Read Online Smoke by Elizabeth Ruth - Free Book Online Page B

on the back of the door, and he shaves and sponge-bathes there rather than upstairs where he might disturb his wife in the early hours of the morning. Only once a week does he fill the claw-foot tub on the second floor and climb in for a full soak. Buster has been here before, many times. Just last year his mother dragged him and Hank in for mandatory polio vaccinations. No need to worry about telling their father about the expense, Isabel had said at the time; the vaccines were free from the government. Today, however, is the first time Buster has been invited inside to talk man to man, and for a split second he forgets about his appearance.
    â€œHave a seat.” Doc John gestures to a formidable oxblood leather chair. He lifts the top of his desk and fishes inside to find a small silver key in one corner. He moves to unlock the medicine cabinet and Buster can’t tear his eyes from the bottle of whiskey there—Old Log Cabin, with a dusty label and a top that looks as if it’s never been opened. It might as well be gasoline and matches at which he is staring for his poor sooty heart pumps like thunder inside his chest and he feels unusually warm. Hot. He pulls his checked shirt away from his body. By now Doc John is hunched over with his hands on his bony knees for balance, searching the shelves. “This old body,” he complains with a cobweb tickle in his throat. “Can’t seem to make it do what I want any more.” He moves objects around on the top shelf, the middle, tries to reach under to the bottom but clutches at his stomach when the gnawing pain returns.
    â€œAre you all right?” Buster approaches, kneels on the floor. “Here, let me help.”
    Doc John sucks in his breath and tries to straighten. His energy has dissipated in recent months and the pain in his abdomen has become more frequent. His voice creaks like an unhinged door. His hands fumble and drop things. Used to be he’d chase Alice around the kitchen while she giggled and swatted him away. Used to be he’d try to catch her and pin her to him for a lingering kiss, but now he can feel that his running and kissing days are almost over. “Just a stitch,” he says. “It should be there. Right where I left it.” He points with an arthritic finger while his other hand holds his ribs, more feebly than Buster has noticed before. Buster’s been so accustomed to looking at everything and everyone from a patient’s point of view that he finds it awkward to discover the family doctor to be merely human after all. He crouches lower.
    â€œI see an inkwell. That what you want?”
    â€œNo, no, what else is there?”
    â€œUm, a watch fob.” Buster holds up the long chain. Doc John shakes his head. “The only other thing is this box.”
    â€œThat’s it. Give it to me.” Doc John stands, moves to his chair, his breathing laboured, and Buster notices that he wears lifts in his shoes. He follows the old man across the room carrying the small dusty box, hands it over and watches as the doctor opens the lid and places his hand on top of a blue felt cloth, closing his eyes and sighing as though an old friend has finally turned up. “I’ve had this since I was not much older than you, if memory serves. Kept it all this time for sentimental reasons. I don’t mind passing it on if you’ll take good care of it. Nothing foolish, hear?” Buster nods, not knowing to what he is agreeing and yet already caught up in another of the doctor’s stories. When the old man reaches his hand under the cloth, Buster’s eyes follow.
    â€œThere are times when living … when a person starts wishing things could be different. If only this or that hadn’t happened, right? He gets angry and tries to bully his way through each day hurting the people who care most, sounding off at every turn. A man can turn bitter like cider vinegar, if he lets himself.”