“There are medical labs in Twin Falls,” said Coach Jackson, but with a reserve he had not shown before. “You mean that you have to check mono out with that new center in Portland?”
“It might not be mono,” Landholm admitted. “It isn’t typical, and I got worried. Four boys with the same thing, and that same thing isn’t quite right—”
Jackson stopped in front of his friend. “Okay, Wil, what aren’t you telling me?” His belligerence had faded and now he looked more concerned than annoyed.
“I wish I knew. That’s no dodge: I wish I knew.” He hooked one thumb in his pants pocket. “You remember that fever four years ago, how everyone said it was flu and ignored it for two weeks, until the rashes developed? And then everyone was scared shitless of even a cold for a year after that?”
“Yeah?” Jackson said.
“Well, at the time everyone wanted to blame someone for not finding out sooner that it was from those storage tanks. I don’t want that to happen again, so I sent blood samples to Portland. I don’t know if they’ll find anything, but I don’t want to take any more risks.”
“It’s bad enough that the Porter boy moved, now we have four more boys off the team,” muttered Jackson, then stopped. “Sorry, Wil. You’re probably right and I’m probably wrong about this.” He stared at the steel beams crossing the ceiling. “I see your point. If there’s any more hanky-panky going on, we’d better find out fast.”
Landholm rocked back on his heels. “It might be nothing more than a new kind of flu, but—”
“Un-huh,” said Jackson. “I guess you’ve told the administration?”
“I had to,” Landholm said, making it an apology.
“I suppose so,” said Jackson. “Does that mean tests for the rest of the team?” He did his best to be philosophical but it was clearly an effort.
“At least. If Portland finds anything strange, we might have to check the whole student body.”
“All of Roger Brewer Middle School?” Jackson asked, shocked at the notion.
“We might have to,” said Landholm cautiously.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Jackson swore softly. “You really are worried about this, aren’t you? Hey, Wil, it’s only a fever. Kids get bugs all the time, you’ve said so yourself.”
“Not like this bug,” Landholm said somberly, and watched while Jim Jackson came to terms with what he said.
“You’re on to something, aren’t you?” Jackson asked at last.
“I don’t know. Honestly, Jim. I hope I’m wrong, but I have to be careful.” He looked up as the heater clicked on with the sound of an enormous yawn.
“You think it’s another one of those viruses, don’t your’ Jackson demanded, his face darkening again.
“I hope not.” Landholm was hedging and both men knew it.
“But it’s what you think,” Jackson persisted.
“I hope I’m wrong.” He glanced at the wall clock. “When does practice start?”
“Why?” Jackson asked.
“Because I want to find out if any of the team has sick brothers or sisters or parents at home, that’s why,” Landholm said bluntly. “And if they do, I want to find out what’s wrong with them.”
“You’re kidding,” said Jackson, and without waiting for a response, he shook his head. “No, you’re not kidding, are you?”
Landholm shook his head. He wanted to deny the fear that was building in him, but he could not. “I have to find out, Jim.”
“Oh, God.” Jackson looked at the clock. “You have ten minutes yet. You want to get a cup of coffee while we wait? It’s out of a machine, but it’s hot.”
“Sure,” said Landholm, grateful that Jackson was not going to challenge him further. The two men walked out of the gymnasium and through the locker room to the faculty lounge; Jackson held the door for Landholm as they went into the small, drab room.
While Landholm fished for change in his pocket, Jackson got his coffee. “So are you going to tell me why you’re going to all the trouble, or are you going to keep your ass covered until you hear from Portland?”
“Isn’t four years ago reason enough?” Landholm asked as he counted his change and came up with the right combination for the coffee machine.
“For the administration, yes, for me, no,” said Jackson. “What is it, Wil? What’s got you so spooked?”
“Does it show that much?” Landholm inquired as he selected two-sugar-no-cream for his coffee.
“To me it does, but I’ve known you thirty years,” Jackson said laconically. “You’re not just being careful, you’re frightened, and that isn’t like you.”
“Bob Turner is dying,” Landholm said without preamble. “I don’t know about the others, but I’m sure about Bob. He’s fourteen and he isn’t going to see fifteen.” He sat down in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs. “That’s why I’m sending specimens to Portland and why I want to check out the school. That’s what’s got me frightened. I wish that the Porter boy was still around, too, so that I could check him out. I hate the idea of someone having a disease and not knowing it until it’s . . .” He could not finish his thought.
“Are you sure?” Jackson asked. “About Bob?”
“Barring a miracle—and I mean miracle, Jim—there’s nothing I can do for him.” It was a difficult confession, and he could not look his friend in the eye as he said it.
“Bob. Shee-it.” He drank down half his coffee. “What about Portland? Can they do anything?”
“I doubt it, but I hope they can tell me something that will help the others.” Landholm stared down into the darkness of the coffee. “If I hear that anyone else but you and me knows about Bob, I’ll know where it came from and—”
“I won’t say anything; you know that,” Jackson said, dismissing the implied warning. “What kind of bug do you think got away this time?”
“Whatever it is, you can be damned certain that the army won’t tell us. Portland might, if they have any records on it. Ever since they opened, they’ve been assembling information on all those illegal stockpiles that are tucked into the mountains around here. If there’s an ID on the bug, they might have it, and they might have something on record to tell me what to do about it. In any case, they ought to know that another one of the army’s little biological toys has got loose.” The bitterness that he usually sought to conceal was undisguised now.
“What if it’s not that?” Jackson suggested. “What if it’s something else?”
“You mean a real flu?” Landholm said. He let his breath out hard and fast. “If it is, it’s brand-new, and that’s troublesome in its own right.”
“Well?” Jackson pursued.
“If it is . . . I’ll hear soon enough from Portland, and then we’ll have to get in contact with County Health Services. We’ll probably have to do that in any event. Unless Portland takes over for the whole region.” He lifted the styrofoam cup but did not drink from it. “I kind of hope they do take over. I don’t like to think about handling a mess like this piecemeal. I’m not prepared for it, and neither is any other doctor in Idaho. Or Oregon. Or Washington. Or Utah. Or Wyoming. Or Montana. Or California. Or Colorado. Or anywhere else.”
“You think it’s bad, then?” Jackson prodded.
“I think whatever it is, it’s bad.” Landholm took a swig of the coffee, wishing it were bourbon, then looked at his watch. “Your team ought to be getting ready. Let’s get to it.”
Jackson nodded. “Whatever you say, Wil.”
The team members answered Wilson Landholm’s questions with a minimum of back talk and questions, thanks in large part to the strict orders that Coach Jackson gave them before the doctor was allowed to speak: “You’ve already heard that we’ve got four guys off the team because of illness, and Doc Landholm wants to be sure that’s all we lose. You
listen to his questions and you give him straight answers if you want to be part of the team for the County Play-Offs next May. If I catch any of you holding out or making things up, you’ll be off before January’s over. Understand me?”
Twelve boys nodded in agreement; they understood.
The report that Wilson Landholm sent to Portland listed a total of seventeen possible cases of the unknown disease, and promised specimens to follow.
—Dale Reed—
Doctor Reed was always faintly disturbed by Irene Channing, and never more than when he had to give her bad news. She was so vital, so present, that he hated to say or do anything that might lessen that quality in her in the least. “Sit down, Irene,” he said when he had finished the polite amenities that had become almost a ritual with them.
“You sound very serious, Dale,” she said as she took the chair he offered.
“I’m afraid I am,” he said. “I have the results from your family physicals, and I need to talk to you about them.”
“Is something wrong?” She thought about Sean Gradeston, who had died the third day of January, and whose loss was still grating on her son Steven. “What’s the matter?”
Dale Reed stared into her enormous, luminous eyes. He had often wanted to give her a gift, no matter how improper such a gesture would be. When he let himself, he considered giving her a necklace of Tiger’s Eye beads, for they had the same eerie depths as her eyes, and were as mesmerizing. “I’m afraid . . . I’ll have to run a few more tests.”
“Tests?” she repeated. “For what?”
“There are some . . . anomalies,” he said lamely. “I want to clear up the matter. You know what worrywarts doctors are.”
Her laughter did not ring true. “Steven?” she asked.
“No,” Reed said.
“Not Brice?” Her olive skin went a shade paler at her younger son’s name.
“No, Irene.” He stared down at his well-manicured hands. “I need to do the work on you. I’m . . . sorry.”
“On me?” Irene said, baffled. “But why? What’s the matter with me?”
“Nothing,” Reed said hastily. “Nothing that we’re sure of, but I want to be certain. You’re in such a . . . a vulnerable position, a widow with two children. Oh, I know you were left comfortably well-off, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re having to make your way alone.” He reached for his pipe and tobacco pouch.
“I took care of myself long before Neil and I met,” Irene said, more sternly than she had spoken at first.
“Yes, that’s what I mean. I want to make sure that you’re as well as you look.” He tamped down the tobacco in his pipe and reached for his lighter. “All those years when you were struggling, living in Nevada and Arizona, it’s about time you were free of that.”
“But I am free of it,” Irene said sharply. “Aren’t I?”
“I . . . I hope so,” Reed told her. “But if we check you over, we can be sure.”
“Of what?” she insisted. “What are you tap-dancing about, Dale? What’s wrong with me?”
“There’s . . . there’s some indication that you might have a blood dysfunction.” He read shock in her eyes before it reached the rest of her face and he hurried on, “I doubt that it’s anything very serious, but since you are past thirty-five, I thought it would be best that we make certain, in case there are problems later.”
“Dale, menopause is not a disease, it’s a natural phase of a woman’s life, like puberty.” She did her best to be patient with him, but this was precisely the kind of thing that irritated her. “If you’re worried that I might be perimenopausal, why didn’t you say so? I’ll have the tests and you can prescribe whatever supplements you think will make the transition easier, and that will be that.”
Reed stared down into the red glow of the pipe bowl. “There might be a little more to it than that,” he said after a moment.
“Oh?” Now there was a catch in her breath. “How do you mean, more to it?”
“Well, there may be . . . a complication.” He dared to look at her once more. “I wanted to warn you, in case you worried. Sometimes, you know, there are difficulties.”
“What kind of difficulties?” she asked with care.
Reed sighed. “I don’t want you to be upset because I want you to have more tests, but all those years you were living in Nevada and Arizona, you were in some areas that have recently been identified as toxic waste dumps, and in some cases—not all, but some—there have been side effects from exposure, some of them not showing up for years and years.”
“And you think I might have been exposed to something like that? What about Steven?” Her voice was getting harsh.
‘There doesn’t seem to be any indication that . . . he’s fine, Irene. We’ll keep a close watch on him, of course, but right now, you’re the one who has a . . . few irregularities in your blood test. I want to clear that up before . . . well, before it develops into something.”
Irene leaned forward, her face set. “Develops into what, Dale?” she demanded. “Are you saying I might have cancer?”
“No, no,” he assured her with a quick waving of his hands. “Good Lord, no. Nothing like that. Nothing. But since something isn’t quite right, I want to find out more about it, so that it . . .”
When he did not go on, Irene slapped her hand on the desk. “What’s this all about, Dale? What aren’t you telling me?”
“I don’t have anything to tell you, not yet. I don’t know the extent of the problem. And I don’t want you to get worried and anxious because there’s a question about it. You see, you’re already nervous, and that’s exactly what I want you to avoid.” He rose and held out his hand to her. “Irene, please. Don’t do this to yourself.”
“Do what to myself?” she snapped, pulling back from him. “Will you stop acting as if I’m made of antique porcelain? I’m able to take care of myself. I can deal with anything, so long as I know what it is. So, Dale, tell me what’s wrong with me.”
He lowered his hands to his sides, shaking his head to indicate his helplessness. “I don’t know. I’ve tried to give you a sense of the parameters we might be dealing with, but so far I haven’t enough to go on to tell you more than that there might be a . . .” He took his seat and came at it from another angle. “You see, when your test results came back they showed a minor anemia and a minor blood disorder. I don’t know what sort yet, which is what I would like to determine, which is why I want you to have a few more tests. It would mean a day or two in the hospital, for convenience, and then we can determine what the extent and nature of the dysfunction is. I don’t like to see you borrowing trouble before we know what we’re up against.”
“And how serious might this be?” she asked evenly.
“There’s no way to tell, but judging from what I’ve seen so far, it shouldn’t be anything we can’t handle.” He did his best to give her a reassuring smile. “Don’t tell me you couldn’t use a couple of days to rest.”
“All right, I won’t tell you,” she said sharply. “But I remind you that I have a showing in March and I’m not prepared yet. If this is going to take time away from my work, I’d prefer to schedule the tests after the opening.”
“I’m afraid,” he said as gently as he could, “that it wouldn’t be advisable to wait that long.”
A silence settled between them, and then Irene broke it with one word: “Why?”
Reed put his pipe in the over-large ashtray at the corner of his desk. “In cases like yours, it’s generally best to determine the condition as soon as possible, on the off-chance that there are complications.”
“What sort of complications?” Irene asked him. “What are you talking about, Dale?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted heavily, “That’s the problem. There was a flag on your blood work when it came
back. I looked at the results.” He stared at her in his helplessness. “I didn’t recognize the anomaly, but I can’t argue that it exists. It’s there. I don’t know what it is or how serious it might be, or what it could lead to. That’s why I want to get to work on this at once, because the sooner I know what we’re up against, the sooner you’re over it.” He did his best to smile, to show her his even, white teeth as a sign of confidence.
“This is new?” she asked. “Could it be because I had children later than most. I was thirty-eight when Brice was born, and thirty-one when Steven was. You warned me that there could be trouble. Is this what you meant?” She concealed the sudden fear that clutched her vitals, saying sarcastically, “I’m not that over the hill, Dale.”
“No, you’re not,” he said at once. “As to when you had children, I have no idea if there’s a connection. You told me that some of those years when Steven was young you got by on very little, and it could be that it triggered something that . . .” He stopped himself with a shrug. “The trouble is, I simply don’t have enough to go on. That’s why I want to do the tests as soon as possible, and have you in the hospital, in case—and it’s a long shot, Irene, I promise you—we find something that needs prompt attention.”
“Cancer,” she said.
“Possibly, or anyone of a number of other diseases. It might be that you’re developing anemia at the start of menopause. It isn’t usual, but it does happen. Do you know if your mother or any of her sisters did?” He was trying to keep the tone of their conversation as calm and normal as possible, but he sensed that she was nearing the edge.
“My mother died when I was twelve. I don’t know anything about her side of the family. She never spoke about them and once she was dead, my father . . . well, he wrote to her family to tell them she died, but so far as I know that was their only contact. I gather they were very strictly religious and didn’t approve of her marriage to a Greek Orthodox man. I have a brother in Philadelphia; that’s all. My father died two years ago.” In her lap, her hands were locked in combat. “I suppose I could hire someone to find her family, if you think it’s wise. That is, if you think this could be hereditary. Or is that a very long shot?”
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