Blood Test by Kellerman, Jonathan

to come across as a human being instead of

some white-coated technocrat. He didn’t bother to

get to know the Swopes but it doesn’t occur to him

that his remoteness has anything to do with their–defection.

I extended my’self, so I’m the goat.” He

sniffed, wiped his nose, and drained one of the

water glasses. “What’s the use of dissecting it?

They’re gone.”

I remembered Milo’s conjecture about the abandoned

car.

“They may be back,” I said.

“Be serious, man. They see themselves as having-escaped

to freedom. No way.”

“Freedom’s going to sour pretty quickly when

the .disease gets out of control.”

“The fact is,” he said, “they hated everything

about this place. The noise, the lack of privacy,

even the sterility. You worked in Laminar Flow,

right?”

“Three years.”

“Then you know the kind of food the kids in

there get–processed and overcooked and dead.”

It was true. To a patient without normal immunity

a fresh fruit or vegetable is a potential medium

for lethal microbes, a glass of milk a breeding pond

for lactobacillus. Consequently, everything the kids

in the plastic rooms ate was processed to begin

with, then heated and sterilized, sometimes to the

point where no nutrients remained.

“We Understand the concept,” he said, “but tots

of-parents have difficulty grasping

bly sick kid can have his fill of cola and potato

chips and all kinds of junk while carrots are out. It ‘

goes against the grain.”

“I know,” I said, “but most people accept it pretty

quickly because their child’s life is at stake. Why

not the Swopes?”

“They’re country ‘folk. They come from a place

where the air is clean and people grow their own

food. They see the city as a poisonous place. The

father used to rail on about how bad the air was.

‘You’re breathing sewage’ he’d tell me every time I

saw b, im. He had a thing for clean air and natural

foods. For how healthy it was back home.’-‘

“Not healthy enough,” I said.

“No, not healthy enough. How’s that for a frontal.

assault on a belief system?” He gave a mournful

look. “Isn’t there a term in psych for when it all

comes tumbling down like that ?”

“Cognitive dissonance.”

“Whatever. Tell me,” he leaned forward, “what

do people do when they’re in that state?”

“Sometimes change their beliefs, sometimes distort

reality to fit those beliefs.”

He leaned back, ran his hands through his hair

and smiled.

“Need’I say more.?”

I shook m y head and tried the coffee again. It had

gotten colder, but no better.

“I keep hearing about the father,” I said: “The

mother sounds like his shadow.”

“Far from it. If anything, she was the tougher of

the two. It’s just’that she was quiet. She let him

run off at the mouth while she stayed with Woody,

doing what needed to be done.”

122 Jonathan Kellerman

“Could she have been behind their leaving?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “All I’m saying is she

was a strong woman, not some cardboard cutout.”

“What about the sister? Beverly said there was

no love lost between her and her parents.”

“I wouldn’t know about that. She wasn’t around

much, kept to herself when she was.”

He wiped his nose and stood.

“I don’t like to gossip,” he said. “I’ve indulged in

too much of it already.”

He snatched up his white coat, flung it over his

shoulder, turned his back and left me sitting there.

I watched him walk away, lips moving, as if in

silent prayer.

It was after eight by the time I reached Beverly Glen.

My house sits atop an old bridle path forgotten by the

city. There are no streetlights and the road is serpentine

but I know every twist by heart and drove home

by Sense of touch. In the mailbox was a love letter

from Robin. I got high on it for a while but after

the fourth reading, a hazy sense of sadness set in.

It was too late to feed the koi so I took a hot bath,

toweled off, put on my ratty yellow robe, and carried

a brandy into the small library off the bedroom.

I finished writing a couple of overdue.forensic

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