The Prisoner's Wife (16 page)

Shawn freed his Makarov from its wrapping. Even for those with security-stamped passports, it was getting harder to move firearms through airports, even one as haphazard as Heathrow. He loaded a fresh clip of shells. It was quite some time since he'd used a weapon in anger. He wondered when he'd do it again. Whether he could still bring himself to do it.

Danielle came from the bathroom, heading for bed. She wore a T-shirt that brushed the tops of her thighs. The shirt was one of his. It read, in bold type,
DOES NOT PLAY WELL WITH OTHERS
. In bed, she lay facedown, half covered by a sheet. When she spoke her voice was muffled. “Tell me,” she said. “Tell me about Martha. Tell me what happened.”

“She died,” he said. “I told you. That's what happened.”

*   *   *

Facedown, like Danielle. That was how Shawn found Martha one morning in Sussex, when he came in from tending his sheep. Any other morning, she would have been in the kitchen, making coffee and toast, with the kitten beside her on the bench. Shawn was shocked to find her still in bed.

When she heard him come into the room, Martha said, “Shawn, I don't want you to worry, but something's wrong. I broke a rib.”

He stopped in the doorway, filled not with worry but with mindless dread.

“You broke—what do you mean—you broke a rib? Did you fall?” Cautiously, he sat himself on the edge of the bed, touching her back. “Martha, what did you do?”

Facedown, her voice was indistinct. “I bent down. I was picking up a pillow.”

“No,” Shawn said. “No. You can't. You can't break ribs that way.”

He wasn't a believer in portents, but now, from nowhere, a cloud hung over their future.

Martha said, “You know what? I bent down again—it happened again. I broke another rib. Shawn, I'm aching all over. Something's wrong.”

The kitten that slept at Martha's feet had abandoned the bed. From a windowsill, it watched, eyes wide, fur fluffed. In the roof beams, some insect ticked like a hand-wound clock.

Later that morning, Dr. Reuben Gibb, portly and choleric, drove out from Chichester to the rectory in Felbourne. Plagued by heartburn, the doctor was not, by choice, a house-call man. He took Martha's temperature—which was normal—and a blood sample. Shawn had to help Martha to the bathroom so she could give the doctor a sample of urine.

Dr. Gibb thought the pain came from back strain. Maybe, he said, a slipped disk. He forced a smile. At our age, he said, all too common. However, not serious. He prescribed Tylenol and chiropracty and recommended a back-pain man, a good fellow, in Hazlehurst.

As he climbed into his veteran Ford, the doctor told Shawn, in confidence, that most of Martha's pains were imaginary. This was true, he said, of many women: illness imagined—hypochondria, stress, sexual dissatisfaction, menopause. Female problems. Say no more. It may be, whispered Dr. Gibb, gripping Shawn's arm, it may be something in the marriage. Not going well. No reflection on you, old man. Could be the time of life.

“You know how women are,” said Dr. Gibb through the window of his car. “In the medical trade”—with his hands he made quote marks—“these women. Worried well, we call them.”

“It's me that's worried,” Shawn said. “She's unwell.”

By then, though, Dr. Gibb had closed his car window and was struggling with the starter.

*   *   *

From inside the house, Martha was calling her husband. She stayed in bed that weekend. She said the pain seemed to move—seemed to move from place to place, around her body. “Which makes it sound like the damn doctor was right. It's just something I imagine.” Her breathing was shallow then: To breathe deep was painful. “I'm not imagining. Believe me, I'm not.”

Shawn, with the sadness of the condemned, said, “I never thought you were. Not for a heartbeat. It's not a thing you do.”

He brought drinks—water, juice, vitamin mix—and made meals; didn't know what else to do. With the little cat, he went outside to pick lettuce and asparagus. He hulled broad beans for salads. He needed to stay active, needed to stop thinking about what might lie ahead.

Late on a Saturday afternoon, when he came back from tending his doves, Shawn found a beautiful dark-haired woman—in her late thirties, he guessed—standing on his stoop, breathing in the scent of the jasmine that grew around the door frame.

She held out a hand. “Mr. Maguire? I'm Dr. Haber. Susan Haber. I'm a partner in a practice with Dr. Gibb. You know? An older man. He drove out to see your wife.”

“I do know,” Shawn said. “Thanks for coming all this way.”

“Well,” said Susan Haber, “I fear you may not thank me. I'm not bearing good news.” She pointed to a cedarwood seat on the edge of the croquet lawn. “Shall we sit?”

Shawn felt a chill, as if clouds covered the sun, though the sky was clear and the day still warm. He perched on the end of the garden seat, as far as possible from the doctor, as though she herself might be the bearer of illness: might carry some contagious and terminal disease.

“We now have a report on your wife's blood and urine samples,” Susan Haber said.

“And?”

“We would have to do more tests,” she said, “but immunofixation shows there is a high level of creatinine and an abnormally high level of paraprotein in the blood.”

Dumb, he looked at her.

“Sorry about the language. It's causing what we call hyperviscosity syndrome. That just means her blood has thickened beyond normal viscosity.”

He felt as if he were losing Martha. She was leaving him: vanishing in a deluge of medical jargon.

“Could we cut to the chase? What is all that? What's it mean? Is it bad?”

She was looking toward the lake, not meeting his eyes.

“It can be, Mr. Maguire. Over time, amyloidosis and hyperviscosity lead to organ—even mental—dysfunction. The real worry is, what's causing this? Where's the protein coming from?”

He said nothing for a while, thinking. “Okay. Tell me. What is it? What's causing it?”

“Those signs suggest multiple myeloma.” She reached out to put a small hand over his. “It's a cancer of the bone marrow. With multiple myeloma, the patient starts producing quantities of abnormal plasma cells in his or her bone marrow. The cells grow and multiply uncontrollably. They invade adjacent tissues and organs. They spread—spread through the lymphatics or through the blood vessels. The bones themselves weaken.”

“Would that explain cracked ribs?”

She tightened her grip on his hand. “I'm so sorry.”

He wanted her to go. Wanted this visit not to have happened.

“Tell me,” he said, after a time, “if it
is
this thing—” He'd already forgotten the word. His voice sounded to him like another person's voice, as if he were suddenly aged. He heard his father's voice in his own. “If it is this thing, what do we do? Is it curable?”

“Finally, no, it's not. Some patients go into remission.”

“Some do?”

She watched him, waiting.

“If some do, you mean, most don't?”

She shook her head. “Unfortunately, that is what I mean. We should get your wife into hospital.”

“Hospital? For incurable cancer?”

She said, “Mr. Maguire, there's always a chance it's not myeloma. There's always a chance of beating the odds. I told you, some patients do have a recovery.”

“You said for a while.”

“I'm so sorry, but that's what remission means. If you agree, I'll call her an ambulance.”

“Please,” Shawn said. He wasn't thinking clearly. “I know you're trying to help, but not now. Not now. Let me talk to Martha.” He paused, then said, “She's always been the one who took charge.”

The doctor sat still for a minute, watching him, her eyes wide, like the eyes of the kitten on the sill.

“Your decision,” she said. “Just don't leave it too long. If we're right about the myeloma, your wife's time is running out.”

*   *   *

In Fes, Shawn ran downstairs to the lobby of the Riad El Medina. A group of young Western women in flowing rainbow robes and headbands sat around a carved table, telling each other's fortune with packs of worn tarot cards, each illustrated with a somber woodcut. One of the women was black, Shawn noticed; up to that moment, he'd never seen a black hippie. This girl had prominent breasts, wide hips, and a narrow waist. Blue-painted nails. She brought to mind the Wanted posters of Angela Davis, back whenever it was: the time he'd joined the Agency. Three of the other girls—Americans, Indian and white—were smoking water pipes and giggling at the cards.

The black woman turned over a card that showed a graphic skeleton astride a dark horse. “Oh, my Lord,” she said, crossing herself. “Death. Someone about to die.”

Shawn spoke to a headscarved Moroccan woman behind the reception desk. “Do you speak English? My wife's ill. She's running a temperature. High temperature. Can I ask you to call a doctor?”

For some moments, the receptionist was silent, considering him. She started to say something, then stopped. “The woman is not your wife,” she said finally. “I have her passport. Today is our holiday. No doctor will come.”

Shawn held hands clenched by his sides, telling himself to be calm. “Okay. Can you tell me where I could get a thermometer?”

The receptionist, still polite, said no.

“No, you can't tell me, or no, I can't get one?”

Someone touched him. Shawn turned to find the black woman standing close, her hand on his arm.

“Man,” she said, “relax. Anger get you no place. Won't even make you feel better, most likely.” She held out a hand. “Clemency.”

“What does that mean?”

“My name. Clemency. I'm a nurse.”

For the second time that morning, Shawn looked closely at her.

“I know,” she said, “I know. But when I'm out of these trinkets, I have me a uniform. Chicago. Cook County Hospital.” Watched by the silent receptionist, she moved toward the stairs. “Let's come see your lady. On the way, I go pick me up a thermometer.”

They climbed stairs together. On the third flight, Clemency paused. “You don't mind me saying this,” she said, “you-all not looking too good yourself. You really worried about your woman?”

Shawn nodded. He'd paused, holding the stair rail, breathing hard.

“You in love with her?”

Shawn, reluctant to answer, said nothing.

“She younger than you?”

“Thirteen years.”

“Oh, man,” she said. “Oh, man.”

Shawn unlocked his room and watched from the doorway as Clemency went in to sit on the edge of the bed in which Danielle slept. He was surprised by the gentleness of her movements. She touched her patient's forehead. “If it's okay,” she said to Shawn, “I like you outside for a minute, with the door shut. What I have is a rectal thermometer.”

Four minutes later, when Clemency opened the door to Shawn, Danielle was awake, covered by a sheet, and propped on pillows. Despite the damp cloth held to her forehead, she radiated heat.

“Hundred three, just over,” Clemency said. “Kind of high. Food poisoning, maybe. Something she drank? But fever's breaking, is my view.” To Danielle, she said, “Girlfriend, you keep yourself right here, drink a whole lot, don't eat much, canned soup maybe, sleep when you can. My guess, this time tomorrow, worst gon' be over.” To Shawn, she said, “You need to go out, buy this girl a bunch of bottled water.”

“Thank you both,” Danielle said. Her voice was weak. “Can't remember the last time I was sick.”

“Not your fault,” Clemency said. “That's nature, doing that. Working on you. You just go get yourself well.” To Shawn she said, “I'll walk downstairs with you. Sooner you have your woman drinking clean water, better she going be.”

In the empty hotel lobby, when Shawn thanked Clemency, she said it was nothing. She gave him her cell number, just in case.

“I come in tomorrow, check on the lady.” Briefly, she put her arms around him: a sisterly hug. “You take care of yourself, too. Looks like you should get some sleep. Girlfriend going to need you stay healthy.” She waved, ran for the door, and was gone.

Later, watching himself in a clouded wall mirror, Shawn saw what Clemency meant. Maybe it was worry over Danielle; maybe something deeper. Whatever it was, he didn't look good.

*   *   *

In the dark hours of the following morning, Shawn woke, wondering what had disturbed him. The room was still and quiet. Turning, he saw what it was. In shadow, Danielle stood by his bed, holding a pillow. She wore his
DOES NOT PLAY WELL WITH OTHERS
T-shirt; the moon lit her damp and fevered eyes. She could have placed the pillow over his face. Shawn took it, then held Danielle by her upper arms, feeling the heat of her. He turned her around, led her back to her own bed, and covered her too-warm body with a sheet.

“Dani?”

She stared at him, wordless. Then her eyes closed.

Shawn went back to his bed. He lay there awhile, wondering if a slightly built sleepwalking woman would have the strength to suffocate an aging sleeping man.

If the woman were Danielle, he thought, all bets were off.

 

18

FES, MOROCCO, 27 MAY 2004

At four in the morning, Shawn woke again. Under a pillow, his cell phone vibrated. He left the bed, went to the bathroom, closed the door, and answered.

A man's voice said, “Mr. Maguire?”

He knew who was speaking.

“You will remember me? This is Ayub Abbasi.”

“I don't know what the hell time zone you're in, Mr. Abbasi,” Shawn said, keeping his voice down, “but where I am, it's four in the morning.”

“The dark night of the soul,” Abbasi said. “In fact, I am in your time zone, and your town. I am in Fes, where my office was.”