American Boy - Larry Watson [67]
“We went to the hospital,” Johnny told his father. “They told me that Mr. McDonough passed away.”
The doctor walked over to the bedside table, which was not really a table at all, but rather a ladder-back chair with a spindle missing. On its surface were the doctor’s pocket watch, his package of Chesterfields, his lighter, and an ashtray that already held a few cigarette butts. Dr. Dunbar shook out a cigarette and lit it.
“Dale died about halfway here. Wouldn’t have made a damn bit of difference if we’d gotten him here in minutes instead of hours. That was a massive cerebral hemorrhage. Massive.”
“Does anyone else know? Mrs. McDonough?”
“Your mother knows. I told her to call Anna.”
“So you didn’t even have to bring him here... .”
“I didn’t know that, son.”
“But you knew how bad it was... .”
Dr. Dunbar sat on the edge of the bed, reached under, and brought out his shoes. “That’s something you’ll learn as a physician.” While he stepped into his shoes, he held his cigarette between his lips, angling it upward to keep the smoke out of his eyes. “You try. Even when you know it’s futile, you try.”
“I can’t be a doctor.”
Johnny’s statement jerked my head in his direction, but the doctor seemed unsurprised. He took his cigarette from his mouth. “You can’t be. That’s an interesting way of putting it,” the doctor said. “When did you come to this decision?”
“I guess I’ve always known.”
“But you chose this occasion to tell me.” He shook his head, a gesture composed of equal parts amusement and disgust. Then he clapped his hands on his knees. “So. It’s a day of revelations.”
“Or confessions,” replied Johnny. Considering how reluctant he was to knock on the door in the first place, once inside he’d found an impressive supply of courage.
“Or confessions. Fine. You seem to have all the answers today.” He stamped his feet hard and then he stood. “We can talk about this some other time.”
“I’ve said all I have to say.” The blotches on Johnny’s cheeks darkened to a red that looked like clumsily smeared rouge.
“Ah, the man who knows his own mind and says what he says and then no more.” Dr. Dunbar smiled derisively at his son. “Have it your way. You’re mistaken if you think I have something riding on this.” Then the doctor turned to me. “If you have any career plans, Matt, you can keep them to yourself. I’m at the point where I don’t much give a good goddamn.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “If I ever did.”
He marched toward the door. “Let’s go see if they have a room for you. And one for Louisa. They didn’t have anything earlier. And we’ll call your mother again and tell her you’re here.”
“I promised Matt a meal,” said Johnny.
Dr. Dunbar looked at me as if he’d barely registered my presence before this moment. “Nothing’s open,” he said, and continued out the door.
The door had just closed behind Johnny and his father when Louisa stepped out of the bathroom. She must have expected the room to be empty, but she didn’t startle when she saw me. She made no effort to cover herself—she was wearing nothing but a slip—or to explain why she was in the doctor’s room. But her expression suggested that she assumed I knew everything.
“Hello, Matt. Are you here to rescue me?”
“Mrs. Dunbar was worried.”
“Oh, I’m sure she was. I’m sure.”
“But I guess you’re safe and sound.”
She smiled. The tendons in her neck showed, and her lower teeth gleamed. “Safe and sound.”
What will you do that Mrs. Dunbar won’t? That question had often pushed itself to the front of my mind even while I was supposed to be concentrating on keeping the car on the icy road, and it was more insistent now that I was in Louisa’s presence. But since I couldn’t ask that, I settled for another question.
“So, what’s it like to haul a dead man