Allan Parker had chosen to specialize in oncology like a man bent on vengeance. Just at the start of his second year of medical school, his father called him to tell him his mother had been diagnosed with a malignant breast tumor. A radical mastectomy was performed, but the cancer cells had traveled to her pancreas and liver. It was only a matter of months.
Allan’s mother never saw him receive his diploma, nor was she there to celebrate when he was offered a position at the U.S.C. Medical Center. He interned and began to study under Dr. Thornton Carver, a world-renowned oncologist and surgeon, and quickly became his most promising prodigy. No young doctor had ever shown Carver more dedication, more determination. Allan’s intensity not only impressed Dr. Carver, it actually frightened him a bit. He wasn’t sure whether Allan Parker was an overachiever or simply a man obsessed.
Although Allan stood a little over six feet tall, maintained a trim figure, and was strikingly handsome in a mature way; even though he was only in his late twenties, he had few romantic involvements with women during the period he studied under Thornton Carver. Carver was convinced Allan wasn’t gay; it was more like he was asexual most of the time. If, during one of those rare occasions, he did date and start to become involved with someone, he always seemed to have a built-in shutoff valve that caused him to abruptly end the relationship.
Once, when they discussed it briefly over coffee, Allan confessed he didn’t want anything or anyone distracting him. A relationship, especially a marriage and a family, would certainly do just that.
“A wife, children, require and deserve at least half your energy and attention. I’m not willing to commit to that right now.”
“Well, I would humbly suggest I’m a fairly successful doctor and have a family, Allan,” Thornton told him.
“I respect that, Doctor Carver. It’s just not for me at the moment.”
If anyone else had told him to his face that his life wasn’t enough for them, Thornton Carver would have taken offense, but he was continually intrigued by his prodigy. He sat back, smiling, and softly asked, “What do you expect to accomplish, Allan?”
“I expect to find a cure for cancer,” he replied nonchalantly, as if the answer couldn’t be more obvious. It had the sound of a juvenile’s dream, but there was nothing in Allan’s face that suggested it was a fantasy. He was damn serious. “I expect to discover the magic bullet.”
He was indeed spending every spare waking hour either reading about other cancer researchers or doing his own research.
“Everything tells us that this just isn’t going to be one bullet, Allan. You know that some cancers act completely different from others, that some patients who contract lung cancer or colon cancer, melanomas, sarcomas react differently,” Dr. Carver said.
“There’s a common thread to it all, some starting point, something that initiates the uncontrolled growth and spread of abnormal cells.”
“Well, yes, but…”
“The Wake Forest work with cancer-resistant mice strongly suggests the possibility that we are all constantly getting cancer, one cell at a time, but our immune systems detect and kill them.”
“I understand that, Allan, however…”
“If we can just pin down why and understand our own immune system much better, we could unlock the box that contains the secrets we need,” Allan insisted. “Even you have concluded that unexpected spontaneous remissions aren’t simply explained away by claiming incorrect diagnoses.”
Carver nodded. Who knows, he thought, maybe this young man will make a significant discovery someday. He was certainly relentless. He lived alone in a modest Los Angeles apartment, choosing the location and the apartment simply on the basis of its proximity to work. His friends, if you could categorize them as such, were only people he met at work and people with whom he could discuss or share his labor. Most of them eventually backed away because he simply exhausted them. No matter what the movie or play was that they saw together, he found a way to bring their work into it. If they went to dinner, he talked about the significance of food, the research on nutrition. The same result followed attendance at a concert, the discussion of a new novel, even a walk in the park. Something always led him back to his topic, his work.
“You remind me of Captain Ahab in Moby Dick” Gloria Alford told him over cocktails one night. The twenty-four-year-old woman in accounting had dated him twice before, each time waiting for him to ease up and enjoy what they were doing together, to truly enjoy each other.
“Oh? How so?” he asked.
“A white whale bit off his leg and gave him his only reason to live: revenge.”
He nodded. She meant it as a negative, but he just saw it as an objective, true observation. It turned out to be their last date—a mutual conclusion.
Oddly enough, even though Allan was a man fully concentrating on the science and devoted to the research, he was not a doctor with a poor bedside manner. He truly empathized with his patients, especially older women. They felt and believed he was in this with them, that their battle was his personal battle. They swore by him; they had faith in him.
“You’ve got to focus all your mental energies and power on this cancer,” he told them, “and think of it as the enemy within. Nothing else should involve your attention. Chant slogans of hate. Will it dead. Hate it!” he advised, with such enthusiasm that they worked to please him more than to please themselves.
After his internship, he had remained at U.S.C. Medical Center as an associate of Dr. Carver’s, but whenever Allan lost a patient, he took it far too personally for Thornton Carver, who chastised him continually.
“It’s good to give your patients the sense that you care about them, that you see them as people and not as objects, but if you mourn every one of them, you’ll burn yourself out, Allan. It will eventually affect your work,” Carver advised.
There wasn’t a man Allan respected more than Dr. Carver, but this was one bit of wisdom Allan refused to accept.
“When I mourn them, I grow stronger,” he replied. Carver nodded. Incredibly enough, there was evidence of that. During the days following the loss of one of his patients, Allan was always at it longer, harder. One of Carver’s interns nicknamed Allan “Doctor Sisyphus,” and the name caught on. Sisyphus was the mythological king of Corinth whom Zeus punished for disrespect. He was condemned to push a boulder up the side of a pit eternally. It always rolled back down the hill before he could get it out, but he never gave up trying. After a while, his punishment, his tragedy, became his sole purpose for living. Was that true for Allan Parker as well?
Eventually, Allan did hang onto one friend, Joe Weber, another one of the young physicians who studied under Thornton Carver. Joe was a five-foot-seven, stout, dark-haired, but blue-eyed man who was somewhat in awe of Allan. He admired him for his dedication and wondered if he was lacking in that area himself, for, unlike Allan, he was very interested in women and good times and could easily put the work aside and party all weekend.
However, Joe was an excellent student and a fine physician. Thornton was proud of him and strongly recommended him when the Desert Cancer Group in Palm Springs interviewed him for a position. They hired him; he met the daughter of a patient the following year, and four months later, got married. Eleven months afterward, they had their first child and bought their first house. Joe was living about as normal a life as an oncologist could in an age when cancer, in one form or another, appeared to be the plague of the century.
Meanwhile back in Los Angeles, Allan, now in his mid-thirties, remained unmarried, unattached Doctor Sisyphus. He maintained his good looks and trim figure and was at the top of everyone’s “Most Eligible Bachelors” list. New interns assumed he was some sort of genius who had already been practicing far longer than anyone else his age. He was odd, but a genius. They saw that he spent as much time in research as he did in the practice of medicine. It seemed he never slept. Was he human?
Despite other romantic opportunities, Allan Parker continued to ride alone, a medical bounty hunter in pursuit of the world’s most detested, abhorrent villain. He never shied away from a confrontation with the disease. He moved through the rows of terminally ill like a battlefront medic, angry at his inability to stop the dying, furious at a world that would permit it to go on, raging at the enemy, and remaining more determined, more willing to sacrifice, waiting for his precious magic bullet to reveal itself.
So when Joe Weber called him late in the morning one day to report on an unexplainable, spontaneous remission of a child suffering with leukemia, Allan resembled someone who thought he had been chosen to hear a divine revelation.
“She was diagnosed with acute myeloblastic leukemia nine months ago. She went into remission but relapsed only a month afterward.”
“You did a bone marrow transplant?” Allan asked.
“Yes. Ineffective. During the past month or so, I was trying to keep her comfortable, stop the bleeding and infections with platelet transfusions. The condition degenerated. Frankly, I was looking at a few weeks at the most.”
“Uh-huh,” Allan said, gritting his teeth and clenching and unclenching his fist. He had just lost a leukemia patient who was only in his mid-thirties. He had been diagnosed with chronic myeloid leukemia. Present statistics showed that there were only about two new cases of it diagnosed per 100,000 people in the United States each year, and he had one of the cases. To him it seemed as if the monster taunted him, brought his most cherished victims to Allan’s doorstep.
“Two days ago, the girl’s cousin donated platelets. I wanted to try some white blood cells to fight her infections as well. She wasn’t responding to the antibiotic protocols,” Joe continued. “I transfused them immediately that morning. I thought I detected some improvement in her, so I ran the tests immediately. Her white cell count was way up of course, but the numbers made no sense. It was almost as if…they cloned themselves. I couldn’t make heads or tails of the result. The next day, by two o’clock, her white and red cells were normal, as were her platelets. But here’s the big news, Allan. There was no evidence of blasts in her bone marrow. Not a single immature white blood cell. She was full of energy, had an appetite, and looked like she could get right off the bed and walk out. I don’t know how to explain this.”
“You transferred white cells, too?” Allan asked to be sure he heard it all correctly.
“Yes. I’ve concluded all other therapies, Allan. I lost all hope of prolonging this child’s life. The leukemia was raging.”
Allan sat up.
“And now she’s in complete remission?”
“A healthier, happier little girl you’ve never seen. Appetite, energy. I feel like a fool keeping her in the hospital. You believe in miracles?”
“Not in the religious sense,” Allan replied. “How old is the girl’s cousin?”
“Fifteen. We were raking the area for donors and finally decided to include him with his parental permission. Everyone’s nervous about blood transfusions these days as it is, but his blood is O/Rh negative, close as they come to a universal donor.”
“You know that there have been some isolated cases of spontaneous remission with this type of cancer,” Allan said.
“Yeah, but none of the cases I’ve read about were this far along. I’m talking days away from the Grim Reaper,” Joe said, lowered his voice, and added, “maybe even hours.”
Joe’s obvious amazement impressed him. He had come to hate false promises and leads that led to nowhere, however, and practiced a healthy skepticism.
“Can you get the boy in again, get a sample of his blood?”
“I suppose. Do you really think it was the cause?”
“From what you’re telling me, it’s the most logical place to look,” Allan said.
“What am I going to look for?” Joe asked. “Do you know about something new?”
Allan considered and looked at his schedule. “I’ll take a ride out there. I want to examine the girl, so don’t release her.”
“That might be hard considering her condition at the moment, but okay. And?”
“And then we’ll see,” Allan said cryptically. He checked his watch. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Get at least twenty cc’s from the boy,” he said.
“Great. You’ll stay with us. Toby’s always asking why you never come down, and you’ll be surprised at how the girls have grown.”
“Thanks,” Allan said.
After they hung up, Joe thought a moment. He and Allan spoke periodically, but he wasn’t kidding about Toby’s comment. Up until now, he couldn’t get Allan out to Palm Springs, even for a weekend. Actually, what bothered him the most was that Allan rarely asked about his family. He didn’t just now either, and Allan had been his best man!
What he didn’t tell Allan was that Toby couldn’t imagine why he and Allan had even remained acquaintances, much less friends.
“Let’s just say I get beside him once in a while and push that boulder up the side of the pit,” he replied when she asked him about it once.
“What? What pit? Never mind. Doctors,” she said disdainfully and walked away.
Frankie Vico had just hit the big Five-O a little less than three months ago. He knew he drank a little too much and he had smoked too much, but as the half-century mark loomed over him, he began To make significant cutbacks and pay attention to his doctor’s prescription to improve his chances for a healthy final trimester on the planet. He left the bowling alley and restaurant like clockwork at 2:15 p.m. and worked out with his personal trainer at his home. He had already made some strides improving his blood pressure, and just by cutting down on booze and eliminating chunks of bread at every meal, he had lost nearly twelve pounds off his 190-pound, five-foot-ten-inch frame the first month. He had his chef, Eddie, buy a variety of low-fat food products and even put some of the diet dishes on the regular menu at the restaurant, not caring if customers wanted them or not.
The restaurant made a small profit, even as other restaurants in Palm Springs and the immediate area went bankrupt during the economic recession, but it was only a front for his cocaine distribution. He was part of Danny Vico’s organization emanating from Chicago. It was practically a franchise operation. Danny’s father was Frankie’s father’s first cousin, and of course, despite the satirical way the movies treated it, crime families really did exist and really did care about each other. Blood was blood.
Frankie’s customers were all high rollers. Many were snow birds who got his address and made contact before leaving the north or the east for the spectacular desert winters and spring. Frankie was sure the CIA didn’t check an applicant any closer. He was proud of how tightly he ran his part of the operation, and he knew Danny was very satisfied with him as well.
“You’re not greedy, Frankie,” Danny told him last time he had come to Palm Springs. “That’s good. You won’t make the big mistake.”
Frankie knew Danny wasn’t referring to a drug bust. Many of Danny’s associates were busted and walking the streets soon afterward; he was referring to embezzling the organization or trying to do something independently. That was worse. In a drug bust, you had rights, legal representation, a trial by jury. When Danny busted you, you went directly to sentencing, which was inevitably capital punishment, family or no family.
But it was true. Frankie wasn’t greedy, at least when it came to Danny and the operation. Comfortable, even-tempered, optimistic—he enjoyed his life. He had been married and divorced twice, but he paid no alimony. With his second wife, Jackie, he had a son, Chipper, whom he was sending through law school, joking that he would have his personal mouthpiece soon. Recently, Frankie had met a new woman, Marilyn Chan, an ex—Las Vegas chorus girl. Her father was Chinese, but her mother was Italian. At forty-seven, she was still very attractive, with a dropdead figure. He kept her on the payroll as a hostess. She had a great sense of humor, too.
“You know how an hour after you eat Chinese, you’re hungry again?” he told his friends. “Well, an hour after Marilyn and me make love, we’re at it again!”
“Don’t believe him,” she said. “He needs more than an hour.”
Lots of laughter followed. There was always lots of laughter around Frankie Vico.
So life was good. He came to believe that he was really one of those chosen few born under a lucky star. What-ever difficulties and unpleasantness he had in his life, he had overcome with relatively minor damage. But then, suddenly, two days ago, while he was sitting in the restaurant enjoying some angel hair pasta, tomato, and basil, with a Diet Pepsi, his doctor called. Since Frankie had become health conscious, he had made it a point to have all the yearly exams. The last involved what he thought were routine chest X-rays. Dr. Reuben did not have good news.
“What does that mean, Doc?” Frankie said, wiping his lips clean.
“There might be something there, Mr. Vico,” Dr. Reuben said. Frankie didn’t want to comprehend.
“Something? Like what? Something I swallowed?”
“No, Mr. Vico. There’s something of serious concern in your right lung.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, Mr. Vico. I’m sorry. We have to address this issue promptly.”
“What? Lung cancer?”
He had been coughing on and off, but he ascribed that to an allergy.
“We need to do a lung biopsy in radiology. We’ll use a CT scan,” Dr. Reuben said. “I’ve arranged for you to have it this afternoon.”
Frankie kept chewing. Across the room, Marilyn was laughing with a middle-aged tourist couple. She had no idea about the phone conversation he was having. She didn’t even know he had gone for a checkup and blood tests.
Over by the entrance, sitting at his table, Frankie’s right-hand man, Tony Marino, read the comics in the newspaper, chuckling gently, his jelly jowls trembling. He was six-foot-three, about forty pounds overweight, a heavy smoker and drinker, and, right now, as healthy as a horse. What about his lungs?
“You’re kidding me. This afternoon?”
“The sooner the better for you, Mr. Vico,” Dr. Reuben replied.
“Jesus. This is fucking unbelievable.”
“I’m sorry,” Dr. Reuben said, his voice growing thin and impatient. “But you want to get after these things as soon as possible. It could be nothing, some explainable shadows, perhaps.”
“Maybe they read someone else’s X-rays by mistake, huh?”
“The sooner we do the biopsy, the sooner we’ll know if anything’s cooking,” Dr. Reuben said, without commenting on any such possibility. “All right?”
Frankie nodded.
“Mr. Vico?”
“Oh, yeah. Sure. Thanks,” he replied. He heard the doctor hang up, but he held onto his receiver, driven by the urge to club someone to death with it just the way he had clubbed that creep Carlo Denardo to death with a tire iron in Los Angeles behind the Royal Flush club five years ago when he tried to stick him for three thousand after poker.
He cradled the phone slowly and walked over To marilyn, who had just turned from the tourists.
“You ain’t gonna believe this,” he said. She smiled, waiting. Tony looked up from the comics. Frankie turned to him, too. “You ain’t gonna fucking believe this.”
“What’s that, boss?”
“I might have lung cancer,” he declared.
“What, Frankie?” Marilyn tossed her long black hair back over her shoulder. “You don’t even smoke anymore,” she said, “and I don’t smoke, and there’s no smoking in here.”
He looked at her as if she were the queen of stupidity.
“Tony, get the fucking car. I gotta get over to the hospital right now,” he ordered. Tony stared a moment too long. “NOW!” Frankie screamed.
Tony Marino wasn’t normally a fast-moving man, but anyone watching him get up and turn toward the door would think he was first cousin to Superman.
Joe Weber made the phone call right after speaking with Allan Parker. A man answered, and he assumed it was the donor’s father.
“Mr. Petersen?”
“No,” he said.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Is this 555-4434?”
“Yeah, but I ain’t Mr. Petersen.”
“Is there a Mr. Petersen or Mrs. Petersen at home? This is Doctor Weber,” Joe said quickly.
“Mr. Petersen died. Heart attack years ago,” Warren said dryly. “Mrs. Petersen’s not home from work yet.”
“Oh. Could you have her phone me when she gets in? If it’s after five, my answering service will get a hold of me. The number’s—”
“What’s this about?” Warren demanded.
“Well, I have to speak with a member of the Petersen family. Are you—”
“I’m not related,” Warren interrupted.
“I see. My number’s 555-2322. I’m Jodi Walker’s doctor,” he added.
“Oh. How is she doing?”
“Tremendously,” Joe said, not able to subdue his enthusiasm when it came to talking about Jodi Walker, even with someone he didn’t know.
“Tremendously? What do you mean? Doesn’t the kid have leukemia or something?”
“Not any longer,” Joe said.
“Completely. Please give Mrs. Petersen my message. Thank you,” he added and hung up.
Warren shook his head, disdainfully thinking that doctors were so full of shit, and hung up the phone. Then he went to the refrigerator to get himself a beer. He had just sat down when Taylor entered, returning from school. The mother of his friend Jay Kasofsky drove him home. He and Jay were on the school’s junior high debate team—something Warren ridiculed. When he gazed into the kitchen and saw Warren, he raised his head as a greeting but didn’t say anything.
“Hey!” Warren called after Taylor had started away.
“What?”
“What’s this about your cousin Jodi getting better?”
“Huh?”
“The doctor just called. Wants to talk to Demi. He said Jodi’s all better.”
Taylor stared at him with a smirk on his face. Surely Warren had gotten the message wrong.
“Didn’t you go over to the hospital and donate blood?”
“Platelets and white cells,” Taylor said.
“Ain’t that blood?”
“It’s in the blood.” Since he was asked to donate them, and since Jodi needed them, he had looked up the pertinent information on his computer that night. “They’re needed for blood clotting and to fight infections. If you don’t have enough platelets, you could bleed to death.”
“So if she’s all better, why’d she need them?”
“Why don’t you ask the doctor?” Taylor replied.
“Cause I’m asking you, Mr. Know-it-all. You’re the debate team star, ain’tcha?”
“Well,” Taylor said shrugging, not the least bit intimidated by Warren’s gruff manner. “I guess I don’t know it all.” He remembered a Mark Twain joke the team used. “Actually, you and I know it all. I know everything there is to know, and you know the rest.”
“What? That don’t make any sense.”
Taylor shrugged.
Even though he was dying to pour himself some cold milk and have an Oreo or two, he turned and walked away before Warren could figure out Twain’s joke. He would wait until Warren left the kitchen. In the meantime, he retreated to his room and searched again on the computer to dig out more information on leukemia. He had just booted up when the phone rang. He and Warren picked it up at the same time.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’re both there,” Demi said.
“What’s happening, Mom?” Taylor asked.
“Aunt Lois called. Jodi’s made a miraculous recovery. The doctor said it was a miracle!”
“She’s all better?”
“Yes, it looks that way.”
“We heard. He called,” Warren said.
“Who called, Warren?”
“The doctor. Left a number. He wants you to call him.”
“Me? Why?”
“He wouldn’t tell me because I’m not related.”
“Smart doctor,” Taylor said.
“Are you going to shut this kid up? Are you?”
“Taylor, please. What’s his telephone number, Warren?”
Warren gave it to her.
“All right. I told Lois we would go out to celebrate with her and Ralph. Is that all right?”
“I hope this ain’t no mistake,” Warren said.
“You could always get a refund,” Taylor quipped.
“I’ll be home as soon as I can,” Demi said quickly. “Be nice to each other. Please. Let’s be happy. It’s wonderful, just wonderful!”
Taylor returned to the computer and ran the search. He read about leukemia and sat back, wondering.
Maybe Warren was right. Maybe everyone misunderstood what the doctor was actually saying. He hoped and prayed not, mainly for Jodi’s sake, of course, but also because it would be something else he could rub Warren’s nose in, and that prospect was delightful.
Less than a half hour later, record time for Demi, she was at his door. From the look on her face, he assumed his suspicion was correct. It had been a mistake.
“She’s not better?” he asked as soon as she had knocked and entered.
“No, she’s better.”
“So?”
“The doctor wants you come in to give him and the researchers a blood sample,” she said.
“Researchers?”
“Yes, an important doctor is driving down from L.A.”
“Really? Why?” His first thought was that they thought he had leukemia, too.
“They want to see if there was anything about your platelets and white blood cells that could have possibly…” The idea was so overwhelming she had trouble saying it.
“Possibly what?”
“Made her better.”
Taylor sat back. Then he gazed at the computer screen where the words describing leukemia still lingered. Platelets corrected a symptom, not the disease, and white blood cells were needed when patients weren’t responding to antibiotics. For attacking the cancer, there was only radiation, chemotherapy, bone marrow transplants….
“That’s dumb,” he finally said.
“I know, but they really want to study your blood. Just to see, I suppose.”
“Forget it,” Taylor said. “I ain’t getting stuck with needles again. I’m not a voodoo doll. Maybe the doctor’s a vampire. Tell him to forget it, Mom.”
She nodded.
“Okay, honey. Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m not worried. I just don’t want to do it; that’s all. They can’t make me, right?”
“Right. Well,” she said, smiling, “let’s get ready to go to dinner with Aunt Lois and Uncle Ralph, okay?”
“Warren coming?”
“Sure,” she said.
“He gonna pay for everyone?”
“I’ll pay. It will be the happiest money I’ve spent in a long time,” she said.
Taylor nodded. After she went downstairs to report everything to Warren, Taylor sprawled on his bed and looked up at the ceiling. His father was unconscious in the ER the last time he had seen him. His eyes were closed, and already he looked like a corpse. Taylor recalled touching his father’s arm just to see if he was still warm. Then he reached slowly for his father’s long finger and held it for a moment.
That was his good-bye.
That was all the good-bye he had.
Why couldn’t the doctors save him? Why couldn’t the medicine work for him?
They don’t know everything, he thought. They don’t know anything.
But his mother said Jodi was better. It wasn’t a mistake. How did they do it? Could it really have something to do with his blood?
He lifted his hand and followed the embossed vein along the inside of his wrist. The blood was flowing through him, doing its normal work. Nothing unusual was visible.
Why did they want to look at it under a microscope? It made him feel…freakish. Warren would just love that.
No, he wouldn’t go back there. There was no point anyway. Jodi was better. Why wonder how come?
Let it be just a miracle, he thought. What’s wrong with that?
“Naturally, we kept asking the doctor questions that amounted to the same one: Are you sure?” Lois said. She was crying with happiness, and Ralph was embarrassed but smiling. Warren ate as if it were going to be his last meal. Taylor envisioned a wild dog feasting on roadkill. It turned his stomach.
“Aren’t you hungry, honey?” Demi asked him.
“Not as much as someone else here,” he quipped, shifted his eyes to Warren, and then looked down at his food.
Warren stopped eating and looked at everyone. He took a deep breath, ashamed himself at how he was going at the food.
“This is damn good Risotto ai Funghi,” he said in defense, and pumped his fork at his plate.
“Fungus? Doesn’t that give you athlete’s foot?” Taylor asked. He knew the answer but pretended he didn’t.
Warren sat back and smirked.
“Fungi,” Ralph said softly, “you know, are mushrooms, actually, Taylor. They’re a delicacy, especially when they’re made as well as this.”
He had the same dish but was not anywhere as close to cleaning his plate as Warren was.
“Oh, yeah,” Taylor said. “But I heard mushrooms could be poisonous.”
“Not these,” Ralph said, smiling. He knew what his nephew was doing.
Demi eyed Taylor angrily. She, too, knew he was quite aware of what fungi were. He was just teasing Warren. She poked him gently with her knee, and he started to eat.
“Look,” Warren said, returning to his food, “I don’t want to throw cold water on anything, but how could your daughter be so sick and cured practically in hours? Did you ask the doctor that?”
“Of course we did, Warren,” Lois said. “He showed us the lab results, and he showed us how he had reconfirmed everything. He wasn’t the only one looking at the results.”
“That’s why I’d rather not go to a hospital. Billy Morris’s father nearly had his gall bladder removed before someone noticed the doctor was given the wrong test results. And Gerry Marcus’s uncle Pete is still fighting the damn staph infection he got in the hospital. Nearly killed him. Your daughter probably had the flu or something,” Warren added.
No one spoke for a moment. Then Demi smiled.
“Whatever the reason, we’re all grateful Jodi’s well and coming home.”
“When is she coming home?” Warren asked.
“The doctor wanted to keep her for observation another forty-eight hours.”
“Maybe we’re celebrating too soon,” Warren muttered.
“Warren!” Demi cried and then softened her lips to a smile.
“I just hate doctors,” he said. “And disappointments.”
“Your poor mother,” Taylor countered.
Warren’s mouth dropped. But Lois and Ralph couldn’t hold back laughter.
“This kid’s going to either write comedy or perform it,” Ralph added to soften their amusement at Warren’s expense.
Warren’s red face darkened, and he threw down his fork.
“I need a cigarette,” he said, rising. He would have to go outside to light up.
No one, not even Demi, tried to talk him out of it. As everyone continued to eat, he strolled out.
“I don’t think Warren appreciates your sense of humor, Taylor,” his uncle Ralph said.
“He hasn’t quite learned how to think before he speaks yet,” Demi said, giving Taylor her big-eyed look of reprimand.
“Sorry,” Taylor told her. She was very upset now and he didn’t want to be the cause of unhappiness at this celebration.
“Don’t tell me. Tell Warren,” she ordered. “Do it,” she ordered firmly.
“Now?”
“It’s always better to apologize as soon as possible when you do something unpleasant, Taylor,” she advised.
He nodded and stood up. Then he smiled.
“That explains it,” he said.
“Explains what?” his aunt Lois asked.
“Why the doctor told his mother he was sorry seconds after he delivered Warren,” he replied.
There was a moment of hesitation, but as he started away from the table, the three adults burst into laughter behind him. He smiled to himself and walked out of the restaurant to find Warren.
He was standing off to the right, smoking and looking out at the Palm Springs Tram light clearly visible at the top of the mountains. The tram carried tourists to nearly 11,000 feet where which they could see incredible views or take hikes.
“Sorry if I insulted you,” Taylor said.
Warren turned and looked at him.
“Your mother send you out here?”
“It wasn’t Federal Express,” Taylor replied.
“You got a big trap on you, kid. I’m not sure how much longer I’m going to put up with it.”
“When you find out, let me know,” Taylor told him.
“Oh, don’t worry about that, Taylor. You’ll be the first,” Warren said, stepping toward him. He glared down at him. “You’re a spoiled little bastard, and sooner or later, you’re going to get your head handed to you. Maybe it won’t be me and maybe it will. We’ll see how smart you are then.”
A number of smart replies streamed through Taylor’s mind, but he checked each one at the tip of his tongue and turned away instead. He sensed the danger. Warren was capable of great violence.
As he approached the table, his mother, aunt, and uncle looked up with expectation.
“So?” Demi asked when he sat.
“It went over real well. We’re going to be pals. He promised to share his monthly allotment of arsenic with me,” Taylor quipped and began to eat again as if his appetite had returned in spades.
Demi and Lois looked at each other. Lois smiled, and Demi shook her head. They all looked up when Warren returned. He was quiet but ordered another drink. Ralph tried to start a conversation about the new shopping center being proposed in Palm Springs. As the accountant involved with the developer, he thought he might get Warren work. Warren was skeptical about its being approved.
“Everything’s going down valley,” he said. “Forget Palm Springs.”
Taylor smiled to himself. He had just thought, Why don’t you? He clamped down on it quickly but couldn’t wipe off his smile fast enough. Warren glared at him, and Ralph tried getting him back to the discussion by giving him some inside information.
“It’s going to happen,” he concluded. “Good things,” he added, nodding at everyone. “Good things coming all around.”
That was enough to bring back the good mood. Warren relaxed with his drink and even began looking at Demi with some sexual promises in his eyes. She blushed but felt better and even hopeful.
We’ll be a family yet, she thought. We’ve got to be.