Alan sat in wonder and watched Tony pacing back and forth before the board members. He was eloquent, respectful, and deferential, yet never obsequious. He made it seem as though Alan had granted them an audience out of the goodness of his heart.
There they sat, the twelve of them—ten trustees plus Alan and Tony—seated around the oblong table in this small rectangular meeting room on the hospital's first floor. A coffee urn was set up in the corner, its red light beckoning; maritime paintings by local artists depicting the North Shore broke the muted beige of the walls. All were at the same table, yet unquestionably separated into two groups: Alan and Tony were down at their end, the members of the board—two physicians and eight local businessmen who devoted their spare time to "community service"—clustered around theirs. He knew both physicians well—Lou, of course, was his former partner, and old Bud Reardon had practically run the surgery department single-handedly in the hospital's early days. Bud was showing his years, lately. Alan had noticed him limping as he came in.
Alan really didn't know the others as individuals. He didn't do business with them, didn't get involved in hospital politics, and although he belonged to the same club as most of them, he didn't spend enough time there to have more than a nodding acquaintance with them.
While none of them actually stared, they all looked at him and glanced away as if he were a stranger, as if they were trying to put some mental distance between themselves and the doctor they might have to discipline. But they didn't frighten him now. Tony was right. He had broken no laws, either civil or criminal, had done nothing that would put him outside the bylaws. They couldn't touch him. He was safe.
"What I would like to know, Mr. DeMarco," the car dealer said, interrupting Tony, "is why Dr. Bulmer thinks he needs a lawyer here today? This isn't a trial, you know."
"Precisely. I am aware of that, and so is Dr. Bulmer. And I am heartened to hear that you are aware of that, sir. In fact, I had to talk Dr. Bulmer into allowing me to speak for him today. He didn't want me here, but I insisted on coming to make sure that none of you tries to turn this little informal gathering into a trial."
The white-haired Dr. Reardon cleared his throat. "All we want is to discuss the rather peculiar publicity Dr. Bulmer's gotten lately and ask him how it started, why it keeps on going, and how come he's done nothing to discourage it."
"Dr. Bulmer is under no obligation to respond. The 'peculiar publicity' you mention is nothing of a criminal nature. He can't be expected to hold a press conference every time some—"
"I would prefer to hear Dr. Bulmer's reply from Dr. Bulmer himself," the banker said.
The other board members nodded and murmured in agreement. Tony turned to Alan.
He said, "It's up to you."
Alan felt his heart pick up its tempo as he let his eyes scan the faces of the board members. "What would you like to know?"
Lou spoke up immediately. His words were clipped, his tone frankly irritated.
"Why in God's name haven't you done or said anything to squelch the ridiculous stories about these miracle cures you supposedly perform?"
Alan opened his mouth and then closed it. He had been about to give his usual reply about not dignifying the stories by taking the trouble to deny them, then changed his mind. Why not get it out in the open? He was tired of the half-truths, the surreptitious cures, the constant tension. Why not put an end to all that and come clean? He pushed himself to speak quickly before he had a chance to change his mind.
"I haven't made any denials because the stories are true."
There—I've said it.
A dead hush fell over the room, broken only briefly by Tony's muttered, "Christ on a crutch!"
"Let me get this straight, Alan," Lou said with an incredulous, half-amused, tell-me-I'm-wrong smile on his face. "Do you mean to say that you can actually cure incurable illnesses with a touch?"
"I know it sounds nuts," Alan said with a nod, "but yes— it's been happening for…"How long had it been? He couldn't remember when it had begun. "For months."
The board members exchanged worried glances. As they began to bend their heads together to confer, Bud Reardon said:
"Alan, do you realize what you're saying?"
"Believe me, I do. And if I were in your shoes, I know I'd be looking at me just the way you are."
Alan's statement seemed to have a disarming effect on the board, but only for a moment. The consternation on their faces remained, and they all seemed to be urging an opinion from the two medical members. Alan looked over at Tony and found him glaring his way in frustration. The lawyer made a punching motion with his fist. He wasn't encouraging Alan— he was angry.
Finally there was silence. Lou spoke. "We simply can't accept what you've said, Alan. You've put us in a dreadful position with this. We thought maybe you were simply ignoring the wild stories in the hope they would go away; some of us even thought you might be letting the stories continue because of the tremendous boost the publicity gave your practice. But none of us ever even considered the possibility that you would stoop to propagate such nonsense—"
"Now just a minute!" Tony said, leaping to his feet. "Just a goddamn minute! Nobody's going to call this man a liar while I'm around. This isn't a court and I don't have to be constrained by court decorum. Anybody who calls him a liar will answer to me!"
"Now, now," said the car dealer. "There's no call for that sort of—"
"Bullshit, there ain't! When this man tells you something is so, it's so!"
Bud Reardon cleared his throat again. "I would tend to agree, Mr. DeMarco. I've known Dr. Buhner since he first came to this community—interviewed him when he applied here to the staff, in fact. And having observed him over the years, I can say that his level of care and sense of medical ethics are beyond reproach. Which leaves us with a critical and most uncomfortable question: What if Dr. Bulmer is indeed telling the truth, but only as he sees it?"
There were puzzled expressions all around Dr. Reardon, but Alan knew exactly where he was going.
"He means," Alan said to the group, "that although I may be telling the truth, I might be having delusions which lead me to honestly believe that I can cure with a touch, even though I can't."
Reardon nodded. "Exactly. Which would classify you as a psychotic."
"I can show you documentation if you—"
"I was thinking of something a little more immediate and concrete," Reardon said. He pushed back his seat, pulled off his left loafer and sock, and placed his bare foot on the table. "This has been killing me since about three a.m."
Alan saw the angry, reddened, slightly swollen area at the base of his great toe. Gout. No doubt about it.
Bud Reardon looked him in the eye. "Let's see what you can do about this."
Alan froze. He hadn't expected this. Not now. He had been certain he would be called upon eventually to prove his fantastic claim, but he had never dreamed it would be here in the conference room.
The Hour of Power—when was it scheduled to begin today? He had been out of the office for a few days so he had lost track. Damn! If only he could remember! He made some rapid calculations. Monday it had been… when? Late afternoon, about 4:00/His mind raced through a series of calculations. He would have to depend solely on those calculations, because he felt nothing when the Hour of Power was upon him.
If his calculations were correct, he could count on about thirty minutes of the Touch right now.