Requiem for the Bone Man (17 page)

“Corporal, forgive me for asking,” Bill interjected, “but how can you be so sure these are the two men you say they are?”

“Doc, one of the places they entered had a security camera. To my dying day, I will never forget the spattering of blood and the vicious raping that camera recorded.”

An ambulance under police escort had carted away the wounded assailant, and the coroner’s truck picked up the dead man. Quiet descended once again on the clinic. Galen had taken off his bloodstained lab coat and was walking outside in the parking lot, looking up at the quarter moon. He felt someone’s hand fall on his shoulder and turned to see Dave, left arm in sling, standing next to him. Bill, Peggy, and Connie were just behind him. He looked at his friend and old roommate. What could he say? Then Dave said it for the four of them.

“Hey, Bob, those were some mighty fierce-looking bulls you took out.”

The other three had heard the story many times before about his visit to Dave’s home, but there was now something tender in the way Dave said it.

Galen looked at his four classmates, hesitated for just a second, and then in his best imitation of Dave’s father’s voice, yelled out, “Sheeeeit, Boy! Bulls ain’t got teats!”

Sunday passed quickly. The neighbors had heard by the grapevine and the migrant workers crowded into Bill’s Sunday services in unheard of numbers, just to be sure that Padre Bill and his friends were all right. The five worked the clinic to mid-afternoon then rested before splitting up to return home.

“I wish you three could stay on. We’d have one hell of an operation here,” Bill said.

“Did I just hear you cuss, Baby Face?”

Dave and Connie had rounded up the two boys and were standing next to their car.

“Hey, City Boy—or maybe it should be City Bear—did you just teach Bill some of your New Jersey words and manners?”

Galen shook his head and laughed.

“No, Dave, I think Bill just grew up a little.”

He looked at his friend’s shoulder one last time.

“Be sure you find a good doc back in Florida to follow up on that. Connie, do you accept perverse wounded farm boys as patients?”

“What do you think I’ve been doing since school?”

“Teacher has taught me more than you know, Bob,” Dave replied with a wink and then a wince as Connie hit him on the right shoulder.

“Peggy, keep an eye on Bill. I’m afraid that Dave and I have warped him permanently now,” Galen added as he climbed into the Jeep.

He headed out first, watching his friends in the rear view mirror as he headed back north. Must be a trick of the light, he thought, as he saw the shadow over Dave’s head.

“Bob, this is perfect!”

Nancy gazed down from the top of the mountain, the half-completed house sitting there like a giant rook.

“We can do it,” he agreed, and put his arm around her.

They stood there looking at their future and both of them felt that mixture of trepidation, relief, and completion. They were about to begin a new and exciting phase in their lives.

One morning he opened his morning paper and did something he swore he would never do: He turned to the obituary page.

Half jokingly, he sometimes told his patients that every morning he scanned the names in the obituaries and, if his wasn’t there, he would proceed as usual with the day.

Some of his patients joked back that even if he did discover his name there, he still probably would come upstairs and go about his usual duties. Now, looking through the obituaries, Galen began to wonder if that might not be true.

The great philosophers have written volumes about youth and old age, and modern-day analysts meander over the middle. But there is a fourth niche, one of resignation and loss. It begins inserting its ugly head into that narrow notch of birthdays between the middle and the end. Some call it late middle age. Others cautiously label it “perigeriatric,” as if dancing around it in a tarantella of denial will forestall its onset. It is the time when children are grown, careers are winding down, retirement is truly imminent, and the genetic scythe starts thinning the human wheat field.

Friends, acquaintances, neighbors, family members become sick and die. That, by itself, is the human condition. Until the genetic images can prevent the progressive shortening of the telomeres, which leads to cell death, and at the same time block the terrible cell immortality of cancer, those inevitable entropies will claim us all.

Earlier that morning, Galen had stared at a street scene before him when the disruption of dawn had not yet broken the stillness of night. He already had begun his morning walk in a decidedly somber and contemplative mood, thinking about colleagues dying of sudden heart attacks or piecemeal from cancer, and of patients getting older and showing the wear of time. Was this happening to him, would it happen to him? He mentally shrugged. Of course it would. It probably already had. He wasn’t from Krypton.

And then he saw her, the woman dancing on the sidewalk.   She was elderly, doll-like, and ninety percent undressed. He watched her pirouette, extend her arms and bow gracefully in different directions, a grotesque ballet macabre. He continued to stare until he realized that he knew the woman. It was Lucille, Lucille Desmond.

“Dr. Galen, my friends recommended me to you. Will you accept me as a patient?”

The dignified woman sat in his examining room in a tailored dark dress suit, expensively cut, and with refined manners. She was a retired university dean, holder of several doctoral degrees in education and the arts. Now she had retired and moved into a townhouse just across the street from his office to be near “her family.” She was, she said, perfectly healthy, went to the local athletic center daily, read at least one new book per day, and could converse at length on just about any subject. To Galen’s eye, this was what growing older should be.

That was before he heard the silent laughter of the Fates, the whisper of, “Watch what we are going to do to her.”

And they did.

For a while, things went smoothly. No untoward events, not even colds. But the family she had hoped to enjoy was nowhere to be seen. Things always came up to prevent the holiday get-togethers. Grandchildren were too busy for Grandma.

Galen noted slow gradual changes, recent memory failures, forgotten names, an inability to articulate as well as she once so admirably had done. She knew it, too, and waved her long artist’s fingers in a diagram of despair as she mentioned increasing forgetfulness.

“Lucille, let me run some tests on you, call it preventive maintenance.”

All of the tests—blood, vitamin B12 levels, diabetes, thyroid, and other areas that could affect a person’s mental status—were normal … except for the brain imaging, which showed some suspicious activity. Coupled with the behavioral changes, it seemed like the cruelest fate that could befall an intelligent person: Dementia. Whether it was Alzheimer’s or another variant of brain deterioration, it was the worst life sentence for a woman like Lucille Desmond.

“Mr. Desmond, we need to talk about your mother. I’m worried about her living alone. Her ability to function is deteriorating and she might hurt herself. Is there anything that you might be able to do, arrange for caregivers, possibly move her to your home, or arrange custodial care?”

Astounded, he saw the glazed eyes, the lack of interest and concern on the part of the woman’s son. So, he called social services and was met with the conundrum that, as long as the patient had family and represented no danger to herself or others, they could make no intervention.

And now this wonderfully brilliant mind had descended into a hell which, fortunately, it could no longer perceive.

Galen ran across the street and scooped the dancing Dresden-doll-like woman up in his arms. She continued to sing softly as he carried her to the townhouse. Luckily the door was ajar so he quietly helped her inside to what once had been a fastidiously kept living room. Now, the decor was late disarray and the hygiene more typical of a fraternity house. He found the telephone and a worn address book, fallen onto the dirt-soiled rug. It wasn’t yet 5 a.m. but he dialed her son’s number and began speaking before he could be cut off.

“Mr. Desmond, I just found your mother wandering almost naked in the street. Something has to be done for her before she hurts herself. If it is not in your power to do so, I will call the county and state social services departments. She can no longer be left alone.”

Curses muttered through only partially awakened lips met this statement and then the phone was disconnected. Galen sighed. He dialed the emergency county number and remained with Lucille until the ambulance arrived.

She would need a full evaluation to be sure there was no element of delirium from chemical imbalance, and then perhaps arrangements could be made by the caseworker. Maybe the agency even had the clout to move the woman’s son.

Dawn broke through and Galen finished his walk, although his heart wasn’t in it.
Why are people abandoned by friends and family?
It would be easy to attribute it to malignant personalities on the part of the deserted individuals, but that had not been his observational experience. Was it fear of their own mortality that led them to turn their backs on those who overtly manifested the signs of that which must not be named?

He entered the side door of his home/office and prepared to clean up before office hours started. Halfway through, the phone rang. It’s going to be one of those days, he thought. When things started happening this early, they usually presaged what the day would be like.

“Bob, it’s Jack Basily. Sorry to call so early, but I thought you would want to know. Harry Freiling passed away this morning in his sleep.”

Memories of his university days returned in Technicolor along with the turns of events that led to the long friendship with his two former professors. Harry Freiling had lived a full life and went out peacefully, he thought.

How many of us will do the same?

“Jack, when are the services?”

“This Saturday. I know his family would appreciate your coming.”

Galen wrote down the information, spoke a little while longer with his friend then sat at his desk thinking. Harry would have been almost ninety by now, and he had retained his faculties of mind right up to the end. Not like poor Mrs. Desmond. He heard the toss and roll of the dice and the laughter of capricious deities in his mind.

“Virginia, I need to take a quick trip up to New Jersey this Saturday. One of my old college professors passed away and I’d like to be there for the services. How’s my schedule look for Saturday morning?”

“Not a problem, Dr. G. Only a few minor things so far, and they can be put off until Monday. I’ll take care of them.”

“Thanks. I’ll leave after office hours tonight.”

He merged onto I-495, the Capital Beltway, and drove around to the intersection with I-95 north to Baltimore. Now it was a traffic-filled but fairly direct drive through Maryland and Delaware then crossing over the JFK Bridge into New Jersey. He followed the turnpike up to the cutoff that would take him to the bedroom community where the two professors had retired: Bernardsville. Even when Galen was a child, this was a place where rich people lived. Now, former farm pastures had been built over with suburban rooftops as far as one could see.

Looks like there’s at least one dissatisfied family in God’s country, he thought, as he passed the rental moving truck parked in front of one of the homes.

Wonder what’s making them pull up stakes?

“Nancy, the truck’s almost full. I think I can get the rest in, though. Four trips already. We’re almost out of here.”

Edison was tired, and truth be told, so was Nancy. But their dream was almost within reach. This last load would empty the house and soon they would be heading for the promised land of Pennsylvania and retirement!

Galen pulled up in front of a compact, brick rambler-style home. The house numbers on the lighted yard post looked over the carved wooden nameplate: Basily.

He picked up the doorknocker to announce himself but the door was already opening and he saw his old professor and friend standing there in slippers and robe. Even in the half-darkness, Galen’s trained eye caught the telltale signs. Jack wasn’t well.

“Glad you were able to come, Bob. You are staying with us tonight, aren’t you?”

He had thought about a nearby motel, but then nodded in agreement.

“Let me get my bag out of the car, Jack.”

He turned quickly before the other man could see the concern on his face, half-ran to the car, grabbed his gear and headed back. He followed his host into the living room and stood there, watching Basily move slowly about the perimeter.

“Jack, I know I just got here, but you know I’ve never been one for social niceties. What’s going on with you?”

The older man faced him, smiled then shrugged in resignation.

“Father Time, Bob. Looks like I have the Big C.”

He sat down, exhausted just by the brief effort of meeting his guest.

“I knew you would spot it even if I kept the lights low. My family thinks I have a bad chest infection. But the crab is there, feeding itself and its offspring on my insides. Harry had it easy, going out in his sleep. I’m not sure what it’s going to be like for me.”

He stared directly at his former student.

“Tell me, Bob, what’s it going to be like? Is there anything you can give me to simplify my exit?”

Galen felt the dying man’s eyes bore into him. How many times, in how many different ways, had he been asked the same two questions? Every doctor fears those questions, the hidden implications, the feeling of impotence at the still-limited effectiveness of present-day science and technology to cure. The burden of being fortuneteller and predictor of life and death was overwhelming.

“Jack, I’ll promise you this. I’ll make sure your doctor never lets you be in pain. But you know, as much as you may want me to, I can’t knowingly shorten your life.”

There, he had said it, the unasked answer to the unspoken question. But he also looked at his friend and both understood the deeper answer. Nothing else was said about it that evening.

The next morning, he drove Basily to the funeral home. They both stood over the open casket, looking down at what once had been a vibrant gadfly of a man.

“I hope to God that no idiot says how natural he looks,” Basily whispered, and both men almost laughed at the incongruity of it. “Think I’ll look that ‘natural,’ Bob?”

Galen wanted to cry out at the gods for their perversity.

He left New Jersey late Saturday. He had called Basily’s doctor and spoken at length about his friend’s condition. He made sure that the other doctor, a good and caring physician in his own right, understood the importance of his friend remaining pain-free. After the war, Basily had spent many years immobilized and in chronic pain. His last days should not be a repeat performance.

As Galen exited the quiet neighborhood, he noticed the moving van was gone. There was a prominent SOLD sign on the front lawn. Wonder where those folks are going, he mused, as he headed back down the turnpike.

“Bob, look at the view, and it’s all ours! I can’t believe we finally did it!

Edison couldn’t say anything for fear of choking up and crying. He stood at the top of the mountain, holding his wife as tightly as he could.

“Bill, I need another hemostat. He’s got a pumper.”

Peggy was bent over the body of the migrant farm worker, trying to repair a large scalp wound on the front of the man’s head. He had fallen forward onto a scythe blade improperly placed in the back of a pickup truck carrying the workers back from the field. Now he looked like what Custer must have looked like after the Battle of the Little Big Horn. Half of his scalp had been sliced off and was hanging backward.

Peggy had gotten most of the area repaired when the small blood vessel decided to play fire hose.

“Got it, old girl.” For a moment the couple locked eyes over their masked faces.

“So is this what retirement is all about, Bill?”

And they started to laugh so hard that the farm worker wondered,
¿
Que loco?

They were both tired by day’s end. For some reason, there are times when every patient is an emergency, and this was one of them. But a feeling of happy fatigue oozes over one when things go well and the patient is still breathing or able to walk out afterwards.

The veranda was cooled by the evening breezes coming from the coast. They sat there, side by side watching another sunset.

“Think it’s going to rain tomorrow?”

Bill looked at Peggy, seeing through the facial creases and graying hairs to the woman he had met and fallen in love with so many years before. How had he been so lucky to have found her? With the magic that all women possess, she said nothing. She just smiled and put her hand in his.

Galen kept ruminating about the two old professors as he drove back down to Virginia. Is it really just genetics? Why does one person have to suffer at the end and another go in his sleep? Who or what decides whether we are Lucilles or Basilys or Freilings?