Due Preparations for the Plague. Janette Turner Hospital

the end, every night. Arguing with Sirocco. Shouting at him. Or with Salamander. That name mean anything?”

      “Not to me.”

      “They stalked him. They terrified him. Especially Sirocco.”

      “I guess I suspected he was losing it. But he kept such a tight hold on himself.”

      From the pocket of her black suit jacket, she takes the gardenia that Lowell gave her at the graveside and holds it in the palm of her hand. The edges of the petals have turned brown. She reaches for Lowell’s hand and opens it and places the gardenia in it. “And now we have both lost Mather,” she says. “Permanently.”

      At that point, he is able to cry; well, not cry, exactly, not cry in any luxurious or extravagant or consolatory or even noticeable way, but he does become aware of functioning tear ducts, of a physical sense of swollenness, of overflow which moves him profoundly. The fact of grief moves him, as of some precious thing long mislaid. He is overcome by this reentry into the experience of emotion per se, and he thinks of it as an atmosphere emanating from Elizabeth. She drives him back to the airport and he wears dark glasses and stares out the window all the way.

      “You could stay the night, Lowell,” she offers.

      He turns then, but does not remove his dark glasses. They sit for some time, not speaking, on the fifth level of the airport parking garage. When she turns the key in the ignition, as though agreement has been reached, he says, “Thank you, Elizabeth, but I can’t. Rowena says Amy and Jason will panic if I don’t get back tomorrow, and I know she’s right. The kids … you know, I have a bad effect on them, but they need to see me. They need to know I’m okay. I promised I’d take them to the Public Garden tomorrow.”

      “You will need to go through your father’s things,” she says, “and decide what you want. Give me a call when you’re ready. You can stay at the house.”

      “All right,” he promises. “And anytime you’re in Boston …”

      But weeks pass, and they do not make contact with each other again, and then Dr. Reuben calls Lowell.

5.

      One month after the funeral, Lowell receives a letter of sorts and certain documents in his father’s handwriting. Dr. Reuben delivers the package, and the circumstances are strange.

      “I’ve just flown up from Washington,” Dr. Reuben says. “Your father wanted me to do this personally.”

      Lowell tries to put a face to the voice on the telephone. “Do I know you?”

      “No, you don’t, and I’m afraid I don’t know Boston. We need to meet somewhere central and very public. Where do you suggest?”

      “I don’t understand,” Lowell says later. They are walking side by side in the Public Garden. Lowell marvels at the shine on Dr. Reuben’s black leather shoes. His own sneakers are badly scuffed.

      “I was your father’s psychiatrist,” Dr. Reuben explains.

      “I see. I didn’t know he—I never thought he had any time for that sort of thing.” Lowell is mesmerized by the flash of black leather alongside his own paint-spattered joggers. He and his father’s psychiatrist are out of step. His sneakers do a quick-step, skip-step, to bring themselves into alignment, but Dr. Reuben stops abruptly—startled or perhaps affronted by the maneuver—and looks back over his shoulder. When they move forward again, they are still not in step.

      “Precautions had to be taken,” Dr. Reuben says. He seems to be embarrassed, and is seized by a fit of coughing as though the words are too peppery in his mouth. His eyes water. “At least,” he says, “your father believed so.” He gives way to another short paroxysm of coughing and then laughs in a self-deprecating way. “Your father was very convincing. You know what I’m talking about?”

      “I’m not sure,” Lowell says.

      “To tell you the truth, I can’t tell if all this is necessary, or if I’ve been swept up into his condition.” Dr. Reuben looks sideways at Lowell, waiting.

      “His heart condition? Congestive heart failure, they said—”

      “No,” Dr. Reuben says. “I mean paranoia.”

      Lowell thinks: This is a trap. My father has arranged for this. He’s paid someone to keep tabs and report on me. He’s keeping postmortem files.

      “He believed he was to be murdered,” Dr. Reuben says. “Does that surprise you?”

      “What?” Lowell says.

      “Murder wasn’t his word for it. Eliminated, he said. I actually tried to get hold of the police report, you know, to see if brake lines were cut, anything like that. But just as he always said, the police reports were classified. Still, I think suicide is equally likely.”

      “He had a heart attack at the wheel,” Lowell says. “There was a medical report.”

      “Hmm. Maybe. I was unable to see a copy of that report.”

      Lowell frowns. “Well, I saw it.” Then he thinks about it. “Maybe I didn’t. I guess they told me and it didn’t occur … It was classified too?”

      “Classified.”

      “Did you know it was the anniversary—?”

      “Of course. That’s why I believe it was suicide. I’ll tell you what I think. I think he made the arrangements I’m about to discuss with you, and then his conscience was clear. It was the thing he had to do, and then he could eliminate himself. But either way, it’s … well, really, I’m ethically bound. There are only two sacrosanct relationships, aren’t there? Priests and shrinks. He might have been mad, or he might have been right. I’m supposed to be the one who can tell.” There is something plaintive about the laugh this time.

      He made arrangements, Lowell thinks wearily. Surprise, surprise. So there will be conditions. There will be expectations. And still Lowell will not measure up.

      For a month, one calm month, he has been almost at peace.

      “This is not a situation I have ever encountered before,” Dr. Reuben says. In the Public Garden, the trees are turning red and gold. “And even now I can’t swear that I haven’t been infected with his … condition. I mean, I can observe myself becoming paranoid, which is an interesting and curious thing for a psychiatrist to observe in himself. Do you see that man staring at us?”

      “Where?”

      “The man on the bench over there.”

      “The one reading the newspaper?”

      “He’s staring at us.”

      “He’s watching that little kid on the tricycle.”

      “Maybe,” Dr. Reuben says. “But you see what I mean? Now that he’s gone, I’ve started to think like your father. Just the same, it seems better to err on the side of caution. And I made your father a promise. I did make him a promise. And I could tell that once I had made that promise, something shifted within him. His conscience was clear. Or as clear as past events would ever permit. Let’s sit here for a while.”

      From a bench beside the pond, they watch the swan boats with their cargo of tourists rock gently in one another’s wakes. Willows trail in the water. Families throw crumbs to the ducks. “You will make of his message what you will,” Dr. Reuben says. “Even I haven’t seen the tapes or the journal, you understand.”

      “You’ve got something to give me from him.”

      “Indirectly. I have a key to give you. I will leave it on this bench and I want you to put your hand over it, very casually, and stay like that for a full ten minutes after I walk away.” He gives another embarrassed laugh. “I