Holm, Stef Ann (36 page)

Alex
headed directly for Dr. Porter's office, confused and filled with an anger that
put a briskness in his walk. Who did the doc think he was, altering Captain's
medicine? The physicians at the Baltimore Hospital had urged Alex to keep
Captain on the doses they'd written for him or else he could suffer seizures.
He made sure Cap got the proper amounts each day, at the same time of day, and
he'd done so for the past seven months since taking him out of the hospital.

Certain
things agitated Cap at times, but he stayed in a routine in most cases. Keeping
him comfortable on his medicine while Alex got the money to take them to
Buffalo was the most important thing.

And
that damn doctor had slacked off What if—

But
Jesus. Captain looked and sounded better.

Alex
grabbed the knob to Dr. Porter's office and yanked the door open. If it hadn't
been for the fact the doctor had a patient sitting at his desk, Alex would have
unloaded on him. The woman turned to see who'd come into the office. In his
current state, Alex could barely recall who she was even though he was working
on an order for her and her husband.

After
several seconds, he said, "Mrs. Wolcott."

Her
smile was pleasant. "Hello."

"Mr.
Cordova," Dr. Porter said, rising from his chair. "I'll be with you
in a moment."

"I'll
wait outside." Alex shoved through the door, stuck his hand in his trouser
pocket and withdrew his pack of smokes. He shook one out and lit up, gazing
across the street at the newspaper office. His thoughts went in different
directions. Captain, baseball, money, hospitals, medicines, what was, what
could be.

He
still wondered about the wisdom of telling Camille about Joe. It was a hell of
a thing to admit... To a woman who made him feel hope.

Hope
that he could fix Cap.

Hope
that maybe he could come back to Harmony one day.

Hope
that there could be a chance.

But
hope was a dangerous thing to have. When dashed, it could wear a body down.

The
door to the doctor's office opened and Mrs. Wolcott stepped outside with the
doc behind her. Her condition showed, a soft swell of her belly from the baby
she carried. Motherhood suited her, gave her a radiance that put a rosy color
in her cheeks.

He
tipped his hat to her. "I'll be finished with the cradle this week and
I'll bring it by for you, Mrs. Wolcott."

"We
won't be needing it for another five months, but I'll be glad to have it early
so I can make up some quilts the right size." She gave her thanks to the
doctor and went on her way.

Alex
was inside the office before being asked, and as soon as the door closed, he
went off like a trip wire. "Captain told me you didn't give him his
medicine on a regular basis while I was gone. That he got sick."

"He
has been sick," the doctor said, and he would have continued.

But
Alex cut off the man's words with an angry yell. "What in the hell
happened?" He strode to the desk and turned with a quick jerk. "I
gave you the medications with directions. The state hospital told me that if
Cap didn't have that elixir every day, he could have an attack and get really
bad oft Goddammit, I'm not going to let him slip back into that man he was that
first month in the public hospital."

He'd
worked himself into a cold sweat, his palms damp. He was barely able to control
his hands from trembling.

The
doctor's compassionate voice intruded on the room. "Sit down, Mr.
Cordova."

"I
don't want to sit down," he replied in a hard tone.

"I
think you'd better. I have something to tell you." Dr. Porter rounded his
desk and sat in the large leather chair. He took a fob from his vest pocket. On
the end was a tiny key, small enough to fit into the double-door pine cabinet
on his left. Once one side was open, Dr. Porter reached for the bottles on one
of the shelves. They were Captain's medicine bottles.

Alex
still stood, watching the doc set them on his desk. Foreboding clamped over
him. He told himself his fears were premature. Nothing was wrong. There was no
good reason to be feeling as if his breath had been cut off. But looking at
those bottles, then looking at the doc, his confidence ebbed. He grew filled
with such self-doubt, it was a physical pain that tensed his muscles.

"How
long has he had this medication?" Dr. Porter asked.

"Three
years."

With
his weathered hands folded before him on several charts, he gazed acutely at
Alex when next he spoke. "Then for three years, Captain was slowly being
poisoned."

Alex
stared at the man in utter disbelief. Several strokes of the clock's pendulum
went past before he found his voice. "That's bullshit."

"It's
not, son." Dr. Porter turned one of the bottles toward him so that Alex
could see the label.

He
didn't have to read it. He knew what it said.

"Foetor
arsenicum,"
Dr.
Porter recited, then lifted his gaze to Alex and added, "Those are the
Latin words for bromide arsenic."

Alex's
mind tripped into shock over the startling translation. He'd wondered about the
word
arsenicum
but had dismissed any thought about its being arsenic.
Arsenic was poison, and doctors wouldn't use poison on their patients.

With
his stomach clenched tight, he sunk into the chair opposite the doc's.
"That can't be right."

"I'm
afraid it is. I sent a sample to a druggist friend of mine in Boise so he could
give me the compounds in this." Dr. Porter tipped the bottle; light caught
on the deadly liquid inside. "There is bromide in it, which is commonly
used to treat brain injuries. There are also chlorides of potash, sodium,
phosphate, and lithium. But there's a small trace of arsenic, too. Lithium has
been proven affective in severe cases; however, too much over a long period of
time can dull a patient's senses. It's the arsenic, Mr. Cordova, that is of
great concern. I gave Captain an exam. Beneath the surface, there is a man with
a mind that allows him to think quite clearly for himself But for three years,
the arsenic has put him in what I believe to be in a walking catatonic
state."

Gooseflesh
rose on Alex's skin in hard, tingling points. He could barely swallow, barely
handle the rush of heat that went to his bones. He had nothing to say. Words
failed him. Holy Christ, if this doctor was right, then by his own hand, Alex
had been poisoning Captain for the past seven months.

His
mind reeled in denial.

"These
past few weeks, I've been lowering the dose daily to wean him off," Dr.
Porter said. "He was very ill from withdrawal. I had him stay at my home
with me so I could bring him through. He still suffers headaches. The Dover's
Powder is opium. In moderation, he can take that on an as-needed basis. I don't
know how long it will take to bring him around. But I do see that he's much
improved in color and mind as it relates to daily things." The doctor
chuckled. "He's a very good checkers player."

Alex
couldn't laugh. There was a question he didn't want answered, but he had to
know. "Would I have killed him, eventually?"

Dr.
Porter sobered, settled a pair of spectacles on his nose, then leaned back in
his chair and folded his arms over his chest. "Yes."

A
stabbing tore through Alex's heart. He thought he would be ill. The horrible
knowledge hit him full force, swelling his throat and making him blink back the
rush of moist heat in his eyes. "Dammit, what kind of doctor prescribes
poison? Didn't he know I'd be killing him?"

Doc
Porter said quietly, "I'll get you a glass of water."

He
heard the doc moving in the room, making sounds that, in his state of shock,
seemed both muted and sharp at the same time. Then a drinking glass was put
into his hand and Alex took long sips to cool his insides. When he felt his
lungs expand once again and his breathing come somewhat normally, he spoke.
"I didn't know."

"It's
not your fault, Mr. Cordova. I know it's hard not to take blame, but you were
only following instructions." Dr. Porter sat down once more. "As I
said, some treatments in medicine are common even though we physicians don't
always know the full extent of their effects. We know what works at the time of
injury." Removing his glasses, he wiped his eyes. "I will say that
the doctors you talk about did Captain a disservice. I'm not a brain expert,
but I think I can help bring him back to a semblance of what you and I consider
normalcy." He opened a journal and picked up a pen. "I'd like to know
what caused his injury— every detail of what happened and the treatments that
he's had."

Alex
had never spoken about Captain's days in the hospital to anyone, those first
hours when he'd laid there unconscious. Alex would have to be brutally honest.
He would reveal secrets, things past and things buried, old wounds. But as he
lifted his gaze to the doctor's, he knew that the only way to move forward
would be to return to the past. So he told Dr. Porter everything. He left no
detail out, no emotion or feeling. And when he was finished, the doc didn't
look at him any differently. Alex did not understand the reason for the doc's
unspoken forgiveness, for it was nothing that Alex could forgive of himself.
But the fact that doc didn't say he was a son of a bitch meant a lot. For that,
Alex was grateful.

The
doc steepled his fingertips. "Then when Captain woke up from his accident,
he was never allowed to heal his brain without medication. I'm not saying the
bromide was the wrong course to take. It's the arsenic that I can't justify.
And yet, it is often prescribed."

"But
the fact remains," Alex said, his voice hoarse, "Cap's been taking
it."

"He
won't be anymore, and any ill effects may very well go away. I just don't know.
I had my colleague mix up a new combination for Captain, and it arrived the
other day. Captain's had two doses already and he hasn't shown any distress. In
fact, I think he's tolerating it well." Dr. Porter went to the cabinet
shelf and took out a clear bottle with a cork top. "This has bromide in it
and the other components we discussed. Use the opium sparingly, and we'll see what
happens."

"Do
you think Captain could remember what he used to be like?"

At
length, Dr. Porter sighed. "The memory is a remarkable storehouse.
Captain's had the door to his clouded by narcotics. Behind that door, he may
very well know who he is."

His
hands, hidden from sight in his trouser pockets, twisted nervously at the
pocket seams. "You think that's why he wanted to shave and cut his
hair?"

Dr.
Porter smiled with optimism. "I'd like to think so."

When
Alex left the office, his feet felt weighted. He felt like he'd been thrown to
the ground by the entire lineup of the Philly Athletics. They sat on him,
squeezing the air from his lungs, until he couldn't see. Until the world went
black with one realization:

He'd
almost killed Captain.

As
Alex gulped in the warm summer air, he kept his shoulders straight and his head
high. Cap was getting a second chance. Alex should have been embracing the
news, happy, encouraged. But smothering those emotions was a fear so strong, it
was a blinding white sheet inside him.

If
Captain remembered the day of his accident, he would hate Alex for sure. And
who could blame him.

Shame
clutched Alex, enveloping his soul and dragging him closer to hell... because a
very small part of him didn't want Cap to get better.

* * * * *

A
rush of water came out of the faucet pipe, dousing Camille with a cold spray.
She lay on the floor, partially beneath the kitchen sink, wrench in hand, her
legs stretched out before her, her back cushioned by a pillow. Her body
contorted in an awkward position so she could reach the pipe that had sprung a
leak while she'd been gone. She thought she'd fixed it before she left, but the
oakum caulking hadn't held. After days of a slow drip that had overflowed, her
storm room floor was ruined from the spill.

Quickly
putting a bucket beneath the drain, she rolled over and stared at the bottom
side of the cast-iron sink. The concentrated fragrance of dish soap tickled her
nose and she sneezed.

"I
told you you needed the long lead trap, not the half." Her father's words
came down from above— through the three-inch-wide hole in the sink bottom—to be
exact. She looked up and saw his eyes and nose as he peered at her through the
opening.

She
didn't want him to be right. She'd
fought
against him being right. But
he was right.

"Hand
it over." She extended her arm from the cupboard and then a heavy pipe
came into her grasp. She could have hired a handyman, but she wanted to do this
on her own. And actually right now was as good a time as any. She needed the
distraction as soon as her father had come over wanting a full report on the
road trip. So far, she hadn't told him anything. He was the one doing all the
talking.

"It's
in every newspaper across the country." His voice came to her amidst the
plumbing. "They're calling us the Harmony Honeybees. So you say you
checked with the laundry?"