Read Online Vanished in the Dunes by Allan Retzky - Free Book Online
Authors: Allan Retzky
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except that his house has an ocean view, but as he explains to Wisdom, such a vista is far from unusual in the area.
Wisdom rises to leave. Thanks him again for his time and help. There is no hint of nausea this time when Wisdom moves across the tile floor toward the door. Posner begins to believe he is getting past all of this, and that he is not only in the clear, yet beyond any evidence to remotely connect him to Heidi. He breathes deeply and goes upstairs. He pours a glass of wine. That night he sleeps deeply and late into the next morning. He has two weeks of such mindless solitude.
And then he gets a visit from Dr. Henry Stern.
CHAPTER 4
Dr. Henry Stern is a tall man, over six feet, with straight brown hair and green eyes. He is thirty-two when he first meets Heidi at a hospital Christmas party a year before.
“Do you celebrate Christmas?” she asks her voice throaty and European accented, as she sips a glass of eggnog.
They stand with two other staff members in white coats and a well-dressed man who announces he is in administration. Stern shakes his head slightly.
“No. I’m Jewish. By the way that’s not spiked, you know,” he says pointing to her glass as she looks up at him, her dark eyes wide as globes.
“Spiked?”
“I mean there’s no booze in it. No liquor at all. Can’t have the hospital pushing alcohol during business hours.”
The others all laugh, and he did mean it as a joke, since business hours equaled a twenty-four-hour day, but her eyes seize his and stop his own laughter. That’s when he turns away, as he feels a flush creep across his face. He drifts across the room and joins two other radiologists, but for a change he doesn’t feel like discussing shadows on x-rays; the indications of something ranging from either benign to inoperable. He has learned to control his emotions when he speaks with patients and their primary physicians. He has built up a wall of false bravado during such conversations, always faking the positive,which will give them a tortured future of discomfort and occasional pain as well as hope.
He doesn’t know her name, but steals looks across the room for the next half hour until he sees her standing alone near the door. He summons some hidden reserve of courage and approaches.
“Leaving so soon?” he asks and feels the flush return to his face. When she looks at him again with those black eyes, he begins to sense he is lost. Utterly lost or bewitched, it doesn’t matter.
They go to a neighborhood bar a few blocks away. Tiny Santa dolls share space on the shelves alongside gin and Scotch bottles. All-too-familiar Christmas songs are piped through a pair of speakers at the front of the room. A tiny tree at the end of the bar winks red-and-green lights. They laugh at the juxtaposition of Santa and the alcohol, and she wonders how he can safely drive a sled with a drinker’s red nose. They laugh some more and keep walking until they reach an empty booth in the back. He asks for a beer, and she takes a glass of red wine. They both order burgers.
“I thought Muslims don’t eat meat?” he asks referring to her cultural disclosure during their walk.
She cuts the air with a wave of her hand.
“That’s a Hindu thing, but I do many things Muslim women don’t do.” She stares intently at him, and then goes on.
“Beef should be all right for Muslims if the slaughter is ritual and clean. We are also not supposed to eat pork. The same as Jews, part of halal or Muslim dietary rules. It’s the high level of uric acid in the pig that is of concern. But I confess I do like wine. Alcohol is discouraged, but one can’t be perfect.”
She sips her wine before she adds, “Adultery is also forbidden, except that I’m not married.”
Then she laughs and her cackle overrides the dim Christmas music that floats from the front of the room. She describes how she is a blend of three cultures; her parents’ Iranian background, heryears growing up in a rather
Wisdom rises to leave. Thanks him again for his time and help. There is no hint of nausea this time when Wisdom moves across the tile floor toward the door. Posner begins to believe he is getting past all of this, and that he is not only in the clear, yet beyond any evidence to remotely connect him to Heidi. He breathes deeply and goes upstairs. He pours a glass of wine. That night he sleeps deeply and late into the next morning. He has two weeks of such mindless solitude.
And then he gets a visit from Dr. Henry Stern.
CHAPTER 4
Dr. Henry Stern is a tall man, over six feet, with straight brown hair and green eyes. He is thirty-two when he first meets Heidi at a hospital Christmas party a year before.
“Do you celebrate Christmas?” she asks her voice throaty and European accented, as she sips a glass of eggnog.
They stand with two other staff members in white coats and a well-dressed man who announces he is in administration. Stern shakes his head slightly.
“No. I’m Jewish. By the way that’s not spiked, you know,” he says pointing to her glass as she looks up at him, her dark eyes wide as globes.
“Spiked?”
“I mean there’s no booze in it. No liquor at all. Can’t have the hospital pushing alcohol during business hours.”
The others all laugh, and he did mean it as a joke, since business hours equaled a twenty-four-hour day, but her eyes seize his and stop his own laughter. That’s when he turns away, as he feels a flush creep across his face. He drifts across the room and joins two other radiologists, but for a change he doesn’t feel like discussing shadows on x-rays; the indications of something ranging from either benign to inoperable. He has learned to control his emotions when he speaks with patients and their primary physicians. He has built up a wall of false bravado during such conversations, always faking the positive,which will give them a tortured future of discomfort and occasional pain as well as hope.
He doesn’t know her name, but steals looks across the room for the next half hour until he sees her standing alone near the door. He summons some hidden reserve of courage and approaches.
“Leaving so soon?” he asks and feels the flush return to his face. When she looks at him again with those black eyes, he begins to sense he is lost. Utterly lost or bewitched, it doesn’t matter.
They go to a neighborhood bar a few blocks away. Tiny Santa dolls share space on the shelves alongside gin and Scotch bottles. All-too-familiar Christmas songs are piped through a pair of speakers at the front of the room. A tiny tree at the end of the bar winks red-and-green lights. They laugh at the juxtaposition of Santa and the alcohol, and she wonders how he can safely drive a sled with a drinker’s red nose. They laugh some more and keep walking until they reach an empty booth in the back. He asks for a beer, and she takes a glass of red wine. They both order burgers.
“I thought Muslims don’t eat meat?” he asks referring to her cultural disclosure during their walk.
She cuts the air with a wave of her hand.
“That’s a Hindu thing, but I do many things Muslim women don’t do.” She stares intently at him, and then goes on.
“Beef should be all right for Muslims if the slaughter is ritual and clean. We are also not supposed to eat pork. The same as Jews, part of halal or Muslim dietary rules. It’s the high level of uric acid in the pig that is of concern. But I confess I do like wine. Alcohol is discouraged, but one can’t be perfect.”
She sips her wine before she adds, “Adultery is also forbidden, except that I’m not married.”
Then she laughs and her cackle overrides the dim Christmas music that floats from the front of the room. She describes how she is a blend of three cultures; her parents’ Iranian background, heryears growing up in a rather
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