The Art of Forgetting (13 page)

              “Animal cruelty?” Lloyd said. “For crying out loud! They eat organic vegetables. They drink filtered water. They listen to Beethoven, Mozart and Chopin.”

              “You inject them with prions,” Mrs. Devine said.

              “And I cure them of their dementia,” Lloyd said, “just like I’ll cure hundreds of thousands of individuals who have no other hope. You can’t stop my research.”

              “Watch me. I’ll change the locks on your laboratory if I have to,” Lasko said.

              “Dr. Lasko,” Bender said, “that won’t be necessary. Dr. Copeland is a valuable faculty member and he’s made significant contributions to the department of Neurology and to the university. There’s no need to take drastic measures. I will personally vouch for him.”

              “I wish I could be as charitable in his regards as you are, Dr. Bender, but I’m entrusted with a greater responsibility. And I can’t have a loose cannon conducting unapproved experiments in our hospital.”

              “He won’t do that, will you Lloyd?”

              Lloyd shook his head. Uncle Marty to the rescue again.

              “You have my personal assurance,” Bender said. “No need for a locksmith.”

              When the meeting ended, Lloyd returned to his office in a state of disbelief. How could they shut down his research now that he was palpably close to the only thing that might spare him from the brutal destiny that had ravaged his family for generations? 

              Kaz was at a computer using his two index fingers to peck at a keyboard. He looked up at Lloyd and frowned. “You have to eat them raw so you don’t cook the nutrients out of them.”

              “Huh?”

              “You didn’t even try the veggies I gave you, did you?”

              Lloyd shook his head.

              “I knew it,” Kaz said. “You American doctors know nothing of nutrition. Take a look at yourself in the mirror.”

              “Our lab’s shut down,” Lloyd said.

              “What are you talking about?”

              “We can’t run any experiments.”

              “You mean the human trials were not approved?”

              “We can’t run animal experiments either. We’re done,” Lloyd said.

              “Lloyd, what are you talking about?”

              “They’re going to investigate us for animal cruelty.”

              Kaz laughed. “You’re joking right?” He stopped laughing. His face turned hard. “Let them say that to my face.”

              “You might want to look for a new job.”

              “Are you firing me?”

              “This is
my
battle, Kaz. Things are getting ugly.”

              Kaz stood up. “I spent two winters in Afghanistan. I lost many brothers… held their bodies in my arms as they breathed their last breath. You think I’m scared of some committee people with tiny little pencils?”

              “This could hurt your work record.”

              “Screw my work record!” Kaz walked up to Lloyd, placed his heavy hands on Lloyd’s shoulders. “Maybe we win, maybe we die, but if we die, we die together.”

              Kaz kissed Lloyd on both cheeks.

              Lloyd wiped his face. “What did I tell you about kissing me?”

              “You have no emotions, you cold Irish prick.”

             
But I do have emotions. And the only one dying here is me
.

              Chapter 10

             
L
loyd stepped in his office and traded his white coat for the bright red polyester riding jacket he used for summer riding. A few letters sat on his desk unopened along with glossy postcards inviting him to medical conferences in the Colorado Rockies, California and Hawaii. They’d be in the recycling bin tomorrow, but now Lloyd just wanted to get on his bike and leave the medical center behind.

              One advantage of riding a motorcycle was that we was guaranteed a spot on the bottom floor of the parking structure, close to the entry leading to the covered hallway that led right into the main hospital building. As he pulled his keys out of his jacket pocket he heard an unintelligible voice from behind a concrete pylon. He placed the key in the ignition and mounted the bike. Just before he was about to punch the engine start button he heard the voice again, this time clearly: “Let go, bitch!”

              Lloyd swiveled his torso in the direction of the voice. A squat man, no more than a teenager really, with a bad crew cut and baggy jeans drooping below pale blue boxers was playing tug of war on a purse with someone hidden behind the concrete pylon.

              “Bitch!” the man shouted again as he tried to kick his victim.

              Lloyd jumped off the bike, sprinted towards the assailant and grabbed him from behind in a head lock.

              “What the fuck?” the creep said. Then he started writhing like an animal caught in a trap and Lloyd found it hard to keep his grip on him. He tried to take him down, hooking his foot around the creep’s ankle. The guy shifted his feet averting the trip. Then Lloyd realized the guy was stretching his hand towards the back pocket of his baggy jeans which, had the pants not been riding so low, he might have already reached. Lloyd grabbed the guy’s wrist with his free hand and tightened the hold around his neck. The creep’s fingers inched deeper into his pocket.

              Lloyd realized he had to do something fast. He took a couple of deep breaths to prepare himself. The guy seemed small enough that with a clean jerk he might be able to lift him off his feet and slam him to the floor. One more deep breath. Lloyd stiffened his trunk and started to lift when he felt a fireball explode in his face. Invisible knives carved into Lloyd’s eyes and nostrils and mouth, coaxing every nerve ending to erupt in a synchronized primal scream of pain.

              Lloyd fell to his knees, spitting, his eyes clenched shut. He felt something drip from his nose. Was it blood?  He tried opening his eyes but the air brushing against his corneas felt like the blast of a blowtorch.

              “Oh shit, I’m sorry.” A woman’s voice.

              “What happened?” Lloyd asked.

              “Pepper spray. I was aiming for him but the nozzle must have been pointed crooked.”

              He knew this voice.

              “I’m really sorry. Are you alright Lloyd?” She knelt next to him.

              On all fours, Lloyd turned his head toward the voice, opening the lids of one eye just a crack. All he saw was a blurred form. He blinked a few times and the figure came into focus. It was Erin.

              “Does it still hurt?” she asked.

              “What do you think?”

              “I have a bottle of water.” She unscrewed the plastic cap from the bottle and Lloyd tilted his head back. She jerked the bottle splashing water on Lloyd’s neck and chest.

              “I need it in my eyes, not on my shirt!”

              “Well lean to the side and stay still.”

              This time a soothing stream trickled into his right eye.

              “It’s a little cold,” she said.

              “No, it’s good. Other eye.”

              Lloyd leaned to the opposite side and let her pour more water. Then he grabbed the bottle from her, took a mouthful, swished it around his mouth, turned his head to the side and spit the water out. He took another swig and swallowed.

              “Let me see,” Erin said.

              Lloyd turned to face her and opened his eyes as wide as he could, which was just a little more than a slit.

              “Oh shit, Lloyd.”

              Lloyd stood up, went to the rear view mirror of a car and peered into his eyes, tugging down his lower lids. The whites of the eyes were molten lava with gooey pockets of swelling.

              “You’re having some day, aren’t you?” she said. “Come on, we better take you to the ER.”

              “You’ve been enough help for one day, thank you very much.”

              “It was an accident.” Lloyd took another sip of water and glared at her. “Look,” she said, “I’m really sorry… about everything.”

              “What happened to the guy?” Lloyd asked.

              “He ran off.” Her lips stretched in a thin smile. “That was pretty brave, Lloyd. You’re the closest thing I’ve ever had to a knight in shining armor.”

              “I didn’t know it was you.” Lloyd handed the bottle of water back to her and started walking toward his motorcycle.

              “Where are you going?” Erin asked.

              “Home.”

              She followed him. “You can’t ride your motorcycle in your condition.”

              “Wanna bet?”

              She jogged behind him and grabbed his forearm. “I won’t let you.” She stepped in his path and folded her arms.

              “Look, I’m fine.”

              “The hell you are. Your eyes look cherry Jell-o.”

              Lloyd looked away.

              “Let me take you home,” Erin said.

              Lloyd laughed. “You’re unbelievable!”

              “Give me your keys.”

              Lloyd looked at her. “And how am I supposed to get to work in the morning?”

              “I’ll come and pick you up.”

              His eyes were throbbing and it felt like tiny weights were attached to his lower lids.

              “Forget it,” he said.

              “I’ll buy you dinner,” she said. “It’s the least I can do.”

              “Dinner isn’t going to fix my life.”

              “Come on, let me treat you.”

              “I get to pick the restaurant?” he said.

              “Okay, sure.”

              “Whatever I want?”

              “Within reason.”

              Lloyd tried stepping around her but she put her hand on his chest.

              “Can I just get the keys from my bike?” he said.

              Café Madrid sat between a used-car lot and a furniture store on North Avenue in Melrose Park. Formerly Café Merida, a humdrum neighborhood Mexican Restaurant serving standard fare, it made the remarkable transformation in becoming a favorite Tapas bar among the distinguishing palates of the citizens of the adjoining upper crust towns of River Forest and Oak Park.

              “So you like Tapas,” Erin said as she scanned the menu.

              “You might say it’s my favorite food.”

              Erin smiled. “I guess that makes sense.”

              “What makes sense?”

              She looked up from the menu. “I had a college professor who claimed you could tell a lot about someone’s personality from their favorite foods.”

              “Oh yeah? And what did he say about Tapas?”

              “People who like Tapas avoid relationships. They’re unable to commit. They can’t even commit to an entrée.”

              “Did you sleep with him?” Lloyd asked.

              “What?”

              “This professor, did you sleep with him?”

              “Whatever, Lloyd.” She looked down at the menu.

              “Maybe he was onto something. What’s
your
favorite food?” Lloyd asked.

              Erin twisted her lips in a scowl. “It used to be French.”

              “Used to be?”

              “My ex- was French. He kind of ruined it for me. Now I find French food pretentious. A little too stuffy and much too rich.”

              “Hmm, is your ex- a little too stuffy and much too rich?”

              “Definitely not too rich,” Erin laughed. “But stuffy? God yes.”

              “Well you can hardly blame an entire nation’s cuisine for your poor life choices, can you?”

              “Lloyd, you are so endearing,” she said.

              “Funny, most of my dates don’t think so.”

              “I’m not one of your dates. I invited you to dinner only so you wouldn’t drive your motorcycle into a wall. I don’t want to have to live with the guilt of your death.”

              Lloyd smiled. “Yeah, whatever.” Erin puckered her lips and continued studying the menu. “So what did he say about French food?”

              “Who?”

              “Your psych professor.”

              Erin looked up from the menu. “People who like French food tend to be romantic to a fault. They’re loyal, cling to tradition and respect authority. They’re biggest faults are that they can chase an ideal to the point of irrationality, and they worry excessively about what people think of them.”