by Thomas King
“Were you any good?”
“What?”
“At your job.”
Gabriel took another bite of the muffin. Definitely onion.
“What about sex?”
Gabriel stopped eating. “Sex?”
“Do you have any interest in sex?” Mara removed the pillow and lowered her hip. “In general.”
Gabriel took a sip of coffee. “For … procreation?”
Mara waved him off. “No, for comfort. For pleasure.”
“You mean … for the hell of it?”
“Yes,” she said. “For the hell of it.”
GABRIEL spent several long evenings at the library, locating the reference, copying the salient details, and organizing the information into a series of points that he put on a transparency. That morning, when he arrived in the classroom, Harden had waved him to the lectern, marched up the steps to the back of the lecture hall, and sat down in the last row.
“Begin!” he barked.
Gabriel was surprisingly calm as he put the plastic sheet on the overhead projector. He was confident that Harden couldn’t ask him a question about the incident that he couldn’t answer.
Dr. Katheryn Kousoulas was a neurologist and research fellow at University Hospital in Tucson, Arizona.
In 1961, the pharmaceutical giant Bush International contracted with the university to conduct clinical trials for a new drug called Lucror, which would, according to the company, revolutionize the treatment of migraines.
Kousoulas led the study. Halfway through the trials, she discovered that, while Lucror was remarkably effective in the control of migraine pain and nausea, the medication also appeared to trigger gliomas in the brain stem.
“For whom did Kousoulas work?” Harden called out from his aerie.
“The university.”
“Did she have a contract with Bush International?”
“She did.”
“Did that contract have a non-disclosure clause?”
“It did.”
“So,” said Harden, raising his voice so that it filled the room, “what did Dr. Kousoulas do?”
“She shut down the trials and informed her patients of the potential risk.”
“In violation of her contract with Bush.”
“I suppose.”
“Don’t be supposing, Mr. Quinn. There’s no need for that.”
“Technically, she was in violation of the non-disclosure clause,” Gabriel said. “But it was the ethical decision.”
Harden leapt out of his seat and marched down the aisle.
“Was it indeed?”
Gabriel held his ground. “It was. There were other drug groups available to treat migraines. Triptans, opioids, glucocorticoids.”
“But none of them as effective as Lucror.”
“The side effects were unacceptable.”
“To whom?”
The question had caught him by surprise. “What?”
“Sit down, Mr. Quinn,” Harden said. “We have a great deal to cover in the semester.”
the masters and their muffins.
Now there was a title for a painting. Mara thought about the women artists whose work she knew and how they handled the same subject matter in their work. Romaine Brooks’s La Marquise Casati came to mind, her defiant nude, thin as a knife. Or Gwen John’s melancholic portrait of her friend Fenella Lovell. And Frida Kahlo’s disturbing The Broken Column or her Henry Ford Hospital.
“I’m not asking you to take me to bed.”
“Okay.”
God, why had she said that. Take me to bed? As though she couldn’t get there on her own.
“Let’s start again.”
Gabriel nodded. “Okay.”
“I was just curious if someone who is trying to commit suicide has any interest in sex,” said Mara.
Gabriel picked up the muffin and held it out like a shield. “I hadn’t thought about it.”
“You don’t have to tell me.”
“No. I hadn’t thought of it.”
“Well then,” said Mara, sitting up straight. “I suppose that’s the answer.”
29
DORIAN SAT ON THE EXAMINATION TABLE, HIS LEGS DANgling over the side, and thumbed through the latest issue of Sports Illustrated. There was a story on football stars and their salaries, but as he read the article, he discovered that the football under discussion was actually soccer.
The top salary belonged to some teenager who reportedly received over €44 million a year in salary and bonuses. On top of that, the kid made another €20 million in endorsements. Dorian didn’t know the exchange rate off the top of his head, but anyone who got that kind of money for kicking a ball around a field was paid too much.
And what the hell did this child do with his money? Dorian had heard stories of athletes who blew their windfalls on highticket items. Houses, jewellery, cars, designer clothes, and drugs. One guy had gone to Las Vegas, and, in one evening, dropped over half a million on the tables.
Stupid.
A little restraint. Some intelligent investment. Most people couldn’t imagine spending that kind of money in a lifetime.
Dorian was just starting an article on the ten greatest Super Bowl scandals, when there was a knock on the door.
“Decent?” Dr. Benjamin Toshi slipped into the room, a folder in his hand. “How are you feeling?”
“Great.”
Toshi wheeled a stool to the table. “Nausea?”
“Minor.”
“Headaches? Dizziness? Ringing in the ears?”
“Nothing I can’t manage.”
“Any changes in mood? Any emotional distress?”
“Nope.”
“Okay,” said Toshi. “Let’s take a look.”
It was the same routine. Blood tests, poking and prodding, the promise to get together at the club. This time, Toshi was slower and more thorough.
“I think we need an MRI.”
“I hate those things.”
“I know, but we want to see what’s going on.”
“We had an MRI six months ago.”
“We did, but we need to do it again,” said Toshi. “And as soon as possible.”
Dorian had never been fond of the royal plural, especially when it came to medical chit-chat. “And by ‘we,’ you mean me.”
“Doctor’s privilege.” Toshi wrote out a prescription. “And let’s give this a try. It’s an older drug, but it might prove effective.”
Dorian gestured at the folder. “Something wrong?”
Toshi shook his head. “Some elevated levels. Probably nothing, but you want me to be thorough.”
“I do, do I?”
Toshi stood. “Yes,” he said. “You do.”
DORIAN took the Sports Illustrated issue with him, and he settled into the back seat of the limo with the Super Bowl article. The number one Super Bowl scandal, it turned out, was the 2004 Janet Jackson halftime show. Evidently another singer had pulled part of Jackson’s costume off, revealing a partially cloaked breast. The incident had set off a fury of viewer outrage. Jackson was admonished. The network was fined.
A breast.
World hunger can’t make the back page of TV Guide, but an almost bare breast can destroy the morality of a nation. Dorian shook his head. No wonder democracy and Christianity had been such failures.
So Toshi knew. He hadn’t told the good doctor that the nausea and the dizziness had gotten worse. That would have just opened the door to even more tests, and, before he could stop it, Toshi would have him in a hospital bed, flat on his back.
Dorian stuffed the magazine into the seat pocket and leaned forward. “Have you driven me before?”
“I have.”
“It’s Thomas, isn’t it?”
“Kip, sir.”
Kip? What the hell kind of name was Kip? What parent in their right mind would call a child Kip?
“Do you know Rosen’s? On Bloor?”
“A very fine men’s store,” said Kip.
Kip
. Kipper. Kippy.
“I’d like to stop there.”
Toshi had found something, but the cautious son of a bitch wanted to wait for the MRI to confirm it. A benign tumour? An aneurysm? Some nasty brand of cancer? Who the hell did Toshi think he was dealing with? Some mattress salesman? A limo driver named Kippy? A dime-a-dozen rock star with an unfettered breast?
“Are you all right?”
“What?”
“You were shouting.”
Shouting? Was he? Not good. His skin felt as though it was on fire. Not good at all.
“You were driving too fast.”
“Very sorry, sir.”
The rage had passed. Now he was exhausted, raw and bruised, as though he had been in a fight. He put his hand to his forehead and discovered that he was sweating again.
DORIAN was surprised to find Robert waiting for him when he arrived at the store.
“A gentleman named Kip called to say that you were on your way.”
“Just a quick visit,” said Dorian. “I don’t need anything.”
“If need was all I sold,” said Robert, as they took the escalator to the second floor, “I’d be out of a job.”
Rosen’s had been extensively remodelled, and Dorian still wasn’t sure if he liked the new interior. Marble floors with dark wood borders, nickel-plated suit racks, and steel and bamboo tables. “Professional” is how Robert had described it. Dorian would have thought “austere” or “sleek” to be the better choice of words.
There was a small but elegant cappuccino bar near the escalator. Dorian helped himself to one of the polished wood stools.
“How have you been?”
“Fine.”
“And Mrs. Asher?”
“In Orlando.”
“Florida,” said Robert. “Many of our clients go there in the winter.”
“I don’t see the attraction,” said Dorian.
“Nor I,” said Robert, “but someone has to go.”
Florida. Dorian was sorry that the subject had popped up. They weren’t buying a home in that state, no matter how many luxury houses the real estate industry threw at them. Why was Olivia wasting her time?
“We’ve just received some new Brioni ties,” said Robert. “Enjoy the cappuccino, and I’ll bring a few over that I think you might like.”
Dorian left his drink at the bar and wandered through the suits. Zegna, Brioni, Kiton, Canali, Ford, Valentino, Kos. They were all here.
Dorian looked at a dark blue Zegna and an olive Brioni, but there was no excitement in either. There was more to see, of course. Shirts, shoes, belts, sweaters. Instead, he wandered back to the bar and finished his drink.
He was dying. That was it. Toshi didn’t need to see another MRI. He was just going through the motions. Doctors were probably taught this kind of crap at medical school. If a patient is dying, don’t tell him he’s dying. That could depress him, and depression will only worsen his condition.
It could even lead to suicide.
Tell him that further tests are needed. And when the tests come back, talk to him about the various options that he could pursue, and the new treatments that are being developed every day, and how a positive attitude is the best medicine.
Fuck!
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
“They’re not that bad,” said Robert, smiling.
“What?”
“The ties.”
“Did I say … something?”
“You did.” Robert had three ties on a black velvet tray. “But as luck would have it, we have the floor to ourselves.”
“My apologies.”
“Nonsense,” said Robert. “We have pressures. That’s why we shop.”
“I’ll take the gold one.”
“That would have been my choice as well. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”
Maybe the new interior wasn’t so bad. It was bright. It was clean. It was unemotional. Perhaps the idea was to create a space that would take nothing away from the clothes.
“I have a friend who is dying.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Robert.
A young man stepped off the escalator. He looked familiar. Television. A comedy series or a news program.
“And I was wondering,” said Dorian, as he watched the man head back to the Armani room, “what you would suggest I might buy for him to raise his spirits.”
30
IT’S A SONNY DAY IN THE NEIGHBOURHOOD.
Sonny likes to sing, especially when he is on the beach. Or in the shower.
It’s a Sonny day in the neighbourhood.
The day is warm, the sand is soft, the ocean waves go lap, lap, lap. The trunk isn’t very heavy, but Sonny switches it from one shoulder to the other and then back again on every third verse.
It’s a Sonny day in the neighbourhood.
As Sonny walks the beach, he tries to think up a plan. Sonny finds thinking up plans quite challenging, in the same way that getting the right answer on tests or remembering rules is difficult. Walking on the beach helps him think, and right now he needs all the help that he can get.
Sonny starts just below the motel and walks towards the river in time with the waves.
Lap, lap, lap.
Step, step, step.
In the good days, Sonny would walk the turtles up the beach as they came out of the ocean.
Step, step, step.
And when the babies hatched, he would walk them into the sea.
Lap, lap, lap.
It’s a Sonny day in the neighbourhood.
Those were the days of miracles and wonder. The babies would break out of the sand and run for the water.
But where were the mothers?
Wham-wham.
Why weren’t the mother turtles there when their children needed them, for as soon as the hatchlings were loosed upon the beach, the birds would fall upon them like lions to lambs.
Wham-wham, hammer-hammer.
Mayzie-bird mothers.
But not Sonny. Sonny is faithful, one hundred percent.
In the days before That One Bad Day, Sonny would strap on his tool belt. He would find a long stick. And with his hammer and his staff, he would protect his flock.
Wham-wham.
Hammer-hammer.
Just like in the stories that Dad tells.
Sonny misses walking the turtles up the beach. He misses protecting the babies. If he were a baby turtle, he is sure that he would want to be protected.
Who will protect Sonny?
Sonny shouts this at the wind and the water. He shouts this at the sand and the bleached turtle shells.
Who will protect Sonny?
Sonny is shifting the trunk from one shoulder to the other when he sees something in the sand. What is this? What is this on Sonny’s beach? Sonny puts the trunk down and moves forward cautiously.
A hole?
A hole on Sonny’s beach?
Wham-wham!
Sonny can hardly contain his excitement. There have been holes on his beach before. In the good days, tourist children and tourist dogs used to dig holes on Sonny’s beach. But this hole is different. This hole is larger. This hole is deeper.
So, who has dug this hole? All the tourist children are gone. All the tourist dogs have fled.
As Sonny walks around the hole, he realizes that here is the perfect answer to his perfect plan, and he knows that if he had thought of it earlier, he would have dug the hole himself.
Hammer-hammer.
Sonny steps into the hole and sits down. Perfect. A perfect hole for Sonny. Deep enough, but not too deep. Wide enough, but not too wide. Long enough, but not too long.
Sonny reaches up and drags the trunk across the opening of the hole so that it blots out the light.
The perfect plan.
Now all he has to do is wait.
31
BY THE TIME GABRIEL GOT BACK TO THE TRAILER, HE WAS starving. And somewhat shaken. Had Mara asked him to have sex with her? He tried to replay
the conversation, but the only thing that he could recall with clarity was the muffin.
He grabbed the cereal from the cupboard, milk and peaches from the refrigerator, a banana off the counter, and some raisins out of the bag, and dumped everything into a bowl. Ham and eggs would have been the better choice, something with protein, but what was needed right now was speed.
He had handled the moment poorly. “For procreation?” Had he actually said that? Mara had asked him if he was interested in sex, and he had said, “For procreation?”
Gabriel swallowed the bowl whole and set it to one side.
“Yes,” he should have said, “I could be interested in sex.” And why not. From a strictly pragmatic perspective, sex was just another activity. Like jogging with a friend. Or walking along the beach with a stranger you happened to meet.
And given his current plans, there wouldn’t be the need for awkward conversations around commitment.
GABRIEL had given up on most forms of intimacy long ago, had replaced them with research. Even before his father had been killed, Gabriel had been at one remove from his family, one remove from the world. He had loved his father and his mother. Especially his sister. He simply didn’t feel as though he was a part of their lives.
Nor they a part of his.
His world was a world of facts, of equations, of numbers. His family’s world was made up of connections and emotions.
GABRIEL was still hungry. He didn’t want another bowl of cereal, and there was little else in the refrigerator that could be turned into a quick meal. A lone chicken thigh was hiding in the crisper, but he wanted to save that for later. Nothing in the freezer besides ice cubes and frozen fish.
Now, there was a disgusting thought. A fish-sicle. Not even Soldier would go for that.
Speaking of the dog, where had he gone? Not that Gabriel had a hold on the animal. They weren’t friends particularly. Acquaintances. That’s what they were. Still, it would have been nice to have someone with whom he could talk.
And what about the sea people? Gabriel hadn’t thought of them much since that morning on the Apostles. The young girl he had pulled from the sea. The men and women who had followed. What had happened to them?
The sea people.
Except they weren’t. In the world of applied physics, such a thing was impossible. One human being didn’t sing other human beings up out of water. Their appearance in the high tide was unexpected, but there was a scientific answer for every anomaly.
