Stone 588 (19 page)

By the time they were into the desserts it was three thirty. Springer was to meet Norman at four. He'd see Audrey and Jake back at the hotel. He got a black-bottom-flavored kiss from each of them and left them the umbrella.

He arrived at Norman's office at 21st and L street five minutes early. There was no one in the waiting room. The nurse receptionist buzzed him in and led the way. The place smelled medical. Norman was out from around his desk and coming at him when Springer entered the room. They hugged man hugs instead of handshakes. Norman was in shirt sleeves. He told the nurse to bring coffee. He sat in one of the leather armchairs his patients usually occupied, so there was no obstacle between him and Springer, who sat on the matching leather-upholstered Chesterfield sofa. Norman appeared genuinely happy to see his brother, although his smile was a bit strained. When they were settled and through the preliminary small talk, Norman asked, "Now, what's this all about?"

It took about twenty minutes for Springer to tell him about stone 588, including a rundown on Joel Zimmer's analysis. Norman didn't once interrupt, just listened with his interest focused the way he did when he was hearing out a patient. Springer expected Norman might break into a laugh or, at least, a knowing grin.

Of course he remembered their father's reminder stone. Had Springer brought it along?

Springer handed it to him.

Norman rolled it between his fingers, looked at it thoughtfully. "What's Janet doing now?" he asked.

"She's cramming," Springer replied. "Taking an accelerated course for her high school diploma. That way she'll finish the couple of years she missed in just a few months. She wants to go to Princeton and be a physicist."

"Looking that far ahead, huh?"

"She's convinced physics and metaphysics are converging."

Norman glanced at his watch.

That miffed Springer a bit. From what Norman had said he had anticipated a jammed waiting room. The nurse receptionist brought the coffee, two heavy hospital-style mugs of steaming black. She placed Springer's on the side table next to a life-size human heart encased in a cube of clear plastic. Macabre, Springer thought. "That real?" he asked.

Norman smiled. "Possibly. A representative of one of the drug companies gave it to me for Christmas."

"How's your number-one patient?"

"Who?"

"The current father of our country."

"Oh, fine. Couldn't be fitter." Norman took a sip of his coffee, scalded his lips. He appeared nervous. Unmindfully, he tossed the stone from one hand to another. "The idea of precious stones being able to heal or protect people has been around for ages," he said. "The Egyptians, Greeks, Romans, Jews, Christians—what-have-you — all put a lot of stock in their various amulets. In fact, no less a man than Aristotle credited certain precious stones with the ability to cure. So did Theophrastus, St. Hildegard, Bishop Marbode, and a lot of others."

Springer had never heard of those three fellows.

Norman went on. "The emerald, for example, was supposed to offset lasciviousness, which may be why it wasn't so popular with a lot of people. It also shooed away demons, strengthened the memory, and made an emerald owner good at arguing. Rubies were the thing for syphilis. And sapphires were useful against scorpion and snake bites." Norman paused to measure Springer's interest. Assuming he had it, he continued. "Did you know, when a diamond was held in the mouth of a liar it helped him speak the truth? A topaz would neutralize any liquid that had poison in it, and a pearl tucked in the ear would get rid of a headache. Pericles . . . you've heard of Pericles."

"Yeah."

"Smart fellow he was. Wore a piece of rose rock crystal around his neck to keep him from getting sick."

"Did it work?"

"He died in his prime of the plague."

"I can only go by what I saw," Springer said. "And I'm positive of what I saw. Libby's hands—"

"Imagine, if you can, how many incredible things I've experienced over my years in medicine. People dead—I mean getting cold, rigor-stiffening dead — coming back to life as though they'd been pushed back, refused. Hopeless cases, incurables left to die, doing a sudden turnaround, rallying, and eventually walking away from their deathbeds."

"Are you saying you believe it's possible that the stone—"

"Wouldn't that be something if it were true! A real first-class wish, that." Norman fisted the stone and underscored his conviction with the fist, although he spoke calmly, recitatively. "It is my belief, dear brother, that in every such instance there is a scientific explanation. Elusive at the moment, perhaps, but nevertheless there. The medical miracles of a hundred years ago —hell, fifty years ago—are today's common practices." He scratched the side of his nose and shifted verbal gears. "You know, Phil, autosuggestion can be a powerful influence."

"I haven't got that much imagination."

"There was a doctor in Boston that I knew. He used to chase ambulances to accidents. If he got to the victims while they were still conscious he'd use hypnosis to keep them from going into shock. Saved a lot of lives."

"I was not hypnotized by myself or anyone," Springer insisted.

Norman sat forward. "Okay. 1 believe you. I believe in the power of this stone. Now, does that make a difference? You came here wanting a logical explanation, I've given you one, and you don't want to accept it."

Springer felt like a man with two pieces of rope not long enough to be tied together.

"In the sixteenth century," Norman said, "when Pope Clement the seventh was sick his doctors gave him powders made from various precious stones. Over a period of two weeks or so, they had him ingest a fortune in diamonds. Which is probably what killed him."

How do you know so much about the subject?"

"When I was at Cornell I exercised my Latin by reading a book about the origins and virtues of gems called Specimen de Gemmarum, as compiled by an Englishman named Robert Boyles in the seventeenth century. Big thick book, entirely in Latin. I've been interested ever since. No offense meant, but it helps remind me how gullible people are."

"Did you know for years Dad took some kind of ground-up emerald concoction for upset stomach?"

"No shit?"

"Mattie told me."

A knowing grin from Norman. "Mattie believes in anything she can't see."

Springer's coffee was cold. He drank some anyway.

"How's Jake liking D.C.?" Norman asked.

"Okay, I guess."

"I've depressed you."

Springer didn't deny that. Now he wished he'd just gone on being close to convinced of stone 588, not come to Washington.

"Tell you what," Norman said offhandedly. "Let me keep this thing overnight. See if I get a different impression." Before Springer could consent, Norman had dropped the stone into his shirt pocket.

When Springer got back to the suite at the Madison he found Audrey and Jake lying on the floor with their bare feet up, digging into a carton of Cheese Tid-Bits and watching MTV. They stayed as they were but invited hello kisses, which Springer knelt to deliver. They'd both bathed and changed. The skin of their feet. Springer noticed, was still pale and puckered from having been wet all day.

"We saw where they print money," Jake said.

"Really?"

"They were only printing ones. They only print ones when people are looking. A guy there told me they print the hundreds at night."

The suite consisted of a sitting room between two bedrooms with baths. Springer's and Jake's things were in the bedroom that had twin beds. Springer went in, removed his wet clothes, and took a warm shower. The shower felt good, but drying off felt better. He put on a pair of jeans and went out to the sitting room, flopped down on the sofa, and read some of the Washington Post, mainly the classified ads. It was Springer's theory that the way to get to know what a city was really like was to imagine your way through the help wanteds, lost and founds, personals, and real estate ads.

They had a room-service dinner that smelled and tasted like a room-service dinner, and, of course, they ordered too much. Jake helped push the dining table and leftovers out into the hall. Then Audrey watched while Jake and Springer played gin rummy with a deck of Eastern Airline cards. Springer threw away gin hands to let Jake win but he was very careful about it. Jake was a much better than average gin player for his age. Springer had no idea Jake was breaking up gin hands trying to let him win. Only Audrey, the kibitzer, knew. She loved them both for it.

Time for bed.

Springer and Jake went into their room. Springer didn't get under the covers, said he wanted to read awhile: a paperback edition of an Elmore Leonard novel, fast and tough.

From the other bed, Jake said, "That was a lousy dinner."

"Sure was."

"Better than having sushi, though."

"Thought you liked sushi."

"Enough is enough."

Was he talking about Japanese food or Gayle? Springer wondered. The mother gets custody, the father gets to have a visitor. That in Springer's opinion could only be a fair decision half the time.

Jake raised his right leg and massaged it vigorously just above the knee.

"Got a cramp?" Springer asked.

"Something."

"We walked a lot today."

"The doctor mom took me to said I've got growing pains."

Growing pains. Springer thought, Gayle has been having those all her life.

"The guys in the park say I'm the best digger," Jake said. A digger in volleyball is one who goes after the hard downward smashes of the ball, tries to get his hands under it before it touches the ground. Often it requires a self-sacrificing elbow-scraping dive.

"What about your spiking?" Springer asked.

"Not so hot, not tall enough."

"You will be."

"Think we'll ever go play again with Mr. Malo and Mr. Bueno?"

Springer promised they would. Malo and Bueno were not the real names of two exceptional volleyball players, Brazilians who hung out up in High-bridge Park. Some of the best volleyball in the city was played up there. When Springer felt the need for a challenge and a serious workout, that was where he went.

"You're as good as Malo and Bueno," Jake said.

"No, I'm not."

"Almost."

"Thanks."

"You think I'm scared, don't you?" Jake said.

"What makes you say that?"

"I mean you don't think I can sleep in here alone."

"It's not that."

"I thought I was going to have my own room."

Springer was sure he was being manipulated. He pretended to be absorbed in the Elmore Leonard. Nothing more from Jake. Apparently he'd dropped off to sleep. It had been a long day with the flight down and all the traipsing around. After half an hour Springer clicked off the light and got up, quietly. When he was going out, Jake told him, "Shut the door."

Springer went in to Audrey. "I got thrown out," he said, as she surrendered one of the pillows and propped it for him. She had only a sheet half over her. Springer took off his jeans and climbed under next to her. His hip scraped something crinkly. "What the hell is that?"

"My malt balls," she said matter-of-factly, retrieving the brown paper bag of candy and placing it on her bedside table. Close to the foot of the bed the television was on: a Fred Astaire with the volume so faint the songs and dialogue couldn't be made out, only the taps.

"I forgot to tell you," Audrey said. "Libby invited us up to Penobscot next week."

"Can't."

"I know. I told her."

"Was she upset?"

"Only disappointed. She adores you."

"Who doesn't?"

Audrey gave him an elbow poke and then a conciliatory malt ball.

"Who exactly is Wintersgill?" he asked.

"I told you. He's the Director of the Hopkins-Hull Foundation. He okays everything."

"Does he ever not okay something?"

"If Libby wants him to."

"What's his background?"

"Old money—or, rather, old depleted money. His ancestors were among the original Dutch settlers. They once owned half of New York and a third of Pennsylvania. Now about all Wintersgill has is a fairly impressive apartment on East Sixty-eighth. And the name, of course. For fifteen years he's been trying to persuade Libby to marry him."

"She ever been married?"

"Once. For a few months when she was twenty. To a Polish count. She brags the marriage cost her half a million dollars a week and even more per orgasm. Her words, not mine."

"Why won't she marry Wintersgill?"

"Why should she? She already has all the benefits of him and none of the inconveniences."

"You might say that of me."

"My ears have never once heard you mention marriage."

"Perhaps I'm afraid you might run."

"To or from?"

"I love you," he told her.

"I know."

A brief kiss was taken and given for further reassurance.

Astaire was flipping his cane around and his tails were centrifuging.

"Libby is not my real aunt, you know," Audrey said.

Springer had asked Audrey about her family but she'd always parried the subject.

"I'm adopted," she said.

"Someone left you on Libby's doorstep."

"You might say that."

Springer, considerately, backed off. It was up to Audrey to reveal more or not. Following some pondering silence she told him, "My mother was Libby's personal secretary: one of those I-must-go-where-you-go sorts. Her name was Gillian Croft. Pretty name, don't you think?"

"Very."

"As I understand it, she was extremely bright and beautiful and well paid. She and Libby were quite close. For one thing, neither she nor Libby had any family still living, and I suppose to a great extent that influenced the attachment. They raised a lot of hell, among other things, all around the world. As Libby puts it, 'We scorched the south of France and the north Long Island shore and melted most of the Swiss, French, and Italian Alps.' "

"Anyway, my mother became pregnant and for whatever reason waited too long to do anything about it. She never told Libby who the father was, just wouldn't. Perhaps because, as Libby contends, it was someone highly social who was already married. They were carrying on wildly in Palm Springs around that time. Closer to the truth, I believe, is my mother simply couldn't be sure whom to point her tummy at.