The receiver brought to my age-dulled ears the emery of a woman's voice. And Tom, with the cultivated patience that masks a physician's irritation, told her to take the "pink medicine" every two hours instead of every four.
The elixir alurate, I thought.
That brickbat on the safety valve of America: barbital.
I would soon be on morphine myself....
"How long?" I asked, when Tom hung up.
His pale eyes peered affectionately from behind his spectacles. I felt sorry for him. "Let's get that biopsy, first."
"No fooling, Tom. You're nine-tenths convinced. The learned goons in your profession have told me my number was up, several times, before this. Sooner or later, one of you is bound to be right. And I don't feel lucky today. How long?"
He picked up a letter he had dictated, read it, and put it in a tray. He straightened his prescription pad so it was square with the tooled leather corner of his desk blotter. He glanced at the photograph of Aileen, his wife, Joy and Lee, his daughters. "If it's malignant—it's where you can't operate."
"How long will I be—able to write?"