Race for the Dying (13 page)

“Mrs. Cleary?”

“Just one of the patients who will convince you that you're vastly underpaid, Thomas.”

“That's hard to imagine.”

Haines laughed again as he held open his office door for the wheelchair. “You'll want a good night's sleep, young man.”

Chapter Twenty-two

Elated, even overwhelmed, with John Haines' generous offer, Thomas Parks could easily picture himself operating from this modest clinic, even though he saw nothing of the enormous hospital promised in the
Universal Medical Advisor
. He saw no enormous laboratory churning out barrels of drugs. He saw no patients strolling the manicured grounds—in fact no patients at all, strolling, supine, or otherwise. That made him a little uneasy, since the number of patients that Port McKinney could produce on a regular basis could hardly support such a munificent salary.

He wheeled behind Dr. Haines, listening intently. Haines started with the examining room immediately beside his private office.

The room where patients would first seek medical care was modest in every aspect, with two comfortable chairs for interviews and a central examination table. Tidy and clean, it boasted nothing out of the ordinary beyond an elegant little enameled steel cart made in Paris. The cart secured two open-topped glass jars of perhaps two gallons capacity each on an upper rack, the jars' contents piped via coiled rubber tubing to dual spigots over a recessed enamel sink. The small sink drained into a utilitarian bucket with leather handles.

“During the day, Bertha will keep this full of hot water.” Haines proudly patted the storage jar. “I'm spoiled by such conveniences, I must say.” He turned to the gas-fired autoclave that rested on one marble countertop, with a tilted rack of implements and steel pans beside a deep marble sink. “I purchased this in San Francisco just last spring,” he said. “You're familiar with its operation, of course.”

“One very much like it,” Thomas allowed.

Behind the examining table, itself blanketed first with a heavy rubberized cover and then a clean linen, the pharmacy included vast rows of drugs arranged alphabetically. Thomas scanned the rows, seeing emphasis on alteratives, including labels that bore Dr. Haines' name.

Bottles of the Universal Tonic touted in nearly every chapter of the
Advisor
were clearly available in sizes from a few ounces to dark liter-sized bottles with rubber corks.

“Let me show you the ward,” Haines said, slipping past Thomas. He stopped, nodding at the drugs. “If you have favorites that aren't here, you have but to mention them to Bertha or Alvi.”

“Incredible,” Thomas said politely. He wheeled after Haines. A double door opened from the foyer to the ward.

“At the moment, we have no patients admitted,” Haines said. “That's something of a blessing just now.”

“Earlier, Alvi mentioned that there was an injured laborer in the ward,” Thomas said. He waited while Dr. Haines pulled the drapes, and the flood of daylight revealed a modest, narrow room that included eight beds, four on each side.

“Was,” Haines said. “As I said, enjoy the peace and quiet while you can. It won't last. We tend to acute cases as best we can with the facilities that we have. The chronic ones, or the seriously ill, we transport to St. Mary's down in Pesqualmie. It's better for them, and allows us to focus our efforts.”

“I see.”

Haines lifted an eyebrow at the expression on the young man's face. “It's really quite adequate for our needs,” Haines said. “But you appear surprised.”

“Well,” Thomas said, choosing his words carefully, “it's just that the clinic was presented in the
Advisor
as somewhat…as a bit…”

“More grand in scope?” Haines finished for him.

“Exactly, sir. Like the salary you offer me, I must add. Port McKinney is not a large city. It's hard to imagine how it might support—”

“A moment, please,” Haines interrupted. He left the ward, returning with a wrapped volume. He removed the oil paper and for a moment regarded the book. “One of the advance copies of our magnum opus,” he said and opened the volume. He smoothed the pages, finally arriving at the passage he sought. He held the book so Thomas could see the pages. On the left was the full-page engraving of the enormous Clinic and Vital Research Center, the same rendering that appeared on the title page.

“This confuses you,” Haines said. He cocked the page, lifted his head, and peered through his spectacles at the print. “‘A model medical facility and surgical center,'” he read, and looked up at Thomas. “A model.” He directed his attention to the next page. “‘Within five years' time,'” he read, “‘The Haines Clinic and Vital Research Center will be the focus of medical research and treatment that encompasses the best as practiced both in this country and abroad. Attending to patients in the facility as illustrated here by our architects, noted physicians from a dozen countries will provide the most skilled, prompt, and professional services on earth.'”

He looked up. “Zachary has a way with words far beyond my poor attempts,” he said. “Anyway, think projection, Thomas. What will be, given time and energy. Think well beyond the admittedly limited opportunities in Port McKinney.”

“You're saying that this section of the
Advisor
presents what lies ahead,” Thomas said.

“Exactly.” Haines turned another page and held the book up so he could see the fine print. “‘Only physicians who are recipients of the most thorough and erudite education have been chosen to work at the Clinic, including men from the major centers of America as well as the continent.'” He closed the book, using his thumb as a marker. “That's you, Thomas. And Zachary, whom I must say has made so much possible for us. With the income he has secured from our various endeavors, we project that construction on the major clinic building will commence as early as next summer.”

“Remarkable,” Thomas said. “I wonder…” He wanted to ask what percentage of readers would notice the careful prose of the
Advisor
. What percentage of them would skip the nuances and assume that the facility already existed as vaunted in the text?

“Zachary worked with you on this project, then,” he said.

“Oh, certainly,” Haines said quickly. “Worked is an understatement, Thomas. He slaved on it.” He held out both hands like a preacher holding a Bible before his congregation. “Left to my own devices, I wouldn't have finished a single chapter.”

He snapped the book closed. “There are patients, Thomas, who need this. They need the comfort of an
Advisor
. In that, I completely agree with Zachary's logic. There is nothing in that text that is counter to good medicine, Thomas. Nothing. Although it promotes the use of various alteratives—especially the ones that are sold by the clinic—none are promoted for uses beyond their limitations.”

“I recall the peach,” Thomas said with a smile.

“Exactly so, and most apt. You know”—Haines relaxed with his back against the wall—“sometimes just knowing that someone else cares, that someone else is ready to provide a modicum of comfort, is sufficient to ease the burden of chronic disease. That's something we should never forget in our rush to bring the huge, complicated battery of modern science and medicine to the patient's bedside.” His eyes crinkled with amusement. “You know as well as anyone, after your own misadventure, how a quiet hand, or a bit of hot food, or even a few chips of ice may provide comfort and relief.”

“Or a good jolt of fine brandy.” Thomas laughed.

“Exactly so.” Haines patted the cover of the heavy book. “That quieting hand is what this volume provides. In just a matter of days, we shall have literally thousands of copies of this fine text to dispense to patients worldwide. For but four dollars, they gain a valuable, wise friend in their time of need.” He fell silent, watching Thomas.

“Zachary actually wrote most of this? That's quite an undertaking.”

“Yes. He actually did. A remarkable talent, that man. And I must say, I have come to cherish our evening sessions in front of the fire. He questions, I respond. Sometimes the two of us pore through other texts for just the right answer or organization. But most of the material is the compilation of my own forty-year practice.”

“An interesting fellow,” Thomas said.

“I hope you two will come to work effectively side by side,” Haines said. “You both have a good deal to offer, and there's much to be done. I want you to feel perfectly comfortable to poke about the place, Thomas. My office, the examining room, this ward. Every drawer, every corner. I think you'll find all the equipment you'll need, but as I said, if you should find some shortage or lack, you have but to make a list for us, and it will be ordered immediately.”

“That's most generous, sir.”

“Practical, Thomas. Practical. I want you to be content and challenged here. I'll do whatever I can to accomplish that.” He pulled out his watch. “I want you to work as long as you like, and when you're ready for some rest, Alvi will arrange for you to ride back to one-oh-one.”

“I can take a bed right here,” Thomas said, nodding at the ward.

Haines laughed. “Certainly not, young man. I won't hear of it. For one thing, I'm selfish. I wish to pick your brain, and the best way to do that is over a glass of brandy in front of a roaring fire. I hope you'll humor me.”

“You spoil me, Doctor,” Thomas said.

“I certainly hope so. When your father demands an accounting, I would hate to come up short. And as I said, it's in my own best interest.”

Chapter Twenty-three

For some time, Thomas regarded his reflection in the small mirror. He unwound the bandage from his head and turned the bathroom gaslight up full. The colorful bash and laceration would be partially hidden by his thick brown hair. He touched a lock tentatively. He would allow that to grow a bit longer, but still, there would be no hiding the scar that arched around his right eye, giving his face a piratical cast…or the look of one who narrowly escaped scalping.

Taking more time than usual, he washed carefully, enjoying the sting of the cold water. The deep gouge between his ribs was now scabbing properly, but the torn muscles and fractures would tolerate not the slightest pressure. He had become adept at shallow breathing, but even the simple task of unwrapping the bandage had prompted a yelp.

Thomas knew that he was not giving himself enough time to heal properly, but rationalized that none of his injuries would heal any faster with bed rest. He braced against the sink pedestal and tentatively swung his left leg. He could manage a few degrees of movement forward and back, but nothing laterally.

“Would you like some hot water?” the voice outside the door asked, and Thomas startled, reaching for his robe.

“You must sleep with both ears open,” he said to the closed door, and was rewarded with Alvina's easy laugh.

“I do,” she replied. “My mother used to say that I was afraid I was going to miss something.” She tapped on the door. “May I?”

“Of course,” Thomas said. He opened the door and she held up the white enameled pitcher.

“I can't imagine scraping my face with a razor under any circumstances,” she said, “but hot water must make it more bearable.”

“Indeed it does.”

She poured the water into the small basin, then set the pitcher on the table just to the left of the mirror. “Let me see,” she said.

He pivoted toward her while she stood on her tiptoes, examining his face. Her fingers were gentle as she turned his head first one way and then another. “Hold still a minute,” she instructed, and she dipped the corner of a small face cloth in the hot water. “Right in the corner,” she added, and with one hand eased his swollen eyebrow upward as she dabbed with the cloth. “Perfect.” She stepped back.

“Far from that.” Thomas said.

“You should consider growing one of those wonderful mustaches,” she said, spinning fingers out from either side of her nose. “You'd look elegant.”

“That's not the word I would have chosen for this battered face.”

She laughed again. “How are the ribs?”

Lying in bed and being examined in a semiprofessional manner was one thing, but pulling aside his robe in the bathroom seemed somehow inappropriate, and Thomas felt the flush creep up his neck and cheeks. He was surprised at his own prudishness. “Slow progress, but progress nevertheless.” His tight grip on the front of his robe apparently wasn't lost on her.

“You're an amusing one,” she said. “Inflammation?”

“No more than I would expect,” Thomas replied. She reached out and touched the robe, and he slid his hand down out of the way, trying to maintain some modicum of decorum.

For a moment she scrutinized the bashed ribs, then stepped back. He pulled the robe together.

“That's not good, you know,” she said. “You shouldn't be out and about. If you should fall…”

“I won't fall. Other than wrapping myself up in a torso plaster cast like some odd cocoon, there's nothing to be done about it other than to just let it heal.”

“You're still going to the clinic this morning, then? We can't change your mind? Another week won't hurt, you know.”

“Yes…and no. After another week of being useless, I'll be stark raving mad.” He grinned, then his expression sobered. “Your father told me yesterday about his deteriorating vision.” Alvi nodded and said nothing. “I can imagine nothing worse,” Thomas added. “With this…” and he indicated his own battered eye, then stopped, not wanting to compare his own bruises with something far more serious, far deeper. “It's obvious that he is relying heavily on you and Zachary. I must say that his offer to me was more than generous, and anything I can do to help him now…and you…I'll be happy and honored to do.”

“Thank you.” She nodded and touched the side of the enameled pan. “Your water is cooling,” she said. “When you're finished, Gert has breakfast for you. Then we'll see about fetching you down to the clinic.” She reached up with both hands, and Thomas assumed that she was repeating the examination of his eye. To his astonishment, she rested one hand on his left check, the other gently but firmly on the back of his head well clear of the ragged wound, and stretched up, kissing him full on the lips. The moment was so brief that in his astonishment he had no time to figure out what to do with his hands. And then she was gone.

“My word,” he breathed finally, and took a long, slow, deep breach, just to the point when his ribs awoke. A most forward young lady, he thought with approval, unsure of whether the gesture of affection was simply that of a sister, or something more.

The first aromas of breakfast jolted him out of his reverie. It took a half hour to dress. Something as simple as slipping into a fresh white shirt brought sweat to his forehead. Arranging his black tie around the stiff collar with only one thumb to manipulate it prompted a string of colorful curses. On the other hand, the tight vest actually became a comfort, providing some gentle support for his ribs, and he buttoned it to the top.

For days, he had been wearing a pair of black slippers belonging to John Haines, but now, with everything but his coat in place, Thomas stood leaning against his bed, trying to imagine a strategy where he could pull on proper shoes. He had managed to shuffle his feet into his trousers as they lay crumpled on the floor, then pulled them up with the crook of the cane that rested in the corner by the door. That was not going to work with his stockings, and it wasn't going to work with his boots.

He was still standing, mulling his options, when Alvina tipped open the door of his bedroom.

“Don't you look nice,” she said as if they had not yet spoken that morning, and Thomas saw that, in her own perceptive way, she took in his circumstances instantly. “You're going barefoot?”

“I was thinking of it.”

“You wore the slippers yesterday,” she said. “They won't serve?”

“Not if I'm seeing patients,” Thomas said.

“Oh heavens, no. We can't have them thinking that you're recuperating,” Alvi said, but she managed to make it sound fetching rather than acid, and Thomas laughed. “Let me help you.”

“I—”

“No, you can't. And we don't want to waste half the morning fussing over a simple pair of stockings while the food goes cold.” She moved to the wheelchair and spun it toward him. “Now sit,” she commanded, and he did.

She knelt and shook out a stocking, rolling it expertly in her fingers before slipping it over the toes of his left foot. “My, you have elegant feet.” she said.

“I didn't think that was possible, Thomas said. “
Elegant
feet. You like that word, don't you. I should have an elegant mustache to go with elegant feet. I would have said
functional
.”

“Oh, both are possible,” Alvi said, and pulled the stocking up around his calf. “Boots or shoes?”

“The shoes,” he said, and watched her manipulate the laces through the endless eyelets, loosening the shoe and spreading it wide so she could slip it on without a jolt of effort. In short order, she arose, regarding her work with satisfaction, bending down to adjust his trouser cuffs over the high shoe tops. She was most attractive, he had to admit, and for a brief moment wondered what her reaction would be if he took her head in both hands.

She straightened up and reached out for his coat.

“I wasn't going to wear that,” he said quickly. “One nuisance too much.”

“Well, regardless, you look very nice.” She stepped back as he turned the chair toward the door. “Gert wants to make sure you have a proper breakfast, Dr. Thomas. After all, you may not see a crumb until dinnertime. Our days can be like that, you know.”

“I'm hoping so,” he said fervently.

The aroma of breakfast, including a strong fishy fragrance, wafted through the house. As he wheeled toward the dining room, he tried not to watch Alvi's every movement. Her starched white dress with high collar flowed in all the right places, long enough to reveal only the tips of polished patent leather shoes. Her apron was spotless.

If Gert James was an employee, there was no hint of it. Treating the older woman as if Gert were a cherished aunt, Alvi was quick to lend a hand, first tipping the heavy enameled coffeepot to fill Thomas' cup.

“Start with that,” she said, and in short order a plate followed, laden with eggs, potato wedges, and a generous slab of fresh salmon, its skin charred just so. Another plate with dark flapjacks appeared, along with a small flowered pitcher and a slab of butter.

“That's huckleberry syrup,” Gert instructed in the same tone that she might have ordered, Use it.

The two women joined him with equally heaping plates. “John will join us?” Thomas asked.

“He arises late,” Gert said with disapproval, then added fondly, “There appears to be no breaking of bad habits. Maybe you can be of influence. We certainly haven't been.”

“I'll do my best.”

He tried a mouthful of the salmon, could not catch himself before wrinkling his nose, and followed it with a large forkful of hotcakes and syrup to drown the fishy flavor.

“It's an acquired taste,” Alvi observed.

“What, you don't care for the salmon?” Gert said. “That's not possible. There's no better way to start the week.”

“And celebrate the middle and the end as well,” Alvi added.

“But you're from Connecticut, young man,” Gert added as if that were an illness that plenty of salmon might cure.

After working his way through most of the breakfast, Thomas finally gave up and pushed his plate away. “I'm ready for anything,” he said. “As long as I don't have to move from this spot. Mrs. James, you're a wonder. Thank you.”

“It's Miss,” she replied. “And Gert will always do. And you're welcome. You've given up this notion of staying the night at the clinic, I hope.”

“Apparently I have.” Thomas laughed. “I just wanted to avoid inconveniencing—”

“Stuff and nonsense. We're all family here.”

If Zachary Riggs kept an apartment at the clinic, so could he, but he let the matter drop. He didn't mind the notion of Alvi Haines knocking on his door in the wee small hours of the morning—or any other time for that matter.