The Collectibles (20 page)

“Yes, ma'am. Corey did a masterful job refinishing the salon in my boat. You should see the fit and finish of the cherry he put in that boat.”

“I know. He does good work, just like my grandfather did. I guess it's in the genes. He's starting to slip, Joe. I just wanted to mention that to you. I overheard you say you wanted him to do some more work on your boat. I don't know if that's going to happen, and I didn't want you to be thinking it would and then not have it happen. He's forgetting a lot, and he's only seventy-seven. You may not see it when you talk to him, and he looks great, but, . . . ” Barbara started to cry. “His doctor says he's got Alzheimer's. It breaks my heart.”

“I understand,” Joe said. “I could tell, talking with Corey on the porch. But he still needs friends, Barbara. He still needs people to talk to. And he still needs to work with wood as long as he can.”

“I know, I know. He's a proud man. And with good reason.” Barbara wiped her eyes. “I apologize for carrying on like this. Thanks for coming out here. I hope you'll come again. You're right, Dad loves talking to you. He's talked to me about you before. Says you're one of the few young fellas who understands wood and boats, and people, too. And he likes your dog,” she added, reaching in the back and petting Buck.

“I'll be out again, that's for sure,” Joe said. “I don't mean to pry, Barbara, or to be intrusive, but I'd like to ask you, does Corey have other family who can help you take care of him? You're doing a wonderful job, but it's a big job, isn't it? I know it takes a lot out of you to look after your dad. Is there anybody who can give you a break now and then, help a little with it all, particularly as the situation gets worse, if it does? I hope it doesn't, but chances are it will.”

“It's really just me. My husband's an engineer with GE and he travels a lot and is too busy to look after Dad. I'm his only daughter. But I understand what you're saying. Thank you. I know the time will come when we'll have to put Dad in a place that can help him better, but, to tell you the truth, he's getting along all right now living here. He would hate it, leaving here. He's lived here all his life.”

“Keep up the good work. I'll be back.” Then he drove off, wondering what he could do to help his old friend. He waved at Barbara, who stood alone watching him drive away.

J
oe woke up to a gorgeous day. Early as it was, the sun was already shining, and the sky was blue, without a single cloud.

“Come on, Buck,” Joe said. “This is not a work day. This is a fishing day!” Buck, sensing Joe's mood, reacted with excitement, running around Joe in circles, inviting him to play. Joe got down on the floor to wrestle with Buck and then found the dog's favorite large rubber bone, tossing it to his exuberant buddy over and over.

Joe loaded some bait in the back of his truck, along with a bag of clothing, lunch, and dog food and drove to Charleston City Marina. As he walked up D dock, he was glad to see a stream of water coming through the hull from the water-cooled pump, telling him that his air-conditioning system was functioning. He climbed into the cockpit, Buck jumping in behind him.

Joe climbed up to the bridge, cleared and placed the aft lines, hopped back in the cockpit, nudged his boat forward slightly, hopped back down and cleared and placed the bow lines on the pilings. He then climbed back up to the bridge and called Alice on his cell phone, told her he was going fishing offshore and would be back before five. Joe had previously always left word with Ashley when he was going offshore; now he did the same with Alice. Old habits die hard, and Joe believed in a float plan.

He moved his boat slowly out of the slip, down the rows of other boats, around the seawall, and out of the marina, waving at other fishing boats heading out to sea. He went under the bridge and passed the Coast Guard vessels on his left, following the markers out of Charleston's expansive harbor as he had done many times before. He listened to the purr of his quiet electronic diesel engines, enjoying how clean and smooth they were with exhaust expelled underwater.

Eventually Joe turned a few degrees to port, leaving Fort Sumter on his right, and headed out the long inlet. He set his plotter for a point to the east twenty-six miles offshore – where the depth would be over 280 feet at the beginning of a ledge on the western side of the Gulf Stream. The waves were not even seven feet, and the southeast wind was gentle and refreshing. He switched on his stereo, turning the volume way up, slipped in a Johnny Cash CD, and listened to “Ring of Fire” blare through the marine speakers on the bridge. He shouted, “Hi, I'm Johnny Cash!” as loudly as he could, exhilarated at being at sea again, away from bankers, lawyers and problems.

He thought of his friend Harry Klaskowski, and how, in addition to hunting, he enjoyed fishing and being on the water. He thought about calling him, but he just wasn't up to hearing Harry's depressed voice that morning. Then his thoughts turned to Ashley; he tried to push them back and out of his mind, telling himself,
this is too pleasant out here to think about that. It's time to fish.

Out of sight of land, Joe knew from his plotter that he was getting close to the waypoint. As he slowed his vessel down, he saw three dolphins playfully following him on his port side. He hoped they liked Johnny Cash as much as he did. He brought the vessel to a stop, and set the plotter to the sea buoy at the channel entrance to Charleston Harbor. He activated the autopilot so that his boat would move slowly along his homeward course as he fished.

He climbed down into the cockpit and readied two fishing poles with Penn reels, placed bait on each, and let the lines slowly out. When they were where he wanted them, he set the reels and placed the rods in the holders on port and starboard. Then he sat in one of his two chairs in the cockpit, petting Buck and watching the lines. After half an hour, he noticed action on one of his lines, jumped up and grabbed the rod to starboard and hooked what he hoped was a king mackerel. As he reeled it in, he was not disappointed. Minutes later, he saw action on the port side, again grabbing the rod and reeled it in, this time catching an even bigger king mackerel. He shouted for joy as he put his second catch in the fish box.

He went in the cockpit and got a bottle of water for Buck and a can of Miller Lite for himself. He fed Buck the water from the bottle, took a sip of his beer, and, noticing that the Johnny Cash CD was starting all over again, he climbed onto the bridge, reached up to the CD player, and took out the disc.

As he reached down to the drawer to take out another disc, he saw a flash before his eyes, his vision going black, then white. Something was wrong. He felt a slight flutter over his right eye that seemed to disappear into his head. He'd never experienced such a feeling, rarely even getting a headache. His head started to throb and he became dizzy and disoriented. He reached for his VHF radio, but his head felt as if somebody were hitting it with a hammer. His vision blurred and he thought he was seeing either double or triple as he stood in front of the seat on the bridge, trying to see the gauges and controls. He fell forward, his right hand hitting the twin disc gear lever, throwing both engines into forward gear at full throttle. He had fallen into a big black hole. Then there was nothing.

Until the horrible sound of his bow crashing against metal. It was a sound he would never forget and one that he had, for a lifetime of boating, sought successfully to avoid. His vessel had hit red sea buoy #1 dead center, then rolled hard along her port side. Joe felt something licking his face hard as he woke up, and the first thing he saw was Buck. He sat up, petted Buck's head, and looked around, trying to get his bearings. He realized that he had been lying on his back in the cockpit at the foot of the ladder. Then it came to him that his boat was still under way at about five knots and seemed to be holding to the sea buoy. Joe managed to crawl up the ladder and look at the plotter, his head clearing a bit. He recognized exactly where his boat was, having freed itself from the sea buoy only a thousand yards or so from the perilous seawalls on his starboard and port, marking the channel to the inlet. By now there were other boats in the area. He hit the standby button on the autopilot, instantly regaining the ability to manually steer the boat. He pulled back on the electronic controls and steered through the inlet.

Whether out of habit or skill, he brought the boat around the seawall and back into his slip, stern first, and shut the engines down. He fixed the bow lines on the posts to his bow cleats, and slowly pulled himself along the side of his boat and up on the dock, retrieved his stern lines, and climbed back in the cockpit to secure those lines on the cleats.

Then he collapsed in the fighting chair, Buck still licking him, and tried to figure out what in the world had just happened. There was no trace of anything wrong. Then he remembered the sea buoy and the awful sound of the crash.

He clambered out of the cockpit to the dock and, calling Buck to follow him, examined the port side of his boat and could see damage to the fiberglass hull and the bow rail, which was completely bent backwards. There was a large scrape on the port side of the bow, and the anchor under the bow pulpit was bent, but Joe saw no structural damage.

Joe knew that his vessel could be repaired. What he did not know was whether or not he could say the same for himself. He would see Dr. Worthington in the morning.

J
oe awoke at six in the morning, as he did each morning, without an alarm clock. Even as a boy, he'd never needed to be awakened. To his surprise, he felt fine. No headache, no trace of what had happened the day before. Not even tired. It didn't make sense. He took Buck out for a run, had breakfast and then, thinking about yesterday, called Dr. Worthington's office. He told the receptionist that he would like to see the doctor as soon as he could, that it was important. She asked him to wait a moment, and Bob Worthington got on the line.

“Hi, Joe. Good to hear your voice. What's going on?”

“I'm not sure, Bob. I went fishing yesterday and something happened to me while I was out there. I apologize for imposing, but I would feel a lot better if I could see you and tell you about it.”

Bob must have heard the tone of Joe's voice. “Come right over.”

“Thanks. I'll be there shortly.”

Joe played catch with Buck, kissed him, told him to stay, and drove to Dr. Worthington's office at the University Medical Center. While he had seen the man for routine annual exams, he really thought of him more as Ashley's doctor, and a family friend. Bob and his family belonged to the same church, and before Ashley's death they would see them there and occasionally socially, too. Bob and Joe had gone fishing together a couple of times.

The receptionist smiled and said she would tell Dr. Worthington that he was there. He could see she already had his chart in hand.

He was led into a small examining room where he was shortly joined by a nurse with a big smile.

“The doctor will be here in a minute, Mr. Hart. I'm just going to check you in – all routine,” she said in a pleasant and reassuring manner. She had him stand on the scale and noted his 160-pound weight in the chart. She took his temperature and measured his blood pressure, each reading normal. Then she smiled again and said the doctor would see him in just a moment. For some reason Joe felt like climbing up on the exam table and taking a nap. He felt strange, but he was not sure why. Instead he sat on the small straight chair and waited nervously for what seemed like a long time.

Dr. Worthington was a clear-eyed, slim man in his mid-fifties, sandy brown hair, a few inches taller than average, with a pleasant warm face. He shook Joe's hand, and with his other hand grasped his arm.

“How are you Joe? It's been a while, hasn't it?” He looked at the chart. “About a year. You still look in great shape. Tell me, how are you feeling? What happened?”

“Thanks for seeing me, Bob. I don't know what happened. That's what worries me. Always been in good health, work out regularly, plenty of exercise. Buck sees to that.”

“How is Buck?”

“Fine. Just fine. Not sure what I'd do without him.”

“Can you describe what specifically is causing your concern?”

“Yeah, sorry, Bob, little off today. It was yesterday, out fishing, just me and Buck. About ten miles off shore, nice day, set my boat on slow return course, my rods up to fish for kings. Caught a couple, good weather, everything good, music going, great to get away, back on the water . . . Bob, I actually felt happy for a change. Went up to the bridge for something . . . I don't know, to change a CD, then I remember feeling funny . . . strange . . . then I lost it.”

“Is that all you remember?” Bob asked in a gentle tone.

Joe looked around the small examining room, thinking how surgically cold it was. He noted the crisp, white paper covering the examining table next to the chair he was sitting in. He probably could not have taken a nap on that table anyway. Then he noticed the expression on Bob's face and that he had been asked a question.

Question
. . . what was the question? Oh, anything else? Is that all I remember? Think!
He looked up over the examining table and saw a large, round light.
Yeah, the light.
“Sorry, Bob, my mind was drifting a little. I do remember something else. There was a flash of light – blinding, bright light – but it only lasted a second, and then black. I must have blacked out.”

“You're holding your right eye right now, Joe. Did something happen to your eye?”

“Oh . . . I'm not sure. My eye hurt, my head, yeah that's affirmative, head hurt a lot, like a hammer pounding it.”

“What about your vision at that point Joe? Could you see?”

“My vision was fine. Maybe a little blurry. I'm not sure. I felt a little dizzy at that point . . . I think I remember falling, but that's it. I lost it, blacked out.”

“Did you call for help? How did you get home?”

“No, no call for help. It happened too fast. No time.”

“What do you remember next, after blacking out?”

“The next thing I remember was a crash. Then Buck licking my face, licking hard and fast. And he was pulling on my shirt. That's what I remember next.”

“Where were you then?”

“I was in the cockpit, next to the stairs to the bridge, lying down. I got up. I told Buck to stop licking me. He did, and then I asked him if he was okay. I looked him over. He seemed good. I got him some water. I drank some, too.”

“What happened next?” Bob asked, continuing to take notes as he spoke.

“Well, I went up to the bridge. We were at the sea buoy to the inlet. Can you believe that? My autopilot was set, for home I mean. I was hung up on the sea buoy for a minute, freed her, and brought her back. I saw damage to the vessel, so I must have hit the buoy. That's it, Bob. That's what I remember.”

“Wow. You had quite a day. This was yesterday at about what time, when you had these feelings, when you blacked out?”

“Not sure of the time. It was about three when I got to the slip. I looked the boat over, got Buck more water. We drove home. I fed Buck. I wasn't hungry. We walked, he did his thing, we played quietly in the den, I fell asleep on the couch. I slept all night. That was unusual. I got up this morning, felt fine, like it never happened, just a bad dream.”

“But it did happen,” Bob said. “I'm sure of that. How do you feel now, Joe?”

“How do you know it happened, Bob? That I'm not losing my mind?”

“There's nothing wrong with your mind, Joe. There is a large ecchymosis developing on your upper forehead and over your right eye.” Bob pressed that area gently. “Does that hurt?”

“A little.”

Bob asked Joe to remove his clothes and put on one of those tie-from-the-back, loose gowns Joe hated, and then left the room. A few moments later Bob returned and asked Joe to first sit on the examining table and then lie down while Bob checked him over, head to foot, palpated his ankles, moved his arms and legs, and examined eyes and ears. Before Joe climbed off the table, while his legs hung over the side, Bob tapped the bottoms of his feet with a small stainless steel mallet with a rubber wedge on the end.

“Let's go over your chart and history, Joe. But before we do, I have not seen you since Ashley's funeral. Obviously, that was an ordeal, to say the least. How have you been feeling since then and up until yesterday?”

“Physically?” Joe asked. “Fine.”

“How about other than physically, Joe? Obviously, you've had a pretty bad time of it. Major adjustment. We haven't seen you in church since Ashley's funeral. What have you been doing with yourself? How have you been getting along?” Bob asked gently.

Joe looked directly at Bob and smiled his appreciation. “You're right. It has not been the best of times. But I'm getting along fine. Or at least I was, until yesterday. I took some time from my practice and went up to the mountains in the area where I grew up. That was good. Then I became involved in a case for a client, which I just finished. But getting along fine, looking forward to spending time on my boat, fishing, maybe a little diving. Or at least I was.”

“Well, let's see if we can figure this out and get you back to your boat. Any signs of eye problems, severe headaches, that type of thing, before yesterday?”

“No. None.”

“We need to run some blood work, urine analysis, routine workups. Joe, I want to refer you to radiology for an MRI, and perhaps a brain scan, and also to the neurology department for a work-up. Something is going on, but I don't know what it is. We need to get to the bottom of it.”

“What do you think it was? What do you think happened to me yesterday?”

“I don't know. I'm an internist, Joe. It could be nothing. Maybe a tiny mini-stroke. Or trauma from your fall. It could be a lot of things. You look and sound good to me, generally speaking. We need to see the results of the blood work, the chemistry, see how all of that is functioning. We need some more tests. We need to look at your cardiovascular system, neurological system, rule out some things, make a comprehensive diagnosis.” And then, looking at Joe's file, Bob said, “By the way Joe, we show Ashley . . . who would you like us to list in case we need to get in touch with a family member?”

Joe thought about that.
A family member?
He thought some more. “Other than Buck? Put Red Barnes down. Red was my exec. We served together on a submarine during my Navy days. I'll give you – him – medical authorization to talk to one another, handle consents for me if I am unable, that sort of thing. Will that work?”

“That's fine. I'll make some calls and we'll get you admitted for tests this afternoon.”

“Let me make some calls first. I want to talk with Red, and then to my secretary, make some arrangements. All of this stays strictly with us, right, Bob?”

“And all your doctors and medical support people, but that would take an authorization, which means you and Mr. Barnes in accord with your instructions,” Bob said.

“Exactly. Thank you for working me in, for everything. I'll call you this afternoon.”

“Please do. I don't want to worry you, but I do want to get to the bottom of this as soon as possible.”