rub it in to me.”
He splashed more scotch into his glass and downed it immediately.
“Frank, please don’t have any more to—”
“He’s a vindictive son of a bitch, Lisette. Beneath that mellow, do-gooder image of his, he’s as vindictive as they come. And whether he admits it or not, he’s got a score to settle for all those years he had to watch from the stands while everyone was cheering for me. He’s got points he wants to make with Mom, with the Judge, with everyone in this damn town—even you.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Yeah? Well, we’ll see what’s crazy.” He stumbled against the side of the sofa and then dropped heavily onto it. “He can have this place. The hospital, the Judge, Leigh Baron, all of it except you—but only when I say so. Only after I’ve done what I’ve set out to do. Only after I’ve …”
His eyes closed and his head slumped to one side. In seconds, he was snoring.
Lisette took a blanket and drew it over him. It was the liquor talking. Nothing more. By morning it would be a wonder if Frank remembered anything of what he had just said. He loved his brother. Just as he loved her and the twins.
He just wasn’t very good at showing it, that was all.
There was something tearing at him—something that had nothing to do with Zack.
Only after I’ve done what I set out to do
. What in God’s name had he meant by that?
Silently vowing to do whatever she could to get her husband through whatever it was that had him so on edge, Lisette turned and headed back up the stairs.
5
The Carter Conference Room of Ultramed-Davis, refurbished by Ultramed but originally donated to the hospital by the paper company, was a large, all-purpose space, with deep-pile carpeting, a speakers table and podium at one end, and seating for close to one hundred. Metal-framed, full-color lithographs of significant moments in medical history lined the room on either side, and photographic portraits of past presidents of the medical staff filled the rear wall by the door. Beneath each portrait was a small gold plaque engraved with the officers name, year of birth and year of death. Beneath those photographs of past presidents still living, the date of birth had already been engraved, followed by a hyphen and a ghoulishly expectant space.
It was seven-thirty in the morning of Wednesday, July 3. The medical staff usually met on the first Thursday of the month, but because of the holiday, the staff had voted to hold its July session on Wednesday instead. The heated debate on the subject, typical for any group of MDs, had taken up more than half of its June meeting.
Forty physicians, nearly the whole staff of Ultramed-Davis, milled about the room, some exchanging pleasantries or bawdy stories, others obtaining “curbside consultations” from various specialists. A few merely stood by a window, staring wistfully at the brilliant summer day they would never have the opportunity to enjoy.
Zack Iverson sat alone toward the back of the room, mentally trying to match the faces and demeanors of various doctors with their medical specialties (gray crew cut, red bow tie … pediatrician; forty-four long sportcoat, thirty-four-inch waist, slightly crooked nose … orthopedist), and musing on his first two days in practice.
They had gone quite smoothly, with a number of consultations in the office and several in the hospital. He had even spent a brief stretch in the operating room, assisting one of theorthopedists in the removal of a large calcium deposit that had entrapped a young carpenters right ulnar nerve at the elbow.
Several times each day, he had visited with Annie, who was progressing reasonably well in the coronary unit. He had also discharged old Chris Gow after a day and a half of good nursing care and after arranging for social services to help him get medicare coverage, physical therapy, and one meal a day at home. Contrary to Wilton Marshfield’s dire prediction, there had been no
He splashed more scotch into his glass and downed it immediately.
“Frank, please don’t have any more to—”
“He’s a vindictive son of a bitch, Lisette. Beneath that mellow, do-gooder image of his, he’s as vindictive as they come. And whether he admits it or not, he’s got a score to settle for all those years he had to watch from the stands while everyone was cheering for me. He’s got points he wants to make with Mom, with the Judge, with everyone in this damn town—even you.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Yeah? Well, we’ll see what’s crazy.” He stumbled against the side of the sofa and then dropped heavily onto it. “He can have this place. The hospital, the Judge, Leigh Baron, all of it except you—but only when I say so. Only after I’ve done what I’ve set out to do. Only after I’ve …”
His eyes closed and his head slumped to one side. In seconds, he was snoring.
Lisette took a blanket and drew it over him. It was the liquor talking. Nothing more. By morning it would be a wonder if Frank remembered anything of what he had just said. He loved his brother. Just as he loved her and the twins.
He just wasn’t very good at showing it, that was all.
There was something tearing at him—something that had nothing to do with Zack.
Only after I’ve done what I set out to do
. What in God’s name had he meant by that?
Silently vowing to do whatever she could to get her husband through whatever it was that had him so on edge, Lisette turned and headed back up the stairs.
5
The Carter Conference Room of Ultramed-Davis, refurbished by Ultramed but originally donated to the hospital by the paper company, was a large, all-purpose space, with deep-pile carpeting, a speakers table and podium at one end, and seating for close to one hundred. Metal-framed, full-color lithographs of significant moments in medical history lined the room on either side, and photographic portraits of past presidents of the medical staff filled the rear wall by the door. Beneath each portrait was a small gold plaque engraved with the officers name, year of birth and year of death. Beneath those photographs of past presidents still living, the date of birth had already been engraved, followed by a hyphen and a ghoulishly expectant space.
It was seven-thirty in the morning of Wednesday, July 3. The medical staff usually met on the first Thursday of the month, but because of the holiday, the staff had voted to hold its July session on Wednesday instead. The heated debate on the subject, typical for any group of MDs, had taken up more than half of its June meeting.
Forty physicians, nearly the whole staff of Ultramed-Davis, milled about the room, some exchanging pleasantries or bawdy stories, others obtaining “curbside consultations” from various specialists. A few merely stood by a window, staring wistfully at the brilliant summer day they would never have the opportunity to enjoy.
Zack Iverson sat alone toward the back of the room, mentally trying to match the faces and demeanors of various doctors with their medical specialties (gray crew cut, red bow tie … pediatrician; forty-four long sportcoat, thirty-four-inch waist, slightly crooked nose … orthopedist), and musing on his first two days in practice.
They had gone quite smoothly, with a number of consultations in the office and several in the hospital. He had even spent a brief stretch in the operating room, assisting one of theorthopedists in the removal of a large calcium deposit that had entrapped a young carpenters right ulnar nerve at the elbow.
Several times each day, he had visited with Annie, who was progressing reasonably well in the coronary unit. He had also discharged old Chris Gow after a day and a half of good nursing care and after arranging for social services to help him get medicare coverage, physical therapy, and one meal a day at home. Contrary to Wilton Marshfield’s dire prediction, there had been no
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