lack of communication. After ten seconds of silence, she spoke. “You might be angry with me, but I need to tell you that you’re a very sick man. You broke your car window and almost wound up behind bars. What could you possibly have been thinking?”
“I had to get into the car. My keys were there.”
“But the police said you didn’t know what you were doing and they thought you were drugged, or maybe even drunk.”
“They’re all exaggerating.”
“Forget it, George. Nothing’s changed. You’re sick. You forget a lot. You’re nervous and irritable, and I’m even getting scared to live with you. You’ve got to take Dr. Crowell’s advice and go see a psychiatrist, and also get the blood tests he ordered. You didn’t do those yet.”
“Maybe you’re the one who needs the shrink,” George answered sarcastically.
“You’re right, I am going nuts,” she sobbed, “but you’re driving me there. You have no idea what this has done to me. Your MRI may have been normal, but something is happening to your brain. Can’t you see it? We can’t go on like this.”
He felt impacted by Gail’s tears. Despite his altered mind-set, there appeared some glimmer of recognition regarding his fragile situation, both at home and work.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll go. But it’s just another waste of money.”
She kept still, fearing that any further discussion might cause him to change his mind.
She telephoned Burt’s office the next morning and spoke to his nurse. Realizing the urgency, the nurse arranged for George to see a psychiatrist right away. The psychiatrist’s schedule was booked months in advance, but he agreed to meet George in the hospital where he made patient rounds.
Gail and George met Dr. Louis Clementi at the hospital clinic. He was everyone’s vision of a psychiatrist—tall, with a gray beard, glasses, a slight Italian accent and a navy blue suit with a light blue shirt and striped tie. Gail thought he resembled an Italian reincarnation of Sigmund Freud. The doctor’s calm presence put them at ease. They entered a small examining room in the outpatient department.
“I’m pleased to meet you both,” said the doctor. “I hope I can help.”
Gail related the entire story, beginning with George’s failure to get the prescribed tests. The doctor took notes while keeping a watchful eye on his patient. He observed George’s fidgeting, anxiety, inattentiveness, and above all, his facial expressions and body language. Then he suggested to Gail that she step out of the room so he could interview her husband in private. The doctor spent a full thirty minutes questioning him before inviting Gail back in. Then, he sat and faced the two of them.
“I don’t like to make a firm diagnosis after one visit.” he offered. “For the record, however, here’s what I think. First, the normal MRI is good news. Your concern about a brain tumor, Mrs. Gilmer, was a good one in light of your husband’s symptoms, and we’re happy that was not the problem, but other conditions can cause such symptoms, even with a normal MRI brain scan. As you know, I see only patients with emotional or mental problems, so I end up with a particular psychiatric diagnosis. Mr. Gilmer has many different symptoms of anxiety, perhaps paranoia, agitation, restlessness, and even amnesia. Yet, I’m beginning to focus my attention on a medical diagnosis rather than a psychiatric one. Many medical problems can affect the brain; that list is endless.”
George listened, squirming in his chair. He tried to concentrate on what the doctor was saying, but he was flooded with a barrage of simultaneous thoughts.
“To tell you the truth I have practiced psychiatry for nearly thirty years and don’t deal with anything purely medical. Nevertheless, not every patient fits into some tight little psychiatric pocket. Mr. Gilmer is a perfect example of this. If there is a moral to this story, it would be that procrastination in getting a full medical work-up can be very dangerous. You must get the tests that Dr. Crowell ordered. You should see him very soon. I will send your doctor a full report.” Clementi paused long enough to make certain that he had made himself clear. Then he said, “Have you any further questions?”
“Is there anything he can take in the meantime to help him relax?” asked Gail.
“He could, but I’m reluctant to prescribe anything without first establishing a specific diagnosis. I don’t want either of you to expect some simple cure that you can obtain from a bottle. This is urgent. You must complete the medical investigation. That is priority number one.” He paused to look at George. “I cannot stress this enough, Mr. Gilmer. There are plenty of unusual medical problems that can cause your symptoms.”
Gail could only hope that the appointment with Dr. Clementi might get George to move forward. “Dr. Crowell is out-of-town,” she said, “but we have his order for the tests so we can go ahead and get them.” Gail glanced over at George, and then she turned her attention back to the doctor.
“Good,” replied the doctor.
George didn’t say anything until they left the clinic. “I told you I wasn’t nuts,” he said. “Today was a waste of time. Everyone’s just passing the buck.”
Gail was unfazed by his remarks. “If you get the tests and something curable is found, it will be worth it. No more stalling.”
“I’ll do it, don’t worry.”
“George, I’ll be staying home this weekend. I’m not going to visit my mother.”
“No way. You and the kids looked forward to this trip for a long time.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll feel better staying home.”
“No,” he insisted.
She felt threatened by his tone, enough to force her to drop the subject.
Neither spoke much at dinner. That was a good sign to Gail, since by his very silence George offered no opposition. She felt hopeful. Nevertheless, his silence betrayed a storm in his brain, a gathering force, fueled by a chaotic internal chemistry that would soon explode and alter their lives. When Gail left home the next morning for her mother’s house, George headed to the neighborhood drugstore for more antacids.
CHAPTER 15
George Gilmer and family lived in a typical middle-class, blue-collar area of Chicago. There were many such neighborhoods, most of them with an ethnic majority, but George’s area included people of all ethnic origins. Most of the residences were small homes built seventy to ninety years ago. They had well-kept small front lawns and larger back yards. Intermingled with all the homes was an occasional three or four story apartment building with many permanent and some transient residents. Two of the transient residents were Larry Benson and Philip Matt. They lived about six blocks apart and approximately one-half mile from George. They were drinking friends.
Both men enjoyed the Friday night fish fry at Traficante’s Bar and Grill located on one of the main streets that coursed through the neighborhood. Philip was a frequent patron there and he first met Larry six months earlier at the bar. Larry was six foot five inches of solid muscle with pitch-black hair, a prominent square jaw and a face that said, ‘be careful.’ He worked as a truck driver for a local bakery. Whenever he and Philip entered the grill together, owner Joe Traficante would bellow, “Here come Mutt and Jeff.” Traficante, an older man, had to explain who Mutt
