After the End: Survival (18 page)

"Man does not live on vegetables alone. And you can quote me on that. Be right back."

Pete went into the house, cut a thick slice of bread and slathered it with strawberry jam. Trimming the crust off from around the edges, he filled a glass with water and went back outside.

"Break time. Try some of this. Helps build strong bodies a multitude of ways."

"As I recall, it was exactly twelve," said Smith, brushing his hands on his pants as he accepted the bread.

"You have a good memory, doctor."

"Then you know what I was."

"You are a respected cardiologist."

"Pete, ‘was’ is the operative word here. And I don't know about that respected part either. I did a lot of heart catheterizations, was always busy and made some money. When the Change occurred, cardiology was not a priority. And I sure couldn't stop anyone from dying."

"Neither could anyone else."

"Pete, I appreciate what you're saying, but I'm not sure you really understand."

"Try me."

Holtzmann stared at his bread for moment, and then took a bite. He chewed slowly, savoring the sweet jam.

"All right. Let's say you're at a pre-Change social gathering. You strike up a conversation with the man next to you. After you've gone over the preliminaries, weather perhaps, and if the Cowboys can make it to the Super Bowl, what's next?"

"Maybe find out what kind of job he has?"

"Exactly. What kind of work he does. How he spends most of his waking hours. What kind of specialized skill he has that allows him to make his way through life. Our society demanded specialization. Mankind's knowledge had become so great, involving such an incredibly wide number of fields, that specialization had became necessary to achieve success.

"Take medicine. Seventy-five years ago, a doctor, was a doctor, was a doctor. Physicians rarely specialized. There was no need. They did it all. Now, turn the clock to the near present. Five years ago there were literally hundreds of specialties, all involving knowledge in an increasingly narrow field of expertise. There was actually a glut of physicians in the big cities, while the rural areas were underserved because a specialist had to draw on a large population to succeed. Believe it or not, there was actually a stigma attached to being a mere general practitioner. It implied a lack of ambition.”

"Doctor, I understand your point. But the medical field was ripe for this type of specialization. People recognize the need for good health. You can't do much of anything unless you've got it. There's always been a demand for people who can help others heal. It's probably the second oldest profession. And it's recession-proof.”

Holtzmann shook his head, taking another bite, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

"No, Pete, you're not looking at the whole picture."

Oh geez, Pete thought. Give a malnourished physician a little food and it's like watching some kind of
Rocky
spinoff.

"Let me use another example," Holtzmann continued. "A hundred years ago, you want to build a house, you go to a carpenter and tell him what you want. He designs it, and then, with a couple of apprentices, he builds your house. Foundation, walls, roof, the interior, the whole works. What would you do five years ago? You go to an architect. He draws the blueprints. Then you hire a contractor. He gets the concrete specialists to pour the foundation, then the framing carpenters put up the walls, someone else puts in the windows and doors, the electricians wire the place, the plumbers put in the water lines, the sheet rock men put up the interior walls, you have your painters, your roofers, carpet layers, the heating and air conditioning men . . ."

"I think I understand now. Specialization as a means to survival."

"Exactly. But it goes deeper. Because a man becomes his specialty. His entire identity is wrapped up in what he does. Getting back to that man you met socially, you ask, ‘So, what do you do?’ He doesn't answer, ‘Oh, I'm a husband and father of three.’ He doesn't answer, ‘I look at beautiful sunsets, I find them inspiring.’ No. He says, ‘I'm the senior managing director of the accounting division of the local office of XYZ Corporation, headquartered in Bangor, Maine.’ Or perhaps he'll answer, ‘I'm the lead front-end alignment man at Smith Motors. We only work on Fords.’ Or if you were to ask me, I would have said, ‘I'm a cardiologist.’ And if you were to further question me, say, about some problem you were having in your chest, I would tell you to see a thoracic surgeon, because my practice is limited to the heart. And had you asked me twenty five years from now, I might have answered, ‘My practice is limited to the left ventricle of the adult human heart.’

"Ultimately, a man's vocation becomes his identity. There is no separation. So, if that man can no longer practice his livelihood, he becomes lost, his ego confused. He no longer knows what he is.

"Pete, I don't know what the hell to do with myself. I’m disconnected from this strange new world. I miss the way things were. People used to look up to me. I was important. Every day I made life-and-death decisions. Now I feel unfocused, useless. I'm like a piece of trash. I have no value."

Both men were silent for a minute.

"Well," Pete said, "right now you're weeding my garden so the tomato plants will be more productive. I'll eat better because of it. Yesterday you made Amy's day, telling her she was smart. I don't mean to sound patronizing, but hey. It's a pretty good start for a guy with scurvy."

Holtzmann grinned. "You're right, it does sound patronizing. So how does one make tomato juice?"

"Easy. Just squeeze 'em in some cloth. And let me show you how to make the world's best potato soup. With these new skills, you'll be able to make us both lunch."

After guiding Holtzmann through "Potato Peeling 101," Pete walked across the street to his clinic. He made a quick inventory of supplies, writing down a short list of things he'd need to pick up at the hospital. He called the S.O. for an update on the investigation of David Rodriguez's death, but the sheriff was out. He radioed the hospital to talk with Jay Flood. Nurse Williams curtly informed him that the doctor had worked late the night before, was at home asleep, and she by-God was not going to wake him up. Also, the appendectomy patient had died just after midnight and the little boy who'd been brought in the day before was starting to run a fever and if he was done talking she had quite a bit of work to do so, if he didn't mind, she was going to sign off now.

Pete grimaced at the radio the same time Amy Randolph walked in the room.

"Gee, Mr. Wilson, you do that so well. Maybe you can try it sometime when Latesha can actually see you."

"Mind your own business, girl. How are we doing for office forms?"

"Well, we were running short, so earlier this week I made more. I need new carbon paper, though. This stuff's pretty much used up."

"I'll add it to my list. Don't make plans for lunch. It's going to be catered today." He told her about finding Dr. Holtzmann in his garden.

"That's cool," she said, nodding. "I'll bring some fresh bread. We're baking today," she added, by way of explanation. Amy lived two blocks away with three other women. Their popular baked goods were sold and traded in the neighborhood.

The screen door opened and then closed softly and Pete looked up to see his AIDS patient, Jason Owens. The man nodded as he entered, keeping his eyes downcast.

"Morning, Jason. How can we help you?"

"Throat hurts. That gargle helped. Can I get some more?" His voice was subdued and raspy.

"You bet. Give me a minute to make some up. How are you feeling otherwise?"

"Tired all the time, but I can't sleep. Not hungry, but I feel sick to my stomach. Ache all over, like the flu."

Pete reached over and felt the man's forehead.

"No fever. Jason, are you still living with your friend?"

"Yeah. T.J.'s still putting up with me."

"Here," he said, filling out a prescription and handing it to Jason. "Have him stop by Holman's and get this filled."

Jason looked at the slip at the slip of paper.

"Hashish? As in ‘hash’?"

"That's right. I'm thinking regular old, plain Jane marijuana would probably help with some of your symptoms, and you can buy that anywhere. But with your throat as raw as it is, hash would be more concentrated, less irritating, and you wouldn't have to smoke as much. Use a water pipe to cool down the smoke. Here's some of that gargle solution. You might also try some warm mint tea two or three times a day. It'll help soothe your throat and maybe settle your stomach. Come back in a few days and let me know how you're doing."

Jason walked to the door, hesitating as he opened it.

"Sorry about the other day," he said.

"So am I. We were both pretty stressed. Back to square one?"

Jason nodded and eased out the door.

"What was that all about?" Amy asked.

"Mind your own business, girl," he repeated. "You don't have to know everything."

Morning clinic was slow. Pete used the time to collect herbs for drying. He exchanged batteries from his house to the clinic for recharging and then swept and mopped the clinic floor, which had gotten dirty from tracked in dirt and mud.

"You act like you actually enjoy sweeping," said Amy, raising her feet as he moved the broom under her desk.

"It's gotta be done. But I'll be honest with you, Amy," Pete said in a conspiring whisper, "it's the mopping that really turns me on."

"You're a sick man,” she said, shaking her head and grinning. "When will lunch be ready?"

"Hopefully pretty soon. I'll go see how the chef's doing. Why don't you bring over some of that bread you've been peddling and we'll see if you still deserve bragging rights."

"We don't have to brag about our bread, our customers do it for us."

"Yeah, I know, I've talked to both of them."

Amy shot him with a rubber band as she walked across the room and out the door. Pete quickly mopped and then walked across the street to his house. The smell of potato soup filled the air. Daniel Holtzmann was in the back yard, ministering over a medium sized pot of boiling liquid.

"Smells good, if I do say so myself."

"Beginner’s luck," Pete said, blowing on a spoonful and burning his tongue in an effort to taste it. "I think it's ready. Let's take it inside."

Amy had come over with a loaf of bread, still warm from the oven. The three of them sat down and began eating. Pete turned on the radio just in time to catch the news.

"This is KAMR, Amarillo," Larry Maxwell intoned. "Twelve noon and time for the news. Brought to you by Hastings Bar and Grill. The best food in town and in the center of Amarillo's adult entertainment center, that's Hasting's, at I-40 and Georgia."

“‘Adult entertainment center’? It's across the street from a whorehouse," said Amy, disgustedly.

"Sshhh!" said both men.

"In the news, area residents are mourning the violent deaths of two local people. The body of twelve year old Laura Benchly was discovered yesterday morning in a house in the southwest part of the city. According to a report by acting coroner Peter Wilson, the girl had been beaten, raped, strangled and then stabbed sometime the night before. She had last been seen playing basketball at Westover School. A full investigation has been launched by the sheriff's department and Sheriff Rob Westlake says there are similarities between this incident and the murder of Susan Shupe, whose body was found earlier this week near Canyon."

The sheriff's voice came through the speaker, and Pete could visualize the DJ pushing the "play" button on his cassette player.

"We believe both girls were killed by the same person, a man familiar with the area and who sometimes travels by horseback. With the public's help, this department is confident it will apprehend the individual responsible for these deaths."

"Yeah, right," said Pete.

"Sshhh!" This from Amy and Daniel.

"Laura Benchly is survived by her foster parents, Frank and Betty Crenshaw." Larry continued. "Graveside services will be held at the Hollywood Road cemetery at four-o'clock this afternoon."

The cemetery was a former wheat field that was the scene of mass burials three years before. A windmill at the site provided water for travelers and shade trees.

"In other news, Sheriff's deputy David Rodriguez of Canyon was found dead with a single gunshot wound to the head. The body was discovered in the former probation building in the 200 block of South East Third by River Road deputy Frank Klein. An investigation is underway. Sheriff Rob Westlake indicated the wound may have been self-inflicted. David Rodriguez is survived by his wife, Yolanda, and daughter Desiree. Graveside services are set for ten AM tomorrow at the Dreamland Cemetery in Canyon. More news, after this."

"That's bullshit," Pete said. "David was killed."

"How do you know?" Daniel asked.

"Too many inconsistencies," he said, explaining the contortions David would have had to go through to commit suicide. "And why would he do it there, of all places? Why was there no note, no explanation? The day before the guy was acting like a newlywed. It doesn't add up."

"So, go back to the place where it stopped making sense," said Holtzmann, standing to clear his place. "I'm feeling a little tired. Not used to all this activity. I'm going home to rest. Amy, the high quality of your fresh baked bread surpassed even my wildest expectations. You are to be commended."

"Thank you. You ought to try some of our cinnamon bread."

"I'll look forward to it. Good afternoon," he said, walking out the front door.

“‘You ought to try some of our cinnamon bread’," Pete said, in a high pitched voice.

"You seem to like it well enough."

"Hey. I can eat my own cooking and survive. What does that tell you?"

"That you have a cast-iron stomach. Are you going to the funerals?"

"Yes. You need a ride?"

"I didn't know either one of them,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “Why should I go? I've got things to do. See you later, if you're lucky."

"See you. Thanks, Amy."

He watched her leave, and looked at the dishes on the table, realizing that in three years, this lunch marked the most people he'd ever had over for a meal. Kind of nice, he thought, as he washed the dishes.