continued, “The latest copy was in this morning’s mail.
My receptionist showed it to me, really amused. She said you were the
least likely Mr. Murder she could imagine.”
Confused, Marty said, “Mr. Murder?”
“You haven’t seen the piece?” Guthridge asked as he pulled off the
pressure cuff, punctuating his question with the ugly sound of a Velcro
seal tearing open.
“Not yet, no. They don’t show it to you in advance. You mean, in the
article, they call me Mr. Murder?”
“Well, it’s sort of cute.”
“Cute?” Marty winced. “I wonder if Philip Roth would think it was cute
to be
“Mr. Litterateur’ or Terry McMillan
“Ms. Black Saga.”
”
“You know what they say–all publicity is good publicity.”
“That was Nixon’s first reaction to Watergate, wasn’t it?”
“We actually take two subscriptions to people. I’ll give you one of our
copies when you leave.” Guthridge grinned impishly. “You know, until I
saw the magazine, I never realized what a really scary guy you are.”
Marty groaned. “I was afraid of this.”
“It’s not bad really. Knowing you, I suspect you’ll find it a little
embarrassing. But it won’t kill you.”
“What is going to kill me, Doc?”
Frowning, Guthridge said, “Based on this exam, I’d say old age.
From all outward signs, you’re in good shape.”
“The key word is ‘outward,”
” Marty said.
“Right. I’d like you to have some tests. It’ll be on an out-patient
basis at Hog Hospital.”
“I’m ready,” Marty said grimly, though he was not ready at all.
“Oh, not today. They won’t have an opening until at least tomorrow,
probably Wednesday.”
“What’re you looking for with these tests?”
“Brain tumors, lesions. Severe blood chemistry imbalances. Or maybe a
shift in the position of the pineal gland, putting pressure on
surrounding brain tissue which could cause symptoms similar to some of
yours. Other things. But don’t worry about it because I’m pretty sure
we’re going to draw a blank. Most likely, your problem is simply
stress.”
“That’s what Paige said.”
“See? You could’ve saved my fee.”
“Be straight with me, Doc.”
“I am being straight.”
“I don’t mind saying this scares me.”
Guthridge nodded sympathetically. “Of course it does. But listen, I’ve
seen symptoms far more bizarre and severe than yours–and it turns out
to be stress.”
“Psychological.”
“Yes, but nothing long-term. You aren’t going mad, either, if that’s
what you’re worried about. Try to relax, Marty.
We’ll know where we stand by the end of the week.” When he needed it,
Guthridge could call upon a demeanor as reassuring–and a bedside manner
as soothing–as that of any gray-haired medical eminence in a
three-piece suit. He slipped Marty’s shirt from one of the clothes
hooks on the back of the door and handed it to him. The faint gleam in
his eye betrayed another shift in mood, “Now, when I book time at the
hospital, what patient name should I give to them? Martin Stillwater or
Martin Murder?”
He explores his home. He is eager to learn about his new family.
Because he is most intrigued by the thought of himself as a father, he
begins in the girls’ bedroom. For a while he stands just inside the
door, studying the two distinctly different sides of the room.
He wonders which of his young daughters is the effervescent one who
decorates her walls with posters of dazzlingly colorful hotair balloons
and leaping dancers, who keeps a gerbil and other pets in wire cages and
glass terrariums. He still holds the photograph of his wife and
children, but the smiling faces in it reveal nothing of their
personalities.
The second daughter is apparently contemplative, favoring quiet
landscapes on her walls. Her bed is neatly made, the pillows plumped
just-so. Her storybooks are shelved in orderly fashion, and her corner
desk is free of clutter.
When he slides open the mirrored closet door, he finds a similar
division in the hanging clothes. Those to the left are arranged both
according to the type of garment and color. Those to the right are in
no particular order, askew on the hangers, and jammed against one
another in a way that virtually assures wrinkling.
Because the smaller jeans and dresses are on the left side of the