Summer afternoon? If you’d gotten a reading of ninety-.eight point six, I would not be surprised.”
“Right, right,” he says, sounding chastened. Then: “Is all this going to sound funny on the tape?” Translation: Will I sound stupid on the tape?
“It’ll sound like a teaching situation,” she says, “which is what it is”.
“Okay, good. Great.”
His rubber-tipped fingers spread my buttocks, then let them go and trail down the backs of my thighs. I would tense now, if I were capable of tensing.
Left leg, I send to him. Left leg, Petie-boy, left calf see it? He must see it, he must, because I can feel it, throbbing like a bee sting or maybe a shot given by a clumsy nurse, one who infuses the injection into a muscle instead of hitting the vein.
“Subject is a really good example of what a really bad is idea it is to play golf in shorts,” he says, and I find myself wishing he had been born blind. Hell, maybe he was born blind, he’s sure acting it.
“I’m seeing all kinds of bug bites, chigger bites, scratches . . .”
“Mike said they found him in the rough,” Arlen calls over. She’s making one hell of a clatter; it sounds like she’s doing dishes in a cafeteria kitchen instead of filing stuff. “At a guess, he had a heart attack while he was looking for his ball.”
“Uh-huh . .
“Keep going, Peter, you’re doing fine.”
I find that an extremely debatable proposition.
“Okay.”
More pokes and proddings. Gentle. Too gentle, maybe.
“There are mosquito bites on the left calf that look infected,” he says, and although his touch remains gentle, this time the pain is an enormous throb that would make me scream if I were capable of making any sound above the low-pitched hum. It occurs to me suddenly that my life may hang upon the length of the Rolling Stones tape they’re listening to … always assuming it is a tape and not a CD that plays straight through. If it finishes before they cut into me … if I can hum loudly enough for them to hear before one of them turns it over to the other side …
“I may want to look at the bug bites after the gross autopsy,” she says, “although if we’re right about his heart, there’ll be no need.
Or do you want me to look now? They worrying you?”
“Nope, they’re pretty clearly mosquito bites,” Gimpel the Fool says. “They grow ’em big over on the west side. He’s got five . . .
seven … eight … jeez, almost a dozen on his left leg alone.”
“He forgot his Deep Woods Off.”
“Never mind the Off, he forgot his digitalin,” he says, and they have a nice little yock together, autopsy room humor.
This time he flips me by himself, probably happy to use those gym-grown Mr. Strongboy muscles of his, hiding the snakebites
and the mosquito bites all around them, camouflaging them. I’m staring up into the bank of fluorescents again. Pete steps backward, out of my view. There’s a humming noise. The table begins to slant, and I know why. When they cut me open, the fluids will run downhill to collection points at its base. Plenty of samples for the state lab in Augusta, should there be any questions raised by the autopsy.
I focus all my will and effort on closing my eyes while he’s looking down into my face, and cannot produce even a tie. All I wanted was eighteen holes of golf on Saturday afternoon, and instead I turned into Snow White with hair on my chest. And I can’t stop wondering what it’s going to feel like when those poultry shears go sliding into my midsection.
Pete has a clipboard in one hand. He consults it, sets it aside, then speaks into the mike. His voice is a lot less stilted now. He has just made the most hideous misdiagnosis of his life, but he doesn’t know it, and so he’s starting to warm up.
.II am commencing the autopsy at five forty-nine P.M.,” he says,
“on Saturday, August twenty, nineteen ninety-four.”
He lifts my. lips, looks at my teeth like a man thinking about buying a horse, then pulls my jaw down. Good color,” he says,
“and no petechiae on the cheeks.” The current tune is fading out of the speakers and I hear a click as he steps on the foot pedal which pauses the recording tape. “Man, this guy really could still be alive!”
I hum frantically, and at that same moment Dr. Arlen drops something that sounds like a bedpan. “Doesn’t he wish,” she says, laughing. He joins in and this time it’s cancer I wish on them, some kind that is inoperable and lasts a long time. –
He goes quickly down my body, feeling up my chest (“No bruising, swelling, or other exterior signs of cardiac arrest,” he
says, and what a big fucking surprise that is), then palpates my belly.
I burp.
He looks at me, eyes widening, mouth dropping open a little, and again I try desperately to hum, knowing he won’t hear it over “Start Me Up” but thinking that maybe, along with the burp, he’ll finally be ready to see what’s right in front of him.
“Excuse yourself, Howie,” Dr. Arlen, that bitch, says from behind me, and chuckles, “Better watch out, Pete those postmortem belches are the worst.”
He theatrically fans the air in front of his face, then goes back to what he’s doing. He barely touches my groin, although he remarks that the scar on the back of my right leg continues around to the front.
Missed the big one, though, I think, maybe because it’s a little higher than you’re looking. No big deal, my little Baywatch buddy, but you also missed the fact that I’M STILL ALIVE, and that IS a big deal!
He goes on chanting into the microphone, sounding more and more at ease (sounding, in fact, a little like Jack Klugman on Quincy, ME.), and I know his partner over there behind me, the Pollyanna of the medical community, isn’t thinking she’ll have to roll the tape back over this part of the exam. Other than missing the fact that his first pericardial is still alive, the kid’s doing a great job.
At last he says, “I think I’m ready to go on, Doctor.” He sounds tentative, though.
She comes over, looks briefly down at me, then squeezes Pete’s shoulder. “Okay,” she says. “On-na wid-da show!”
Now I’m trying to stick my tongue out. Just that simple kid’s gesture of impudence, but it would be enough … and it seems to
me I can feel a faint prickling sensation deep within my lips, the feeling you get when you’re finally starting to come out of a heavy dose of novocaine. And I can feel a twitch? No, wishful thinking, just-Yes! Yes! But a twitch is all, and the second time I try nothing happens.
As Pete picks up the scissors, the Rolling Stones move on to “Hang Fire.”
Hold a mirror in front of my nose! I scream at them. Watch it fog up! Can’t you at least do that?
Snick, snick, snickety-snick.
Pete turns the scissors at an angle so the light runs down the blade, and for the first time I’m certain, really certain, that this mad charade is going to go all the way through to the end. The director isn’t going to freeze the frame. The ref isn’t going to stop the fight in the tenth round. We’re not going to pause for a word from our sponsors. Petie-boy’s going to slide those scissors into my gut while I lie here helpless, and then he’s going to open me up like a mailorder package from the Horchow Collection.
He looks hesitantly at Dr. Arlen.
No! I howl, my voice reverberating off the dark walls of my skull but emerging from my mouth not at all. No, please no!
She nods. “Go ahead. You’ll be fine.”
“Uh … you want to turn off the music?”
Yes! Yes, turn it off.
“Is it bothering you.
Yes! It’s bothering him! It’s fucked him up so completely he thinks his patient is dead!
“well . . .”
“Sure,” she says, and disappears from my field of vision. A moment later Mick and Keith are finally gone. I try to make the humming noise and discover a horrible thing: now I can’t even do that. I’m too scared. Fright has locked down my vocal cords. I can only stare up as she rejoins him, the two of them gazing), down at me like pallbearers looking into an open grave.
“Thanks,” he says. Then he takes a deep breath and lifts the scissors. “Commencing pericardial cut.”
He slowly brings them down. I see them … see them … then they’re gone from my field of vision. A long moment later, I feel cold steel nestle against my naked upper belly.