"Don't worry, " Tom said, "you still have respect, admiration, and caring in a lot of places… especially right here." He tapped himself on the breastbone with one finger. "Thank you for saying that."
"Whose pills are those other ones? " he asked. "Huh?"
"The other card of pills, whose are they?"
"Oh. They're mine."
Friday 14 December
There was an air of excitement and anticipation throughout the usually staid medical suite of Vernon Drexler, MD. The matronly receptionist bustled about the empty waiting room, straightening the magazines and taking pains to see that the six-month old issue of Practical Medical Science with Drexler's picture on the cover was displayed prominently enough to be impossible for Cyrus Redding to miss, even if he were ushered directly into the doctor's office. In the small laboratory, the young technician replaced the spool of paper in the cardiograph machine and realigned the tubes, needle, and plastic sleeve she would use to draw blood from the arm of the man Drexler had described as one of the most influential if not one of the wealthiest in the country. Behind her desk, Lurleen Fiske, the intense, severe office manager, phoned the last of their patients and rescheduled him for another day. She had been with Drexler in 1967, when Cyrus Redding had made his first trip up from Kentucky. Nineteen sixty-seven.
Fiske smiled wistfully. Their office in the Back Bay section of Boston had been little more than two large closets then, one for the doctor and one for herself. Now, Drexler owned the entire building. It was twelve-thirty. Redding's private 727 had probably touched down at Logan already. In precisely an hour, the woman knew, his limousine would glide to a stop in front of their brownstone. Redding, on foot if he could manage it, in his wheelchair if he could not, would be helped up the walk and before entering the building, would squint up at their office window, smile, and wave. His aide, for the last five or six years a silent, hard-looking man named Nunes, would be carrying a leather tote bag containing Redding's medicines and, invariably, a special, personal gift for each of those working in the office. On Redding's last visit, nearly a year before, his gift to her had been the diamond pendant-almost half a carat-now resting proudly on her chest. Of course, she realized, this day could prove an exception. Some sort of pressing situation had arisen requiring Redding to fly to Boston. He had called the office late on the previous afternoon inquiring as to whether, as long as he had to be in the city, he might be able to work in his annual checkup. "Mrs. Fiske, " Drexler called from his office, "I can't remember.
Did you say Dr. Ferguson would be coming in with Mr. Redding, or did you say he wouldn't be?"
"I said might, Doctor. Mr. Redding wasn't sure." The woman smiled lovingly and shook her head. Vernon Drexler may have been a renowned endocrinologist, and a leading expert on the neuromuscular disease myasthenia gravis, but for matters other than medicine, his mind was a sieve. She and his wife had spent many amusing evenings over the years imagining the Keystone Comedy that would result were they not available to orchestrate his movements from appointment to appointment, lecture to lecture. The thought of Dr. Ferguson sent the office manager hurrying to the small, fire-resistant room housing their medical records, she returned to her desk with the man's file. John Ferguson, MD, afflicted, as was Cyrus Redding, with myasthenia, was a close friend of the tycoon.
The two men usually arranged to have their checkups on the sameday, and then for an hour or so they would meet with Dr. Drexler. Lurleen Fiske suspected, though Drexler had never made her party to their business, that the two men were in some way supporting his myasthenia research laboratory at the medical school. "Mrs. Fiske, " Drexler called out again, "perhaps you'd better get Dr. Ferguson's chart just in case."
"Yes, Doctor, I'll get it right away, " she said, already flipping through the lengthy record to ensure that the laboratory reports and notes from his last visit were in place. Drexler was nervous. She could tell from his voice. He was conducting himself with proper decorum!.. and professional detachment, but she could tell nonetheless. Once, years before, he had been ferried by helicopter to Onassis's yatch for a consultation on the man's already lost battle against myasthenia. That morning, he had calmly bid the office staff good day and then had strode out minus his medical bag, journal articles, and sport coat. Redding's limousine, slowed by the snow-covered streets, arrived five minutes late. Lurleen Fiske joined the two other employees at the window. Across the room, Drexler, a tall, gaunt man in his midfifties, watched his staff pridefully. "Look, look. There he is, " the receptionist twittered. "Is he walking? " Drexler wanted to see for himself, but was reluctant to disrupt the ritual that had developed over the years.
Lurleen Fiske craned her neck. "His wheelchair is out, " she said "but yes… yes, he's taking a few steps on his own. Another year, Dr.
Drexler. You've done it again." There was no mistaking the reverence in her voice. In spite of himself, Drexler, too, was impressed. In sixty-seven he had predicted three years for Redding, four at the most.
Now, after more than fifteen, the man was as strong as he had been at the start, if not stronger. You've done it again. Mrs. Fiske's praise echoed painfully in his thoughts. Myasthenia gravis, a progressive deterioration of the neuromuscular system. Cause, unknown. Prognosis, progressive weakness especially with exertion-fatigue, difficulty in chewing, difficulty in breathing, and eventually, death from infection or respiratory failure. Treatment, stopgap even at its most sophisticated. Yet here were two men, Redding and John Ferguson, who had, in essence, arrested or at least markedly slowed the progress of their disease. And they had performed the minor miracles on their own.
Though his staff thought otherwise, and neither patient would ever suggest so, they had received only peripheral, supportive help from him.
They were certainly a pair of triumphs, but triumphs that continually underscored the futility of his own life's work. From the hallway, Drexler heard the elevator clank open. For years, his two prize patients had been treating themselves with upwards of a dozen medications at once, most of them still untested outside the laboratory. For years he had dedicated his work to trying to ascertain which drug or combination of drugs was responsible for their remarkable results. The answer would likely provide a breakthrough of historic proportions. Perhaps this would be his year. Redding, seated in an unmotorized wheelchair, waved his aide on ahead and then wheeled himself to the doorway. Using the man's arm for some support, he pulled himself upright and took several rickety steps into the office. ' "Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Vernon, " he said, extending his hand to give Drexler's a single, vigorous pump. "Mr. Nunes? " The aide, a sullen, swarthy man with the physique of an Olympic oarsman, slid the wheelchair into place for Redding to sit back down. Across the waiting room, Lurleen Fiske and the two other women beamed like proud grandmothers. "You look wonderful, Cyrus, " Drexler said. "Absolutely wonderful. Come on into my office."
"In a moment. First, I should like to wish your staff an early Merry Christmas. Mr. Nunes?"
The expressionless Nunes produced three gifts of varying sizes from the leather bag slung over his shoulder, and Redding presented them, one at a time, to the women, who shook his hand self-consciously.
Lurleen Fiske squeezed his shoulders and kissed him on the cheek. "My limousine will go for Dr. Ferguson, " Redding said, as he was wheeled into Drexler's office. "He will be here to share notes with the two of us, but not to be examined. He would rather keep the appointment he has for next month, if that is agreeable to you."