Exit Strategies

by Catherine Todd

  “Coq au vin,” I told her.

  She looked blank.

  “I’m sorry, I was just joking,” I said. “I’m not a doctor.”

  Mark half smiled and looked away.

  “I’m so glad,” said Mrs. Sefton, who still had not declared her first name. “I was afraid everyone here would be a professional. Sometimes I don’t know what anyone is talking about at dinner.”

  Fortunately, Maria—who by this time was exchanging passwords with Daniel (nephrology), Lyman (oncology), and Dr. Sefton (urology)—was not privy to this exchange.

  “I know just what you mean,” I said to Mrs. S. I did too. I had sat through interminable discussions at such functions, during which, although the conversations were in English and English is my native language, I hadn’t understood anything but the prepositions.

  “What is tonight’s speech on, do you know?” she asked me.

  I consulted my program. Introduction. Awards. Thanks. Pledges and Fund Drive. Guest Speaker. I smiled. “Alternative Medicine—South of the Border,” I said.

  There was an audible groan around the table. “Why do they make us sit through this shit?” asked Daniel. Lyman nudged him. Mrs. S. was past the age where shit was part of the acceptable social vocabulary. “Stuff,” Daniel amended. “It’s all anybody talks about these days.”

  “Because eighty percent of the people in the world use herbs as their primary source of medicine,” said Isabel, surprisingly. The things she knew never ceased to amaze me. The Internet, she confided, whenever I asked her.

  “God,” breathed Maria. “People are such idiots. I hope this isn’t going to be one of those talks where they show women with lemon-size holes in their thighs going to Tijuana for ‘alternative’ plastic surgery. Those slides are so gross.” This from someone who spent her days peering at tumors under a microscope.

  Mrs. S. touched her own temples in horror. “People go to Mexico to have things done?” she asked.

  “It’s cheaper,” I explained.

  “Also, they offer all sorts of quack cures for things that aren’t licensed here,” said Lyman. “It’s the same in Texas. People cross over to Juarez for alternative therapies.”

  “That reminds me—” said Mrs. S.

  “It’s fucking sick,” said her husband, interrupting her and signaling the end of linguistic solicitude. “I’ve heard that some of those clinics claim to cure cancer by pulling teeth. I can’t imagine how any sane person could fall for such nonsense.”

  “Desperation,” suggested Isabel.

  “Some of them, certainly,” said Daniel, “but desperation alone doesn’t explain the numbers. Neither does cost.”

  I hoped no one besides Mark and Isabel knew I was representing a world-class alternative medicine guru who was opening a clinic in Baja California. I didn’t want to be put in the impossible position of defending Bobbie to a bunch of doctors on the warpath.

  “Part of it’s cultural,” said Lyman, surprisingly. “Some nurses in our oncology clinic did a study of a number of these places last year. They posed as family members of patients needing care. The truth is, some of these places are incredibly nurturing and supportive, even if the treatments are entirely bogus. Like when you were a kid and your mother fluffed your pillows and smoothed the sheets. That’s part of what makes them so seductive—and dangerous.”

  Maria’s mother had probably treated her to a bracing dash of cold water in the face when she was feverish. “Even if what you say is true,” she said, in tones suggesting that this possibility was so remote as to be nonexistent, “it doesn’t explain how people can believe such preposterous nonsense. Can you imagine telling people that shark cartilage enemas will cure them of cancer? It’s vile and cruel to mislead people that way.”

  “I suppose you could always argue that dead patients are cancer-free,” Lyman said dryly.

  “I’ve heard that some of the clinics in Tijuana dump their American patients back on this side of the border when they’re near death,” I said, getting swept up into the conversation.

  “Why would they do that?” asked Mrs. Sefton, sounding shocked.

  “Probably so they can say no one’s ever died in their care,” Daniel suggested.

  I smiled. “Yes, and it avoids legal complications as well.”

  “You’re conducting research?” Maria asked me. “Are you a student?”

  “No, I just watch the nightly news,” I said.

  “Becky’s an attorney,” Mark said, looking amused.

  I saw the slight stiffening. Maria looked at me with such disgust that I wondered if I’d forgotten to shave under my armpits. “Not medical malpractice,” I added.

  Mark laughed. So did Lyman.

  She turned to Mark and touched his shirtsleeve with one finger. It was a surprisingly intimate gesture. “I’m sure Mark can shed some light on why people are so credulous,” she said. She gave me a smug look.

  Mark looked distinctly uncomfortable, but at that moment our salads were served, so he got a reprieve. Maria, however, had an unexpected ally in Mrs. S.

  “Yes, do please tell us, Dr. Lawrence,” she said after a few moments. “It would be interesting to know.”

  Mark put down his arugula reluctantly. Being asked to explain human nature was doubtless the party trick expected of psychiatrists, the way people counted on attorneys to be good sports about shark jokes. “Well, of course you can’t lump all alternative or complementary medical treatments together. But if you ask me why people want to believe in what Maria called preposterous regimens—treatments that have no demonstrated scientific validity—I guess there are lots of theories.” He sighed. “Many people are deeply resistant to the idea that human beings evolved from animals and that our minds derive from our animal natures—our genes and our resulting brains. It makes them more comfortable to make the mind and spirit something other than the body. Once you do that, all the rules of evidence and proof can fly out the window.”

  Mrs. S. tugged at my sleeve. “I’m getting lost,” she whispered.

  “He’s saying people don’t like to dwell on the fact that they’re animals,” I whispered back. “So—”

  She put her hand to her throat. “Well, of course not,” she said.

  “I think it’s the media’s fault,” said Daniel wickedly.

  He was roundly booed.

  He laughed. “No, seriously. I mean, look how they’re always sensationalizing modern science. String theory, neutrinos, black holes, all that…stuff. It leads you to believe that you can’t rely on common sense to understand the world. Ergo, anything is possible.”

  Generally I dislike people who use the word ergo in conversation, but in this case I thought he had a point. Besides, he was Isabel’s date and Lyman’s brother.

  Maria looked at him. “You’re seriously trying to blame the Discovery Channel for some poor schmuck sticking coffee grounds up his ass?” At least she smiled when she said it.

  Mrs. S. shuddered.

  “I think he’s on to something,” Isabel said.

  “So do I,” I agreed.

  Maria gave me a look that said, “You would.”

  I didn’t know what had come over me. Maybe I’d been dateless too long. I’d forgotten all the rules. All I wanted to do was talk. I don’t mean a one-sided monologue; I mean real honest-to-God give-and-take conversation. Maybe I even mean arguments. I threw caution to the winds. “Really,” I said. “I mean, does anybody really understand relativity?”

  “I do,” said Maria.

  I ignored her.

  “Count me out,” said Isabel, coming to my rescue.

  “Understand what?” said Mrs. S.

  “Relativity,” I said. “They throw it at you over and over in school. I’ve seen countless PBS programs on Einstein. I’ve even tried to read a couple of books on the subject. But I still don’t understand why the guy in the spaceship comes back younger than the guy who stays behind.”

  Mark grinned hugely.

  �
��And your point is?” said Maria.

  “That Daniel’s right. If you’re forced to accept a theory of the universe that you simply can’t wrap your mind around, it gets easier to accept that toenail shakes or healing waves or whatever might actually work.”

  “Blame it on Einstein,” said Lyman.

  “Coq au vin?” asked the waiter.

  While the entree was being served, Mrs. Sefton laid a hand on my arm. “Dear, before I forget, I noticed you talking to Dottie Beekman when we came in. Are you a friend of hers?”

  I explained that I knew her but hadn’t seen her for several years.

  “Well, since we were talking about alternative medicine, I wondered if you knew she’d been very, very ill?”

  I said I was sorry to hear that. I was only half listening; I wondered why the waiter hadn’t cleared the table settings from the unoccupied places.

  “Yes, very ill. Which is quite, well, ironic, because the place she went to was supposed to make her live longer, and that’s not the way it turned out at all.”

  “I see,” I said, although I didn’t. I thought I’d seen a familiar face at the door. The speakers would be starting in a few moments. They always started the program before people could finish dinner and get up to leave.

  “Although of course it might have been just a coincidence,” Mrs. S. continued, intent on her story. “I mean, she might not have gotten sick from the treatments.”

  I nodded politely.

  It was a familiar face. I smiled. It was Taylor Anderson. What could he be doing here?

  “It might not have been Dr. Crystol’s fault at all,” she said.

  I swung around to look at her full on. “Pardon me?”

  She knew I hadn’t really been listening, but she took it in good part. “I was telling you how Dottie Beekman got sick,” she said helpfully.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Taylor crossing the room in our direction. The empty chairs beckoned. “She was being treated by Dr. Crystol? Dr. Bobbie Crystol?” I asked.

  Mrs. S. nodded. “I believe that was the name. Do you know her? She’s famous, isn’t she? But as I said, I can’t be sure—”

  Involuntarily, I laid a hand on her arm. I gasped. Taylor was definitely heading for our table. And in his wake, tricked out to the nines, was my bête noire, odium made flesh, Carole Cushman Pratt.

  Mrs. Sefton, her narrative momentarily stilled, took note. Her nose wrinkled. “That’s Carole Pratt,” she whispered. “She’s such a climber. She was married to a surgeon at the hospital, and I understand he left her a very rich widow. She’s a big donor, but frankly I can’t stand the woman.”

  A big donor. With my children’s tuition money. Well, maybe that wasn’t fair, but I was so aghast at seeing her there with Taylor that fairness was the farthest thing from my mind. With Taylor. With Taylor, who had just advised me not to try to overturn the trust or the trustee. Who had to have known and chose not to say anything.

  Maybe there was a perfectly innocent explanation—like they had just met at the bar and started talking and discovered a mutual passion for medical charities, and Carole had just happened to be on her way to this event, and…

  And maybe Mike Tyson was a closet Quaker.

  Taylor blanched when he saw me, but it was too late to sit somewhere else. Carole had an I’m-a-big-donor smile plastered on her face and ignored me, by which I knew she’d spotted me before Taylor had and had time to prepare.

  Initially we were all quite civilized, at least about the introductions.

  “Of course I know Becky,” Taylor said jovially, not meeting my eye. “She’s one of the top associates in my law firm. Has everyone met Carole Pratt?”

  “Only by reputation,” said Isabel serenely.

  “Maria Oblomova,” said Maria. “Pathology.”

  Carole was unfazed. “I’m so pleased to meet you, Dr. Oblomova,” she said. “I’ve heard such wonderful things about your work.”

  I hoped she got to experience it firsthand. On the slab.

  She gave Mark a long, assessing look that boded ill, and smiled. “And naturally I’ve heard of you too, Dr. Lawrence.”

  Had Richard told her everything? Or was I just imagining that she knew about our connection?

  “Dr. Lawrence was particularly helpful to my late husband’s family at a time of crisis in their lives,” she said to the table generally. “But of course it wouldn’t be appropriate to go into that.”

  She knew.

  “No, it wouldn’t,” said Mark.

  “You’re too modest, Mark,” said Maria. “I’m always saying so.”

  The chicken was being cleared from the table. The taste in my mouth was sour and acidic. I took a sip of ice water. The evening appeared to stretch on into eternity.

  “I hope we didn’t miss anything,” said Carole, turning toward Lyman with unmistakable interest. “Taylor had to work late tonight, so we couldn’t get away.”

  Taylor decided to stop being intimidated by the fact that he had sold me down the river, not to mention failed to note that he was dating my ex-husband’s widow. He was, after all, my employer. He winked at me. “Our clients are very demanding, aren’t they, Becky?”

  I didn’t wink back. “Yes,” I said tonelessly. “Very demanding.”

  “With such busy schedules, how did you two find time to meet?” asked Isabel sweetly.

  Carole waved a hand, which I noted was no longer possessed of the Pratt diamond. “On the tennis courts. At the Sport and Water Club.”

  “Of course,” agreed Isabel.

  “The program’s starting,” Daniel pointed out, to my relief. Whatever horrors might be revealed by the speaker—chunks of flesh inadvertently liposuctioned from strategic areas, amino acid injections Roto-Rootering the veins, duck liver overdoses giving new meaning to quack medicine—couldn’t be any worse than sitting there wondering what potshots Carole was going to take at me next.

  The waiter set down ambiguous dishes of something white and fluffy in front of us. “What is it?” whispered Lyman.

  “Vanilla mousse,” the waiter said.

  I pushed it aside. I had no appetite.

  “I’ll just have a salad,” said Carole.

  “There aren’t any more salads,” said the waiter. “All finished.”

  Taylor whipped out his wallet and handed the waiter a rolled bill. “Please ask the chef to make us two salads,” he said.

  “Tell him it’s for Mrs. Pratt,” Carole added. “Mrs. Richard Pratt.”

  I was excessively sorry, at that moment, that the knives had already been cleared from the table.

  Next to me, Mrs. Sefton heaved an audible sigh. I was beginning to find her take on life most appealing. Not only that, but she had information I wanted to pursue. I smiled at her. It was too late for conversation; the Welcome was already under way.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I am honored to be in the presence of so many distinguished professionals, generous donors, and…”

  “Nuts!” Lyman cried suddenly, with a horrible strangling sound.

  We all turned to him in inquiry. His hand was at his collar, pulling at his tie. He was glaring at his half-eaten mousse with what could only be called indignation. “Nuts,” he said again. He ripped open his shirt collar with both hands. The studs went flying.

  “Oh, God!” Daniel said, jumping to his feet. “The dessert must have had nuts in it. He’s deathly allergic. Where’s your epinephrine syringe?”

  Lyman waved his hand desperately and shook his head.

  “Did anyone bring a bag?” Daniel asked.

  All the doctors at the table looked at each other in despair.

  Despite the commotion, the speaker was manfully launching into his pitch. “Before I introduce tonight’s speaker, I would like to talk about some of the challenges Windansea Hospital faces in the new millennium…”

  Lyman was sweating and starting to shed his clothes, layer by layer. His coat lay on the floor in a heap. His shirt was opene
d halfway down his chest.

  “Emergency room,” said Mark briskly.

  Daniel nodded. “Come on, old man; I’ll take you.”

  “I’ll come too,” said Isabel.

  “So will I,” I said.

  “No, don’t,” Daniel said. “It’s not something you want company for.”

  “I’ll take the two of you home,” Mark offered.

  I jumped up quickly. People were starting to turn around. “At least I can get your clothes,” I said, leaning over the pile to pick up Lyman’s coat and tie.

  Behind me, I heard more than one startled gasp.

  “Oh my God,” cried Carole, in tones that were probably audible in Cleveland. “Look at what she’s done to her dress.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dear Medallion Foundation:

  Would you like to do someone else a good turn? I know a woman, the daughter of a gardener, who needs financial assistance to stay in school. She is thirty-two and worked in her mother’s laundry to pay for her younger brothers’ college educations before she went to law school. She’s been attending Stanford, but she might have to drop out. Her parents are Vietnamese and are very supportive of her goals; at the same time, her sense of duty to them and to the family has made it difficult for her to get by on her own financially. If you would consider giving her the same sort of financial assistance you’ve given me, I know she would put it to good use. In case you’d like to contact her, I’ve enclosed some biographical information.

  Please forgive the importuning, but sometimes it’s hard to make it unless somebody helps you.

  I should know.

  On the Monday morning following the fund-raiser from hell, Taylor buzzed my office.

  “I’m in Escondido at a board meeting,” he said crisply. “I’d like to see you later today.”

  “I don’t know if I can make it,” I said. “My mother’s being moved into her assisted living facility this afternoon. I have to be there.”

  “You’re taking time off from work?”

  “I cleared it with Jamison Roth,” I said. Jamison Roth was like everybody’s favorite grandfather—he never said no to anything.

  “I need to talk to you,” he said. “I’ll come by your house.”