Gene's lips and nostrils were compressed; he was breathing unsteadily, and his eyes had a distant look. Slowly he bent forward and took the old man's arms. "What's wrong with you?" he said.
The old man tried to pull away but could not; his eyes squeezed shut, his face flushed, and his head dropped forward; he was sobbing angrily and helplessly. "Here," said Gene, as if to himself. "Here. And the legs too?" His hands began to move down the old man's thighs.
"Wait," he said after a moment. He knelt on the floor and leaned his body close against the old man's, pressing himself against his chest and arms and legs. Over his shoulder the old man's face stared madly, his glasses awry, eyes bleared. His mouth opened and shut, opened and shut.
"Excuse me, is there anything wrong here?" It was the desk clerk.
Pongo turned his head. "No, everything's okay."
Gene slowly leaned back again, running his hands down the old man's shoulders and arms, then his legs. "Let's see now," he muttered. Stand up."
The old man stared at him, then at his own hands. There was a change. They looked like hands now, and not like flaccid yellowish gloves. He put them together unbelievingly, then laid them on the arms of the chair and slowly got to his feet. He took a step, then another. Tears began to leak down his face. "Did you -- did you -- ?" he said.
"Mr. McIver, do you want me to call a doctor?" the clerk asked.
"Maybe that's a good idea," Gene said. His face had lost its distant expression; his eyes glittered. "Let's get him up to his room."
"Mr. McIver has already checked out," the clerk said.
"Give us another room, then. Pongo, take care of it."
Pongo went to the desk with the clerk. When he got back, the old man was sitting down with his glasses pushed up on his forehead, hands covering his eyes. "Son of a bitch, God damn," he was saying in a breathless voice, over and over.
Pongo put a hand under his arm. "Come on, let's go."
They got the old man into the elevator and along the corridor. Pongo said, "The doctor'll be here in about ten minutes." He opened the room door, led the old man inside, and made him sit in a chair. He was laughing and crying, with his hands over his face.
After a while there was a tap on the door; Gene opened it. The man who stood there was slender, with a bald brown forehead and a dark mustache. He looked up at Gene in surprise, then at the old man. "I'm Dr. Montoya," he said. "Is this the patient?" He set down his bag and looked at Cooley. "What happened here?"
"He had a shock," Pongo said.
Montoya bent over the old man. "I'm the doctor. How are you feeling?"
"Feeling!" said Cooley, and looked up. His cheeks were still wet with tears. "I'm feeling fine!" He began to laugh, his face contorted as if in pain.
"Will you wait outside while I examine him, please?" Montoya opened his bag.
They stood in the corridor. It was clean and bright. The dry, cool air had a flowery scent of antiseptic. After a long time the door opened and Montoya stepped out, carrying his bag. "I gave him a tranquilizer," he said. "I don't know yet if he should be hospitalized or not." He gave Gene an appraising glance. "You're a pituitary giant, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Are you in the circus?"
"No. Retired."
"I want your name and address." He took out a black notebook. When he had finished writing, he said to Pongo, "And yours."
"It's the same."
Montoya put the notebook away. "Mr. Anderson, this man told me he was cured just now of amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. He does not show any sign of that disease. Did he seem confused or delusional to you?"
"No. He had it, and I cured him."
Montoya's eyebrows went up. "You cured him? How did you do that?"
"I put my hands on him."
"You are telling me that you cured this man by laying on of hands."
"Yes."
"Mr. Anderson, I find that very hard to believe."
"I know."
Montoya took out his wallet. "Here is my card. I am going now, but I think someone should stay with him for a little while. If there is any problem, call me."
"All right. Thank you, Doctor."
Montoya nodded stiffly and walked away toward the elevator. When he was gone, Gene opened the door and they went in.
Cooley was standing at the window with his hands clasped together, squeezing hard enough to turn his fingers pink and yellow. He looked up; his face was no longer contorted, but his eyes were red.
"You all right now?" Gene asked.
"Sure," said Cooley in a low voice.
"Are you hungry?"
"No." After a moment Cooley added, "Just leave me the hell alone, will you?"
Gene's eyes were still bright, but his expression had changed. "Pongo, wait for me in the Monster," he said.
Pongo stepped out; the door closed behind him. He listened a moment, then walked down the stairs.
"Is everything all right?" the desk clerk asked.
"Sure."
"Do you know how long Mr. McIver will be staying?"
"Beats me."
Pongo walked out to the parking lot, got into the mobile home, lighted a cigar, and waited.
In a few minutes he saw Gene coming toward him. The giant climbed in, sat down in the chair beside the driver's seat.
"What did you do?" Pongo asked.
"I talked to him. I told him I wasn't expecting any gratitude, but if he ever tried anything like that again, I would probably kill him. After a while he cried again -- different kind of crying, not so much anger. I think he's going to be okay." He leaned over and hugged Pongo for a moment. "Let's go home."
Pongo started the engine and maneuvered the motor home out of the lot. "You could have killed him, in the lobby, but you cured him instead. How come?"
"I didn't know I was going to do it. I didn't know I could do it. It was -- " Gene hesitated. "It felt just like a big hand pushing me in the back."
Chapter Twenty-four
All the rest of that week, the household was in a state of tension. Pongo had told the others briefly what had happened at the Costa Brava Motel; Gene would not discuss it. Irma stayed in her room Tuesday morning and let messages pile up in the answering machine. Margaret broke a pencil and threw the pieces at the wall.
On Thursday Gene and Pongo went into Tampa again in the morning and did not come back until mid-afternoon; Irma and Margaret had cold turkey sandwiches for lunch.
That afternoon, at Gene's direction, Irma called Cliff Guthrie, Nirmal Coomaraswami, and Stan Salomon, and invited them for the weekend. On Friday, Gene and Pongo went into Tampa again. That afternoon, after the others had arrived, the gate signal rang. Irma said, "Yes -- Oh, Mike!"
"Yes, it's me, luv. Can I come in?"
Wilcox entered beaming a few moments later. Irma hugged him and introduced the others. "You didn't bring Nan?"
"No, she's getting married actually. How is everyone?"
"Frantic," said Irma. "Gene has some big secret that he won't tell anybody about. I'm glad you're here."
Pongo came in a little after three. "Gene's in his room," he announced. "Says he won't be down for dinner, but he wants to see everybody in the dining room at nine o'clock."
"Pongo, what's going on?" Irma said. "This is too much."
"He went into the hospital and stayed two hours. That's all I know." Pongo got a slab of beef out of the refrigerator and began doing things to it.
At dinner, Cliff Guthrie said, "Nirmal, you look kind of tired. Is everything okay?"
"Well, it is not really okay. Some things I don't like are happening at the university. A good friend of mine, you probably don't know him,, but he is quite well known in his field, and he happens to be gay. The university dismissed him this week for moral turpitude."