Part 6 (1/2)
Matt knocked. ”You decent?”
”Wearing nothing but my pubic hair,” joked Robert.
Matt Robinson entered wearing his perpetual smile, grabbed a stool and plopped his immense body on it. The stool sighed and groaned as he adjusted his weight, but then he eyeballed the knot of sickness beneath Robert's chin. ”What's up?”
”You saw it.”
Matt nodded. He squirmed, repositioning his a.s.s on the stool. ”When did you notice?”
”A colleague pointed it out this morning.”
”Any tenderness around the swelling?”
Robert shook his head.
Matt hopped from the stool, grabbed a clipboard that had a pen chained to it, and wrote. ”Any symptoms of maybe flu, a virus?”
”Been a weird week.”
”How weird?”
”Weird enough.”
”Any constipation?”
Robert shut his mouth, trying to stop his teeth from chattering. Gooseflesh sprouted along his arms. He nodded, awaited the next question.
”Night sweats?”
Again, Robert nodded.
”Any blackouts?”
He sighed, then remembered. ”I've been losing time,” he said, speaking in the voice of a child, the voice that had asked his father what had killed his mother.
”Has the constipation been recurring?”
”No, I've gone, but-”
”But what?” asked Matt, hurriedly scribbling on his pad.
”There's been blood.”
Matt looked up.
”A lot of it.”
Matt's brow furrowed, thick lines gathering like thunderheads. He rubbed is goatee, set the pad on the cart behind him. From what looked like a box of Kleenex he removed a set of plastic gloves.
Robert couldn't stop s.h.i.+vering, ”What is it?”
Matt snapped the gloves, crimped his hands to make sure they were secure in them. ”You're so dramatic,” he said. ”When I saw you three weeks ago, you were fine. If something's going on,” he said, turning, his long white jacket billowing around his slacks. ”It's just settling in. Most likely, you have the flu and a h.e.l.l of a hemorrhoid.”
”Shouldn't we draw blood, do a biopsy . . . .”
”Slow down.” Matt's chuckle was strained. ”You know what to do,” he said, snapping the gloves.
Robert scooted from the bench and dropped his pants. He'd had this done for the first time eight months ago. He turned, set his hands on the tissue paper, and a.s.sumed the position. Thick beads of sweat ran between his fingers. He winced when Matt began. Maybe it was the size of his meat hooks, but the man did not have a delicate touch.
”No, pretty normal-oh.” Matt withdrew his hand.
”What is it?”
”Nothing,” said Matt, strolling over to the waste basket, dropping the gloves in.
Robert bowed his head. ”Tell me.”
”I'm sending Marie in. She'll take a vial. Can you be here in the morning?”
Robert raised his slacks, clasped his belt. ”I . . . I have a cla.s.s.”
”Get a sub. I'll see you at seven, and don't be late.” Then he left, called for Marie to bring a needle.
6.
The offices of You're Home, Inc. were located by the food court in the Simola Straight Town Center. Malls had always been her worst enemy: shoes, purses, perfume, and smart outfits exclaimed This is what you need to be complete.
She drove around the food court's parking, but failed to locate a s.p.a.ce, so she settled on the lot by Sears. After parking, she moved through the huge department store with four grand in her purse. It was a gauntlet, but she made it without perusing a thing. Outside Sears, she evaded the carny barkers at the jewelry kiosks, bypa.s.sed the survey-takers with clipboards, and did not turn her head toward the entrances of the other department stores. Her breathing returned to normal once she saw the sign for You're Home.
Behind a counter a broad, part.i.tioned room was flooded with fluorescent light. A black woman in dreadlocks rolled her eyes. ”h.e.l.lo,” she chirped. ”What can I do for you?”
”I . . .uh-” mumbled Veronica, out of breath.
The woman rose and came to the counter. ”It's okay, sweetie, catch your wind.”
”I need to make a payment.”
”All right,” the woman replied, flipping the front page of the receipt book. ”Will that be check or cas.h.i.+er's check?”
Veronica's heart hammered. ”I have cash.”