"Do you know what's going to happen now?" the Missus was saying, still puffing and pacing. "Every kook from here to Kalamazoo will be knocking on his door, looking for a miracle! I can't believe someone's printing a story like this about him! I mean, if there was ever a more conservative, cautious, touch-all-bases kind of doctor, it's Alan. I don't get it! Where do they dig up this nonsense?"
"Perhaps it is true, Missus," Ba said.
The Missus whirled and stared up at him.
"Why on earth do you say that?"
"I saw."
"When? Where?"
"At the party."
"You must have been sampling too much of the champagne."
Ba did not flinch, although the words cut like a knife. But if the Missus wished to speak to him so, he would allow her. But only her.
The Missus stepped closer and touched his arm. "Sorry, Ba. That was as cruel as it was untrue. It's just that…" She tapped a finger against the paper he still held in his hand. "This infuriates me."
Ba said nothing more.
Finally the Missus sat on the sofa and indicated the chair across from her. "Sit and tell me what you saw."
Ba remained standing, speaking slowly as he reran the scene in his head.
"The man, Mr. Cunningham, was bleeding terrible. I saw when I turned him over for the Doctor." He spread his thumb and index finger two inches. "The wound was that long"— then reduced the span to half an inch—"and that wide. The Doctor put his hand over the wound and suddenly the bleeding stopped and the man woke up. When I looked again the wound was closed."
The Missus crushed out her cigarette and looked away for a long moment.
"You know I trust your word, Ba," she said without looking at him. "But I can't believe that. You must be mistaken."
"I have seen it before."
Her head snapped around. "What?"
"At home. When I was a boy, a man came to our village and stayed for a while. He could do what Dr. Bulmer can do. He could lay his hand on a sick baby or on a person with a growth or an old sore that wouldn't heal or an infected tooth and make them well. He had what we call Dat-tay-vao…the Touch." He handed her the photocopied sheet from the Keitzer book. "Here are the words to a song about the Dat-tay-vao."
The Missus took it and read out loud:
"It seeks but will not be sought.
It finds but will not be found.
It holds the one who would touch,
Who would cut away pain and ill.
But its blade cuts two ways
And will not be turned.
If you value your well-being,
Impede not its way.
Treat the Toucher doubly well,
For he bears the weight
Of the balance that must be struck."
"It sounds much better in my village tongue," Ba told her.
"It sounds like a folktale, Ba."
"I had always thought so, too. Until I saw. And I saw it again at the party."
"I'm sorry, Ba. I just can't believe that something like that can happen."
"The article lists many of his patients who say it has."
"Yes, but…" A look of alarm crossed her face. "If it's true—God, they'll eat him alive!"
"I think there might be another danger, Missus." Ba was silent a moment as he pictured the face of the man with the Dat-tay-vao as he remembered it from some thirty years ago: the vacant eyes, the confusion, the haunted look about him. "I once spoke to a Buddhist priest about the man with the Touch. He told me that it is hard to tell whether a man possesses the Dat-tay-vao, or the Dat-tay-vao possesses the man."
The Missus stood up. Ba could tell by her expression that she still did not believe. But she was deeply concerned. "Would you be willing to tell Dr. Buhner what you told me?"
"If you wish it, of course."
"Good."
She stepped over to the phone and punched in a number. "Yes. Is the doctor in? No, never mind. I'll call him tomorrow. Thank you."
She turned to Ba again. "He's left the office and I don't want to disturb him at home. We'll catch him tomorrow. He should know about this." She shook her head slowly. "I can't believe I'm buying this. I just don't see how it can be true."
Lost in thought, she walked slowly from the room.
It is true, Missus, Ba thought as he watched her leave. He knew beyond all doubt. For he had been touched by the Dat-tay-vao in his youth, and the awful growth that had stretched him so far above his fellow villagers was finally halted.
___16.___
Alan
Ginny met him at the door as he returned from the office.
"Alan, what's going on?"
Her lips were slightly parted as they tended to be when she was annoyed, and she had taken her contacts out, leaving her eyes their natural blue. Tonight they were a very worried shade of blue.
"I don't know." It had been a long day and he was tired. A game of Twenty Questions didn't appeal to him. "You tell me."
She held up a newspaper. "Josie dropped this off."
Alan grabbed the paper and groaned when he saw the logo: The Light. Then he saw the banner across the top of the front page: miracle cures on long island! (see pg. 3).
It was all there: five of his patients—Henrietta Westin, Lucy Burns, and others—all documenting their former chronic or incurable illnesses, now cured after a trip to Dr. Alan Buhner. There was no malice in them. Quite the contrary. They sang Alan's praises. Anyone reading their comments would come away convinced he walked on water as well.
He looked up and found Ginny's gaze fixed on him.
"How did something like this get started?"
Alan shrugged, barely able to hear her. He was too shaken to think straight. "I don't know. People talk—"
"But they're talking about miracles here! Faith-healing stuff!"
Alan scanned through the article again. It was worse the second time through.
"That reporter says he spoke to you. He even quotes you. How can that be?"
"He came by the office, posing as a patient. I threw him out."
"How come you didn't tell me about it?"
"It didn't seem worth it," Alan said. Actually, he had forgotten to tell Ginny. Perhaps he had simply blotted it out of his mind. "I thought that would be the end of it."
"Did he quote you right?" She pulled the paper away and read from the article. " 'Probably a few coincidences. Maybe some placebo effect'?"
Alan nodded. "Yeah. I believe that's about what I said."
"That's all?" Her face was getting red. "How about something like 'Bullshit!'? Or 'You're nuts!' "
"Come on, Ginny. You know he'd never print that. It would ruin the story."
"Maybe so," she said. "But I can tell you one thing he is going to print, and that's a retraction!"
Alan felt a twinge of despair. "That would only magnify the problem and give the story more publicity, which is just what The Light would love. If we simply refuse to dignify the story with a reply, interest will slowly die out."