The Touch

Alan

Alan swerved in toward the curb when he saw Tony standing there, waving.

"What are you doing here?" he asked as Tony got in. "We were supposed to meet at the office."

"You can't get into the goddamn parking lot," he said, lighting a cigarette as soon as he settled himself in the seat. "It's loaded with cripples."

"Handicapped," Alan said.

"You speak Newspeak, I'll speak Oldspeak. Whatever they are, they've taken over the whole fucking lot. I figured there'd be a mob scene if you showed up so I walked up a couple of blocks to head you off at the pass."

He dragged on his cigarette, rolled his window down two inches, and let the smoke flow through the opening.

"I spoke to some of them, you know. Most of them are here because of that article in People. Like they've been to Lourdes and the Vatican and Bethlehem already, looking to be cured of something. But others know somebody who's already seen you and been cured of something incurable."

They passed the office then. Alan was startled at the congestion of cars and vans and people that filled the lot and overflowed onto the street and lined the curbs. He hadn't been to the office in days. He hadn't realized…

Guilt filled him. He hadn't used the Touch in days. He had wasted hours of power.

"And so now they're all here—looking for you. It's taken me a couple of days, Al, but I got to tell you, I'm a believer. You've got something."

Alan feigned a wounded expression. "You mean you doubted me?"

"Shit, yes! You threw me some real curves there. I thought that maybe you needed a checkup from the neck up, if you know what I mean."

Alan smiled. "So did I at first. But then I realized that if I was having delusions, an awful lot of formerly sick people were sharing them."

When he had called Tony for help, he had told him the truth about the Dat-tay-vao. He had felt it necessary to lay everything out for the man who would be advising him at the hearing. He had told him about the incident in the emergency room, about how his new power dovetailed with the life history of the derelict Tony had researched.

Tony had been skeptical, but not overtly so. Alan was glad that he seemed to be convinced now.

"No lie, Al: It's still pretty hard for me to swallow, even after talking to the pilgrims on your doorstep. But the one thing we can't do is tell the Board Bastards that you really have this power."

At the mention of the board, Alan's palms became slippery on the wheel and his stomach went into spasm. In fifteen minutes or so he'd be seated before the board like some juvenile miscreant. He hated the idea. It angered him, but it frightened him even more.

"Why not bring it out in the open once and for all?" Alan asked. "Get it over with."

"No!" Tony fumbled his cigarette, dropped it on the floor of the car, and hastily retrieved it. "Christ, don't even consider it! That'll open up a can of worms I don't even want to think about dealing with!"

"But sooner or later—"

"Al, old buddy, trust me with this. I've looked over the medical staff bylaws and there's nothing in there that threatens you. You don't even have to show up today—and I've advised you not to but you choose to ignore that advice. So be it. But the fact remains: They can't touch you. Let them play their little head games on you all they want. Just sit back and relax. If you haven't been convicted of a felony or found guilty of moral turpitude or gross negligence of your duties as an attending physician in the department of medicine, they can't lay a finger on you. They're just blowin' smoke, man. Let 'em blow."

"If you say so, Tony. I just—"

"Just nothing, Al. You don't take nothin' from these moneylenders, real estate shills, and used car salesmen. You just sit mum and look clean and neat while I do the dirty work."

Alan could see that Tony was working up a head of steam in preparation for the meeting. He let him roll.

"If those turkeys think they can hang you because of a little yellow journalism, they got another think comin'! Let 'em try. Just let 'em try!"

Alan felt his fear and uneasiness slip away in the wash of Tony's belligerent confidence.

"Now, gentlemen," Tony was saying, "I'm sure you're all aware of how embarrassing this is to Dr. Bulmer, to be called before the Board of Trustees like some errant schoolboy before the principal because of some graffiti written about him on the schoolyard wall."

Alan sat in wonder and watched Tony pacing back and forth before the board members. He was eloquent, respectful, and deferential, yet never obsequious. He made it seem as though Alan had granted them an audience out of the goodness of his heart.

There they sat, the twelve of them—ten trustees plus Alan and Tony—seated around the oblong table in this small rectangular meeting room on the hospital's first floor. A coffee urn was set up in the corner, its red light beckoning; maritime paintings by local artists depicting the North Shore broke the muted beige of the walls. All were at the same table, yet unquestionably separated into two groups: Alan and Tony were down at their end, the members of the board—two physicians and eight local businessmen who devoted their spare time to "community service"—clustered around theirs. He knew both physicians well—Lou, of course, was his former partner, and old Bud Reardon had practically run the surgery department single-handedly in the hospital's early days. Bud was showing his years, lately. Alan had noticed him limping as he came in.

Alan really didn't know the others as individuals. He didn't do business with them, didn't get involved in hospital politics, and although he belonged to the same club as most of them, he didn't spend enough time there to have more than a nodding acquaintance with them.

While none of them actually stared, they all looked at him and glanced away as if he were a stranger, as if they were trying to put some mental distance between themselves and the doctor they might have to discipline. But they didn't frighten him now. Tony was right. He had broken no laws, either civil or criminal, had done nothing that would put him outside the bylaws. They couldn't touch him. He was safe.

"What I would like to know, Mr. DeMarco," the car dealer said, interrupting Tony, "is why Dr. Bulmer thinks he needs a lawyer here today? This isn't a trial, you know."

"Precisely. I am aware of that, and so is Dr. Bulmer. And I am heartened to hear that you are aware of that, sir. In fact, I had to talk Dr. Bulmer into allowing me to speak for him today. He didn't want me here, but I insisted on coming to make sure that none of you tries to turn this little informal gathering into a trial."

The white-haired Dr. Reardon cleared his throat. "All we want is to discuss the rather peculiar publicity Dr. Bulmer's gotten lately and ask him how it started, why it keeps on going, and how come he's done nothing to discourage it."

"Dr. Bulmer is under no obligation to respond. The 'peculiar publicity' you mention is nothing of a criminal nature. He can't be expected to hold a press conference every time some—"

"I would prefer to hear Dr. Bulmer's reply from Dr. Bulmer himself," the banker said.

The other board members nodded and murmured in agreement. Tony turned to Alan.

He said, "It's up to you."

Alan felt his heart pick up its tempo as he let his eyes scan the faces of the board members. "What would you like to know?"

Lou spoke up immediately. His words were clipped, his tone frankly irritated.

"Why in God's name haven't you done or said anything to squelch the ridiculous stories about these miracle cures you supposedly perform?"

Alan opened his mouth and then closed it. He had been about to give his usual reply about not dignifying the stories by taking the trouble to deny them, then changed his mind. Why not get it out in the open? He was tired of the half-truths, the surreptitious cures, the constant tension. Why not put an end to all that and come clean? He pushed himself to speak quickly before he had a chance to change his mind.

"I haven't made any denials because the stories are true."

There—I've said it.

A dead hush fell over the room, broken only briefly by Tony's muttered, "Christ on a crutch!"

"Let me get this straight, Alan," Lou said with an incredulous, half-amused, tell-me-I'm-wrong smile on his face. "Do you mean to say that you can actually cure incurable illnesses with a touch?"

"I know it sounds nuts," Alan said with a nod, "but yes— it's been happening for…"How long had it been? He couldn't remember when it had begun. "For months."

The board members exchanged worried glances. As they began to bend their heads together to confer, Bud Reardon said:

"Alan, do you realize what you're saying?"

"Believe me, I do. And if I were in your shoes, I know I'd be looking at me just the way you are."

Alan's statement seemed to have a disarming effect on the board, but only for a moment. The consternation on their faces remained, and they all seemed to be urging an opinion from the two medical members. Alan looked over at Tony and found him glaring his way in frustration. The lawyer made a punching motion with his fist. He wasn't encouraging Alan— he was angry.

Finally there was silence. Lou spoke. "We simply can't accept what you've said, Alan. You've put us in a dreadful position with this. We thought maybe you were simply ignoring the wild stories in the hope they would go away; some of us even thought you might be letting the stories continue because of the tremendous boost the publicity gave your practice. But none of us ever even considered the possibility that you would stoop to propagate such nonsense—"

"Now just a minute!" Tony said, leaping to his feet. "Just a goddamn minute! Nobody's going to call this man a liar while I'm around. This isn't a court and I don't have to be constrained by court decorum. Anybody who calls him a liar will answer to me!"

"Now, now," said the car dealer. "There's no call for that sort of—"

"Bullshit, there ain't! When this man tells you something is so, it's so!"

Bud Reardon cleared his throat again. "I would tend to agree, Mr. DeMarco. I've known Dr. Buhner since he first came to this community—interviewed him when he applied here to the staff, in fact. And having observed him over the years, I can say that his level of care and sense of medical ethics are beyond reproach. Which leaves us with a critical and most uncomfortable question: What if Dr. Bulmer is indeed telling the truth, but only as he sees it?"

There were puzzled expressions all around Dr. Reardon, but Alan knew exactly where he was going.

"He means," Alan said to the group, "that although I may be telling the truth, I might be having delusions which lead me to honestly believe that I can cure with a touch, even though I can't."

Reardon nodded. "Exactly. Which would classify you as a psychotic."

"I can show you documentation if you—"

"I was thinking of something a little more immediate and concrete," Reardon said. He pushed back his seat, pulled off his left loafer and sock, and placed his bare foot on the table. "This has been killing me since about three a.m."

Alan saw the angry, reddened, slightly swollen area at the base of his great toe. Gout. No doubt about it.

Bud Reardon looked him in the eye. "Let's see what you can do about this."

Alan froze. He hadn't expected this. Not now. He had been certain he would be called upon eventually to prove his fantastic claim, but he had never dreamed it would be here in the conference room.

The Hour of Power—when was it scheduled to begin today? He had been out of the office for a few days so he had lost track. Damn! If only he could remember! He made some rapid calculations. Monday it had been… when? Late afternoon, about 4:00/His mind raced through a series of calculations. He would have to depend solely on those calculations, because he felt nothing when the Hour of Power was upon him.

If his calculations were correct, he could count on about thirty minutes of the Touch right now.

But were his calculations correct? It all depended on Monday's Hour of Power occurring at 4:00 p.m. Had it? Had it really? His memory had been so haphazard lately, he didn't know if he could trust it on this. He strained to remember.

Yes. On Monday he remembered using the Touch on his last patient. That had been late afternoon. Right. It had been 4:00 p.m., he was sure of it.

Tony's low voice stirred him back to the here-and-now.

"You don't have to do this, Al. You can tell them you don't put on exhibitions and you'd prefer—"

"It's all right, Tony," he told his worried-looking friend. "I can handle this."

Alan stood up and approached the board's end of the table. The silent members swiveled in their seats as he passed behind them, as if afraid to take their eyes off him for a fraction of a second. Lou Albert's jaw hung slack and open as he watched from the far side of the table. Bud Reardon's smile became hesitant as Alan approached. He was clearly astonished that Alan had accepted his challenge.

Alan paused before the spot where Reardon's foot rested on the table. He was taking a terrible risk here. If his calculations were off by a single hour, he would be branded a quack or worse by these men. But it was going to work, he was sure of it. And that would wipe the frank disbelief off these smug faces in the blink of an eye.

He reached forward and touched the toe, wanting to heal it, praying that it would be healed.

Nothing happened.

With his blood congealing in his veins, he held on, although he knew in his very core that he was going to fail. The Touch never delayed; if it was working, it worked right away or not at all. Still, he hung on and gripped the angry-looking joint with increasing pressure until Bud Reardon winced in pain and pulled his foot away.

"You're supposed to make it better, Alan, not make it hurt worse!"

Alan was speechless. He had been wrong! His calculations had been off! Damn his sieve of a memory! He could feel their eyes boring into him. He could hear their thoughts— Charlatan! Phony! Liar! Madman! He wanted to crawl under the table and not come out.

Dr. Reardon cleared his throat once more. "Assuming we were in your office and you tried what you just tried with similar results, what would be your next move?"

Alan opened his mouth to speak and then closed it. He had prescribed the medication thousands of times, yet its name crouched over the far edge of his memory, just beyond his reach. He felt like a castaway on a desert isle watching the smoke from the stacks of a passing ship that was just over the horizon.

Reardon mistook Alan's hesitation for uncertainty about what was being asked of him and tried to clarify.

"What I'm saying is, what tests would you order now? What medication?"

Alan's mind was completely blank. He stabbed at an answer. "An X ray and a blood test."

"Oh, I hardly think an X ray would be necessary," Reardon said in a jovial tone, but his smile quickly faded as he stared at Alan. " 'Blood test' is a little vague, don't you think? What, specifically, would you order?"

Alan racked his brain. God, if he could only think! He played for time.

"A profile. You know—a SMAC-20."

Alan saw the concern and suspicion growing in Reardon's face. It was reflected in the other faces around him.

"Not very specific, Alan. Look. I know this is very elementary, but for the record, tell me the etiology of gout."

Tony jumped in then. "First of all, there is no record. And secondly, Dr. Bulmer is not here to be examined on gout or whatever's wrong with Dr. Reardon's foot!"

"It was not intended as such," Reardon said, "but we seem to be faced with an incredible situation here. I've asked Dr. Bulmer a question any first-year medical student could answer, and I'm still waiting for a reply."

Alan felt the room constrict around him as he sank into a fog of humiliation. Why couldn't he think? What was wrong with him?

"Well, don't hold your breath!" Tony said as Alan felt himself grabbed by the arm and pulled toward the door. "Dr. Bulmer didn't have to come here and he sure as hell doesn't have to stay here!"

Alan allowed himself to be led to the door. He heard Reardon's voice behind him.

"It would be better if he stayed. From what I've seen this morning, Dr. Bulmer appears mentally impaired and the board will have to take appropriate action."

And then they were out in the hall and heading for the parking lot.

"Shit, Alan! Shit, shit, shit!"

That was all Tony had said since they had reached the car.

"And the worst part of this whole thing is that you didn't even have to be there! Christ! What happened in there!"

Alan shook his head as he drove. He felt absolutely miserable, and Tony wasn't helping matters with his rantings.

"I don't know. I couldn't come up with the answer. I've diagnosed and treated gout countless times, but it just wasn't there. It was as if part of my memory had been blocked off, like it was there but it was hiding, or hidden. It still is."

"If they decide you're impaired, they can suspend your privileges—I remember seeing that in the bylaws. They can put you on suspension until you've been evaluated by a shrink or a drug-rehabilitation guy—"

"Drugs! You think I'm on drugs?"

"No. I know you better than that. But, Al, you haven't been yourself lately. And you looked spaced this morning when he started quizzing you. I'm sure the board thinks you're either on something or you've cracked."

Alan couldn't argue with him. He'd seen their expressions. One face lingered in the front of his memory. As Tony had propelled him from the room, Alan had glanced back and seen Lou Alberts staring after him. It was as if all their years of ill-feeling and competition had been washed away; Lou's face was a study of shock, dismay, and—worst of all—pity.

"And there's worse coming, let me tell you. The hospital is required by law to notify the State Board of Medical Examiners if any staff member is suspended because of suspected impairment or any other form of incompetence."

Impairment . . . incompetence . . . the terms rankled in Alan's brain. After fighting constantly to stay on top of clinical medicine, to be judged incompetent while so many other doctors coasted along with outdated knowledge and practices.

He slowed to a stop at an intersection and sat there, staring at the road ahead as a crystalline ball of fear formed and grew in his chest.

"Maybe they're right," he said. "Maybe I do need help."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm lost, Tony. I don't know which way to go."

"Don't worry, Al. I'm with you all the way. We'll sit down and—"

"No!" Alan said, hearing his voice rise in pitch as the fear spread down his arms and legs, encompassing him completely. "I mean now. Here. This road! I know I've been here thousands of times, but I'm lost!"

He turned and stared into Tony's shocked eyes.

"How do I get home from here?"