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After mooning and exclaiming over Laurie—who, other than one stop to relieve her bladder, had slept in the backseat all the way to Boca—Beth reverted to her usual big-sister priorities. Although she could nag him on many subjects (she was a virtuoso that way), her main issue this time was Dr. Albright, and Lloyd’s need to see him for an overdue checkup.
“Although you look good,” she said. “I have to say it. You actually appear to have a tan. Assuming that’s not jaundice.”
“Just sun. I walk Laurie three times a day. On the beach when we get up, on Six Mile Path to the Fish House, where I have lunch, and back on the beach in the evening. For the sunset. She doesn’t care about it—dogs have no aesthetic sense—but I enjoy it.”
“You walk her on the canal boardwalk? Jesus, Lloyd, that thing’s a wreck. It’s apt to collapse under you someday and dump you into the canal, along with the princess here.” She rubbed the top of Laurie’s head.
“It’s been there for forty years or more. I think it will outlast me.”
“Have you made that doctor’s appointment yet?”
“No, but I will.”
She held up her phone. “Do it now, why don’t you? I want to watch you.”
He could tell by the look in her eyes that she didn’t expect him to take her up on this, which was one reason he did it. But not the only reason. In previous years, he had dreaded going to the doctor; kept expecting that moment (no doubt conditioned by too many TV shows) when the doctor would look at him gravely and say, “I have some bad news.”
Now, however, he felt good. His legs were stiff when he got up in the morning, probably from so much walking, and his back was creakier than ever, but when he turned his attention inward, he found nothing worrisome. He knew that bad things could grow unfelt in an old man’s body for quite some time—creeping along until it was time to dash—but nothing had progressed to the point where there was an outward manifestation: no bloody stool or sputum, no deep pain in the gut, no trouble swallowing, no painful urination. He reflected that it was much easier to go to the doctor when your body was telling you there was no reason to do so.
“What are you smiling about?” Beth sounded suspicious.
“Nothing. Give me that.”
He reached for her phone. She held it away from him. “If you really mean to do it, use your own.”
7
Two weeks after his checkup, Dr. Albright asked him to come in to go over the results. They were good.
“Your weight’s pretty much where it should be, your blood pressure’s fine, ditto reflexes. Your cholesterol numbers are better than the last time you let us take some of your blood…”
“I know, it’s been awhile,” Lloyd said. “Probably too long.”
“No probably about it. Anyway, no need to put you on lipids as of now, which you should see as a victory. At least half my patients your age take them.”
“I do a lot of walking,” Lloyd said. “My sister gave me a dog. A puppy.”
“Puppies are God’s idea of the perfect workout program. How are you doing otherwise? Are you coping?”
Albright didn’t need to be more specific. Marian had also been his patient, and far more conscientious than her husband about her six-month checkups—very proactive in all things, was Marian Sunderland—but the tumor that first robbed her of her intelligence and then killed her had been beyond proactivity. It hatched too deep inside. A glioblastoma, Lloyd thought, was God’s idea of a .45 caliber bullet.
“Pretty well,” Lloyd said. “Sleeping again. I go to bed tired most nights, and that helps.”
“Because of the dog?”
“Yes. Mostly that.”
“You should call your sister and thank her,” Albright said.
Lloyd thought that was a good idea. He called her that evening and did so. Beth told him he was very, very welcome. Lloyd took Laurie down to the beach and walked her. He watched the sunset. Laurie found a dead fish and peed on it. They both went home satisfied.
8
December 6th of that year began in the normal way, with a walk on the beach followed by breakfast: Gaines-Burger for Laurie, a scrambled egg and a piece of toast for Lloyd. There was no premonition that God was cocking his .45. Lloyd watched the first hour of the Today program, then went into Marian’s den. He had picked up a little accounting work from the Fish House and a car dealership in Sarasota. It was low-pressure stuff, no stress involved, and although his financial needs were met, it was nice to be working again. And he discovered that he liked Marian’s desk better than his own. He liked her music, too. Always had. He thought Marian would be glad to know that her space was being used.
Laurie sat beside his chair, chewing thoughtfully on her toy rabbit, then took a nap. At ten-thirty, Lloyd saved his work and pushed back from the computer. “Snack time, girl.”
She followed him into the kitchen and accepted a rawhide chew stick. Lloyd had milk and a couple of cookies that had come in an early gift package from Beth. They were burnt on the bottom (burnt Christmas cookies another of Beth’s specialties), but edible.
