The Conspiracy Club (12 page)

“Tough day, huh?”

“One of
those
. Couple of problem bleeds, a few other bad surprises.” She gave her pasta another go, gave up.

“This morning, I watched Dr. MacIntyre crack the chest of a woman who’d never smoked. Her right lung was black as coal. It looked like barbecue ash. The left one’s not much better. I didn’t have to be there, but I’d done the intake and liked her. And I wanted to see what really happens to my patients. Jeremy, she’s a really sweet, kind woman, used to be a nun, served the poor. Now she’s got nothing but agony to look forward to.”

“Poor thing.”

“She came in thinking she had bronchitis, or maybe a cold gone chronic. I did the old blow-the-ball test, and her lung capacity was the lowest I’ve ever seen, it’s amazing she could stand on her feet. I sent her straight to X-ray. I started with her, so I ended up with her. It was the attending’s job to give her the diagnosis, but he punted to me — too busy. I sat down with her, told her she needed to be opened up and why. She didn’t even blink. Just said, ‘Thank you, Doctor, for letting me know so kindly.’ ”

“You must’ve done a good job.”

Angela’s eyes watered. She wiped them, reached for Jeremy’s Chianti. “May I?”

“I’ll order you a glass.”

“No, let’s share.” She sipped, held the glass out. They linked arms and Jeremy drank. He’d seen that at a wedding — an ethnic affair — maybe a Jewish wedding. Bride and groom entwined. Heady symbolism.

He said, “Not a smoker. Any secondhand smoke?”

“Her father,” said Angela. “He’s old, sick with diabetes, she’s been taking care of him for twenty years in a two-room apartment. He chain-smokes and it circulates and she breathes it in. He had a chest scan last year. His sugar’s 320 and his circulation’s shot, but his lungs are as clear as bells.”

“Sins of the fathers,” said Jeremy, without thinking.

“Guess so.” Her voice was low and defeated. She played with her fork.

Jeremy wondered if he’d come across glib. He said, “You’ve earned some relaxation. I’d be happy to provide aid and comfort.”

“Sounds good — let’s go.”

She’d taken the bus to the hospital, so Jeremy drove her home. During the ride, she kept her hand on his thigh. Once, at a red light, she leaned over and kissed him deeply, and he heard her purr.

When they got to her place, the routine commenced: She seated him on the ratty couch and disappeared into the bathroom to change into her green robe. The struggling houseplant on her windowsill was gone. The apartment was no less shabby for its absence.

The bathroom door opened, and Angela glided over, the robe firmly cinched. She sidled onto the couch, lay with her head in his lap. He touched her chin, stroked her hair.

She said, “Let’s get into bed.”

Her bedroom was chilly. When they drew the covers up around their necks, she said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t want to do it, tonight. I just want to be held.”

“The wrong way?”

“As if I’ve been leading you on.”

“You haven’t.”

“Okay.”

They lay on their backs, holding hands.

Angela said, “You’re sure?”

“I’m positive.”

“It’s not that I don’t want you. I do. Physically, I do. I just — mentally, it wouldn’t work. Okay?”

“No need to explain.” Jeremy brought her hand to his lips.

She snuggled close and slid down so that her head rested in his lap. Jeremy heard her let out a low, contented breath. For some crazy reason, the sound evoked Judge Tina Balleron’s murmuring voice.

An old woman but still . . . alluring. No, not her, specifically. Women. The sounds they made. The wonderful things they did. Jeremy preferred women to men. Always had. A certain type of woman especially: smart, bookish, tending toward reticence. Vulnerable.

Jocelyn had been none of that, and yet . . .

He bent low, cradled Angela’s head, kissed her brow.

She shifted position, reached down. “
You’re
interested.”

“Physically, only.”

“Bull.”

“I’m offended that you would think me so crass.”

She laughed and moved back to eye level. They began kissing, stayed with it for a long time. No groping, no tongue duels, just whispery grazes of lip upon lip.

Angela said, “Oh, boy.”

“What?”

“Just oh, boy. You make me happy.”

“I’m glad.”

“Do I make you happy?”

“Sure.”

“Are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you happy? It’s hard to tell; you don’t say much,” she said. “In general, I like that. My dad and my brother are talky guys. Great guys but overpoweringly verbal. Whenever my brother was home from college, I was relegated to bystander.”

“What about your mother?”

“She just leaves the room. Being a doctor, she can be as busy as she’d like.”

“The convenient patient call,” said Jeremy.

“You know of such things, huh? So tell me, why are you reluctant to talk about yourself?”

“It’s a boring story.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

Jeremy didn’t answer. Angela’s windows were covered by cheap shades. Moonlight transformed them to oversize sheets of parchment. Somewhere out on the street, a radio was playing. Scratchy rock music. A too-strong bass.

Angela said, “I’ve upset you.”

“Not at all.”

“I don’t want to be nosy, but we have been . . . intimate.”

“You’re right,” said Jeremy. “What do you want to know?”

“Where you were born, what your family’s like—”

“I don’t have a family.”

“None at all?”

“Not really.” He told her why. Kept talking. Starting with the accident, being shunted from place to place. The feelings of being alone — feelings he’d never put into words, not during his training analysis, not during clinical supervision, or pillow-talk ventures with other women.

Not with Jocelyn. He realized, with a shock, how little he and Jocelyn had talked.

He finished breathless, convinced opening up had been a grave mistake. A nice, wholesome girl from a well-to-do, intact family — a clan of confident professionals — would be put off by his rootlessness, the sadness of it all.

People talk about sharing, but you can’t share the past. Or anything else of consequence.

He was reflecting upon what that implied for his chosen profession when Angela sat up and cradled him and stroked his hair and played with his ears.

“That’s the whole sordid tale,” he said.

She placed one of his hands on her breast. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I changed my mind.”

“About what?”

“Not doing it.”

Later, when she began to yawn, Jeremy said, “I’ll let you sleep.”

“Sorry. I’m so
bushed
.” She squeezed him hard. “Do you want to stay the night?”

“I’d better not,” he said.

“You haven’t yet. I suppose there’s a reason.”

“I’m a restless sleeper, don’t want to disturb you. You’ve got a long day ahead of you, what with taking that guy’s shift.”

“Yes,” she said. “Guess so.”

Simultaneously they said, “The schedule.”

When she walked him to the door, she said, “So how was that dinner with Dr. Chess?”

“Not much of anything.”

“Was it a medical thing?”

“No,” he said. “More of a general thing. Believe me, it’s not worth getting into.”

He left her rooming house, got into his Nova and started up the engine. When his headlights went on, so did those of another car, behind him, midway down the block. When he pulled from the curb, the other car followed suit, driving in the same direction.

What the hell is this?

Jeremy sped up. The other car behind him didn’t. A big SUV from the height of the headlights. When he turned left on Saint Francis Avenue, it continued straight.

So much for high intrigue.

“I’ve got to get hold of myself,” he said, aloud.

No matter what those old fools think about reality, I need some.

A
rthur wasn’t at tumor board. Another pathologist presided, an associate professor named Barnard Singh, bright and turbaned and dressed in a perfect gray suit. He got right to business, flashing slides of a synovial sarcoma. Gentian violet stain turned the specimens beautiful.

Jeremy asked the radiotherapist next to him, “Where’s Dr. Chess?” and received a shrug.

He sat through the hour, restless, and, despite himself, curious.

He called Arthur’s office extension, heard the phone ring. Went up to see his patients and tried three hours later. Not knowing what he’d say if Arthur picked up.

Just saying hi, old chap. Harumph pshaw. How’re the old CCC chumskys?

No answer.

Then he thought: What if something’s happened to him? Despite his outward robustness, Arthur was an old man. And the way he packed away alcohol and cholesterol . . .

Perhaps he’d had a heart attack and lay untended on the floor of his lab. Or worse.

Jeremy pictured the pathologist’s long frame stretched out, surrounded by jars of floating viscera, skeletal specimens, bodies in various states of dissection. Sterile tools laid out in preparation for human carpentry . . .
laser scalpel?
. . . an expensive gizmo. Would there be any reason for a pathologist to invest in one?

He hurried to the main wing, took the stairs down to the basement. Once again, Arthur’s office door was closed, and no one responded to Jeremy’s knock.

The morgue sat at the far end of the hall, and its door was open. The sleepy-looking attendant at the front desk was doing paperwork. No, he hadn’t seen Dr. Chess today, had no idea where he was.

“Was he here yesterday?”

“Uh, no, I don’t think so.”

Jeremy backtracked to the Pathology Office, on the opposite end and around a bend.

A chubby woman in her forties sat sentry.

“Hi,” she said. “Can I help you, Doctor?”

“I’m looking for Dr. Chess.”

“He’s out.”

“Is he okay?”

“Why wouldn’t he be?”

“I just wondered,” said Jeremy. “He wasn’t at Tumor Board, and I’ve never known him to miss one.”

“Well,” she said, “he’s as fine as he could possibly be. I believe he’s taken some time off.”

“Vacation?”

“It’s not like that,” said the receptionist.

Jeremy’s puzzled look made her smile. She said, “You don’t know him well, do you? How long have you been attending T.B.?”

“A year.”

“Ah,” she said. “Well, Dr. Chess isn’t really on staff, anymore. Not officially, anyway.” She cupped her hand around her mouth, and whispered, “He doesn’t get paid.”

“He’s volunteering his time?” said Jeremy.

“You could call it that, but that really doesn’t describe it.” She lowered her voice even further, forcing Jeremy to lean in close. “He doesn’t do autopsies anymore, or analyze specimens. Doesn’t do much at all, except Tumor Board. But he’s such a brilliant man, has given so much to this hospital, that they allow him to keep his office, do any research he wants to do. It’s not a secret, but we don’t publicize it either. For Dr. Chess’s sake. It’s not like he’s deadweight or anything. He’s a major asset to this department because of his reputation. In fact, I’ll have you know, he turned this department into what it is.”

Her voice had risen. Indignant. Protective.

“He’s brilliant,” Jeremy agreed, and that seemed to mollify her.

“That’s why we don’t talk about his . . . employment status. As far as everyone’s concerned, he’s a full-fledged member, welcome here whenever he wants. And his running T.B. is a big help. Everyone says he’s got an encyclopedic memory. And, of course, he’s available when the younger pathologists have questions for him. Which they frequently do. They have tremendous respect for him, everyone does. He’s a beacon in his field.”

“Yes, he is,” said Jeremy. “So . . . you’re saying he just decided not to come in.”

“It’s happened before. Why all the questions, Dr. . . . Carrier?”

“Dr. Chess and I had dinner a couple of nights ago. He seemed . . . a little shaky.”

The receptionist’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my. I certainly hope he’s all right.”

“I probably overstated. He just seemed a little tired. Less energetic than what we’ve come to expect from him. That’s why, when he didn’t show up this morning for T.B., I got a little concerned.”

“Who ran Board this morning?”

“Dr. Singh.”

“Let me call him.” She punched her phone. “Dr. Singh? It’s Emily, sorry to disturb you, but I’ve got Dr. Carrier here asking about Dr. Chess . . . Carrier. From . . .” She inspected Jeremy’s badge. “Psychiatry. He had dinner with Dr. Chess last night, thought Dr. Chess looked a wee bit tired. He wants to make sure Dr. Chess is okay . . . what’s that? All right, I’ll tell him. Thanks, Dr. Singh.”

She placed the phone in its cradle. “Dr. Singh says Dr. Chess called him last night to inform him he’d be taking additional time off and wouldn’t be making Board. Dr. Singh said he sounded fine.”

“Great, that’s good to know. Thanks.” Jeremy turned to leave.

“It’s so nice,” she said. “The way he does that.”

“Does what?”

“Dr. Chess. The way he gets people to care about him. The dear.”

Her phone rang and she picked it up and got involved in a conversation with someone named Janine who’d just had a baby and wasn’t that great, and she was sure he was cute, just the cutest, when could she stop by with the baby gift she’d bought thecutestlittlebootieandjammy set.

T
he psychiatry secretary phoned Jeremy, and said, “You’re requested on Six West.”

It was Wednesday, well past his late-night supper with the old eccentrics and but for occasional surreal remembrances, the experience had been expunged from his head. Arthur Chess was out of his head, as well. He couldn’t believe he’d actually cared about the old man’s well-being.

Over the past few days, he’d seen Angela once — half an hour for coffee and hand-holding before she rushed off. During that time she talked more about her lung cancer patient, who was not doing well, and said, “For the rest of my chest rotation, I’ll be shifting from lung to heart. That should be good.”