Cutter's Trial

by Allen Wyler

  22

  “What do you think?” Alex asked Lisa.

  Lisa pushed up off her haunches after inspecting the long cupboard space under the master bathroom twin sinks and vanity. “Plenty of storage, that’s for sure. More than we’ll ever need.” She brushed off her hands. “Can see why you zeroed in on this place. Certainly is spacious.”

  He was pleased she approved of his selection. “You agree we should buy it?” He was prepared to make a full-price offer to ensure they got the house. Buying the home long-distance would present unique problems.

  She surveyed the bathroom one more time. “I do. Let’s go tell Betty.”

  “Good choice,” Betty said, her words echoing slightly off bare living room surfaces. The home carried a faint smell of mildew, probably from months of being uninhabited and closed up without benefit of air conditioning. “A perfectly respectable neighborhood for a young doctor and his wife. An additional benefit y’all will appreciate is being only a couple miles from First Pres.”

  “First Pres?” asked Lisa, raising her eyebrows questioningly.

  Betty reached out, touched her arm in a motherly gesture. “Oh Miss Lisa, sorry. Keep forgetting y’all are new to town. It’s just that everybody refers to First Presbyterian as First Pres. That’s where y’all will want to attend Sunday services and midweek Bible study.”

  Interesting. “Why’s that?” Alex asked.

  Betty seemed shocked to be asked, as if some things were self-evident. “Well, ’cause that’s where all the socially prominent folk—the ones you’ll want to be on a first-name basis with—attend.” She flashed them a satisfied smile, as if this golden nugget of information was just one additional benefit of choosing her as their real estate agent.

  Lisa raised an eyebrow at Alex, demurring to him.

  Betty obviously caught the exchange. “Y’all are Christian, aren’t you?”

  Again Lisa nodded for Alex to answer. He hesitated, momentarily taken aback by the in-your-face question. Although mentally prepared to encounter more overt religiosity than what they were used to back home, the assumption triggered resentment. Ignore it. Move on.

  “We were married in an Episcopal church,” he said. True. But only because they decided a traditional ceremony bestowed a solemnity to marriage vows that a simple civil ceremony could not. Even so, it had been a modest service attended only by close family members and a few friends.

  Laughing, Betty patted Lisa’s arm again. “Oh, well, Episcopalians count too, dear. After all, we’re all God’s children. Us Christians, that is.”

  Did that mean Buddhists, Muslims, and all other non-Christians were summarily excluded from the God’s Children Club? Again, he said nothing.

  The momentary tension gone, Betty continued. “And be sure y’all attend First Pres Bible study, ’cause that’s where you really get to know your kind of people.”

  Your kind of people? What the hell is that supposed to mean?

  From the corner of his eye, he caught Lisa roll her eyes.

  “Y’all don’t even have to be Presbyterian to attend. We embrace all Christian denominations same way we accept all our southern teams. No discrimination there.” She let out a short laugh. “Y’all should see us during football season. Lord have mercy! If Ole Miss, ’Bama, the Vols—any of our teams—play an outsider, we all get together and root for us rebels. Go Ole Miss! Go Vols! Have us a good old time with that.” She seemed momentarily engrossed in a memory, perhaps of days when her husband lived. Then, just as quickly, she snapped back. “Y’all love football, don’t ya?” Not opening it for debate, but as if validating their bona fides for buying in The Gardens.

  What a strange conversation.

  “We do,” he said truthfully, stopping short of adding he preferred collegiate games while Lisa preferred the NFL. Not wanting to chitchat with Betty any longer than necessary, Alex glanced through the window at the manicured landscape. “I’ll need to buy a lawn mower and hedging sheers.”

  “For heaven’s sake, what for?” Betty asked, aghast. “Y’all can’t possibly think of doing your own yard work. That just wouldn’t be proper for a young professional. I have an excellent yard man. He’s black, but he’s one of them you can trust. I’ll pass along his number soon as y’all move in. You tell him Betty told you to call, and I guarantee he’ll do y’all proud.”

  Lisa must have seen Alex fighting back a remark, for she gave him an almost imperceptible headshake.

  With a sigh, Alex relaxed into the soft leather wingback, his eyes wandering the rich wood paneling and a series of gilt-framed paintings of what probably represented an English fox hunt: traditionally dressed riders atop horses, hounds at their hoofs, rolling green hills in the background. A waxing and waning hint of rich cigar smoke floated in the air. Small, traditional brass wall sconces with green shades cast soft, vertical swaths of light on the dark wood. Plush, soft carpet underfoot.

  Too amped from house buying, Lisa and Alex decided it’d be fruitless to retire to their hotel room, so they decided instead to enjoy a glass of wine in the lobby bar and rehash the events of the day. Earlier that evening they’d dined at Justine’s again with Garrison and Anne Majors.

  “You notice that none of the houses we saw was contemporary?” Alex said.

  “I did. Everything here is so traditional. All the furniture, too. Not a piece of ours will fit in here.”

  “I know.” He disliked the “cutesy homey” touches so prevalent in the houses they’d toured. Plaques with “Bar” printed in 1880s-style lettering above wet bars, or the “God Bless This Home” embroideries. Then there was all the brass: lamps, free-standing toilet paper holders, door handles, cabinet pulls, on and on. He and Lisa favored contemporary styles in brushed nickel or stainless steel. “And what’s with all the claw-foot bathtubs? Doesn’t anyone take a shower?”

  “Guess they use the bathtub for that.”

  “How does that work?” He held up a hand. “Yeah, I know. You pull the shower curtain around the tub, but still—a ton of water must splash on the floor.”

  She laughed, inspecting her wine, rocking the glass to check the “legs.” “That’s one of the things I like about the new house; it has a couple showers.”

  “Yeah, but they’re still just tubs with three walls around them rather than a real shower stall. Did you notice none of them have a light? I stepped in and pulled the curtain closed, and it was like being in the black hole of Calcutta.”

  “I know, I know.” She rolled her eyes. “Notice the kitchen wallpaper?” She stuck a finger in her open mouth. “That’s the first thing to go.”

  Alex nodded. “How about the knotty pine in the study? I’ll paint over that with a neutral color, maybe a taupe.” He’d been considering ways of making the interior more open and inviting.

  “Almost every piece of furniture other than our bed will have to be replaced sooner or later.”

  Yikes. “That can come later. Before we do anything, we need to settle in and see what we can do with what we already have.” The thought of what it would cost to furnish their new home was unnerving. Since being fired, his priorities had changed dramatically. Now, his foremost goal was to completely free them from any debt. Once he’d done that, he’d begin to build a nest egg. Never again would he be placed in such a financially vulnerable position. Now, financial freedom trumped all other career goals.

  “You okay with all this?” he asked. “Buying the house and moving here?”

  Lisa swirled the wine around the interior of her glass, then held it up to the light to inspect its color. “Think so. Guess we’ll find out soon enough. Speaking of which … what’d you think of Betty?”

  He wondered if this was queuing up to be an I-told-you-so moment. “Not sure exactly what you’re asking. She found us a house, so that’s okay. Why?”

  “You know what I’m talking about—the whole being-a-Christian thing. I saw your reaction.”

  He had admittedly been saddened by their conversation
with Betty. “Guess you were right the first time we discussed this. This is the Bible Belt, so guess I should’ve expected something like that. But I wasn’t prepared to hear it so strongly. Thought maybe in this day and age, things would be different. Obviously that’s not the case. Doesn’t mean I like it.”

  Lisa watched another woman walk out of the bar, probably critiquing her dress. “I know. I found it off-putting too. I mean, what would she have done if I said we were Muslim or Buddhist?”

  Alex chuckled. “Probably would’ve stroked.”

  “Does this mean we’re going to have to become SEC fans?”

  “If we want to fit in.”

  “Could be awkward if, say, Ole Miss plays a PAC 8 team.”

  She was right, Alex knew. No matter how long they might live here, they’d remain loyal to their West Coast teams. “Guess we just don’t invite anyone over to watch the game.”

  “True.”

  Alex raised his glass in a toast. “To new beginnings.” And for the first time, he wondered if Weiner may have done him a favor by forcing him from the nest. Perhaps. But the way it had been done, the deceit, could never be forgiven. Some day, in some way, he would return the favor.

  “To us and a fresh start.” Their glasses clinked.

  23

  “Dinner’s ready,” Alex called after pushing through the back door with a red-and-white box of fried chicken and slaw from a fast-food chain off Central Avenue, only a couple miles from their new home. He heard the clatter of Natalia’s nails on hardwood as she scrambled for traction, and visualized her puppy paws going all-out, her body staying stationary. She came skidding around the corner, followed a moment later by Lisa. Lisa’s work shirt was paint spattered, but her jeans seemed to have avoided even one smear. She wiped her hands on a rag before stuffing it back into her rear pocket. Alex knelt down to give Nat some behind-the-ear scratches. In return she gave him several wet doggie kisses. He opened the door for her to go out into the back yard.

  “Great timing. Just finished the window trim.”

  Alex set the boxed chicken on the table while Lisa brought two glasses from a cabinet. “Real plates or paper?” Before the moving truck arrived, they’d been using paper plates.

  Both of them dropped into chairs at the kitchen table, exhausted. According to plan, they had arrived three days before the moving truck’s scheduled delivery. They’d devoted the intervening days to stripping wallpaper and painting rooms. Nights were spent in Dr. Garrison Major’s guesthouse. At the risk of offending their gracious hosts, they declined to dine with them for fear of being an imposition and a nuisance. Plus, they wanted to orient as quickly as possible to the new city before Alex became swamped with work. Alex believed if you were forced to find restaurants and stores, you learned the geography more quickly.

  The moving truck had arrived that morning, and by afternoon they’d assembled their bed and unpacked just enough clothes and kitchenwares to make the house livable until they could completely unpack. The other goal for the day had been to finish painting. By the next morning all the fresh surfaces would be dry and the house aired out. Tonight would be their first in the new home, a milestone marking the beginning of a new life for them.

  “We’ll use paper,” Lisa replied. “The thought of cleaning up dishes makes me ill. In fact, once we finish dinner, I think I’m going to fill the tub and soak for an hour or two. My muscles haven’t ached so much since that aerobics class I took. Did you remember to pick up a bottle of wine?”

  “Does the Pope shit in the woods?” He triumphantly produced a bottle of cabernet from one of the bags. “I did. But they didn’t have much I recognized. We’re going to have to scout out a good wine store.”

  He filled the two glasses with tap water, brought them to the table, and grabbed two wine glasses from a moving box while Lisa opened the container of slaw. They divvied up the two plastic forks and napkins that came with the chicken. Famished, he grabbed a chicken leg and started in.

  They ate ravenously, not bothering with the nicety of dinner conversation. With most of the chicken and a good portion of the slaw devoured, Lisa sat back to lick her fingers. “Boy, was I a piggy at the trough! Didn’t realize how hungry I was until I caught a whiff of the food.”

  Alex licked his fingers too. “Oh man! Make that two piggies at the trough.”

  They leaned back in their chairs and laughed. After a moment of silence, Alex started in on the corkscrew. “One more week before I officially start. I was toying with the idea of driving in tomorrow afternoon to attend teaching conference, learn how they run things here. You mind?”

  She dabbed her lips again with the napkin. “Not at all. That actually works out well because Betty invited me to a luncheon at a friend’s home. I was going to ask if you mind being on your own for a few hours.” She glanced around, then continued. “Slowly we’re getting things in shape. Wouldn’t hurt if we both get a break from this place. At least now we know about that Kroger.” The supermarket anchored a small mall about a half mile outside the Central Avenue gates to The Garden.

  The phone rang and Alex picked it up.

  “Alex?”

  He didn’t recognize the voice. “Yes?”

  “What the fuck did you do with the data in your lab?”

  Ah, Dick Weiner. Alex hesitated. How to answer … He wouldn’t put it past Weiner to be recording the call. Besides, there was no upside to admitting anything. “What data?”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about. All the lab books. Karen claims they were in the lab the day before you left.”

  “Are you suggesting I took them?”

  “Who else would do that?”

  “If you remember, you changed the locks to my office and my lab. How the hell could I get them?” When in doubt, deny, deny, deny.

  That seemed to slow Dick up. “Fair warning, Cutter. Return them.”

  “Or what?”

  Weiner hung up.

  Alex found the Baptist Central main auditorium after several minutes of wandering the first-floor halls. Two of the six doors remained open, so he slipped in silently. Alex figured the room could comfortably seat two hundred people. He chose a seat toward the back, settled in, and glanced around. The wedge-shaped room with dark, wood-paneled walls funneled to a small stage on which sat a multi-panel X-ray view box. The first two rows of seats were occupied with residents, nurses, and a handful of attending physicians. Reynolds sat on the center aisle with Garrison directly behind him.

  A resident slapped the last of a series of CTs in the blackened view box, then flipped on the switch to light one panel before turning to the group. “Next case is a forty-five-year-old, right-handed black female with a history of bilateral, bitemporal headaches.”

  After the resident finished presenting the patient’s history, Reynolds turned to scan the audience for candidates to question, noticed Alex in the back of the room, and said, “Dr. Cutter, come on up here next to me. Group, I want y’all to meet Dr. Cutter, the surgeon who I mentioned is fixin’ to join us.”

  Embarrassed at the attention, Alex walked down to the front row. As he was just about to sit, Reynolds said, “Before y’all sit down, Alex, take a look at that scan and tell us your thoughts on this patient and how y’all would handle it.”

  Alex stepped closer to the view box and flicked on all the panels, backlighting the CTs that included a normal series alongside a contrast-enhanced series. Contrast enhancement occurs when an X-ray opaque material is infused into the blood stream to help visualize the vessels. Normally, the contrast agent remains in the vessels, but inflammation from tumors or infection allows it to cross into brain tissue, making the abnormalities much more apparent. Alex suspected Reynolds was using the opportunity to evaluate his clinical judgment. Being trained by Waters, and given Waters’s reputation as a conservative surgeon, Reynolds undoubtedly wanted to assess the level of Alex’s conservatism.

  Alex tapped his index finger on the obvious tumor. “This tumor i
s likely a meningioma for the following reasons,” he said, slipping into teaching mode. “First, it seems to originate from the falx as seen by the flat surface here along the falx.” He pointed with his index finger. “The bulk of the mass pushes into the mesial frontal lobe. In a woman this young, you need to worry that it might be more aggressive than meningiomas usually found in older females. As you can see by the contrast enhancement,” moving his finger to the same view in the enhanced series, “slight edema is in the brain immediately adjacent to the tumor. This isn’t a good sign.”

  He turned to the group. “There are two—actually three—ways to deal with these tumors. First, watch and wait. Repeat the scans every six months to see if it grows. The downside is you’re wasting time if it is aggressive. The bigger the tumor, the more difficult the removal and the less likely the odds of achieving total resection. It’s important to keep in mind that these tumors can only be cured by total resection. The second option is to radiate it. The downside, of course, is that radiation won’t produce a cure, because they don’t shrink and go away. And, of course, there’s always the risk that the radiation will only piss it off.” A few of the residents chuckled at that. “That happens, you’ve made things worse. The third option is to go after a total removal now while the chances of cure are best. Bottom line is that if this were my mother, I’d push for surgery.”