Requiem for the Bone Man (15 page)

“Hey, Bob, it’s just the four of us and you. And the beaches are pretty this time of year. You might just find a mermaid to take back to D.C. with you.”

“Don’t you dare pull any stunts, Country Boy! I’m older and meaner now, and I’ll spot a setup! I’ll call Bill and confirm the weekend. But remember, no tricks!”

“Scout’s honor.”

“You never were a Boy Scout, Dave.”

“Don’t you know it, Bob!”

He hung up the phone then punched out the next set of numbers. Two rings.

“This is Dr. Crowley, how may I help you?”

Same voice, same offer of help to anyone who needed it.

“Bill, I think we need to change your nickname to Preacher.”

“Bob! Good to hear from you! Did Dave pass on the message?”

“Yes, in his inimitable way. I just wanted to be sure it’s just you guys and me?”

Bill also understood the unasked question. He and Peggy had thought about June, but for better or worse, she was tied up in some heavy-duty work for the next several months, so he could answer no honestly. He also didn’t mention that she was married.

“Okay, it’s set then. I’ll either drive down or fly. I think there’s a small airport near you, Bill. I’ll have to check weather patterns first, but in any event look for me Saturday. We’ll whip those patients of yours in line before you can do your fishes-and-loaves trick.”

They both laughed and Galen felt the surge of renewed vigor. Maybe he had been getting stale.

No, it isn’t all dull and routine. Their hairs would stand on end at some of the stuff I’ve been privy to, even if it has been sheer luck and proximity to the capital and its sundry agencies. They don’t know how lucky they are to be where they are, doing what they do, and knowing only what the local newspapers and radio and TV stations tell them. It’s a whole different kettle of fish up here
.

Galen called the local aviation weather hotline. Not a good idea to risk flying a single engine this weekend. A tropical depression was forming off the Bahamas. It could go either way: staying a nuisance storm or spiraling, picking up speed, and turning into a full-blown hurricane. Better that he drive down at night to get there in time.

He called a local colleague to cover his patients over the weekend then began packing. Tomorrow was Friday. He would work his usual day then rest for several hours before leaving at midnight.

Ought to give me plenty of time to get to the mission for the 9 a.m. patient calls
.

Now it was 4 a.m. He never needed an alarm. He just knew. He always could wake up when he needed to. Sunrise wasn’t for another hour and a half. He got out of bed, slipped on his walking shoes and began his daily exercise circuit. No jogging! That was for the masochists who enjoyed the worn-out knee cartilage and unstable ankles and hip degeneration brought on by all the accumulated pounding. No, a brisk walk allowed for thinking, motion, and care in not falling on uneven pavement.

He walked rapidly down the driveway and even in the dark realized that he needed to cut the grass before it was suitable for safari hunting. He’d do that after sunrise. The nearby neighbor was away so he didn’t have to wait until 7:30.

He missed the hundred-year-old maple and oak trees the highway department had removed to widen the road in the name of progress. His yard was now shorter by half from his contribution to the new road. He remembered the original yard size and the time it took to cut it. Then he remembered who was on his schedule this morning: Joe Rosario.

...

Hey, mister, I can show you how to start that mower. Want me to try?”

Galen was new to the suburbs and never had cut grass. Only weeds grew in the cracked concrete and old split slate paving stones in his childhood neighborhood. Grass? That was for parks and the rich people’s homes on the other side of town. What did he know about grass or cutting it? But this was his first house, his first yard, and he was damned if he wasn’t going to be a responsible homeowner.

His move into the neighborhood and the strange sound of his name were enough to create suspicion among the white-bread natives who had been born in the town. So he bought his first gasoline-powered lawn mower from the local Southern States store, read the directions, convinced himself that any idiot could put it together, and then ran into one small problem: It wouldn’t start.

He quickly learned the routine suffered by all who venture too closely to small gasoline engines. He pulled the starter cord and cursed then pulled it again and again while swearing by all the powers that be that he wouldn’t let the machine beat him. But of course it did.

He felt like he’d entered one of those Robert Benchley short-subject films that used to play before the movie started when he was a kid and could scrounge up the nickel to go see one. Man versus machine. Guess who wins?

“Mister, sure you don’t want me to try it?”

He looked at the boy, thin, just about five feet tall, sun tanning adding an extra glow to what must have been Mediterranean ancestry.

“Okay, kid, it’s all yours.”

He stepped away from the possessed machine.

“What’s your name?”

“Joe, Joe Rosario. What’s yours?”

“Galen, Bob Galen.”

“You the new doc?”

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“Everybody knows everything about everybody in this town.”

The boy squatted down, checked the gas tank for fuel, looked at the oil dipstick, and then took off a rectangular metal gadget on the side of the engine. He looked up at Galen.

“Mister, you pull the starter while I cover the air intake.”

“Won’t you hurt yourself?”

“Nah, go on, try to start it now.”

Galen didn’t want the kid to lose his hand. That would be a great start for his career. He looked down at the boy.

“Tell you what. Let me put my hand over the opening. You show me how, and you pull the starter cord. You strong enough to do that?”

“Course I am,” he snorted.

Galen covered the opening. The boy took one quick pull of the starter, and the demonic contraption broke into its loud single-cylinder growl.

“Here, Mister, watch how I put the air filter back on.”

And Galen did, learning his first steps in being a homeowner from a thirteen year old.

“Mister, I think I’d better show you how to cut grass, too.”

The kid began walking steadily up and down in overlapping rows, creating a velvet green blanket where wilderness had been. When he finished, he pushed the mower over to Galen, looked up at him, and said: “Think you can do that now?”

Galen grinned, nodded, and reached into his pocket to pay the boy when the kid half-snarled.

“You’re probably going to do like the others and flip a dime at me, aren’t you?”

Uh-oh, some deep water here
.

He reached into his pocket for his wallet and took out a five-dollar bill.

“Here, Joe, that’s for the lawn and the lesson.”

The boy’s face registered a mixture of astonishment and suspicion. He stared at the adult standing there and then muttered: “I suppose you expect me to cut the grass for the rest of the summer for that.”

“No, Joe, that was for today. I learned a long time ago that you pay a man what he’s worth. And you certainly earned it.”

The kid’s frown melted into a grin. He started to walk away, holding the money tightly in his right hand.

“See ya, Mister.”

That was the start of many visits, sudden, unexpected, usually when Galen was working in his garden. Joe would watch as Galen installed his annual bedding plants then stop and sit under the old maple tree facing the backyard parking lot. Cathy was there then and she would bring out pitchers of water and shake her head as Galen and the boy would get into animated philosophical discussions on everything from teachers to girls.

The boy grew in size, age, and perspective, taking on deeper and deeper thoughts. Finally he left for college, and Galen continued their talks by letter, encouraging, warning, advising him.

And then Cathy was gone.

...

So why was Joe coming to the office today, Galen wondered, as he finished his walking circuit and got out the now-much-older mower. Joe had done Marine reserve duty then completed a master’s degree and now consulted on Capitol Hill. He had the world by the tail. Six feet tall, muscular, still tanned from outdoor hunting and fishing, he was the picture of health.

So Joe Rosario showed up promptly at 8:30. The older man had seen him happy, angry, frustrated, but never worried. And Joe looked worried. Though he obviously was trying to maintain his usual level of what he called rational behavior, the worry seeped through the chinks in his defensive armor.

“Doc, I’m losing feeling in parts of my hands. It’s like I’m wearing rubber gloves. And there are times when I don’t see things right, like there are holes in my vision.”

Galen cringed internally. He had heard and seen this before. He quickly ran through the tests he could do in the office then sat down and faced the young man straight on. He had never lied or joked with Joe when things were serious, and this was one of those times.

“Joe, I want two other doctors to see you. One is a neurologist, the other an ophthalmologist. The neurologist will conduct certain nerve-function tests that I can’t do here. The eye specialist will do what’s called Visual Fields testing.

“What do you think it is, Doc?”

Galen sighed.

“Joe, my gut feeling is that you have MS—multiple sclerosis. It’s a condition that affects certain parts of the brain called white matter and the sheathing around the nerve fibers called the myelin. When all that gets affected, it interferes with the brain’s ability to sense, feel, and see. But I could be wrong, so I want those two consultants to see you. Will you let me set up the appointments?”

The younger man nodded then raised his head and stared at Galen.

“Is there any treatment for it, I mean, if you’re right?”

Galen pulled his lips together then put his hand on Joe’s shoulder.

“You’ll get through this, Joe”

He quickly made the arrangements for the further testing then proceeded with the rest of his schedule.

What a time for something like this to come up!

Now he had doubts about making the weekend trip, feeling the pull of conflicting obligations. But he slogged through the usual run of rashes, colds, muscle pulls, and chest pains, and ended the day on an upbeat note.

“Trish, what’s up?”

The young woman sat with her husband of one year, looking somewhat green around the gills.

“She’s been getting real sick in the morning for the past couple of days, Doc. Think it could be food poisoning?”

Gary Grambling had met Trish Knowlton at a local church function and it was love at first sight. Both were deeply committed to their religious faith and both had done missionary work in Africa. Now, after a year of marriage, the normally exceptionally healthy young woman was ill.

Galen asked several questions then took a blood sample. He asked the two young people to give him about ten minutes to run the test, retreated into his lab for that long and then returned to the examining room where he sat down facing the couple, smiling.

“What do you two want to name your case of food poisoning?”

Gary caught on first.

“You mean she’s pregnant?”

The realization of it made him stand then sit down again abruptly as Galen nodded his head.

Then Trish made the remark that Galen remembered for decades and never let the young woman forget she had said:

“Doc, how did this happen?”

After the office day was over, he walked through his back yard, going from plant to plant, letting himself unwind. The setting sun was still casting its orange and crimson light across the evening sky. Actually it had been a typical day, with the beginning of a new life easing the impact of the possible crashing of another. How often had he experienced those two outcomes?

He approached the section of the garden he had set aside in memory of Leni and Cathy. The special
hemerocallis
lilies were not yet ready to bloom. Two young house sparrows landed on the still-unopened bud scapes and began their evening song.

Time to go!

He sat up in bed. It was 11:30 p.m. He had packed the Jeep earlier. Carefully he closed up his red-shingled home-office, left a message with the covering doctor’s answering service then set out. What was he in for? Was this whole trip just the equivalent of male menopause—or andropause, if you wanted to be technically correct? Was he really trying to recapture those long ago memories? Did he still have the necessary skills? He would know in ten hours.

“The Bear came over the mountain, the Bear came over the mountain, the Bear came over the mountain—to see what he could see!”

He heard the singing through the Jeep’s open window.

The two women stood in the doorway as he pulled into the parking lot of the concrete-block medical clinic-mission with its big Red Cross and open-hands logo. He quickly stepped out of his now-dusty vehicle and moved to hug them both.

“Teacher! Southern Belle! How come the two of you don’t seem to get any older?”

“Didn’t you know, Bob, all women cast magic spells so their men can’t see what they really look like?” Peggy laughed.

Connie nodded in agreement then added, “And we put special potions in your food to confuse you even more.”

“Well, that explains how you two hooked such outstanding members of the male brotherhood!”

He was laughing, too, as he picked up his duffle bag and followed his two friends into the house attached to the clinic.

“Speaking of which,” he continued, “where are the other two illustrious members of the A Team?”

“Bill’s getting some of the stuff set up in the clinic. Today we’ll probably need to vaccinate at least a hundred kids who belong to the migrant worker families. We’re the only place they’re willing to go to, so the state provides us with the vaccines and we try to do at least that for them. I can’t imagine how those families survive, let alone the kids.”