Read Online Critical Judgment (1996) by Michael Palmer - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Michael Palmer
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promise.”
“Tell me something, Ives,” Abby said. “If you have to resort to a hobby like this to pass the time, why not come down the hill and live with the rest of us?”
“I already did that,” Ives said. “Too many cannibals. Too many rules. Too much hypocrisy. Too many bills. Too much hatred. Shall I go on?”
“No,” Abby said, though she still wanted to know more of what, specifically, had pushed him up into thehills. “Now it’s my turn. Do we have a deal about your leg?”
“No promises, but I will listen to what you recommend, and I’ll do it if it seems right to me. Believe me, there’s too much I enjoy about life to want to get sick or crippled. But you also have to understand that self-satisfied fops like that surgeon you referred me to do not make me want to have much to do with your sacred profession.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“Don’t feel sorry for me,” Ives said, leading them back to his clearing. “Feel sorry for him.” He motioned at Josh.
Abby was taken aback.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about white Mercedes number MD three-oh-three. Dr. Pomposity, himself.”
“Dr. Bartholomew?”
“Precisely. Drives up to Colstar every Tuesday and Friday at nine A.M . and leaves at three.”
Abby turned to Josh.
“He’s talking about Martin Bartholomew. You know him?”
“He runs the employee health clinic.”
“He’s a surgeon. Is he the one who checked you over for those headaches?”
“He didn’t really check me over. Just ordered some tests and then had the nurse call in a prescription.”
“Lord. Josh, I think you should have a neurol—” She stopped herself in midword. The morning was simply going too well for her to spoil it. “Listen,” she said, “we’ll talk about it another time if you want.”
Josh wandered back toward Ives’s observation post while Abby took some shallow and deeper biopsies of the chronic infection on the hermit’s leg. Then, with the cultures secure, she administered the IV antibiotic. Routine lacerations, and facial lacerations in particular, were usually no cause for IV antibiotics. With cut faces andscalps, tissue circulation was so good that severe infection was rarely a problem. But Ives’s leg was another story. Treating him this way wasn’t perfect, but it was better than the alternative of doing nothing. As she worked, cleaning away the superficial damaged tissue with forceps, scissors, and scalpel, she glanced around the clearing and smiled at the notion of what her high-powered university colleagues would say if they could see her at this moment.
When she was finished, she dressed the leg lightly and promised to return in a few days to remove the stitches from Ives’s face and to continue work on his leg. Then she left the books, food, and clothing she had brought, called Josh back to the clearing, and hiked with him down the hill.
Once in the Jeep again, they headed for the park where the Colstar picnic was being held.
“Josh,” she said, “have you ever read a remarkable little book called
Zen and the Art of Archery?”
“No.”
“I read it for a philosophy course at Cal, and I can’t recall the author’s name. But remember when Ives joked about being able to hit the dummy blindfolded from fifty yards?”
“Yes, what of it?”
“Well, I think that was more than a figure of speech. I think he does make that shot blindfolded.”
C HAPTER S IX
B y the time Josh had reached Colstar Park, four miles west of the plant, Abby had already noticed a change in him. It began with some gestures that outwardly appeared benign—squinting as if the glare of the morning sun was uncomfortable, rubbing at his eyes and temples, wetting his lips, putting his sunglasses on, taking them off. His conversation, so animated on the drive across town earlier, had all but died.
“You okay?” she ventured.
He glared at her for a moment as if she had intruded on some cosmic thought.
“Of course I
“Tell me something, Ives,” Abby said. “If you have to resort to a hobby like this to pass the time, why not come down the hill and live with the rest of us?”
“I already did that,” Ives said. “Too many cannibals. Too many rules. Too much hypocrisy. Too many bills. Too much hatred. Shall I go on?”
“No,” Abby said, though she still wanted to know more of what, specifically, had pushed him up into thehills. “Now it’s my turn. Do we have a deal about your leg?”
“No promises, but I will listen to what you recommend, and I’ll do it if it seems right to me. Believe me, there’s too much I enjoy about life to want to get sick or crippled. But you also have to understand that self-satisfied fops like that surgeon you referred me to do not make me want to have much to do with your sacred profession.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“Don’t feel sorry for me,” Ives said, leading them back to his clearing. “Feel sorry for him.” He motioned at Josh.
Abby was taken aback.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about white Mercedes number MD three-oh-three. Dr. Pomposity, himself.”
“Dr. Bartholomew?”
“Precisely. Drives up to Colstar every Tuesday and Friday at nine A.M . and leaves at three.”
Abby turned to Josh.
“He’s talking about Martin Bartholomew. You know him?”
“He runs the employee health clinic.”
“He’s a surgeon. Is he the one who checked you over for those headaches?”
“He didn’t really check me over. Just ordered some tests and then had the nurse call in a prescription.”
“Lord. Josh, I think you should have a neurol—” She stopped herself in midword. The morning was simply going too well for her to spoil it. “Listen,” she said, “we’ll talk about it another time if you want.”
Josh wandered back toward Ives’s observation post while Abby took some shallow and deeper biopsies of the chronic infection on the hermit’s leg. Then, with the cultures secure, she administered the IV antibiotic. Routine lacerations, and facial lacerations in particular, were usually no cause for IV antibiotics. With cut faces andscalps, tissue circulation was so good that severe infection was rarely a problem. But Ives’s leg was another story. Treating him this way wasn’t perfect, but it was better than the alternative of doing nothing. As she worked, cleaning away the superficial damaged tissue with forceps, scissors, and scalpel, she glanced around the clearing and smiled at the notion of what her high-powered university colleagues would say if they could see her at this moment.
When she was finished, she dressed the leg lightly and promised to return in a few days to remove the stitches from Ives’s face and to continue work on his leg. Then she left the books, food, and clothing she had brought, called Josh back to the clearing, and hiked with him down the hill.
Once in the Jeep again, they headed for the park where the Colstar picnic was being held.
“Josh,” she said, “have you ever read a remarkable little book called
Zen and the Art of Archery?”
“No.”
“I read it for a philosophy course at Cal, and I can’t recall the author’s name. But remember when Ives joked about being able to hit the dummy blindfolded from fifty yards?”
“Yes, what of it?”
“Well, I think that was more than a figure of speech. I think he does make that shot blindfolded.”
C HAPTER S IX
B y the time Josh had reached Colstar Park, four miles west of the plant, Abby had already noticed a change in him. It began with some gestures that outwardly appeared benign—squinting as if the glare of the morning sun was uncomfortable, rubbing at his eyes and temples, wetting his lips, putting his sunglasses on, taking them off. His conversation, so animated on the drive across town earlier, had all but died.
“You okay?” she ventured.
He glared at her for a moment as if she had intruded on some cosmic thought.
“Of course I
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