things to go wrong. We don’t care for surprises. When the future of your people is on the line, the fact is, you can’t afford surprises.”
“And what happened to the rabbi was a surprise.”
Both of them look at me.
“That’s about the size of it,” Dov says.
Chapter 3
I HAVE TO DRIVE to Dora Ewing’s the next day, so right after I take my pills and Carmen shows up to fix Loretta her coffee and morning oatmeal, and after she’s settled down all warm and comfy in front of the television, I sift through my top dresser drawer, where the socks are, to find my car keys. I haven’t driven all that much since we came to Park La Brea. It’s not retirement exactly, more like the system is quietly shutting down all on its own. We live pretty simple: there’s a Ralph’s down on Wilshire for the daily basics and a Kmart for everything else. I don’t need anything, tell you the truth. The last time I splurged and bought myself a brand-new pair of pants, Reagan was still eating jelly beans at the White House.
But Dr. Ewing is another story. She’s in Culver City, not so far away, but still a place that used to be considered nowhere. Now I guess you could argue the other way around. People like it in Culver City because, I dunno, maybe it reminds them of the small town they left behind to come to LA. Or because someone has decided that the nondescript tract homes there are suddenly worth millions. Or maybe because it now has the fragrance of fresh money. Lots of trees and fountains in Culver City. Lots of colorful shops. Or shoppes, as they’d probably rather call them. And cute restaurants that serve tiny rich French food on even tinier plates. Which would be a problem for guys like me, if I ever went there, which I do, every ten years or so.
I drive a blue Honda Accord from the previous century. It’s got at least two hundred thousand miles on it, and it’s not fast or pretty, but then neither am I anymore. The thing about my car is, it’s so old and ugly and beat to hell no one in their right mind would ever try to steal it. I could leave it unlocked anywhere in LA and it would still be sitting there when I got back. Okay, I’ve never put that idea to the test, but I know this much: you’d have to be crazy or desperate or both to want what I have.
I plug a mix tape in the slot above the radio and punch the plastic buttons until the tune I want comes on. James Taylor. Just yesterday morning they let me know you were gone. Suzanne, the plans they made put an end to you. I can’t tell you how much I love that song, even though it always floats me back to Vietnam. I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain. I’ve seen sunny days that I thought would never end. God, it doesn’t get any more beautiful than that. And if I listen to it more than once in an afternoon, it’ll make me cry.
I go down Hauser and roll nice and leisurely along Venice, past the old Helms Bakery building. It’s still standing, still majestic, if a little downtrodden. They’re shuffling other businesses in there right now, furniture and bedding outlets, and they look to be doing okay. But it’s such a barn of a place. In my book the handwriting’s on the wall. Sooner or later you gotta figure it’ll end up being dust and cobwebs and broken windows. Or maybe Walmart or Costco will come in someday and decide to take it over. That’s the American way, not that it matters.
The clinic Dr. Ewing works out of is a redbrick three-story affair just off the main drag. It might have been a shoe factory once upon a time. There’s free parking with validation in the back lot. I take the stub the machine spits out and pull into a shady space near an old sycamore tree. Downstairs there’s a sporting-gear place called Good to Go and a rare-stamp dealer named Marvin P. Watts, By Appointment Only. Dr. Ewing is on the second floor. I take the elevator and in no time at all I’m in an air-conditioned, pastel-colored room with abstract art on the walls and easy-listening music piping through. I’m leaning on the counter and making nice with her receptionist, a black woman in a tight pink sweater named Magnolia. That’s what it says on her name tag anyway. I’m too old to think about such things, but just so you know, Magnolia was made for that sweater.
“Amos Parisman. I have a ten o’clock with Dr. Ewing. I may be just a little early.”
She hands me a cheap ballpoint pen and a pale blue health form to fill out. “Tell me again what you said on the phone, Mr. Parisman,” she says, “what’s the reason for your visit?”
“Well now,” I say, in between reading and checking off the endless yes/no questions on the form—diabetes, cancer, heart disease, trouble passing urine—“it’s kind of personal, you know what I mean?”
“Uh-huh.” She wriggles her pink sweater closer to her hips. “That’s usually code for some sort of man problem.” When I don’t respond to this, she looks annoyed. “It’s okay,” she says. “You can tell me, I’ve heard everything. Or just about. Anyway, we’ve got to put something down there for doctor to look at. So what’ll it be?”
“Let’s see.” I bite my lip. “Why don’t you put down ‘mortality.’ That’s a huge concern of mine at the moment.”
“Mortality?”
“Yeah, mortality.” I flash her my best goofy old man smile and turn in the completed questionnaire. “We’re all gonna die, right?”
She shakes her head, shrugs, and fills in the blank.
Fifteen minutes go by before Dr. Ewing steps into the waiting room, and her eyes light on me. She’s holding a clipboard against her chest, inscribed, I presume, with my very own chosen malady. “Mr. Parisman?” she says. “Right this way.”
She opens a door that leads us into a small antiseptic cubicle. There’s the usual padded table covered by a broad white sheet of sanitizing paper, a stainless steel sink in the corner, a stand-up scale with adjustable weights, a cardboard box of pullout disposable gloves, a blood pressure cuff, and other paraphernalia. On the far wall, there’s also a full-sized, full-color poster of a grown man’s interior organs—thorax, lungs, kidneys, right down to his nuts.
“So,” Dr. Ewing says, a little perplexed, “we were going to do the usual routine—check your weight and blood pressure, ask about your meds. But first, what’s all this about mortality?”
Even in heels she’s only a bit over five feet, and at first her short spiky blond hair makes me wonder. Still, there’s something oddly beautiful about her. A rebelliousness in her eyes, and in the way she carries herself. Jason and Remo got that right. The lab coat is out of place, however. Starched and clean, but the sleeves are rolled back, as if meant for someone much taller. She seems painfully aware of this.
“Your receptionist said we had to put something down,” I tell her. “Fill in the blank, you know. Me, I’m more of an essay-question kind of guy. That was the first thing that popped into my head. Sorry.”
“So you’re not about to die?”
“I don’t think so.” I take the liberty of plopping down on the examining table. “Is this okay? I don’t want to spoil your sheets.”
She nods, checks something else on her clipboard, looks up again. “And you also didn’t bother to list your date of birth, Mr. Parisman. Why’s that?”
“Oh, vanity, I suppose. I was thirty-nine for the longest time. I studied with Jack Benny.” I try winking at her. Nothing. “Now I’m a little older.”
She offers up a faint smile. Of
