The cats—at the foot of the bed—and Tucker—on the rug by the bed—perked up.
Mrs. Murphy spoke for the other two: “Mom, be careful what you wish for.”
When you look back on things, they’re clear. When you’re in the middle of them, they’re a mess.” Susan cupped her hand under Harry’s elbow to walk her out to the parking lot.
“Susan, I’m not recovering from anesthesia.”
Susan dropped her hand. “Right, but that was unpleasant.”
“Damn straight.”
Wednesday, nine on the dot, Harry and Susan appeared at Dr. Jennifer Potter’s office. While Dr. Potter used Central Virginia Hospital for large, complicated procedures, she could perform simpler procedures in her office. Most patients hated the idea of being in a hospital.
The expense of the equipment she’d purchased made the young woman worry that she’d be paying those bills into her mid-fifties. The uproar over healthcare reform amplified that worry. Like many physicians, Dr. Potter considered raising prices, but so many people labored now just to make ends meet. She didn’t want to raise her rates. She figured she’d learn to live with less.
Regina MacCormack provided Harry with a list of doctors who could perform the procedure of harvesting her breast cells. In some cases, a surgeon wasn’t needed. A physician specializing in oncology, such as Cory Schaeffer, could perform it. However, Dr. MacCormack believed Dr. Potter was the quickest and the best. She always figured out the quickest way to deliver any necessary discomfort. No reason to keep anyone on the table too long.
Harry submitted to the process, and Dr. Potter liked having Susan there to support Harry. Fair wanted to be there, but Harry forbade him. For one thing, Alicia’s wonderful mare was about to foal, a late foaling. For another thing, she’d known her husband since childhood. He was more upset than she was. He didn’t need the added stress, nor did she in worrying about him later.
She had to lie down on a padded table and drop her right breast through an opening in the table, which was then adjusted to fit and hold her breast secure.
Before this, Dr. Potter smeared the spot with lidocaine and God knows what else. It tingled. Once the numbing agent took full effect, the procedure started.
It was mercifully short, but Harry sure felt the hook and snatch. There was a puncture wound but no obvious incision. A Band-Aid took care of that.
Like most horse people, Harry was tough.
Stoic or not, the body knows it is under attack. She sweated, felt a trifle woozy, but recovered as she sat up. She hadn’t eaten breakfast to prevent any possible nausea.
Dr. Potter told her she could leave, as she’d gotten a good sample from the growth. Harry liked Jennifer Potter. Everyone did.
Toni Enright—who came in to assist because Harry had helped so much on the 5K—walked them to the door. “Harry, whatever the result, you’re in good hands. I hope it’s nothing, really.”
“Me, too.”
“Thanks, Toni,” Susan said at the office door.
Once in her Volvo station wagon, Harry exhaled.
“Why don’t you let me drive?” Susan offered. “I’ve wanted to do that.”
“Thanks, Susan. I guess I’m shakier than I think, huh?”
“I don’t know if I could do it. They’d have to knock me out.”
“Oh, you could. Doesn’t last long, and I’ll tell you what, hurt like hell. I’m not doing that again.”
They switched places. Harry showed Susan how to keep her foot on the brake, push in the rectangular key, and then press a button next to that to start the engine.
“Can’t carmakers use a simple key anymore?”
“Apparently not. I hate it, too, but I love the wagon.”
They drove to a T intersection, and Susan turned right onto the two-lane highway, heading for Charlottesville.
“Don’t want to take Sixty-four?” Harry mentioned the interstate.
“No. I want to see how this handles on twisty roads.”
“You picked a good one. I like it. I never thought I’d drive a station wagon. I like your Audi, but it costs more than the Volvo. You’ve got everything on your wagon.”
“Fair was right to buy this Volvo for you. It’s a lot of car for a good price. If he’d bought you one like mine or the Mercedes wagon, you’d have had a fit. You needed a safe vehicle, a station wagon, to haul stuff but something that doesn’t gulp gas like the old F-One-fifty.”
“I like the Tahoe, but I’ll admit it isn’t good on gas. The Volvo’s center of gravity is lower, too. Hey, did I tell you about Cory Schaeffer’s Lampo?”
“Did. He’s a bit of a pompous ass.”
“What he is is a holier-than-thou liberal, and I don’t like them any more than the nuts on the far right fringe.”
“Remember how your mother used to call liberals the people to the left of Pluto? What’d she call the right-wingers?” Susan thought a moment, then smiled. “To the right of Genghis Khan.”
They both laughed, remembering Harry’s mother.
“You’re not taking me home in my own car?”
“You didn’t eat breakfast. I’m taking you to the club,” Susan said.
As they tackled waffles drenched in Vermont maple syrup, grits swimming in butter, and a thin slice of early melon, they didn’t avoid the pressing subject. Until the results came in, though, there wasn’t much to say.
Back in the wagon, Harry now driving, Susan asked, “Will you swing by Charlottesville Press?”
“Sure.”
Charlottesville Press on Harris Street stayed afloat, even with home printers. You couldn’t get married without them. Well, a Virginian could pay for the invitations to be printed by Tiffany. But Tiffany now used Crane papers more than their own, so no Tiffany watermark. What was the point? Then again, the bride’s parents, trying to save money, could print them themselves or go to someone using a laser printer. While it saved bundles, one slipped precipitously on the social scale. Much as such things shouldn’t matter, they did.
Is there a Southerner, male or female, who doesn’t hold paper up to the light to see the watermark? Probably, but neither Harry nor Susan nor their husbands fell into that lot. All of their mothers would be turning over in their graves if things were not properly done.
Susan—with two children of marriageable age, one male, one female—had so far been spared the expense of a blowout wedding. She was, however, in charge of the gold invitational banquet for the Multiple Sclerosis Foundation. The invitations had to be perfect. Perfect. The fees for the feast proved rather steep. Hence Charlottesville Press. The invitation had to match the elegance of the event held at Keswick Hall.
As they turned onto Harris Street, billows of black smoke curled upward. Even with the car windows closed, the smell of fire crept in.
Harry and Susan counted many friends among the business owners on Harris Street. Their worry was immediate.
Fire trucks blocked the way to Charlottesville Press.
“Oh, God, hope it’s not the pet store or Chuck Grossman’s business. Or Rodney,” Susan exclaimed.
Rodney was Rodney Thomas, owner of Charlottesville Press.
“Harry, we’ve got to turn around.”
“I know, but hold on one skinny minute.” Harry hit the brakes, pressed the flashing-light button, stepped out of her Volvo, and ran up to Luke Anson, an officer with the Charlottesville police whom she recognized.
“Luke.”
“Harry, turn round.”
“What’s burning?”
“Pinnacle Records. Go on, Harry. Everyone’s out of the building, even the dog.”
“Okay.” Back in the Volvo, Harry informed Susan.
Pinnacle Records housed hard copy, some of those records going back to 1919. They also had sliding metal trays in temperature-controlled vaults for CDs, floppy disks, even removed hard drives. Two years ago, Pinnacle had developed another temperature-controlled small vault for the tiny thumb drives now coming into use.