He didn't know what would happen if word got around about his little miracles, and he didn't want to find out.
But if this Joe Metzger sitting here before him had heard something, so had others. Which meant it was time to lie low, hold back from using the power until the rumors died out. It would be such a shame, though, to waste all the healing he could do in those hours. The power had come suddenly and without warning—it might leave the same way.
But for now, he'd do what he'd planned to do: stonewall it.
Today the Hour of Power was scheduled to begin around 5:00 p.m., which was three hours away.
Not that it mattered to Joe Metzger, if indeed that was his real name.
"Mr. Metzger, I'll do what I can for you, but I can't make any promises—certainly not of a 'cure' of any sort. Now let's check you out and see what's what."
Alan went through the routine of checking the range of motion in the spine, but then stopped. He was annoyed that this phony, for whatever reason, was taking up his time. He was also tired. And, to be frank with himself, he couldn't think of the next step in the routine low-back examination.
This was happening a lot lately. He wasn't sleeping well, and therefore he wasn't thinking well. This power, or whatever it was, had turned all his beliefs on their heads. It was blatantly impossible. It went against everything he had learned in life, in med school, and in a decade of practice. Yet it worked. There was no getting around the reality of that, so he had surrendered to it and accepted it.
"What would a cure cost me?" Metzger asked.
"If I could perform a 'cure,' it would be the same as an office visit: twenty-five dollars. But I can't: Your back's in better shape than mine."
Joe Metzger's eyes widened behind his granny glasses. "How can you say that? I have a—"
"What do you really want?" Alan said, deciding on a hardline approach. "I've got better things to do than waste my time with clowns looking for drugs for nonexistent problems." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the door. "Take off."
As Alan reached for the doorknob, Joe Metzger reached into his pocket. "Dr. Bulmer—wait!" He pulled a card from his wallet and extended it toward Alan. "I'm a reporter."
Oh, God.
"I'm from The Light."
Alan looked at the card. A photo of Metzger's face looked back at him. His name really was Joe Metzger and he did indeed work for the infamous scandal sheet. "The Light? You mean you actually admit that?"
"It's not such a bad paper." He had retrieved his shirt from behind him and was putting it on.
"I've heard otherwise."
"Only from people with something to hide—dishonest politicians and celebrities who like the spotlight but don't like anyone to know what they did to get there. Have you ever read an issue, Doctor, or does your low opinion come secondhand?"
Alan shook his head. "Patients bring in copies all the time. They show me articles about DMSO, Laetril, curing psoriasis with B-12, preventing cancer with lettuce, or losing ten pounds a week eating chocolate cake."
"Looks like the tables are turned, Dr. Bulmer," Metzger said with his marionnette smile. "Lately your patients have been coming to us with stories about you!"
Alan had a sinking feeling inside. He had never imagined things getting this far out of hand so soon.
"And what stories!" Metzger continued. "Miracle cures! Instant healings! If you'll pardon the cliche: What's up, Doc?"
Alan kept his expression bland. "What's up? I haven't the faintest. Probably a few coincidences. Maybe some placebo effect."
"Then you deny that you've had anything to do with any of these cures your patients are talking about?"
"I think you've wasted enough of my time already today." Alan held the door open for the reporter. "If you can't remember the way out, I'll gladly show you."
Metzger's expression became grim as he hopped off the table and walked past Alan.
"You know, I came here figuring I'd find either a quack who'd jump at the chance for some publicity or a small-time charlatan ripping off gullible sick old ladies."
Alan put a hand on Metzger's back and gently propelled him toward the rear of the building.
"Instead, I find someone who denies any power and who was only going to charge me twenty-five bucks if he could cure me."
"Right," Alan said. "You found nothing."
Metzger turned at the back door and faced him. "Not quite. I found something I want to look into. If I can produce evidence of genuine cures, I may have found the real thing."
The sinking sensation deepened in Alan. "Aren't you worried about ruining that real thing if it exists?"
"If someone can do what I've heard, everyone should know about it. It should be spread around like a natural resource." He flashed that mechanical smile again. "Besides—it could be the story of the century."
Alan closed the door behind the reporter and sagged against it. This was bad.
He heard his phone ringing in his office and went to pick it up.
"Mr. DeMarco on ninety-two," Connie said.
He punched the button.
"Alan!" Tony said. "Still interested in Walter Erskine?"
"Who?"
"The bum in the ER you wanted me to check out."
"Oh, yeah. Right." Now he remembered. "Sure."
"Well, I know all about him. Want to hear?"
Alan glanced at his schedule. He wanted to run next door right now, but he had three more patients to see.
"Be over at five-thirty," he said.
At last!
___15.___
Ba
"What on earth did you feed that new peach tree, Ba?" the Missus said as she looked out the library window. "It's growing like crazy!"
The Missus had been quizzing him on the material for his Naturalization test. He had filed the forms. After they were reviewed, he would hear from an examiner if he qualified for citizenship. They were taking a break now.
The Missus was disturbed. Ba could tell. She was hiding her troubles with small talk.
Over the years Ba had come to recognize the signs—the way she held her shoulders high, the stiffness of her back, and her pacing. On those rare occasions when the Missus gave the slightest hint of a disturbed inner face, she always paced. And smoked. It was the only time she smoked. The afternoon sun was slanting through the high windows of the two-story library, illuminating the haze in the air from her cigarette, silhouetting her as she passed back and forth through the light, puffing on the cigarette while she slapped a folded newspaper against her thigh.
"Is there something Ba can do, Missus?"
"No… yes." She threw the newspaper onto the coffee table. "You can tell me why people spend money on garbage like this!"
Ba picked up the newspaper. The Light. He had seen it often at the supermarket checkout aisle. This issue was folded open to an article on a Long Island doctor named Alan Bulmer whose patients were claiming miracle cures at his hands.
Ba had seen the miracle cures on long island banner on the front page yesterday and had bought the issue. He knew the Missus would eventually learn of it and would be disturbed. He had wanted to be ready to help her, so he had gone to the New York Public Library and found Arthur Keitzer's book, The Sea Is in Us. He had remembered the author passing through his village during the war, asking many questions. He remembered that the author had written down the song of the Dat-tay-vao. To Ba's immense relief, he found that Keitzer had included a translation in his book. Ba would not have trusted his own translation. He had photocopied the page and returned to Monroe.