“I have a policy question,” Caldwell said. “Under DUC, what’s the status of a chronic disease like cystic fibrosis?”
“Don’t ask me,” Traynor said. “I’m no doctor. What the hell is cystic fibrosis? I mean, I’ve heard the term but that’s about all.”
“It’s a chronic inherited illness,” Cantor explained. “It causes a lot of respiratory and GI problems.”
“GI stands for gastro-intestinal,” Caldwell explained. “The digestive system.”
“Thank you,” Traynor said sarcastically. “I know what GI means. What about the illness; is it lethal?”
“Usually,” Cantor said. “But with intensive respiratory care, some of the patients can live productive lives into their fifties.”
“What’s the actuarial cost per year?” Traynor asked.
“Once the chronic respiratory problems set in it can run twenty thousand plus per year,” Cantor said.
“Good Lord!” Traynor said. “With that kind of cost, it has to be included in utilization considerations. Is it a common affliction?”
“One in every two thousand births,” Cantor said.
“Oh, hell!” Traynor said with a wave. “Then it’s too rare to get excited over.”
After promises to be prompt for the executive board meeting that night, Caldwell and Cantor went their separate ways. Caldwell headed over to a volleyball game in the process of forming on the tiny beach at the edge of the pond. Cantor made a beeline for the tub of iced beer.
“Let’s get to the food,” Traynor said.
Once again they set out toward the tent that covered the rows of charcoal grills. Everyone Traynor passed either nodded or called out a greeting. Traynor’s wife was right: he did love this kind of public occasion. It made him feel like a king. He’d dressed casually but with decorum; tailored slacks, his elevator loafers without socks, and an open-necked short-sleeved shirt. He’d never wear shorts to such an occasion and was amazed that Cantor cared so little about his appearance.
His happiness was dampened by the approach of his wife. “Enjoying yourself, dear?” she asked sarcastically. “It certainly appears that way.”
“What am I supposed to do?” he asked rhetorically. “Walk around with a scowl?”
“I don’t see why not,” Jacqueline said. “That’s the way you are most of the time at home.”
“Maybe I should leave,” Beaton said, starting to step away.
Traynor grabbed her arm, holding her back. “No, I want to hear more about August statistics for tonight’s meeting.”
“In that case, I’ll leave,” Jacqueline said. “In fact, I think I’ll head home, Harold, dear. I’ve had a bite and spoken to the two people I care about. I’m sure one of your many colleagues will be more than happy to give you a lift.”
Traynor and Beaton watched Jacqueline totter away through the deep grass in her pumps.
“Suddenly I’m not hungry,” Traynor said after Jacqueline had disappeared from sight. “Let’s circulate some more.”
They walked down by the lake and watched the volleyball game for a while. Then they strolled toward the softball diamond.
“What is it you want to talk about?” Traynor asked, marshaling his courage.
“Us, our relationship, me,” Beaton said. “My job is fine. I’m enjoying it. It’s stimulating. But when you recruited me, you implied that our relationship would go somewhere. You told me you were about to get a divorce. It hasn’t happened. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life sneaking around. These trysts aren’t enough. I need more.”
Traynor felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead. With everything else going on at the hospital, he couldn’t handle this. He didn’t want to stop his affair with Helen, but there was no way he could face Jacqueline.
“You think about it,” Beaton said. “But until something changes, our little rendezvous in my office will have to stop.”
Traynor nodded. For the moment it was the best he could hope for. They reached the softball field and absently watched. A game was in the process of being organized.
“There’s Dr. Wadley,” Beaton said. She waved and Wadley waved back. Next to him was a young, attractive woman with dark brown hair, dressed in shorts. She was wearing a baseball cap turned jauntily to the side.
“Who is that woman with him?” Traynor asked, eager to change the subject.