“Many. If you’re talking about somebody else, why are you talking to me? And if you’re talking about me, what’s it all about?”
“I’m talking about you.”
“You think I have VD?”
“You’re a suspect.”
“And why’s that?”
“Your name came up in connection with another case.”
Joe sniffed. “Another case, huh?”
“We have to follow all leads.”
“Somebody with VD mentioned me as a likely prospect?”
“Suspect.”
“Who?”
“That has to remain confidential. The Board has to protect all cases, or they wouldn’t cooperate. You can understand that.”
“Not quite. What if you’re wrong? What if I’m not ‘another case’?”
“We have to follow all leads. It’s the law. I’m just doing my job.”
Joe sniffed. “I’ll put it another way. What if this is a dirty trick, somebody’s idea of a joke?”
“It’s no joke.”
“I agree. I’ll put it another way. Has the Board ever been sued?”
“Sued?”
“For causing people needless, grievous embarrassment?”
“It can’t be helped.”
“Can’t, huh? Why not write a letter? What’s wrong with that?”
“Some people wouldn’t answer a letter.”
“O.K. Then go and see ’em. Why come out here and throw your weight around? Some people would feel insulted, as I do, but wouldn’t be so polite. The Board could be sued. You could get your ass kicked. I’m surprised it hasn’t happened before now, if it hasn’t.”
“I am authorized to inform you that you are suspected of having a venereal disease, and that you have forty-eight hours to provide the Board with medical proof to the contrary.” Mr Barnhart then got up with his briefcase and left his card on the edge of Joe’s desk. “What’s wrong with your hand?”
“Thumb,” Joe said. “Ulcerations.”
After the young man departed, which he had immediately, without a word, Joe sat on at his desk, wondering Who?
So that evening, by appointment, Joe visited Dr Wylie. After an X ray was taken of Joe’s thumb — he wouldn’t have to wear the splint but would have to be careful — he stripped down to his shorts and was given a physical.
“That’s it,” Dr Wylie said, blowing smoke in Joe’s face. “Get dressed, for God’s sake.”
“What about VD?”
“What about it?”
“I thought I’d be tested for it.”
“Whyn’t you say so?”
“I thought, the way things are today, it was part of having a physical.”
“You thought wrong. If you’re worried about syph, it’ll show up in your blood test. You worried about clap, or what?”
“No, I just want medical proof that I’m A.O.K.”
“A.O.K.? You? You want to see A.O.K., look at me.” Dr Wylie, that evening, wore overall cutoffs and cowboy boots (with, Joe thought, elevator heels), and as before was bare above the waist except for his lavaliere.
“I want medical proof I haven’t got VD, in case I decide to become a chaplain.”
“Do that, you should have your head examined.” Dr Wylie kicked a metal stool over to where Joe was standing, and sat down. “O.K., let’s see what you’ve got. Whip it out.”
Joe exposed himself, saying, “If this and the other — the blood test — are negative, would you put it in writing?”
“Sure, for the Commander in Chief. Milk it down.”
Joe did as directed, wondering again, but more poignantly than ever before, who had caused him this needless, grievous embarrassment.
“Again.”
Joe did as directed, wondering again, Who?
Dr Wylie said, “What you should be worrying about is this corporation of yours. It’ll only get worse, you know. You guys are always going on about the primrose path and the wages of sin. Boy, this is it. Give the horse any thought?”
“Horse? Oh, yes. Some.” Humor the man.
“One more time.”
Joe did as directed.
“Clean as a whistle. Get dressed.” Dr Wylie turned away in disgust and lit a cigarette. “Tell you what. The wife’s home, and she hates the Catholic Church, but we’ll go up to my den and have a few. I’ll show you my horse. Maybe let you try it on walk or canter.”
“Thanks a lot, but some other time,” Joe said, wondering again, Who?
27. AUGUST
THEY TOOK A few nights off from their mendicancy to watch the Democratic Convention on TV. This was educational for Bill, with Joe there to tell him who was who, what was what, and to comment on the fashions of the day — these at an all-time low. “Walter Cronkite’s wearing a four-in-hand bib.” “Get a load of the pimp sideburns on Sander Vanocur.” By the end of the second night, the realities of political life, the effects of original sin, were emerging in Chicago, and Joe, who’d been hoping that a groundswell would somehow develop for Gene, was drinking more than usual (Bill too, not, however, the same thing) and feeling mean. “Is this the best we can do?” he’d inquire from time to time, and exclaim, “Get those hillbillies out of the government!” His stock of booze, which he’d let run down — wisely or unwisely, depending on when he thought about it, in the morning or in the evening — had been liquidated the second night. The next morning, with a head of lead, he had resolved to swear off, or anyway cut down, if only for Bill’s sake. So that evening they were drinking beer.