Karen filled out the online parade permit, unrealistically overestimating, as it turned out, that twenty to thirty people would be marching.
“It would be nice to have something besides signs to attract attention” suggested O’Hare. “Some music maybe.”
“I could play my recorder,” volunteered Karen.
“You could play Semper Fi,” said Will.
“This concerns the air force,” said Rasmussen. “How about The Wild Blue Yonder?”
“Let’s not get too militaristic,” said Edna. “No offense.”
“I like El Condor Pasa,” said Karen. Simon and Garfunkel did it as If I Could. I already know how to play it.”
“You’ve got my vote,” said Suzy.”
“Yes, El Condor Pasa would be good,” said Edna.
They decided to announce the parade with a small ad in the Minot Daily News.
March Against Land-Based Missiles it read, naming the time and place, and adding, as an added attraction, music by recorder. Karen did not wish to be named.
Chapter Forty-One
The call came in the middle of the day.
“It’s the lady with breast cancer again,” said Nurse Axelson, rolling her eyes.
“Hm. Get her phone number,” said Rasmussen. “Tell her I’ll call when I get a chance, but it may take a while.”
He didn’t need the distraction of a mildly elevated heart rate—his—and its implications. He remembered his dream. He would not dash himself upon those rocks. Fortunately the concreteness and proximity of patients was all he needed to focus his mind.
At the end of the day, after everyone had left, he called her.
“Oh, Dr. Rasmussen, thank you so much. I’m sorry. I… I need to talk. Is there any way you could meet me in the lobby of my hotel?”
“Could you tell me what this is about?”
“It’s about my mind. I think… I don’t know. I just need to talk.”
“Are you in any danger?”
“I’m depressed.”
Rasmussen went through his well-rehearsed screening for suicidal thoughts, but she denied being in any danger, though he heard her muffle a few sobs.
“I’m sorry to have bothered you. I’ll be fine.”
“Wait a moment. I can’t come over tonight,” he said, adding tactically, “My wife is expecting me, but I can probably drop by tomorrow.” He said this so she would not imagine the visit to be anything other than a doctor’s house call.
“I’m so embarrassed. I don’t want to be a nuisance. I’m fine. Really. Overreaction.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
She gave him her number.
At home that night, he was consciously demonstrative. He hugged Darlene. He kissed her on the lips, fleetingly, only because she disengaged. He wondered if he were trying to inoculate himself against an infectious thought.
She looked at him curiously but said nothing about this showering of affection.
Though she sat at the table with him, sipping a glass of wine, she’d already eaten.
“That O’Hare woman’s little talk at the city council meeting raised some eyebrows,” said Rasmussen, now recalling the run-in he’d had with Earnest Schmidt.
They’d met in the parking lot after the meeting, their cars next to each other’s.
“That woman might as well be a Russian asset,” said Schmidt.
“You watch too many spy movies,” said Rasmussen.
“I’m serious. Maybe not on their payroll but think how she’s affecting morale at the base. At least I got to the video guy before he posted her little propaganda piece.”
“The meeting’s not posted? You don’t have the right to do that.”
“You’d better watch yourself, Andy. That woman’s a witch and she’s cast a spell on you.”
“Damn, Earnest. If it’s not the Russians, it’s witchcraft. Are you seeing the Devil, too?”
Schmidt opened his car door, got in, slammed it shut, rolled down the window, and leaned out.
“She can blow off steam on her own website. She’s not going to use ours.”
Dr. Rasmussen told his wife about the encounter.
“Earnest Schmidt is frightened that his contracting business is going to suffer just because his sister-in-law thinks the missiles are bad news and isn’t afraid to say so. He’s being ridiculous.”
Darlene finished her glass and poured herself another.
“It’s not completely ridiculous,” she said. “Grumman can’t be happy about it. What if they decide to send their business to some other contractor to make a statement?”
“A statement! That company is worth over fifty billion. They aren’t afraid of a little old lady saying she doesn’t like their wares.”
“What about a well-known, well-respected physician saying he doesn’t like their wares?”
From the moment he saw her this evening, Rasmussen’s wife had seemed remote. More remote than usual? A subtle distinction for which he had little reserve energy or inclination to examine.
“So what if they don’t like me. What are they going to do? Tell my patients to take care of their own sore throats or broken arms?”
“Are you really going to continue talking to people about that new missile?”
Rasmussen turned his attention to the meal, a tasty chickpea curry, averting his eyes from his wife. The silence seemed to fill the kitchen. Until now he’d thought he might make an amorous proposition later in the evening, breaking a very long moratorium on love making which she’d initiated, but it would certainly be rejected. And what’s more, he had to admit to himself, he was no longer in the mood.
“I’m not only going to keep talking about the rockets I’m going to help organize more protests. Poor Edna O’Hare is pretty worn down by the nastiness.”
“God! Andy! You’ve got to be kidding.”
He shook his head.
“Why in the world…” she began before changing direction. “It’s unseemly. You’re a family doctor, not a politician or antiwar activist. You’re above this sort of thing—or should be.”
“I’m not above nuclear war.”
“Oh, don’t be melodramatic. Nobody wants a war.”
Though fatigued Rasmussen maintained control of his frustration, of his tone of voice. In any case, he was not the self-dramatizing type.
The next day’s schedule was packed as usual. Rachel Green, whose operation for pancreatic cancer had been completed six months ago, was in for a routine check-up. She had an oncologist and a surgeon, of course, but never felt completely reassured unless she saw Dr. Rasmussen. It was he after all who had made the diagnosis based on the subtlest yellowing of her eyes and an abdominal examination and then talked her out of her plan to treat herself.
Since her neuroendocrine tumor had been slow growing, she’d wanted to try natural healing, alternative medicine, before undergoing surgery to remove the tumor.
For several visits Rasmussen had gently discouraged her from this approach. “Alternative medicine,” he explained, “means unproven.” There were no studies to show that herbs, diet, and yoga were of any benefit, but she was too frightened of surgery to listen. Finally one day, sitting next to her, with his hand on hers, he asked if she knew who Steve Jobs was.
“He’s the president of Apple,” she said.
“The chairman, yes, one of the founders of Apple, a very bright guy, but he died of cancer in 2011.”
“Oh.”
“His tumor was slow growing like yours. In fact, it was the same kind of tumor you have and like you he decided to use natural methods to treat it. But it grew over nine months, and he did eventually need surgery, but by that time his cancer was incurable. Rachel, I respect your wish to try a non-surgical approach, but after reviewing your CAT scan with Dr. Rudolpho, I agree with her that surgery is your best chance of a cure.”
She had placed her other hand on his and cried softly. A week and a half later she underwent surgery.
Here sh
e was, smiling and bubbly again, showing him pictures of her first grandchild. A sense of well-being and gratefulness suffused him. How extremely fortunate he had been to have been able to become a physician. A Rachel Green every now and then was for him one of the world’s most genuine and enduring highs.
Time slipped away. Again he was the last to finish up. When Margaret asked if he needed her, he said he’d be leaving in a few minutes.
He called Darlene. He’d be later than usual. Paperwork, he explained. He called Claudia Cummings.
The drive to the Grand Hotel was a short distance and his ruminations made it subjectively short as well. He arrived before he was ready. A house call for depression? Why had he agreed to this? He could have spoken with her on the phone.
A large chandelier hung in the hotel lobby. Where ceiling and walls met, a white cornice, like the ghost of a giant python, circumscribed the room.
Two heavy armchairs at the far end of the lobby faced the entrance over a wide expanse of nondescript olive carpeting. Claudia Cummings, in a long red skirt and short-sleeved baby blue blouse, stood to greet him.
After they demurely shook hands, she took her seat, relieving Rasmussen, who’d feared she was going to invite him to her room. The other sitting area was near the entrance, and there was no one at the reception desk, so though they were in a public space there was a semblance of privacy.
But she spoke is such a soft whisper that he had to lean toward her, elbows on knees, to hear what she said.
Handkerchief in hand, she thanked him and apologized three times for asking him to come over.
“I know you examined me, and I know I can get a mammogram and I’m planning to, but I think I’m going crazy with worry. I can’t do my work. I can’t think. I didn’t want to be a bother at the office—oh, but now here I am being a worse bother. You must think me a complete fruit cake.”
Rasmussen refrained from reaching out to touch her hand, merely nodding as she spoke. She still smelled of apples.
The elevator discharged a group of people, some of whom went to the reception desk, some to the other sitting area, some to the lounge.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m afraid I’m going to cry. I can’t do this here. You’d better go. We can talk on the phone.”
Whatever he may have envisioned on the way over here, he’d not envisioned this, a thirty second hello/goodbye.
“But,” he began and then stopped himself. He tried again. “You’re suffering.”
“Sometimes I can get control of it. I’m so ashamed. I think you should go. It’s way too public here.”
Was he surprised to hear himself say, “Perhaps we could talk in your room.”
She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief and smiled. “Oh, would you? That would be wonderful.”
Instead of the elevator, they took the stairs. She had a suite, two queen sized beds, and a large sitting area of comfortable armchairs, even a little alcove for making coffee.
“Would you like coffee or tea?” she asked as he seated himself at one end of a plush sofa.
“Nothing for me thanks.”
“Oh, I insist. Something. Decaf, herbal, something. I have to feel I’m offering something.”
He settled on an herb tea, which had a hint of bitterness so that he uncharacteristically added a half teaspoon of sugar. They sat at opposite ends of the sofa sipping their drinks.
“You know, I feel calmer already. Actually, I felt good for a few days after I saw you. I know this sounds crazy, but I think if you can reassure me one more time, I may be able to get it under control.”
As Rasmussen asked Cummings questions about past history of anxiety, family history, and a little developmental history, he felt a blossoming calmness, which unfolded into a sense of well-being and lightness.
“Sorry,” he said, “I seem to be losing my train of thought.”
She scooted next to him along the sofa and put a hand on his thigh.
“Oh, that’s alright. Why don’t you examine my breasts one more time to let me know everything is okay?”
“Well… I… I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.” She stood taking his hands and pulled. When he resisted, she spoke more firmly, “Now please get up.” He was euphoric, relaxed, his thinking vague, unfocussed. He arose from the sofa. Tingling inside, now, he was barely able to ask, “Did you put something in my tea?”
“Oh, just a little something so you wouldn’t be so tense.”
He felt too good to protest. She walked him to the bed.
“You sit here,” she said.
She removed her blouse and bra, and lay supine, her arms crossed above her head.
He put his hands on her breasts but was kissing them the next moment. She cradled his head in her arms pulling him down. “Now suck on them.” She pulled his head more firmly against her and cooed.
“Take your clothes off,” she said shortly. He removed them as if they were on fire and stripped off her skirt, panties, shoes, and socks.
“Do it,” she said unnecessarily.
Rasmussen locked her in carnal embrace but having been sexually deprived for so long and now so intoxicated and aroused, he was prematurely spent so after a few cycles the engine died. Claudia lying under him, patiently stroked his head and waited. In five minutes the machine’s piston was firm, the cylinder lubricated, the road trip restarted, with renewed energy.
“Not too fast,” she said. “Let’s take a little longer to get there. Okay?”
The driver could not hold the throttle for long, but this time Claudia also arrived, groaning, at that special place, that candied paroxysm of delight.
“Ahhh.”
And with the help of that potion, a third and longer journey was completed, this time by a horse and a rider, a configuration which Claudia, the rider, had arranged, with full cooperation of the supine horse.
In his car on the way home, Rasmussen, no longer intoxicated, thought about his ineluctable seduction. First the office visit, allowing him to see her voluptuousness for himself, so that a fantasy might develop. And second, how astutely she avoided inviting him up to her room, which might have frightened him off, instead appearing to be on the verge of a breakdown while unconvincingly saying she could handle it herself, so that he would make the suggestion. And third, doping him up with some almost magical aphrodisiac.
But he was not entirely innocent. He could have gone home. He’d wanted to go up to her room. God! He’d never been unfaithful before. He was guilty. He was fearful. And he was perplexed. Was he really so attractive that she had to have him? That didn’t seem quite right.
The fling, if that’s what it had been, was over, they’d dressed and amiably said goodnight. Without words of affection. Without a kiss. Without plans to be in touch. But as he was about to step out the door, she sighed, “God, that was good.”
He nodded.
Chapter Forty-Two
In the parking lot, at the end of his day, he was surprised to see Claudia Cummings standing by his car. Grateful that there was no one else there to witness his blush or his awkwardness, or to sense what he experienced as guilt emanating from him as if he were radioactive. But it was Ms. Cummings who was radioactive.
“Hello, Dr. Rasmussen.”
“Hello.”
“I’d like to talk with you for a moment if that’s alright.”
“Uh. Really. Maybe it would be better if you made an appointment.”
“Oh, I think we can take care of this now. It’s about my anxiety. I…”
An uncomfortable warmth arouse from within him. Whatever she wanted to say this was not the time or place to say it. His mind raced. Would she say she loved him? God! Would she want him to leave his wife? Would she accuse him of taking advantage of a patient? Was she bringing a lawsuit against him? She’d seduced him, but he’d gone along with it, hadn’t he? Yes and no. There was nothing to do but wait.
“I think I would be so much better if you weren’t going to march in that little
protest parade at the air force base. I wouldn’t want my doctor to be accosted by an angry crowd. You know how violent some of those people can be.”
Completely ridiculous but he’d best not say so. At least not in those words. He was frightened. This woman might be as dangerous as the character in Fatal Attraction who stalks the man with whom she’s had a one-night stand.
“Listen, Claudia,” he began, calling her by her first name though he would have preferred the distance—which no longer existed—that a surname offered.
“There’s no danger to me, though I appreciate your concern. It’s going to be a non-provocative short walk and that’s it. I really do have to get going. I’m late for dinner.”
“Well, I’ll still worry my little heart out if I know you’re exposing yourself to danger. Please don’t go.”
His fear now had a tincture of anger admixed.
“I’m committed to this. I have to go.”
“But you don’t really believe that nonsense about the missiles so you shouldn’t back it up by appearing in that parade. You’re well respected. People look up to you.”
“What does this have to do with your fear of breast cancer? Or you’re having drugged me in your hotel room.”
“Oh, sweetie, wasn’t it good though?”
“Claudia, what’s going on?”
Softly she answered, “I would be very upset if you marched in that parade. That’s what’s going on. Would you please tell me you won’t go?”
“Don’t you understand, I can’t do that. Look, I have to go home.” He removed his key fob from his pocket and pushed the button to unlock the car. The click seemed unusually loud in his ears. When he grabbed the door handle, Claudia put the palm of her hand firmly on the door.
“Dr. Rasmussen, I can’t let you go until you promise me you won’t march in that parade.”
“This clearly doesn’t have anything to do with your anxiety, does it?”
“It certainly does. My anxiety is so high that I might have to tell your wife about it. Maybe she would have some sympathy for me. What do you think?”
Shadows Page 17
