“How long have you and Blaze been together?” Franklin asked. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Together” probably wasn’t the word he was searching for. “We’ve been close for three years. Friends a couple of years before that.”
“Blaze was his adviser,” Marty said.
“Doctoral?”
“Post-doc,” I said.
“That’s right,” Franklin said with a small smile. “You came from Harvard.” Only an Eli could say that with a trace of pity, Julian mused.
“Now you’re supposed to ask me whether my intentions are honorable. The answer is we have no intentions. Not until I get out of service.”
“And how long is that?”
“Unless the war ends, about five years.”
“Blaze will be fifty.”
“Fifty-two, actually. I’ll be thirty-seven. Maybe that bothers you more than it does us.”
“No,” he said. “It might bother Marty.”
Marty gave him a hard look. “What have you been drinking?”
“The usual.” Franklin displayed the bottom of his empty teacup. “How long has it been?”
“I only want the best for both of you,” Marty said to me. “You know that.”
“Eight years, nine?”
“Good God, Franklin. Were you a terrier in a former life?” Marty shook his head as if to clear it. “That was over long before Julian joined the department.”
The waiter sidled over with the wine and three glasses. Sensing tension, he poured as slowly as was practical. We all watched him in silence.
“So,” Reza said, “how ’bout them Oilers?”
* * *
the “neurologist” who came to see Amelia the next morning was too young to have an advanced degree in anything. He had a goatee and bad skin. For half an hour, he asked her the same simple questions over and over.
“When and where were you born?”
“August 12, 1996. Sturbridge, Massachusetts.”
“What was your mother’s name?”
“Jane O’Banian Harding.”
“Where did you go to grade school?”
“Nathan Hale Elementary, Roxbury.”
He paused. “Last time you said Breezewood. In Sturbridge.”
She took a deep breath and let it out. “We moved to Roxbury in ’04. Maybe ’05.”
“Ah. And high school?”
“Still O’Bryant. John D. O’Bryant School of Mathematics and Science.”
“That’s in Sturbridge?”
“No, Roxbury! I went to middle school in Roxbury, too. You haven’t—”
“What was your mother’s maiden name?”
“O’Banian.”
He made a long note in his notebook. “All right. Stand up.”
“What?”
“Get out of bed, please. Stand up.”
Amelia sat up and cautiously put her feet on the floor. She took a couple of shaky steps and reached back to hold the gown closed.
“Are you dizzy?”
“A little. Of course.”
“Raise your arms, please.” She did, and the back of the gown fell open.
“Nice bottom, sweetheart,” croaked the old lady in the bed next to her.
“Now I want you to close your eyes and slowly bring your fingertips together.” She tried and missed; she opened her eyes and saw that she had missed by more than an inch.
“Try it again,” he said. This time the two fingers grazed.
He wrote a couple of words in the notebook. “All right. You’re free to go now.”
“What?”
“You’re released. Take your ration card to the checkout desk on your way out.”
“But . . . don’t I get to see a doctor?”
He reddened. “You don’t think I’m a doctor?”
“No. Are you?”
“I’m qualified to release you. You’re released.” He turned and walked away.
“What about my clothes? Where are my clothes?” He shrugged and disappeared out the door.
“Try the cabinet there, sweetheart.” Amelia checked all the cabinets, moving with creaky slowness. There were neat stacks of linen and gowns, but no trace of the leather suitcase she’d taken to Guadalajara.
“Likely somebody took ’em,” another old lady said. “Likely that black boy.”
Of course, she suddenly remembered: she’d asked Julian to take it home. It was valuable, handmade, and there was no place here where it would have been secure.
What other little things had she forgotten? The John D. O’Bryant School of Mathematics and Science was on New Dudley. Her office at the lab was 12-344. What was Julian’s phone number? Eight.
She retrieved her toiletry kit from the bathroom and got the miniphone out of it. It had a toothpaste smear on the punch-plate. She cleaned it with a corner of her sheet and sat on the bed and punched #-08.
“Mr. Class is in class,” the phone said. “Is this an emergency?”
“No. Message.” She paused. “Darling, bring me something to wear. I’ve been released.” She set the phone down and reached back and felt the cool metal disk at the base of her skull. She wiped away sudden tears and muttered, “Shit.”
A big square female nurse rolled in a gurney with a shriveled little Chinese woman on it. “What’s the story here?” she said. “This bed is supposed to