“Micronesia,” Arthur explained to Jeremy. The first indication, in a while, that anyone was aware of his presence.

“The smaller, more obscure islands of Micronesia and Indonesia,” said Marquis. “Places where antibiotics and common sense could make a difference.”

“Why, Eddie,” said Judge Balleron, “you’re a social worker at heart.”

The old man sighed. “There was a time when good deeds went unpunished.”

Another silence engulfed the room and, once again, Jeremy thought they all looked sad.

There’s some back story I’m not privy to. Something they share- something they’re not going to explain because I’m temporary.

Why am I here?

Another attempt to catch Arthur’s eye was unsuccessful. The pathologist’s eyes were back on his plate as he dissected his veal.

Norbert Levy said, “I think your point is well-taken, Harry. There will always be bad guys among us and they’re not that hard to spot. On the contrary, they’re banal.”

“Banal and cruel,” said Harrison Maynard. “Entitlement, callousness, the inability to control one’s drives.”

Jeremy heard himself speak up: “That’s exactly what the data show, Mr. Maynard. Habitually violent criminals are impulsive and callous.”

Five sets of eyes upon him.

Tina Balleron said, “Doctor, are we talking about actual psychological data, or mere supposition?”

“Data.”

“Case histories or group studies?”

“Both.”

“Conclusive or preliminary?” The woman’s murmur did nothing to blunt the force of her questions. Judges start out as lawyers. Jeremy imagined Balleron cross-examining strong men and reducing them to whimpering sots.

“Preliminary but highly suggestive.” Jeremy filled in details. No one responded. He went on, elaborating, quoting sources, getting specific.

Now they were interested.

He continued. Delivered a little speech. Found himself heating up, having trouble separating the cold facts from the images that danced in his head.

Humpty-Dumpty situation.

Science was woefully inadequate.

He felt a sob rising in his throat. Stopped. Said, “That’s all.”

Arthur Chess said, “Fascinating, absolutely fascinating.”

Harrison Maynard nodded. The others followed suit.

Even Tina Balleron looked subdued. “I suppose I’ve learned something,” she said. “And for that, I thank you, Dr. Jeremy Carrier.”

An awkward moment. Jeremy didn’t know what to say.

Edgar Marquis said, “Will anyone be offended if I call for the goose wing?”

“Knock yourself out, Eddie,” said Harrison Maynard. “I’m calling for champagne.”

This time, a toast.

Clean, dry Möet & Chandon bubbled in the repousse goblets, the chill seeping through the glass insets, frosting the silver.

The wine fizzed in Jeremy’s cheap flute. He took hold of the glass and raised it as Arthur toasted.

“To our articulate guest.”

The others repeated it.

Five smiles. Real smiles, pure welcome.

The evening had gone well.

Jeremy had done well. He was sure of it.

He sipped his champagne, thought he’d never tasted anything quite so wonderful.

Never before had he felt so accepted.

17

More small talk and sacher torte and cognac finished him off.

Arthur Chess said, “My friends, we’d best be going.” He got up from the table, and Jeremy staggered as he did the same.

Tina Balleron touched his elbow.

He mumbled, “I’m okay.”

She said, “I’m sure you are,” but she kept her fingers on his sleeve until he stood. It was well into the morning, but the others remained in their seats. Jeremy circulated the table, shaking hands, offering thanks. Arthur came up to him, escorted him out. As though Jeremy had lingered too long on the pleasantries.

Genevieve was just outside the door with their coats, and, as Jeremy passed under the capstone, he glanced back at the triplet of C’s carved into the wood.

The black Lincoln was waiting at the curb, engine running, and Genevieve stayed with them, sticking especially close to Jeremy.

Once again, he felt like a child. Cosseted. Not an unpleasant feeling. He allowed Genevieve to open his door. She waited until he’d latched his seat belt, waved, closed the door, and stepped back into darkness.

The rain had let up, replaced by a soupy fog that smelled of old wool. Jeremy was in no condition to drive, wondered about Arthur. Arthur sat upright, both hands on the wheel. Looked fine.

The Lincoln pulled away from the curb and glided.

“Arthur, what does CCC stand for?”

Arthur’s hesitation lasted long enough to make an impression. “Just a little joke. Are you comfortable?”

“Very.”

“Good.”

“Fine cuisine, no?”

“Excellent.”

Arthur smiled.

He drove without comment as Jeremy alternated between nodding off and springing awake. Cracking the window a couple of inches helped a bit, and by the time they approached the hospital, Jeremy’s brain had settled, and his breathing was slow and easy.

Arthur reached the doctors’ parking lot and drove through the nearly empty tier to Jeremy’s car.

“I do hope you had a good time,” said Arthur.

“It was great, thanks. Your friends are interesting.”

Arthur didn’t answer.

“They seem,” said Jeremy, “to have lived full lives.”

Pause. “They have.”

“How often do you meet?”

Another pause, longer. “Irregularly.” Arthur touched his bow tie, flicked a button, and unlocked Jeremy’s door. Avoiding eye contact, he pulled out his pocket watch and consulted the dial.

Curt dismissal.

Jeremy said, “An interesting bunch.”

Arthur clicked the watch shut and stared straight ahead.

What had become of Arthur’s amiability? Jeremy had found the old man’s gregariousness off-putting, but now- maddeningly- he missed it.

He wondered if he’d given his little performance undue credit. Had his discourse been too long-winded? Boring? Offensive, in some way?

Did I screw up, somehow?

Why should I care?

Unable to summon up apathy; he hoped he hadn’t blundered. The Lincoln idled, and Arthur stared out the windshield.

Jeremy opened his door, gave Arthur one more chance.

The warmth of being part of something lingered in his belly. Suddenly- inexplicably- he wanted to be popular.

Arthur kept staring straight ahead.

“Well,” said Jeremy.

“Good night,” said Arthur.

“Thanks again.”

“You’re welcome,” said Arthur. And nothing more.

18

By the time he reached home, Jeremy had put Arthur’s strange, sudden coolness aside. There were worse things in life than social error. When he crawled into bed, his mind was empty, and he slept like a corpse.

The cold light of morning- and a hangover- killed further introspection. He popped aspirin, hazarded a run in the icy air, took a scalding shower, called Angela at home but got no answer. It was Saturday morning, but patients depended on him, and he suddenly felt like working. He was at his desk by nine, trying to ignore the grit in his eyelids and the throbbing in his temples.

His pathetic stab at the book chapter glared at him reproachfully. He decided to do personal rounds earlier than usual, see all his patients before lunch, spend more time with each one of them.

He’d dressed as he always did but felt rumpled and uncouth. Grabbing his white coat off the door hook, he threw it on. The coat was something he generally avoided, wanting to separate himself from the physicians.

I’m the doctor who doesn’t hurt you.

That helped with kids. Not that he saw many kids anymore. Too much pain. Some things he just couldn’t handle.