Relics by Mary Anna Evans Page A

information on his patients’ sexual histories to trace the couplings that had spread the virus and, more interestingly, the couplings that had not. She knew his genealogical information went back at least four generations for every family and, as with most things related to human relationships, the results were murky. Nevertheless, his evidence suggested that the more Sujosa ancestry a person had, the less likely that person was to contract HIV, even when exposed many times. This information had thrust the Sujosa, who had been shunned for generations, abruptly into the spotlight. If the secret to their resistance to HIV could be teased out of their DNA, scientists would be a big step closer to defeating AIDS. It had suddenly become incredibly important for the rest of the world to figure out who the Sujosa were and how they came to live in backwoods Alabama.
    “I’ve read all the follow-up letters and articles to your paper, written by people who couldn’t believe a rural doctor was doing such sophisticated epidemiology. I have to wonder why you aren’t raking in the bucks in private practice some place where people have money. Or doing full-time research. That paper could be your ticket into academic medicine—if that’s what you want.”
    “I grew up in Alcaskaki. I’ve known Ronya Smiley since we were in middle school. Hell. I didn’t have to ask Ronya about her sex life. I already knew she’d never slept with anybody but Leo. And Leo, for all his other shortcomings, has always been faithful to her.”
    He ran his fingers through his short blonde hair. “I went to medical school because I wanted out of Alcaskaki. I wanted to see the world and I wanted to see it in style, with more money than a plain old family doctor would pull in.” He spoke slowly, as if it were important that she understand the extent of his greed. “I was leery of a specialty like surgery. Can you imagine holding someone’s life in your hands every blessed day? Dermatology was perfect. Acne and botox patients don’t have emergencies. You just set your office hours, do your job, and go home. And people will pay a lot to be beautiful.”
    The light was too dim to make out his expression. Faye said, “Oh, come on. Dermatologists do more than that. They treat cancer. They cure disfiguring diseases.”
    “I had a partner for that. He loved challenging cases and he loved me, because I referred anything remotely challenging to him.”
    “Sounds…perfect, I guess.”
    “Yeah. Perfect.”
    “So why are you still around?” Faye asked for the second time.
    “First, my father died. Then, a year later, my mother. And the house I’d bought them—the finest house in Alcaskaki—was empty. I was standing in the kitchen, listening to the realtor tell me what she thought the place was worth, but I couldn’t stop staring at the walls. Mama had hung family photos and some pretty plates and some pictures she’d cross-stitched. The head of a deer my father shot was still hanging over the TV. And it struck me that I’d bought my house in Birmingham at about the same time I bought them their house. Yet my parents’ house looked like a home, and mine looked like a furniture store. There wasn’t anything in my own home that proved I lived there. There wasn’t anybody in Birmingham who cared whether I ever came back—certainly not my patients and, as it turned out, not even my girlfriend. I couldn’t make myself sell my parents’ home. So I sold my house in Birmingham instead.”
    “You retired?”
    Brent laughed. “No. It’s better than that. Monday through Wednesday, most weeks, I’m in Birmingham, sleeping on my office sofa and seeing as many patients as my receptionist can squeeze into three days. Then, having made a disgusting wad of money, I drive back to Alcaskaki…to my home. On Thursdays and Fridays and sometimes on Saturdays and Sundays, I’m at my office in Alcaskaki, or here at my free clinic in the settlement, taking care of