“Lamb’s great,” Sweeney said. “Thank you. This is really nice of you.”
“I eat alone much too often,” she said and moved into the kitchen.
Sweeney walked to the hearth, thought about taking the poker and stoking the logs, but found himself, instead, studying the paintings that lined the walls. They were all portraits, all done in the same style as the one in the study, some of them, maybe, done by the same artist. The house, Sweeney realized, looking at all the pale and bony faces, was a museum to the Peck gene pool. There was probably a historical register up in Daddy’s library that would trace a fairly straight bloodline of doctors and scientists. A few founders of cities and banks with maybe a hemophiliac or two dangling from the family tree.
He heard the clatter of china and then Alice backed her way into the room, pushing through the swinging door. She was carrying a serving tray that held plates, glasses of wine, and napkins full of silver. She placed the tray on the table, said, “Be right back,” and vanished again into the kitchen.
Sweeney inspected the meal. A single, overlarge lamb chop was on each plate, and he knew they’d been cut from a full rack. Each chop was drizzled with a brown glaze and accompanied by a few tiny red potatoes, three stalks of asparagus, and a spoonful of mint jelly.
Alice returned with quilted placemats and a large box of stick matches. Sweeney hadn’t seen matches like these in years. She set their places, transferred the plates and crystal from the tray to the mats, removed the tray to a sideboy, and lit two candles that rested in simple pewter holders at the center of the table.
“I hope the wine is okay,” she said.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” Sweeney said.
Alice smiled, motioned for him to sit, and said, “No, I mean, I know you’re working later.”
“Actually,” Sweeney said. “I’m off tonight. Unless you heard something different.”
“No,” she said. “I don’t make out the staff schedules.”
He couldn’t tell if she was joking. They sat down and he raised his glass to her.
“Thanks again.”
“You’re welcome,” she said. “Honestly, it’s a pleasure to have some company. Half my meals, I read patient files.”
He cut a piece of meat and put it in his mouth. It was tender but flavorless and he wondered what was the purpose of the glaze.
“This is delicious,” he said.
Alice nodded, finished chewing, and said, “Lucila is a marvelous cook.” She took a sip of wine and added, “There’s more in the kitchen.”
Sweeney speared a potato and glanced around the table for a salt or pepper shaker. There were none.
“You’ve lived here your whole life?”
“I was raised here,” nodding and sipping. “I went away for college and medical school.”
“You always knew you wanted to be a doctor?”
“It’s in the blood,” Alice said.
“I know what you mean,” Sweeney said. “My father was a druggist. That’s what he always called himself — a druggist. And my wife was one also. But the tradition comes to an end with me.”
It was a stupid thing to say and he was embarrassed it had slipped out. They gave up a few seconds of silence and drank their wine. Sweeney clinked his crystal against his plate as he set the glass back on the table.
“Well,” Alice said. “I’m in the same position.”
He looked across the table at her and she smiled. And then it dawned on her what she’d said. She brought a hand to her mouth, then took it away.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “Of course, I’m not in the same position at all. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay,” Sweeney said. “Relax.”
“That was a foolish thing to say,” she said. “What I meant was there’s no one to. .”
He started to let her struggle and realized he didn’t want that.
“No heir,” he said. “You meant that there’s no heir. No one to carry on the Peck tradition.”
She nodded, shook her head, tilted it back.
“You can see,” she said, “why I dine alone.”
“I can see,” he said, and pointed with his fork to the portraits rimming the room, “why tradition could be a concern.”
Alice smiled, and it seemed genuine and grateful. She brought her napkin up from her lap and dabbed at her lips and said, “Can we start over?”
“There’s no need,” Sweeney said. “We’re doing fine.”
Then she surprised him by saying, “So what really happened to your hands?”
He forked a stalk of asparagus and said, “Told you. I fell down in the parking lot. But in case you’re worried, I’m not going to sue.”
“You looked like you were having some difficulties this morning.”
“I’m not a morning person,” he said. “So why won’t there be any Peck heirs?”
His question was a little harsh, maybe, but it sent the right message — we both have things we don’t want to discuss. She finished the wine in her glass and said, “I should’ve brought the bottle in.”
Sweeney rose and said, “Allow me,” and Alice didn’t object. He pushed through the swinging door and into the kitchen. It was large and old. Soapstone sinks and wainscoting and bad lighting. The Merlot was sitting next to a greasy roasting pan that held the rest of the chops. He grabbed the wine, moved back into the dining room, and filled Alice’s glass to just below the brim.
He returned to his seat, topped off his glass and said, “You come up with an answer yet?”
“Nothing witty,” she said. “Just the truth.”
“And that is?”
“That the days when you could be married to medicine and raise a family on the side are gone.”
“I knew a lot of doctors back in Ohio,” Sweeney said. “And most of them were married and had kids.”
Alice shrugged. “There’s practicing medicine,” she said. “And then there’s the way the Pecks practice medicine.”
Sweeney put on a mock grimace and said, “Excuse me.” The wine made the words more sarcastic than he’d intended.
“I know what that sounds like,” Alice said. “But like my father told me on my first day of med school, obsession is a requirement.”
“And you still think Dad is right?”
“I know he’s right,” all kidding and flirting gone from her voice suddenly. “My father’s always right.”
Sweeney stayed silent, let the last words hang there, hoping she’d laugh at them. Instead, Alice continued.
“We’re not bonesetters, Sweeney. We’re out on the edge. Part of what my father and I do, maybe the most important part of what we do, is draw maps of the human mind. Our patients are helping us redefine beliefs about consciousness. Where it begins and where it ends and what it is.”
“I’m glad,” Sweeney said, “that Danny could assist you.”
It was a snide comment but she’d been running toward pompous and he didn’t like it. It made her resemble her father.
“I’m not trying to hurt you or offend you,” she said. “And I’m certainly not trying to hurt your son. But you came to us because we’re doing things that no one else in the field is doing.”
“I came to you,” Sweeney said, “because I was told you could help my son. I don’t care what you do or don’t discover in the process. And you don’t have to talk to me like I’m on some grant committee.”
“We don’t take a dime,” she said, rigid now, as if it were a point of honor, “from the federal government. Or from any private foundations. Or from the drug companies. We’re funded exclusively by patients’ fees, contributions, and the Peck Family Trust.”
He’d touched some kind of nerve so he probed a little.
“And the reason for that would be?”
She looked at him as if the answer were obvious.