Flashback (1988)

by Palmer, Michael

  “You know,” he said as they trudged toward the bunker, “from the day your mother and I first learned she was pregnant with Frank, we began to share visions of greatness for our children. I don’t suppose that makes us unique, but I tell you, son, we spent many an hour by the fire that winter sharing our dreams. We even named Frank, and then you, after presidents—little-known presidents, but ones who did leave their marks on history.”

  Inwardly, Zack sighed. This talk was one he had endured many times over the years. Franklin Pierce, the only president bom in New Hampshire, and Zachary Taylor, the much-maligned warrior who, despite four historically undistinguished years in office, established the Department of the Interior, were special favorites of the Judge.

  “Believe me, Judge,” Zack said, in what had become his Standard response to the discussion, “both Frank and I appreciate the values and the drive you instilled in us.”

  He paused to chip his approach shot onto the edge of the green and then watched as his father, now totally off his game, took two shots to get out of the sand trap.

  By the end of the hole, Zack had cut his deficit to six dollars, and following two ties and a disastrous seven by the Judge on the thirteenth, he had pared it by three dollars more.

  “Judge,” he said, motioning to the small refreshment kiosk by the fourteenth tee, “let’s take a break. Anything that could upset you enough to play like this ought to be talked out.”

  “I’m not upset,” Clayton Iverson said.

  “Okay, you’re not upset. You only went from shooting four over par for the whole front nine, to shooting eight over for the first four holes since you brought up this business about the hospital. Why don’t you have a seat at that little table over there and let me buy you a beer.”

  The Judge started to protest, but then relented.

  “Maybe I am a little upset,” he muttered.

  Zack left him at the wrought-iron table and returned with two frosted mugs and two bottles of Lowenbrau.

  “So, what’s going on?” Zack asked as he sipped at his beer.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean Frank, Judge. I know you helped him get considered for the job with Ultramed. Is that why you’re being hard on him? Because you feel responsible?”

  “Zachary, the mess your brother made of that damn electronics company of his wasn’t his first fiasco. He just didn’t have the patience for that kind of business. He was constantly trying to go directly from step one to step twenty. He was lucky the Ultramed opportunity came along when it did. I told him that when he—” Clayton Iverson stopped in mid-sentence.

  “When he what, Judge?”

  “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

  “He asked you for a loan, didn’t he?” Zack said.

  Suddenly pieces of conversations he had had with his brother over the years began falling into place. Although Frank had never shared the details of his company’s failure, he had made it clear that he felt their father was, at least in part, at fault.

  “It was a foolish request. He was already in it up to here. It would have been throwing good money after bad.”

  “Frank didn’t see it that way, Judge.”

  “Well, I did. I agreed to help him out of the hole he had gotten himself in, but only on the condition that he get rid of that company. The hospital job gave him a chance to get out from underneath that nonsense and to show everyone in town just what he could do.”

  To say nothing of bringing him back here, under your thumb, Zack thought angrily.

  “So, he got the job, and he’s done it well. What more could you want from him?”

  “I could want him to bring the same values to his position that I bring to mine. That’s what I could want. I could want him to stand up for what’s right.”

  Despite the warm afternoon, Zachary felt suddenly cold.

  “What’s right?” I’m the one with Beaulieu’s evidence, he wanted to shout. I’m the one who confronted Maureen Banas. How can you be so damned sure of what’s right? “Dad,” he said, “exactly what have you done?”

  “You know, Zachary, I don’t particularly like that tone of yours. You may be a big-shot surgeon, but you’re still my son.”

  Zack sensed himself backing away from his father’s glare. He couldn’t remember the last time he had pushed against the man this hard.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  “Apology accepted. I think that thirty years on the bench more than qualifies me to tell when someone’s handing me a line of bull. There was just too much smoke surrounding Beaulieu’s complaints for there to be no fire. I … I didn’t know until you told me that Frank had intervened on his behalf.”

  He hesitated, and then reached into the pocket of his golf bag, withdrew an envelope, and passed it over.

  “Here,” he said, “read this.”

  Mrs. Leigh Baron

  Director, Operations

  Ultramed Hospitals Corporation

  Boston Place

  Boston, Massachusetts 02108

  Dear Mrs. Baron:

  The contract effecting the sale of Davis Regional Hospital to Ultramed Hospitals Corporation is now in its fourth and final year. As you are no doubt aware, the agreement contains provisions for the reacquisition of the facility by the community-based board, of which I am chairman, provided the board meets no less than five months prior to the termination date of the contract and agrees by a vote of no less than 51% of its members to return to Ultramed the original purchase price—a sum currently held in escrow in the Sterling National Bank—in exchange for resuming control of the hospital.

  Until recently, I had no intention of convening the board to consider such a vote. However, a situation has developed that greatly concerns me—a conflict between Dr. Guy Beaulieu, one of the first physicians to settle in Sterling, and your corporation. It was the late Dr. Beaulieu’s contention that the hospital administration, and ultimately, Ultramed Hospitals Corporation itself, was responsible for machinations calculated to drive him out of medical practice. He further claimed knowledge of actions by your corporation, through Ultramed-Davis, which have been contrary to the best interests of our community. I know that he had conveyed his feelings to you on several occasions, and that he had, in fact, instituted legal action against both the hospital and Ultramed Hospitals Corporation.

  Dr. Beaulieu’s widow has contacted me and has requested that the board seriously consider Dr. Beaulieu’s allegations before the end of our provisional period at noon on July 19. I have asked Mrs. Beaulieu to make every effort, in advance of that date, to supply me with details of her husbands claims and the evidence behind them.

  Meanwhile, please consider this letter notification that I intend to convene the board at 11 a.m. on Friday, July 19, for the purpose of discussing our options. Also, as provided in our contract, I have commissioned a full, independent audit of the hospital, which I expect to be initiated within the next few days. As you know, according to section 4B of the contract, 15 percent of the hospitals profits over the past four years should have been funneled back into the community through the treatment of indigent patients, and another 3 percent through support of various civic projects enumerated in section 4C. Violation of that section, even if uncovered after the July 19 deadline, will nullify our contract with you.

  Meanwhile, if you have any information or thoughts on this matter, I would welcome hearing from you.

  Hoping for an amicable resolution of this issue, I remain,

  Sincerely yours,

  Clayton C. Iverson

  Zack was incredulous. Beaulieu’s widow and daughter had given him no indication that they planned to contact the board directly.

  “Judge, just when did Mrs. Beaulieu call you?” he asked.

  “Well … actually, she didn’t call me.… I called her.”

  “And has she contacted other members of the board?”

  “I, urn, suggested she might want to do so.”

  “Oh, Judge, why?”
>
  “Because ol’ Guy might have been right, that’s why.”

  “But Frank said he wasn’t. Why couldn’t you have just given him the benefit of the doubt?”

  “I … I felt that if he hadn’t done anything wrong, he didn’t have anything to worry about.”

  “Of course he does. He’s got to worry about how to explain to the people at Ultramed why his own father would be trying to sabotage their hospital. You don’t even know what kind of so-called evidence Guy had, do you? … Well, do you?”

  Clayton Iverson shook his head.

  “I didn’t think so. Well, I do, Judge. I know exactly what he had Clothilde Beaulieu gave it all to me at his funeral. And I tell you there isn’t enough proof of wrongdoing even to dent Ultramed. Circumstantial stuff. That’s all he had accumulated. Just a pile of inferential lists, anecdotes, and newspaper clippings.

  “I’ll admit that I have some strong reservations about that company, but up till now there’s no hard evidence—not one person that I know of—who was directly hurt by the corporations policies Why couldn’t you have just gone to Frank? Talked to him? That’s what I had planned to do. Did he even see this letter before you sent it?”

  The Judge took a long swallow of beer and wiped the foam from his lips with the back of his hand. Then he smiled.

  “I haven’t sent it,” he said simply.

  “What?”

  “The letter is being held by my lawyer in Boston until I decide what to do. I was thinking about having him send it over to Ultramed on Monday. I wanted to talk with you first. Now I’m glad I did.”

  Zack felt drained and exhausted—a yo-yo on the string of a master.

  “You could have just told me what you wanted in the first place,” he said. “You can’t play with people like that, Judge.”

  “Nonsense. I haven’t been playing with anyone. I needed your candid opinion, and I got it. I’m not committed to opposing turning the hospital over to Ultramed for good next week I’m just reluctant to totally give up our leverage. You never know when you’ll wish you had it. The truth is, it would take a hell of a lot more than anything I’ve learned so far to make me turn against Frank and send that letter There, do you feel better?”

  “What I feel,” Zack said, “is wasted.”

  “Good. In that case, suppose we play us some golf.”

  The Judge set his beer down, took his driver from his bag, and wiped its head with a cloth

  “I’m pleased with the things you’ve told me about your brother, Zachary,” he said. “I haven’t made any secret of my disappointment with him over the years. But as long as he keeps acting for the benefit of our town, then he and Ultramed have nothing to worry about from me. However, if you learn of something, anything, that I should know, then dammit, you owe it to all of us to speak up Clear?”

  “Clear,” Zack said numbly.

  “Including anything in that material of Guy’s.”

  “Right.”

  The Judge set his ball on the tee. Once again in control, he looked relaxed and confident

  “Okay if I hit first?” he asked.

  His swing was loose, compact, and smooth as velvet. The drive was arrow straight and by far the longest of the day.

  An hour later, Zack stood on the eighteenth green and watched as his father rolled in a twelve-foot putt for a birdie.

  “Five straight holes for me,” the Judge said “That’s eight bucks. I just love this game, don’t you?”

  19

  Dose by dose, microgram by microgram, the Haldol level in Annie Doucettes blood had been rising. The input from her senses, barely adequate to keep her oriented before the tranquilizer was started, had become blunted and distorted. Her periods of lucidity, even in the bright, noisy daylight hours, had all but disappeared.

  Now, as the muted stillness of late Sunday evening drifted over the hospital, what little hold she had been able to maintain on reality had begun to slip away.

  One moment, she was home, in her own room, her own bed; in the next, she was someplace else, someplace at once foreign and familiar. It was evening, it was morning. Desperately, she struggled against the madness. Desperately, she tried to focus her thoughts. Still, nothing was certain—nothing except the realization that somehow, she had wet and soiled herself.

  Call Zack … Call Suzanne, her mind urged. Tell them to come and clean you up. Tell them to get you out of this place.

  She turned to search for a telephone, but a wave of dizziness and nausea forced her back onto the pillow.

  Lifting the sheet, she stared down at her legs. Foul-smelling, loose excrement was smeared over the insides of her thighs. So disgusting. So humiliating.

  Must get washed … Must get showered before someone comes.

  Annie peered through a gray mist toward the door of her bathroom. Shower … Clean up … Then call—who? What was his name?

  With all her strength she struggled onto her side. There were metal railings along both sides of her bed. Using one of them, and battling the constant spinning, she pulled herself up.

  How disgusting … How humiliating …

  There was no guard railing at the end of the bed. With agonizing slowness she worked her way over the feces-soaked sheet. Then she dropped one leg over the low footboard and onto the chilly linoleum floor. The dizziness was becoming unbearable.

  Still, she knew she had to get clean.

  An inch at a time, she slid her other leg onto the floor. With every ounce of her strength, she tried to stand. Momentarily, her leg held. But then suddenly, it gave way, and for the briefest time she was floating in air.

  She landed heavily and gracelessly, air exploding from her lungs with a loud grunt. There was another sound as well—a sharp, snapping sound coming from somewhere within her body.

  An instant later, unimaginable pain shot through her from her left hip.

  Second by second, the pain intensified. Then, a heaviness settled onto her chest. Slowly, the dim light in the room faded, and Annie felt a merciful, peaceful darkness settle in.

  The night was heavy—overcast and humid, with not quite enough breeze for comfort. It was nearing eleven when Zack eased the Judges Chrysler into the largely empty parking lot outside the Ultramed-Davis emergency ward. The Judge, hands folded stoically in his lap, sat next to him. His mother, grim and silent, rode in the backseat, working over the handkerchief she had balled in her fists.

  Annie Doucette was in trouble.

  Zack would have much preferred to evaluate the woman’s situation before involving his parents, but a well-meaning nurse, unable to reach Annie’s son in Connecticut, had noted that they were listed in her record as “employer,” and had called them.

  A fractured hip and new coronary were the only snatches a shaken Cinnie Iverson could remember to repeat to Zack from that conversation.

  “Zachary, dear,” she said now, as he helped her from the car, “do you think they’ll operate on her tonight?”

  “I don’t know, Mom. It’s doubtful, though. Especially if the nurse I spoke to is right about her having had a new heart attack.”

  “Her doctor—what is his name?”

  “Norman, Mom. Don Norman.”

  “Dr. Norman. Did you speak to him?”

  “He was in working on Annie. I didn’t see any sense in bothering him.”

  “And did Frank say he’d be right in?”

  “Yes, Mom. He’s waiting for Lisette to get back from her sister’s, and then he’ll be in.”

  Cinnie gave her handkerchief one last squeeze and then stuffed it in her purse.

  “Well,” she said, “I just hope Annie’s okay.”

  “Okay?” Clayton Iverson laughed disdainfully. “Jesus, Cynthia, what world do you live in? The woman’s almost eighty years old and she just fell out of bed, broke her hip, and had a heart attack. How in the hell could you possibly think she’d be okay?”

  “Sorry,” Cinnie said. “There’s no need to cuss,” she added in a whisper directed
more to herself than to her husband.

  They entered the hospital through the emergency ward and took the elevator to the second floor. Annie had been moved back to the intensive care unit.

  “Why don’t you two wait in there,” Zack said, motioning them into the small waiting room just outside the unit. “I’ll be back as soon as I find out what’s going on.”

  Anger and tension had knotted the muscles at the base of his neck and were gnawing at the pit of his stomach. To be sure, over the years of his training he had had patients fall out of bed, even when strict precautions had been taken. The risk was always there, especially with so many hospitalized patients being old and infirm.

  But this situation was different. Since he was a consultant on her case, Annie Doucette was, technically, his patient; but even more than that, she was his friend. In some ways she had been as much a parent to him as had Cinnie and the Judge. And even beyond that, he knew, was the special, proprietary feeling experienced by every physician toward a patient whose life he or she had saved.

  He was on edge, his physician’s detachment and objectivity hanging by the thinnest of threads.

  From the moment Ciunie had called him with the news, he had been reminding himself that, while it was reasonable for him to be upset, there was seldom, if ever, justification for a physician to lose objectivity—even when confronting oversight or negligence. In the microcosm of the hospital, explosions by physicians helped no one.

  As he was heading into the unit, Sam Christian, one of three staff orthopedic surgeons, emerged. He was a tall, gaunt man, in his mid-fifties, who walked with a slight limp. Twenty-two years before, Zack and his mangled left knee had been one of his first cases.

  “Evening, Zack,” he said. He glanced into the small waiting room. “Judge, Cinnie.”

  “Hello, Sam.” The Judge came out to shake his hand. “What’s the story?”

  Christian shrugged.

  “She needs a new hip,” he said matter-of-factly. “But until her cardiac situation gets straightened out, that’s out of the question. Tomorrow, if she’s still—I mean, if she’s settled down, I’ll put some pins across the joint to stabilize it until we can do something definitive.”