“How did it happen?” the specialist asked.
Llona told him.
The specialist Laughed and laughed and laughed.
“I don’t think you’re behaving in a very professional manner,” Llona said icily. ‘
“No sympathy from me, young lady! Such words on your roof! Anti-American policy! Shooting’s too good for all you people! You only got a small part of what you deserve!”
“With doctors hanging out of every Caddy on the road, I have to pick a hawk!” Llona rued aloud.
“There are no Commies in the AMA,” he assured her. “Well, we’ll just have to X-ray that fuzzy head out yours,” he added, “and see it may be one of those radical screws got knocked looser than it was.”
“Doctor; you fill me with confidence!”
For the next three hours the neurological diagnostician took X-ray pictures of Llona’s skull from every conceivable angle. “Are you sure you’re not just taking out your political pique by me with roentgens?” Llona inquired toward. the end of the session.
“Roentgens serve a purpose too, young lady. Like strontium 90 it weeds out the weak from the strong. Survival of the fittest.”
“Are you trying to cure me, or kill me?”
“Neither. I’m just trying to find out what's wrong with you. All right, I’m through now. You can leave. Make an appointment with my secretary for a week from today. By then the X-rays will be developed and I'll have had a chance to study them.”
“Well, if a V symbol shows up near my frontal lobes, don’t get your Birchers in an uproar. It's just a deviated septum. I’ve had it since I was a child.”
“Bomb Hanoi!" he snarled by way of farewell.
“Physician, heal thyself!” Llona retorted sweetly.
All the same, she was back a week later to receive the diagnosis. The doctor greeted her with a warm smile which, even given their short acquaintance, Llona judged to be out of character for him. “How is your head?” he asked solicitously.
“How is my head? That’s what I’m here to find out.”
“Your head is not right,” he told her.
“Look, I'm not interested in your political opinions!”
“I assure you, young lady, my political judgment would be much harsher! I am speaking professionally. Your head is not right!"
“What wrong with it?”
He launched into a highly technical explanation, obviously relishing the fact that he lost her halfway through it.
“What does all that mean?"
“It means you knocked loose a chunk of your brain and that’s why you have the headaches. But I can give you something for them; the only thing is that there’s nothing to do about the condition itself. I've consulted with two prominent neurosurgeons and they agree that your condition is inoperable.”
“So I guess I’ll just have to get used to walking around with my brains rattling,” Llona said philosophically.
“Not for too long.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that the loose brain matter is slowly shifting. When it encroaches on the other part of your brain—Kaput!”
“Kaput?”
“Kaput! About a year, I should say.”
“Are you telling me that I have a year to live?"
“That's right. But you won’t be in pain. The end will come quickly and you’ll be able to function quite normally until then.” ‘
“I don’t believe it!"
“Are you denigrating my professional competence?” The doctor turned nasty.
“I sure am! I used to watch that series.”
“Series? What series?”
“On TV. The very first program this quack doctor tells the hero he’s only got like maybe a year to live. And you know what?”
“No. What?”
“The series ran for three years and that doomed hero was still going strong. He’d still be alive and well today if the ratings hadn’t fallen off.”
“Very interesting.”
“So why should I believe you?”
“It doesn’t matter whether you do or not. One year. That’s all you’ve got. Then one less subversive in this country.”
“Doctor, you’re all heart!” Llona got to her feet and flounced out of his office.
But a few moments later, when she was alone in her car, the full import of her diagnosis hit her. One year to live! It didn’t seem possible. One year to live! Well, she was certainly going to cancel her old age insurance policy. One year to live! God damn that barrel anyway!
One year to live!
CHAPTER TWO
Who sez bad news travels fast? The fact is that sometimes it doesn’t travel at all. Sometimes it sticks to the tip of the tongue like congealed molasses. Sometimes its ear-y target is stopped up with the wax of other concerns. Far from zinging, bad news—sometimes—-goes into hibernation, waiting out that right moment which may never come.
So it was with Llona. When she arrived home from the doctor’s that night, the first thing she intended to do, naturally, was to fill in Archer on impending widowerhood. But she found that tragedy was no panacea for problems of communication.
“Archer,” she began, “I have something to tell you.”
“Goddammit!” Archer was violently plowing through the contents of the clothing closet in their bedroom. “Where the hell is my bowling ball?”
“It’s not in there,“ Llona told him.
“No?”
“No. You left it in the bottom drawer of your bureau. Remember?”
“Oh, yeah.” Archer walked over to the bureau, bent over, and pulled out the bottom drawer.
“Archer, I don’t know how to say this, but --”
“OWEE! OH-OH-OH!” Straightening up with the bowling ball, Archer suddenly dropped it, doubled over, and grabbed at his back, groaning his anguish.
“Oh, dear. It's your spine again, isn’t it? Archer, when will you learn to be more careful? You know you throw that vertebra out every time you bend like that.” ’
“Oh, Llona! Ooh-ooh-ooh!”
“All right now. Take it easy.” She helped him over to the bed. “Now lie down.”
“I can't lie down! Ow!”
“That’s right. I forgot. Well, then, get down on your knees and sort of lean over the side of the bed. That’s right.” Llona pulled his shirt up over his shoulders and started manipulating his spinal column. Her knowing fingers worked their way down until she felt the spot where the trouble was. She dug in her thumbs and twisted hard.
“YIIEE!”
“That should do it. Stand up now, Archer.”
He stood up. “I’ll be damned! Just fine now, Llona; Like it never happened.”
“That’s good, darling. Now, there’s something --”
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Archer said sincerely.
“Oh, darling.” Llona was really touched. “I have to tell you —“
“Did you see my bowling shoes?”
“They’re on the other side of the same drawer. Archer, what I want to tell you is--”
“Where? I don’t see them.”
Llona elbowed him aside, reached into the drawer and came up the bowling shoes. “Right here. If you weren’t careful, they’d jump up and bite you."
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Archer said again, grinning, but meaning it.
“Yes. Well, that’s what I want to talk to you about. You see --”
“Oh, by the way—-before I forget—Howie asked us over for dinner Friday night. I told him okay.”
“But it's not okay. Have you forgotten we’re going to your boss’s for bridge Friday night?”
“Damn! I did forget!”
“Well, don’t worry about it,” Llona told him. I'll call and straighten it out.”