The Widower's Tale (26 page)

Fondly,
Laurel

From: Trudy Barnes, M.D.
To: Dad
Subject: tgiving etc.

dad: let's talk re final plans. food etc. douglas wants to do brined turkey w oyster stuffing. 2 pies from me. robert bringing turo, will call tnt or tmw. need to catch up on other things too. sorry so brief.

Xx
trudy

From: Robert
To: GD
Subject: hey!

hey, g: sorry so out of touch--can't wait for txgvg! hope it's ok to bring turo; he loves hanging out with you and we may stay a night or 2, go hiking or if snow xc ski. ok? are mom's skis still in the bsmt? does tgo still rent stuff?

reading heavy now, 2 papers due early dec + lab demo. if this is minor cf. med school, not sure i'd cut it.

widener not the same, g. nj! miss you as my main excuse to slack off. in ref rm, looked thru porthole and saw this yng bald dude, clrly the NEW U. too weird.

yfg,
rb

The planets must have aligned in the house of communication, for rarely had I received more than two personal e-mails at a time, even checking my in-box every other day, as was my usual habit. Norval was the only person outside my family circle to whom I had given my address, so I was more than mildly annoyed to hear from Mistress Lorelei in this fashion.

I noted that Laurel's e-mail had been dispatched at 8:01 the previous evening--meaning that her "tomorrow" was in fact "today"--and that my daughter had sent hers at 2:24 a.m., Robert his at 4:07 a.m. Curious, these telltale time signatures, allowing me to deduce that my daughter was alarmingly overworked or suffering from insomnia--neither scenario heartening--while my grandson was keeping hours considered normal for an overachieving premed student at an Ivy League institution.

My tripartite inclination, unnecessarily grumpy, was to delete my neighbor's request without reply, to quiz my daughter about the hours she kept, and to wonder why my favorite grandson was so blatantly stroking my ego. His friend Arturo had certainly never "hung out" with me, though he did seem to enjoy the pastoral amenities of Matlock. I am, however, a great believer that "txgvg" is a holiday to be shared, especially with acquaintances orphaned by geography. The coward in me was also relieved that another outsider would be present when I introduced Sarah, formally, to my daughters. Had Clover not been so preoccupied with her quixotic assault on sensible family law, she would, I am sure, have been more inquisitive about my poorly camouflaged liaisons. I had a feeling that she knew and did not disapprove. As for Trudy, Clover's remarks about being estranged from her sister led me to believe that she was, as Robert would have said, cosmically clueless.

I took a deep breath. I glanced at my favorite tree, which, in its denuded wintry state, now looked like it was wearing a most unseemly wooden corset. "New me," I said to myself, "chill."

I replied to Laurel that she could come by between three and five that afternoon. I replied to Trudy that I needed to have lunch with her any day that week; that I would meet her in town, wherever she chose. To Robert, I replied that his friend was welcome, that skis were in the basement but hadn't been waxed in a decade, that TGO was probably a better bet, and that studying mattered a great deal more than keeping tabs on my well-occupied self.

"New me," I said as I clicked my computer to sleep (the screen blackening in instant obeisance, showing me my own bejowled, woolly-haired, stunned-looking visage), "keep up the good work."

Once through the vast, stubbornly autonomous revolving door, I felt as if I had entered a spaceship. Before me sprawled and soared an undeniably wasteful largesse of light and air--fashionably known as an atrium--sprouting in every direction a Seussian array of elevators, balconies, catwalks, stairways, and beckoning trajectories of patterned carpet. Here and there, cunningly artificial plants proffered false assurance that I hadn't left the planet.

I stood in the center of this space, looking up and around me, the hem of my raincoat and the tip of my umbrella dripping onto the marble floor. I had walked from the T.

I saw the information desk, but several fellow earthlings were huddled there already. Male pride propelled me onward, willy-nilly, as once again I pictured Trudy's directions sitting on the kitchen table back in Matlock.

This was to be my very first visit to my daughter's office. On the rare occasions when we met in town, always for dinner, she would name the time and choose the restaurant. Typically, Douglas would be waiting when I arrived. We would converse politely until Trudy arrived, late by half an hour or more. The advent of cell phones had given her license to be later than ever. From the moment I shook hands with Douglas, I'd simply wait for his pocket to ring.

So that day's appointment was a first, resulting from my flat refusal to let her put me off another week. Thanksgiving would not do, I'd said: I needed to see her in private.

I had not been inside a big-city hospital for decades, not since the stroke that killed my father when the girls were small. I saw my own doctor in Ledgely, in a storefront office suite that shared a parking lot with the Narwhal and three other local merchants. To submit to the occasional X-ray or colonoscopy, and, most recently, as an escort to Norval when he endured a bit of surgery whose delicate nature I shall not disclose, I had visited the hospital in Packard of which Trudy so firmly disapproves. ("Dad, if you die of pneumonia one day in that ICU, I'm not sure which will upset me more: my certainty that you would not have died like that at St. Matt's or my frustration that you won't be around for me to say I told you so.")

I made my way toward a corridor that clearly spanned our galaxy. THE MAX STENHOUSE ARTERY, bellowed a row of chrome letters affixed to the wall. Along this curved thoroughfare hastened people of many colors and dimensions, most of them young, uniformed, and radiant with importance. Signs bearing dozens of arrows showed the way to every medical specialty known to humankind (including, my favorite, the Swallow and Speech Clinic) except for the one I sought. What would happen, I mused, if the Max Stenhouse Artery were to hemorrhage?

"May I help you?" A sharp-looking gal who sported a stethoscope, a blond ponytail, and oblong purple eyeglasses had noticed my inertia.

"Oncology," I said. "I am searching for oncology."

"Well, that depends," she said cheerfully. "Here for a procedure or a checkup?"

"I am here to see Dr. Trudy Barnes."

"Oh! Breast! Meeting a wife or daughter?"

"Daughter."

She nodded. "Down there. See the drinking fountains? Take a right after the men's room and you're at the main elevator bank. If you hit Neurology, you've gone too far. Go to three and take the Rabbi Newman Bridge."

"Not to be mistaken for the Cardinal Law Aqueduct."

She paused. "Excuse me?"

"Or the Phil Rizzuto Wind Tunnel."

Her expression froze. I thought of asking her where I could find Captain Kirk, but instead I patted her on the shoulder. "Thank you very much, young woman."

The elevator was posted with admonitions warning me that latex balloons and conversations about patients were, along with smoking, forbidden. I began to wonder if someone would demand to see my passport.

The so-called bridge was nothing more than a passageway to an older building that must have been cannibalized by the mothership. The ceilings became lower, the lighting harsh, the signs few and far between. I took two compulsory lefts and found myself facing a doorway fashioned of dark, expensive-looking wood.

THE GRAZIELLA MURCHISON GOLD ONCOLOGY SUITES
RING BUZZER AND ENTER

One rabbit hole after another. Starship
Enterprise
, via Dr. Seuss and Lewis Carroll. Whoville with a dash of Borges.

My destination proved to be an elegant but chilly, windowless room furnished with saffron velvet couches and large watercolor paintings of birds in flight. Linen-shaded lamps affixed to the walls cast a soft, cheddary glow over half a dozen women who waited in silence, reading magazines or dozing. Two of them looked up and registered my arrival without a hint of surprise. I tried to seem equally blase at the sight of a woman completely and effervescently bald.

The sound of a cello, both soothing and sad, seeped from hidden speakers overhead.

Three more women sat behind an elliptical counter, each facing a computer. My entrance had made no impression on them; I felt as if I were seeking approach to the Oracle at Delphi. After I'd stood at the counter for a few seconds, one of the women glanced up and said, "Sir?" She was large and firm, her skin gleaming with good health, her hair plaited flat to her skull.

I leaned over the counter and whispered, "I have a lunch date with my daughter. Dr. Barnes. I'm a few minutes early." I tapped my watch.

Now she smiled. She whispered back, "Nice to meet you, sir. Let me tell her you've arrived." She reached for the phone, addressing me at normal volume. "Have a seat. Dr. B lives in a time zone all her own. But when you get her, honey, you have
got
her. As the ladies here will testify."

A few of the women on the golden couches met my eyes and smiled. Having turned my attention from the three receptionists--all black--I noticed that all the waiting women were white. I tried not to see any meaning in this observation.

I found a couch of my own. The only magazines within reach were called
Real Simple
and
Self
. A rack of pamphlets presented further choices: the warning signs of ovarian cancer, the best foods to eat while undergoing chemotherapy, how to care for a mediport, a list of support groups.

I had not brought along my current book; like Trudy's directions, it remained behind on my kitchen table. Nor had I taken the time to figure out exactly what I would say to Trudy, once I had her attention.

I contemplated the watercolors visible from my seat: a hawk, a cardinal, an oriole. The artist's pencil lines were visible through the paint in a way that struck me as false, ostentatiously casual.

I returned to my receptionist. I noticed her name tag: CHANTAL.

"Now don't go holding your breath," she said cheerfully. "You want coffee or tea?" She gestured down the hall that was guarded by her desk.

Pretending this was just the remedy for my impatience, I followed her gesture. Other corridors branched off left and right, down which I could see curtained alcoves and doors. I arrived at a counter offering a range of unappealing snacks (I hadn't seen Lorna Doones in decades) and studied the directions to prepare a cup of coffee I did not want.

"I'll do my best to be right there with you, I promise. The first time, I always try to do that." Trudy's voice. "Absolutely. You bet."

I saw her standing some distance along an adjacent hallway, one arm around the shoulders of a much older woman. Older and smaller. Trudy gave the woman a hug and pointed her down the hall in my direction, then turned and walked the opposite way. Had she seen me?

My paper cup had filled, so I took it out from under the spigot. It was so hot, I nearly dropped it.

I left it on the counter and went into the nearest restroom to wash spilled coffee off my hands. Above the paper towel dispenser, a framed notice read, ARE YOU AFRAID OF SOMEONE YOU LOVE? TALK TO YOUR HEALTH CARE PROVIDER. WE CAN HELP.

What sort of a place was this? No wonder my younger daughter had grown into such a serious woman. I had to remind myself that I was there
because
of Trudy's seriousness.

Sarah had been in a buoyant mood when she'd walked into the house that Monday morning. "I have something to show you," she said.

She'd pulled a camera out of her satchel and led me to the living room couch. She did not seem to notice that the slipcovers had returned from the cleaner in a startlingly different blue.

We bent together over the camera. "Look at this shade of gold. I've been saving this glass for years, for just the right project. I got it in France. I love the way it looks green, that perfect new-leaf green, when the light strikes from an angle." We were looking at her willow window, still in progress.

After a few images, Sarah turned to me. "What, Percy?"

"What?"

"That's what
I
said. What's making you antsy?"

"I'm antsy?" I told her this wasn't an easy way to look at pictures; whatever happened to snapshots?

"Adaptation, Percy."

We bantered a bit about my resistance to change, a subject with which we collided too often.

"Oh hell. Let's look at these later." Sarah turned the camera off and laid it on the coffee table (polished; denuded of books and papers).

An hour later, we lay in my bed. Down the hill, we could hear the start of first recess, the children's riotous voices as they rushed from the barn. I heard Ira shouting, "Yes! You! Now! Go!" A cannonade of happy, athletic exhortations.

"Sarah." My voice was rusty after the silence between us. "Your breast--"

She sat up quickly. She looked down at me. "Percy, I'm
all right
. I'm perfectly healthy. I know my own body, believe me."

"You do go for checkups, for ... mammograms."