Except for her coloring, she could have been the woman
in the oil portrait.
“Dr. Delaware and Ms. Castagna? I’m Pam, Dr. Moreland’s
daughter.” Soft, musical, slightly reticent voice. She had
a fetching smile but looked away as she extended her hand.
I’d had patients with that tendency to avert; all had been
painfully shy as children.
“Doctor
herself,
” Picker corrected. “All these
accomplished
femmes
and everyone’s playing the modesty
game.”
Pam Moreland gave him a pitying smile. “Evening, Lyman.
Jo. Sorry I’m late. Dad should be here shortly. If not,
we’ll start without him. Gladys has done a nice Chicken
Kiev. Dad’s vegetarian, but he tolerates us barbarians.”
She smiled beautifully but the eyes remained sad, and I
wondered if physical structure completely explained it.
Picker said, “Just gave our new chums a history lesson,
Dr. Daughter. Told them scientists shun this lovely bit of
real estate because Margaret Mead showed the key to
stardom is witch doctors, puberty rites, and bare-chested, dusky
girls.” His eyes dropped to Pam’s bodice.
“Interesting theory. Can I get you
some coffee?”
“No thanks, my dear. But a refill of this wouldn’t
hurt.”
“Ly,” said Jo. She hadn’t moved from her corner.
Picker kept his back to her. “Yes, my love?”
“Come here and look at the sunset.”
He nibbled his mustache. “The old distraction technique?
Worried about my
liver
?”
“I just—”
He swiveled and faced her. “If
Entamoeba histolytica
and
Fasciola hepatica
failed to do the trick, do you really
think a little Wild
Turkey
will succeed, Josephine?”
Jo said nothing.
“Lived on metronodizole and bithionol for months,” Picker
told Pam. “Long overdue for a physical. Any referrals?”
“Not unless you’re going to Philadelphia.”
“Ah, the city of brotherly love,” said Picker. “Don’t
have a brother. Would I love him, if I did?”
Pondering that, he walked away.
“I
will
take that refill, Dr. Pam,” he called over
his shoulder.
“The man who came to dinner,” Pam said very softly.
“Excuse me.”
She returned with a quarter-full bottle of Wild Turkey,
thrust it at the surprised Picker, and returned to us. “Dad’s
sorry about not being able to greet you properly.”
“The jellyfish,” I said.
She nodded. Glance at a Lady Rolex. “I
guess we should get started.”
She seated Robin and me with a view of the sunset, the
Pickers on the other end, herself in the middle. Two empty
chairs remained and moments later Ben Romero came out and
took one. He’d put on a tan cotton sportcoat.
“Usually I go home by six,” he said, unrolling his
napkin, “but my wife’s having a card party, the baby’s
sleeping, and the older kids are farmed out.”
“Next time we’ll have Claire up,” said Pam. “She’s a
marvelous violinist. The kids, too.”
Ben laughed. “That’ll be real relaxing.”
“Your kids are great, Ben.”
The food came. Platters of it.
Watercress salad with avocado dressing, carrot puree,
fricassee of wild mushrooms with walnuts and water chestnuts.
Then the chicken, sizzling and moist.
A bottle of white burgundy remained untouched. Picker
poured himself the rest of the bourbon. His wife looked the
other way and ate energetically.
“Gladys didn’t learn to cook like this at the base,”
said Robin.
“Believe it or not, she did,” Pam said. “The commander
thought himself quite the gourmet. She’s very
creative, lucky for Dad.”
“Has he always been a vegetarian?”
“Since after the Korean War. The things he saw made him
determined never to hurt anything again.”
Picker grunted.
“But he’s always been tolerant,” said Pam. “Had meat
shipped over for me when I arrived.”
“You don’t live here?” said Robin.
“No, I came last October. It was
supposed to be a stopover on the way to a medical convention
in Hong Kong.”
“What’s your specialty?” I said.
“Internal medicine and public health. I work at the
student health center at Temple U.” She paused. “Actually,
it was a combination work trip and breather. I just got
divorced.”
She filled her water glass, shrugged.
“Did you grow up here?” asked Robin.
“Not really. Ready for dessert?”
Picker watched her walk away. “Some fool in
Philadelphia’s missing out.”
Ben eyed him. “Another bottle, Dr. Picker?”
Picker stared back. “No thank you, amigo. Better keep
my wits. I’m flying tomorrow.”
Jo put down her fork. Picker grinned at her.
“Yes, darling, I’ve decided to go ahead.”
“Flying in what?” said Ben.
“Vintage craft, but well maintained. Man named
Amalfi owns it.”
“Harry Amalfi? One of those crop dusters? They haven’t
flown in years.”
“They’re quite serviceable, friend. I examined them
myself. Been buzzing jungles for fifteen years and I’m going
to buzz your poor excuse for one tomorrow morning, me and
Dr. Missus. Take some aerial photographs, prove to the boys
back at the institute that I’ve been here and that there was
nothing to dig up.”
Jo’s fingers were gathering tablecloth. “Ly—”
Ben said, “It’s not a good idea, Dr. Picker.”
Picker shot him a fierce smile. “Your input is
duly noted, friend.”
“The forest is Navy territory. You’ll need official
permission to fly over.”
“Wrong,” said Picker. “Only the east end is Navy land.
The western half is public land, never formally claimed by
the Navy. Or so Dr. Wife here tells me from her maps.”
“That’s true, Ly,” said Jo, “but it’s still—”
“Zoom,” Picker spoke over her. “Up and away—would you
rather I remain bored to the point of brain death?”
“The entire forest is one mile wide,” said Ben. “Once
you’re up there it’s going to be pretty hard to keep
track—”
“
Concerned
about me, amigo?” said Picker, with
sudden harshness. He picked up the bourbon bottle, as if ready to
break it. Put it down with exquisite care, and got up.
“Everyone so concerned about me.
Touching.
” His
beard was littered with crumbs. “Fonts of human
kindness
to my face, but behind my
back:
drunken
buffoon.
”
He shifted his attention to his wife, glaring and
grinning simultaneously. “Are you coming,
angel
?”
Her lip trembled. “You know how I feel about small
craft, Ly—”
“Not that.
Now.
Are you coming,
now
?”
Without taking his eyes off her, he picked up a piece of
chicken and bit in. Chewing with his mouth open, he shot a hard,
dark glance at Romero: “It’s a metaphor, friend.”
“What is?” said Ben.
“This place. All the other damn
bumps
in the
ocean. Volcanoes ejaculating, then dropping dead. Conquerors
arriving with high hopes only to slink away or die, the
damned coral parasites taking over, everything sinking. Entropy.”
Jo put down her fork. “Excuse us.”
Picker tossed the chicken onto a plate and took her
arm roughly.
“Everything sinks,” he said, pulling her away.
Chapter
5
Pam came back carrying a huge bowl of fruit. She eyed the
empty chairs.
“They left,” said Ben.
“They’re renting one of Harry’s crop dusters and buzzing the
jungle tomorrow morning.”
“In one of those wrecks? Are they safe?”
“I tried to talk him out of it. He’s a
world-class explorer.” He arched his eyebrows.
She put the bowl down and sat. “I’m afraid sometimes
Dr. Picker gets a little . . . difficult.”
“Nice of your father to put them up all this time,” I
said.
She and Ben exchanged looks.
“They kind of invited themselves,” she said. “Dad’s a
soft touch. Apparently, she’s quite a prominent researcher.”
“What about him?”
“He works part-time for some wildlife organization with
a shoestring budget. Studying some fungus or other. I get the
feeling he’s having trouble finding grant money. I guess it’s
difficult. . . . Dad should be here any moment.”
She passed the bowl.
“Is it true?” I said. “About the Navy cutting off
contact with the village with a blockade?”
She nodded.
“Why?”
“It’s the military,” said Ben. “They live in their own
little world.”
“Dad’s working on it,” said Pam. “Wrote to Senator
Hoffman because the two of them go back a ways. And Hoffman
knows Aruk from personal experience; he was Stanton’s
commander during the Korean War.”
“The gourmet?”
She nodded. “He used to come up here with his wife, sit right on
this terrace and play bridge.”
“Sounds like a good contact,” I said.
The senator from Oregon had been discussed as a
presidential candidate.
Ben put his napkin down and stood. “ ’Scuse me, got to
pick up the kids. Anything you need for tomorrow, Pam?”
“Just more disposable needles. And vaccine if it’s
running low.”
“Already there,” said Ben. “I set up before dinner.”
He shook our hands and left quickly.
“He’s terrific,” said Pam. “Really knows what he’s doing.
He found KiKo on the docks, dying of infection, and
nursed him back to health.” She smiled. “KiKo’s short for
King Kong. He sleeps in a cradle in Ben’s house.”
“Dr. Picker said monkeys can’t be housebroken.”
“I’m no primatologist, but sometimes I think animals are
a lot more tractable than people.”
The sound of a car engine drew my eyes down toward the
road. Darkness had set in, obscuring details, but a pair of
headlights shone through.
“. . . one of the most levelheaded people you’ll
ever meet. Dad wouldn’t mind if he went on to med school; the
island could use a younger doctor. But the time commitment—he’s
got a big family to support.”
“In his letter to me,” I said, “your father mentioned
retirement.”
She smiled. “I don’t imagine he’ll ever fully retire,
but with three thousand people on this island, he could use
some help. I’ve been pitching in, but . . .” She put her
spoon down.
“You asked before if I grew up on Aruk and I said not
really. I was born here but boarded out very young. Went
to Temple for med school and stayed in Philadelphia. I kept
thinking I should come back here, but I grew up a city girl,
found out I
like
the city.”
“I know what you mean,” said Robin. “Small towns are
great in theory but they can be limiting.”
“Exactly. Aruk is wonderful; you guys will have a great time.
But as a permanent place to live, it’s—how shall I put
this? At the risk of sounding elitist . . . it’s just
very
small.
And the water all around. You just can’t go very
far without being reminded of your insignificance.”
“We lived on the beach this last year,” said Robin.
“There were times the ocean made me feel invisible.”
“Precisely. Everywhere you turn,
it’s
there.
Sometimes I think of it as a big, blue slap in the face.”
She nibbled more fruit. “And then there’s the pace.
Cross the international dateline and for some reason
everything moves
slow-
ly. I’m not the most patient
person in the world.”
Gladys and Cheryl arrived with a rolling tray and
coffee, cleared the dishes and poured.
Pam said, “Everything was delicious, Gladys.”
“Tell your father to show up for dinner. He needs to
take better care of himself.”
“I’ve been telling him that since I got here, Gladys.”
“And I’ve been ignoring it, mule that I am,” said a
voice from the house.
A very tall, very homely man stood in the double
doorway. Stooped, gaunt, clean-shaven, bald except for white
dandelion puffs over his ears, he had a narrow, lipless
mouth, a thick, fleshy nose and a long face bottoming
in a misshapen, crinkled chin that made me think of a camel.
His cheeks were hollow and limp, his eye sockets deep and
pouched. Sad blue eyes—the only physical trait he’d passed
on to his daughter.
He wore a cheap-looking white shirt over baggy brown
pants, white socks, and sandals. His chest looked caved in,
his arms long and ungainly and spotted by the sun, the flesh loose
on thin bones. Plastic eyeglasses hung from a chain. His
breast pocket drooped with pens, a doctor’s penlight, a pair
of sunglasses, a small white plastic ruler. He carried an
old black leather medical bag.
As I stood, he waved and came forward in an ungainly,
headfirst lope.
Not a camel. A flamingo.
Touching his lips to Pam’s cheek, he said, “Evening,
kitten.”
“Hi, Dad.”
The narrow mouth widened a millimeter. “Miss
Castagna. A pleasure, dear.” He gave Robin’s fingertips a
brief, double-hand clasp, then took my hand, sighing, as if
he’d been waiting a long time to do it.
“Dr. Delaware.”
His hand was dry and limp,
exerting feeble pressure, then slipping away like a windblown
leaf.
“I’m bringing you dinner,” said Gladys. “And don’t tell
me you grabbed a snack in the village.”
“I didn’t,” said Moreland, putting his palms together.
“I promise, Gladys.”
He sat down and inspected his napkin before unfolding
it. “I trust you’ve been well taken care of. Any
seasickness coming over?”
We shook our heads.
“Good.
Madeleine
’s a fine craft and Alwyn’s the best
of the supply captains. She used to belong to a sportsman from
Hawaii. Runs fine on sails, but Alwyn upgraded the engines
and he really makes good time. He babies that boat.”
“How many boats make the run?” I said.
“Three to six, depending on orders, circulating among
the smaller islands. On the average, we get one or two loads
twice a month.”
“Must be expensive.”
“It does inflate the cost of goods.”
Cheryl returned with two plates piled high with
everything we’d eaten but the chicken. Beans had been added
to the rice. She set the food in front of Moreland and he
smiled up at her.
“Thank you, dear. I hope your mother doesn’t expect me
to finish all this.”
Cheryl giggled and scurried off.
Moreland took a deep breath and raised a fork. “How’s
your little bulldog faring?”
“Sleeping off the boat ride,” I said.
Robin said, “Matter of fact, I’d better go check on him.
Excuse me.”
I walked her to the stairway. When I got back, Moreland
was looking at his food but hadn’t touched it. Pam was
sitting in place, not moving.
Moreland’s eyes drifted up to the black sky. For a
moment they seemed clouded. Then he blinked them clear. Pam
was fiddling with her napkin ring.
“I think I’ll take a walk,” she said, rising.
“Good night, kitten.”
“Nice to meet you, Dr. Delaware.”
“Nice to meet you.”
Another exchange of pecks and she was gone. Moreland
took a forkful of rice and chewed slowly, washing it down
with water. “I’m
very
happy to finally meet you.”
“Same here, doctor.”
“Call me Bill. May I call you Alex?”
“Of course.”
“How are your accommodations?”
“Great. Thanks for everything.”
“What did you think of my Stevenson quote?”
The question threw me. “Nice touch. Great writer.”
“Home is the sailor,” he said. “This is
my
home, and
it’s my pleasure to have you here. Stevenson never made it
to the northern Marianas but he did have a feel for island
life. Great thinker as well as a great writer. The great
thinkers have much to offer. . . . I have high hopes for
our project, Alex. Who knows what patterns will emerge when we
really get into the data.”
He put the fork down.
“As I mentioned, I’m particularly interested in mental
health problems because they always pose the greatest
puzzles. And I’ve seen some fascinating cases.”
He aimed the pouchy eyes at me. “For example, years ago
I encountered a case of—I suppose the closest label would
be lycanthropy, but it really wasn’t classical lycanthropy.”
“A wolf-man?”
“A cat
woman.
Have you seen that?”
“During my training I saw schizophrenics with
transitory animal hallucinations.”
“This was more than transitory. Thirty-year-old woman,
quite attractive, sweet nature. Shortly after her thirty-first
birthday, she began withdrawing from her family and
wandering around staring at cats. Then
she started chasing mice—rather uselessly. Mewing,
licking herself, eating raw meat. That’s what finally
brought her to me: rampant intestinal parasites
caused by her diet.”
“Was this a constant delusion?”
“More like a series of fits—acute spells, but they
lasted longer and longer as time went on. By the time I
saw her the periods between the fits weren’t good, either.
Appetite loss, poor concentration, bouts of weeping. Tell
all that to a psychiatrist and he’d probably diagnose
psychotic depression or a bipolar mood disorder. An
anthropologist, on the other hand, would pounce on tribal
rituals or a plant-induced religious hallucinosis. The
problem is, there
are
no native hallucinogenic plants on
Aruk nor any pre-Christian shamanic culture.”
He ate more rice but didn’t seem to taste it. “Interesting
from a diagnostic standpoint, wouldn’t you say?”
“Did the woman drink heavily?” I said.
“No. And her vitamin B intake was sufficient, so it
wasn’t an idiopathic Korsakoff’s syndrome.”
“What about the parasites? Had they infiltrated her
brain?”
“Good question. I wondered about that, too, but her
symptoms made conducting even a gross neurological exam
impossible. She’d gotten quite aggressive—snarling and
biting and scratching to the point where her husband tied her
up in her room. She’d become quite a burden.”
“Sounds brutal.”
He looked pained. “In any event, the symptoms didn’t
conform to any parasitical disease I’d ever come across, and I
was able to treat her intestinal problems quite easily.
After she died, the husband refused an autopsy and I
certified cause of death as heart attack.”
“How did she die?”
He put down his fork. “She screamed out one night—a
cri du chat—
cat’s cry. Louder than usual, so the
husband went in to check. He found her lying on her bed, open-eyed,
dead.”
“No evidence of any kind of poisoning?”
“My lab was rather primitive in those days, but I was
able to test her blood for the obvious things and found
nothing.”
“What was her relationship with her husband like?”
He stared at me. “Is there any particular reason you
ask that?”
“I’m a psychologist.”
He smiled.
“Also,” I said, “you said she’d become a burden.
And that he only went in because
her cat’s cry was louder. That implies he usually ignored
her. It doesn’t sound like marital devotion.”
He looked up and down the table, then past it, into the
living room, as if making sure we were alone.
“Shortly after she died,” he said, “her husband took up
with another woman and moved off the island. Years later, I
found out he’d been quite a Don Juan.” His eyes dropped to
his plate. “I suppose I’d better get through this or Gladys
will have my head.”
Eating a few mouthfuls of vegetables, he said, “I
fibbed. Had some chow mein brought into the clinic. Sudden
emergency, influx of jellyfish on North Beach.”
“Pam told me. How are the children?”
“Sore and covered with welts and totally
unchastened. . . . Any more thoughts on our
catwoman?”
“Did she have a history of fainting or any other
evidence of syncope?”
“A cardiac arrhythmia to explain the sudden death? None
that I picked up. And no family history of heart disease.
But the mode—sudden death. Her heart stopped so I called it
heart disease.”
“Allergies? Anaphylaxis?”
He shook his head.
“No heavy drinking,” I said. “What about drug abuse?”
“Her habits were clean, Alex. A lovely lady, really.
Until the change.”
“How completely was she bound when she slept?”
“Hands and feet.”
“Pretty severe.”
“She was considered dangerous.”
“And she was tied up the night she died.”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps something frightened or upset her,” I said.
“To the point of heart failure.”
“Such as?”
“An especially severe hallucination. Or a nightmare.”
He didn’t respond and I thought he looked angry.
“Or,” I said, “something real.”
He closed his eyes.
“Maybe,” I continued, “her Don Juan husband
took up with another woman
before
she died.”
Slow nods; the eyes remained shut.
“Tied up at night,” I said. “But the husband and the
girlfriend were in the next room? Did they make love in front of
her?”
The eyes opened. “My, my. You are a remarkable young
man.”
“Just guessing.”
Another long pause. “As I said,
it wasn’t till years later that I found out about him, and
only then because I treated a cousin of his who lived on
another island and came to me to be treated for shingles. I
gave him acyclovir and it reduced his pain. I suppose he
felt he owed me something. So he told me the
catwoman’s husband had just died and had mentioned me on his
deathbed. He’d been married three more times.”