I woke at seven, had a cup of coffee while I read the paper, and then headed over to Santa Teresa Fitness for my Wednesday workout. I was feeling stronger and the two days of jogging had left my legs aching pleasantly. The morning was clear, not yet hot, the sky was blank as a canvas being prepared for paint. The parking lot at the gym was almost full and I snagged the one empty space. I spotted Bobby's car two slots over and I smiled, looking forward to seeing him.
The gym was surprisingly populated for the middle of the week, with five or six two-hundred-and-eighty-pound guys lifting weights, two women in tights on the Nautilus equipment, and a trainer supervising the workout of a young actress whose rear end was spreading out like slowly melting candle wax. I caught sight of Bobby doing bench presses on a Universal machine near the far wall. He'd apparently been there for a while because his T-shirt was ringed with sweat and his blond hair had separated into damp strands. I didn't want to interrupt him so I simply stashed my gym bag and and got down to business myself.
I started my workout with some bicep curls, using dumbbells with hardly any weight, beginning to concentrate as I warmed up. By now, I knew my routine and I had to fight a certain mounting impatience. I'm not a process person. I like goals and closure, the arrival instead of the journey itself. Repetition makes me rebellious. How I manage to jog from day to day I'm never sure. I proceeded to wrist curls, mentally leaping ahead through my routine, wishing I was at the end of it instead of two exercises in. Maybe Bobby and I could have lunch again if he was free.
I heard a clatter and then a thump and looked up in time to see that he'd lost his balance and stumbled against a stack of five-pound plates. It was clear he hadn't hurt himself, but he seemed to catch sight of me for the first time and his embarrassment was acute. He flushed, trying to scramble to his feet again. One of the guys at the next machine leaned over casually and gave him an assist. He steadied himself self-consciously, waving aside any further help. He limped over to the leg-press machine, his air brusque and withdrawn. I went on working out as though I hadn't seen anything, but I kept a discreet eye on him. Even at that distance, I could see that his mood was dark, his face tense. A couple of people sent looks in his direction that spoke of pity, veiled as concern. He mopped at his chin, his attention turned inward. His left leg was going into muscle spasms of some sort and he clutched at his knee with frustration. The leg was like a separate creature, jumping fitfully, defying containment or control. Bobby groaned, pounding angrily at his own flesh as though he might subdue it with his fist. I struggled with an impulse to cross the room, but I knew it would only make things worse. He'd been pushing himself and his body was vibrating with fatigue. Just as suddenly as it had begun, the spasm seemed to fade. He dashed at his eyes, keeping his head low. As soon as he was able to walk again, he snatched up a towel and headed for the locker room, abandoning the rest of his regimen.
I hurried through the rest of my workout and showered as quickly as I could. I expected to find his car gone, but it was still parked in the slot where I'd seen it. Bobby sat with his arms encircling the steering wheel, his head resting on his arms, his shoulders convulsing with dry, hacking sobs. I hesitated for a moment and then approached the car on the passenger side. I got in and closed the door and sat there with him until he was done. I didn't have any comfort for him. There wasn't anything I could do. I had no way to address his pain or his despair and my only hope was to let him know by my presence that I did feel for him and I did care.
It passed by degrees, and when it was over, he dried his eyes with a towel and blew his nose, keeping his face averted.
"You want to go have some coffee?"
He shook his head. "Just leave me alone, O.K.?" he said.
"I got time," I said.
"Maybe I'll call you later."
"All right. I'll go ahead and take care of some business and maybe we can connect up this afternoon. You need anything in the meantime?"
"No." The tone was dull, his manner listless now.
"Bobby-"
"No! Just get the fuck away from me and leave me alone. I don't need your help."
I opened the car door. "I'll check back with you," I said. "Take care."
He reached over and grabbed the door handle, slamming it shut. He started the engine with a roar, and I stepped aside, as he backed out of the slot with a squeal of tires and shot out of the parking lot without a backward glance.
That was the last I ever saw of him.
Chapter 9
The Pathology Department at St. Terry's is located below ground in the heart of a maze of small offices. Miles of corridors branch out in all directions, connecting the non-medical departments charged with the actual running of the facility: maintenance, housekeeping, engineering, plant operations. Where the floors above are renovated and tastefully done, the decor down here runs to brown viny! tile and glossy paint the color of vanished bones. The air smells hot and dry and certain open doorways reveal glimpses of ominous machinery and electrical ducts as big as sewer pipes.
There was a steady flow of pedestrian traffic that day, people in hospital uniforms, as pale and expressionless as residents of an underground city, starved for sunlight. The Pathology Department itself was a pleasant contrast: spacious, well lighted, handsomely appointed in royal blue and gray, with fifty to sixty lab technicians working to accommodate the blood, bone, and tissue specimens that filtered down from above. The computerized equipment seemed to click, hum, and whir: efficiency augmented by an army of experts. Noise was muted, telephones pinging daintily against the artificial air. Even the typewriters seemed to be muffled, recording discreetly the secrets of the human condition. There was order, proficiency, and calm, the sense that here, at least, the pain and indignation of illness was under control. Death was being held at bay, measured, calibrated, and analyzed. Where it had claimed a victory, the same crew of specialists dissected the results and fed them into the machinery. Paper poured out in a long road, paved with hieroglyphics. I stood in the doorway for a moment, struck by the scene. These were microscope detectives, pursuing killers of another order than those I hunted down.
"May I help you?"
I glanced over at the receptionist, who was watching me.
"I'm looking for Dr. Fraker. Do you know if he's here?"
"Should be. Down this aisle to the first left, then left again and you can ask somebody back there."
I found him in a modular compartment lined with bookshelves, furnished with a desk, a swivel chair, plants, and graphic art. He was tipped back in his chair, his feet propped up on the edge of his deck, leafing through a medical book the size of the Oxford English Dictionary. He had a pair of rimless bifocals in one hand, chewing on one of the stems as he read. He was substantially built-wide shoulders, heavy thighs. His hair was a thick, silvery white, his skin the warm tone of a flesh-colored crayon. Age had given his face a softly crumpled look, like a freshly laundered cotton sheet that needs to be starched and ironed. He wore surgical greens with matching booties.
"Dr. Fraker?"
He glanced up at me and his gray eyes registered recognition. He pointed a finger. "Bobby Callahan's friend."
"That's right. I wondered if I could talk to you."
"Sure, absolutely. Come on in."
He got to his feet and we shook hands. He indicated the chair near his desk and I sat down.