Cutting for Stone - Abraham Verghese [222]
How unjust it was that Thomas Stone's reward for his failings, for his selfishness, should be to preside in that chair and command the respect, the awe, and the admiration of the likes of Constance and others in this room. Surely you couldn't be a good doctor and a terrible human being— surely the laws of man, if not of God, didn't allow it.
I met his gaze and I did not blink. “Words of comfort,” I said to my father.
The intervening years lay compressed between us as if by bookends. The others in the room looked from my face to his, distressed, uncertain if mine was the right answer. But no one else existed for me or for him.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice altered. “Words of comfort.”
He left the room, but looked back at me once when he reached the door.
I FOUND WHERE HE LIVED by accident. An elegant condominium complex across the river would have been my guess. But at the base of Tower A, I saw a glass door leading to the outside. Across the street was the lobby to another building. I saw Thomas Stone enter and a doorman greet him. I waited. A few minutes later he emerged, without his white coat and with a yellow-and-black box in his hand—a slide carousel. He was on his way to the transplant conference. I gave him half an hour, and then I went up to the doorman. I flashed my badge. “I'm Marion Stone. Dr. Stone forgot some slides he needed for a talk he is giving. He sent me to pick them up.”
He was about to quiz me, deny me, but then he cocked his head. “You a relative?”
“I'm his son.”
“By God you are!” he said, coming closer to look into my eyes, as if that was where the similarity resided. He beamed as if the news vindicated him. As if it gave Thomas Stone a human dimension, a redeeming quality.
“By God you are!” He slapped his thigh in delight. “And not a word to us all this time.”
“He never knew till this year,” I said, winking.
“Joseph and Mary! Get out of here!”
I smiled and looked at my watch.
“You know where it is?” he said.
“Fourth floor?”
“Four-oh-nine.”
I ENTERED HIS HOUSE using my penknife and the sort of ancillary surgical skills only a B. C. Gandhi can teach you.
It was a one-bedroom apartment.
The living-dining room had nothing to justify that label. A large worktable like a draftsman's desk occupied most of that area, with two side tables at its ends to form a U. There were papers in neat stacks on the side tables. Sectional bookcases covered three walls and were full of books and papers. They weren't arranged for display but for access.
The coffeepot in the kitchen was collecting dust. The stove appeared never to have been used. A toaster on the counter had a trace of crumbs on the top. The refrigerator held only a carton of orange juice, a stick of butter, and a half loaf of bread.
His bedroom was dark, the curtains drawn. There were no books or papers here. Only an army cot, a blanket folded neatly at its foot, as if he were camping for one night.
A single framed snapshot sat on the mantelpiece above the electric fireplace. The airbrush technique of the 1920S gave mother and son alabaster skin. They were posed like Madonna and Child. The boy was perhaps three, ensconced in the lap of the woman who must have been my grandmother—a presence in the world I realized I'd never once thought about.
Next to the picture was a glass cylinder, filled with murky fluid. Closer inspection revealed a human finger floating in the liquid.
I had come there wanting to … to do damage.
That picture made me change