There was no response.
‘Is anyone there?’
From a distance, a man asked cautiously, ‘What’s your problem, buddy?’
‘My hands are bust, I need help.’
‘How’d that happen then?’ asked the voice.
Macandrew added despair to his agony. He took a succession of deep breaths. ‘Would you please get Dr Karen Bliss for me. She lives in apartment 32, number thirty-seven.’
‘Karen Bliss.’
‘Yes, Dr Karen Bliss. Tell her it’s John Macandrew.’
‘Macandrew,’ repeated the man without expression.
Macandrew could feel tears of frustration well up in his eyes. Just how far back on the evolutionary trail was this bozo stranded? A few base-pairs less and he’d be a palm tree and where the fuck were all the other people? Had they all gone back indoors? ‘Jesus,’ he murmured. ‘Land of the free... home of the brave...’
‘Number thirty-seven. Right?’
‘Jesus.’
Macandrew was losing strength fast. The terrible pain had sapped every ounce of energy from him and he felt unconsciousness beckon, promising him sleep and blessed release from the pain. His head lolled against the side of his car, and then he heard high heels clicking towards him.
‘God Almighty, Mac, what happened?’ asked Karen Bliss.
‘Two guys... they jumped me... jammed my hands in the car door.’
Karen made to examine his hands but the mere thought of it made him cry out.
‘Okay, Mac, Relax. I’ll drive you to the Med Centre. It’ll be quicker than calling an ambulance. I’ll just get Jeff.’
Macandrew passed out on the journey.
When he came round, Saul Klinsman was in the room. He was talking to a nurse but stopped when he saw that he was awake. ‘You’re back with us,’ he said.
The fuzzy feeling in Macandrew’s head told him that he had been given a powerful analgesic but he had no trouble remembering what had happened. He looked down at his hands and saw that they were bandaged. ‘How bad?’ he asked.
Klinsman came and sat down beside him. He said, ‘I’m not going to bullshit you, Mac; they’re a mess. For a plumber, they’d be a mess; for a mailman, they’d be a mess; for a surgeon... they could be a serious mess.’
The comment made Macandrew attempt to flex his fingers. He was rewarded by needles shooting up through his arms. He grimaced and asked, ‘A career-ending mess?’
Klinsman shrugged his shoulders. ‘Frankly, I don’t know. It’s too soon to say. Either way you’re going to need a bunch of surgery on them.’
‘Thanks for levelling with me,’ said Macandrew.
‘Did you see the bastards who did this?’
‘Sure but they were just the hired hands. We both know who was behind it.’
‘That little bastard Francini; the cops have got to nail him for this.’
‘Leave it be Saul,’ said Macandrew. ‘It would do the Med Centre nothing but harm. Francini is a powerful man. Presented as a story of good-old-boys beating up on the incompetent surgeon who ruined his wife’s life, just might make him a hero in this man’s town.’
‘But it wasn’t like that,’ protested Klinsman.
‘It’s like what the papers will make it like, Saul. Francini buys a lot of advertising space.’
‘Get some rest,’ said Klinsman. ‘We’ll talk when you’re feeling better.’
Extensive surgery to Macandrew’s hands was carried out by the end of the week. A friend and ex-colleague of Saul Klinsman — who had called him in from St Louis — carried out the work in one long session. ‘The best there is,’ was how Klinsman described Paul Gonsalves. When the operation was over and Macandrew was in recovery, Gonzales and Klinsman came to see him.
‘Paul has some good news for you,’ announced Klinsman.
Gonzales, a handsome Hispanic man in his late forties with an air of calm confidence about him and a confident smile, said, ‘The damage wasn’t as great as we feared. The operation went well.’
Macandrew closed his eyes and savoured the moment. He almost passed out when the tide of relief in him betrayed the amount of stress he’d been under. There was nothing in the world he would rather have heard but now he feared that the next word would be, “but”.
‘But... we’ll still have to wait and see,’ added Gonsalves.
‘Too soon for a bottom line?’
‘They were all clean breaks. They should knit well with no need for splints and pins. I think there’s a better than even chance of you operating again.’
Macandrew smiled. ‘I think I can safely say that you have made my day, Doctor,’
‘And now, Saul here is going to make mine,’ said Gonsalves with a smile. ‘He promised me the biggest steak in Kansas City when I’d finished.’
‘I think it should be me paying,’ said Macandrew.
‘Maybe I’ll send you the tab,’ said Klinsman. ‘Have you had any more thoughts about having Francini charged?’
Macandrew shook his head. It was a slight shake, designed to obscure whether he meant that he hadn’t had any more thoughts or whether he did not intend to pursue the matter. Klinsman took nothing from it and said, ‘You have to consider your future, Mac. If, God forbid, things don’t turn out as we all hope, a law suit might help... financially, I mean.’
‘I hear what you’re saying,’ said Macandrew. ‘But I still think it might be difficult.’
‘Not as difficult as it was,’ said Klinsman.
‘How so?’
‘Carl Lessing called me an hour ago. The Mayo clinic confirmed the diagnosis of malignant tumour and that the tissue did indeed come from Jane Francini.’
Macandrew’s relief felt bitter-sweet.
As the two surgeons left, he pondered on what might have been if only Lessing had thought of the slide material earlier. He looked down at his bandaged hands and screwed his eyes tight shut. Spilt milk, Macandrew. Move on.
The weeks passed and Macandrew’s hands healed to the point where he could use them again — albeit for not too demanding purposes. He found himself growing restless. He had spent most of his time since coming out of hospital reading journals or walking or listening to music and now the attraction was beginning to wear thin. Time was hanging heavy on his hands and long periods of inactivity were beginning to play mind games with him.
At first, he had seen himself simply a surgeon on sick leave and that was all right; it was an easy role to play. None of life’s domestic parameters needed changing; everything was simply on hold. But lately, he had begun to question whether this was really so. He didn’t know for sure how complete his recovery would be so he might not actually be a surgeon any more. He might really be unemployed and pounding the streets of Kansas City like the bums he came across while he believed he was just out walking.
Once the thought had crept into his head, nothing looked quite the same any more. The Fall was over. They were into November and the weather had turned cold. The sidewalks seemed harder, the people more alien, even the smell of barbecue sauce — which was everywhere in KC — was beginning to make him feel nauseous and the thought of a long hard winter ahead was not a happy prospect.
He confided these feelings to Karen Bliss who, with her husband, had been kindness itself, having him over to dinner at least once a week and constantly checking up on him.
‘What you need is a vacation, Mac,’ she insisted. ‘You are talking garbage. Of course, you’ll operate again.’
Macandrew smiled. He liked Karen’s positive approach to life. It used to be his. ‘If you say so.’
‘I do say so,’ insisted Karen. ‘You are going to be as good as you ever were and even if you should turn out only to be half as good, you’ll still be good enough.’