinks balanced on a railing overlooking the city. Germanish cars stabled in the basement garage. The setting sun painting gold reflections on the triple-pane, LEED-certified windows.

One of the builders stopped by to introduce himself. He greeted Peter with a handshake. He said, “Do you know about customizing?”

If Peter bought early, he’d be able to select certain features — bathroom fixtures, kitchen cabinetry, the backsplash, sink, and counters.

“Which floor are you thinking about?” the man asked.

“Fifth,” said Margo.

“That’s good. You see everything from there, but you don’t have to pay a premium for a penthouse.”

“He’s a shrewd buyer.”

“Internet money?”

“He’s a doctor.”

“Hey, good for you.”

Why hadn’t Lucy come with him? Had she known they were running out of time? Maybe she thought she was doing him a favor by moving him downtown, that it would make things easier when the time came for them to start seeing other people. He wanted to believe their breakup had surprised her, too.

IN THE MOST mundane sequence of meetings, Peter acquired an attorney, a mortgage broker, a mortgage, and, finally, a 1,600-square-foot condo outfitted with a suite of appliances, a parking spot, and a locking storage space. From beginning to end, the whole process took less than three months.

He and Lucy gave notice to their landlord, then waited while the construction crew put the finishing touches on their new condo. They moved in on a raw day in March and two months later she left, taking with her the espresso machine that the property management group had thrown in as a housewarming gift. Peter assured her he had no patience for the temperamental machine, but they both knew she’d become addicted to steamed milk chai.

FIRST MARGO DISAPPEARED, then Lucy, then the contractors. Now, Peter was alone in the building. Not alone, exactly. Though owner occupancy hovered around 30 percent, the developers had started renting units on every floor. Nobody talked to anyone else. Selling wasn’t an option. Depending on whom he talked with, the market had either corrected or retracted or collapsed. If he tried to walk away, the loss, at least on paper, would have been an obscenity. The graphite-colored cement kitchen island consoled him. The precision of his recessed cabinet hinges consoled him. The view from his bedroom consoled him. He tried not to consider the rest. The lap pool never materialized, nor the sauna, nor the concierge, nor the women in their cocktail dresses.

PETER RODE THE shuddering elevator down to the garage. When the doors opened, he looked at the same maroon Subaru he’d been driving since before he started med school. It wasn’t one of those aggressive rally-cars with the wing on back or one of those overbuilt wagons that seemed designed to shuttle kayaks and mountain bikes into remote places so their owners could have sex in tents or while dangling from a rope off a cliff face. He had the one that resembled an early Camry — Martin had urged him to buy a new car, telling him, “A car is like a suit. The right one can enhance your best attributes and conceal your shortcomings.”

Well, Peter never needed a luxury condo and look where that had landed him. No, he’d drive his car until it died. That would teach him a lesson. The car would probably run for another ten years to spite him.

AS SOON AS he pulled out of the building, his phone rang again.

A woman’s voice asked if he would please hold. Tremulous flute music filled his ear, reminding him of the dusty tape player Judith kept behind the counter in the gem shop. He could picture the electrical cords taped to the carpet and the little strongbox bolted to the floor of her closet.

“Dr. Silver?”

Peter had heard Tony Ogata deliver the keynote for the National Association of Inpatient Physicians and at a three-day affair in Reno called ReThinking Wellness. And, of course, Peter recognized Ogata’s voice from the Ken Burns specials (he’d described field amputation in lurid detail for The Civil War and in Baseball he outlined the advantages of Tommy John surgery). In his mind’s eye, Peter saw Ogata, that shock of white hair, the hair of an artist. “Yes?”

“Hey, I’m glad to get you on the line. It’s been a crazy morning. ABC sent a crew over so I could explain polyps — supposed to be a two-minute segment, but they wound up shooting an hour’s worth of tape. You still there?”

“Is this Dr. Ogata?”

“Listen, Peter, I know your blood type, your credit score, and what you missed on the MCATs. You’re the man of the hour. What I don’t understand is why an accredited professional would agree to see a patient and then not even attempt a proper examination? Are you some kind of faith healer? Did you compare his aura to Benjamin Moore paint swatches? That’s a joke. At least faith healers lay hands on their patients. I’m kidding. You there?”

“I’m here,” Peter choked out. Could Ogata have seen his MCAT scores?

“So, what’s the deal? Jimmy hasn’t pulled this sort of stunt before. Not that I’m calling it a stunt.”

Peter pulled up on the hard shoulder of the road, his tires squealing against the curb. “I met him at his hotel last night.”

“You can’t get him in a hospital. I should know — he’s been my patient for forty years. It’s easier giving a cat a bubble bath. My question is did you see anything?”

At first, Peter thought of the blinds and the candied almonds. No, there was more. “He reported some cognitive issues, memory problems. He mentioned having some lapses.”

“Help me out. Are we talking catatonia? Fugue states?”

Somehow Peter was shocked that the guy sounded the same on the telephone as he did on TV. “He said time seemed ‘slippery.’ He mentioned a hallucination.”

“Does that sound serious to you? Because where I’m sitting, the hairs are sticking up on my arms. So why didn’t you check his b.p.?”

Though Ogata’s voice maintained its unshakable optimism, his question landed like a body blow. What was Peter’s excuse? That he’d been blinded by fame? Could Tony Ogata understand what fame did to an outsider? Peter would have better luck explaining wet to water.

“Our meeting got cut short — he had a plane to catch.”

“He came down to see me in Costa Rica this spring; I gave him a ride in this souped-up CAT scan I’ve got down there. It’s an amazing machine, but the FDA won’t allow it into this country.” Ogata sounded incensed.

“Why not?”

“It has nothing to do with gamma rays. It’s a political thing.”

“I told him he needed to take these symptoms seriously.”

“Jim and I visited Fermi Labs once; he talked theoretical particles with those eggheads. He made an observation. He said that once they found the smallest thing, if they looked inside it they’d find a mirror! I don’t know where he came up with it, but it blew everyone away, Italians, French, Russians. Those guys couldn’t get enough of him. Hold for a second.”

The flute music came back on. Was Ogata closing the distance between them? Were they repairing a rift? And, if so, who had caused it and how?

“He said you wanted to bring him to the hospital. Maybe you’re on to something with these cognitive issues. I’m sure you considered TIAs. He can’t have a stroke. I’ll try to get him on low-dose aspirin. Maybe we can get him to submit to an MRA. Baby steps. He’s under a lot of stress with Allie showing up.”