The Portable Veblen: Shortlisted for the Baileys Women’s Prize for Fiction 2016. Elizabeth McKenzie

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СКАЧАТЬ it’s impressive,” Paul said.

      “We’ve won the Aster four times in the last seven years, honoring excellence in medical marketing. Look, each issue has a theme and variations, but it takes a careful reading to detect it.”

      “News is marketing?”

      Shalev blinked, as if Paul had just emerged from an ancient pod. “Yes, it is.”

      The cover story was about the art exhibition in the lobby, and went on to list the names of the local artists who had contributed. On the inside page was an article on the free shuttle bus that operated continuously between Greenslopes and the Palo Alto Caltrain station. There was a picture of the little shuttle bus. The next page had a continuing feature called “Meet Our Specialists.” This month’s specialist was Dr. Burt Wallman, a psychiatrist who specialized in suicide prevention. Paul restlessly flipped through the pages, not able to detect a theme.

      He noted the headline WIDOWS, WIDOWERS HONORED WITH DAFFODILS. It seemed the Daffodil Society of Greenslopes gave symbolic daffodils to the families of vets.

      “Did you see it?” asked Shalev.

      “See what?”

      “You’re picking something up. Try to say what it is.”

      “Man’s inhumanity to man?”

      “Close. This month’s theme is regeneration, starting over, springtime.”

      Paul said, “Why did you write this? As one of the leading clinical trials hospitals for veterans, Greenslopes is proud of the wonderful relationship it has forged with widows …?”

      “Nothing wrong with it, is there? Here’s your dependent clause headed by your subordinating conjunction—”

      “It implies that the clinical trials create widows.”

      Shalev said, “The people in your trial, they’re either brain damaged or brain dead, aren’t they? But nobody stops hoping.”

      “Nobody ever said this was about a cure.”

      “Have you talked to any of the families?” Shalev prodded.

      “What do they think?”

      Shalev gathered the pile into his case. “Someone they love is laid out before them, trapped in an endless sleep. You ever loved someone in a coma?”

      Paul shook his head.

      “From what I’ve seen, when someone you love is in a coma, you simply want to believe. As long as they’re alive, there’s hope.” He snapped the latches on his satchel, and adjusted his glasses. “We had a trial in here last year with big funding, they extracted the essence of a tumor, gave it a whirl in a centrifuge, then injected a concentrated dose back into the patient.”

      “Immune therapy, very cutting edge,” Paul said.

      “The volunteers went extinct in a matter of weeks. But research-wise, hey, it was a big success. Doctors high-fiving each other all over the place.”

      To extract more of Paul’s essence, they made plans to meet again. And after Shalev left him, Paul gauged he’d been spending too much time in the lab. Bedside manners had never been his strong suit. Maybe he could delegate them.

      But the greats knew how to handle their patients. Look at the superstar neurologist Oliver Sacks. Patients adored him, stayed in touch for the rest of their lives. Paul recalled an interview in which Sacks said he loved to find the potential in people who “weren’t thought to have any.” That noble sentiment had haunted him since. Surely his commitment to medicine showed that he cared in his own way. Was it his job to deal with magical thinking too?

      AND THEN TO TASSO STREET. Veblen had that tendency to try to coax some desired outcome from anything he told her, her face as bright as a daffodil, overpowering him with good cheer. She met him at the door and gave him a kiss. “So, how’d it go?”

      “We’ll see,” he said.

      “How’s your assistant? What’s she like?”

      “Seems efficient.” He went to wash his hands in the sink. His lifelong habit, on the hour. Wash hands. Wash off the world.

      “Everything all right?”

      Paul grabbed a dish towel and twisted it. “It’s probably not fair to hate her for saying ‘in clinic,’ is it? ‘I’ll see you in clinic.’”

      “She dropped the article? What a bitch.”

      “Yeah. It sounds clammy and invasive, like she’s breathing on my genitals.”

      Veblen backed off, took two beers from the refrigerator, popped the caps. “She’d better not.”

      “Thanks.” Bottoms up. The beer tasted bitter, and landed heavily in his gut. “It’s a lot to absorb. They’ve had a big response to our call for volunteers.”

      “That’s great, Paul. See? You deserve it.”

      “The question remains, what ‘it’ is I deserve.” He sighed. “All these caring families are hanging around. It feels like a lot of pressure. I hope I know what I’m doing.”

      “That must be unnerving. Take one day at a time,” Veblen said. “No one expects you to undo the damage of the military industrial complex overnight.”

      “Ha!” He snorted. “Are you sure?” He finished his bottle. The foam bubbled on his lips, tickling like root beer and first kisses.

       4

       NOTHING ABOUT YOU IS BAD

      And so, within a few weeks, the visit to Cobb was upon them. Meet the parents. A classic rite of passage, inevitable, except that the irregularities of her mother’s personality held a certain terror for Veblen. (She reminded herself that all humans were flawed, no family faultless, and whatever happened that day, it was part of the rich tapestry of life.) Her mother would surely rise to the occasion this time, wouldn’t she? And Paul, who routinely dissected brains, could surely endure her mother too.

      The couple set off early on a bright Saturday, skirting the traffic-ensnarled Bay Area heading north, past the minaret-like towers of the oil refineries at Martinez, past the ghost fleet of warships mothballed away in the Carquinez Strait, discussing the myriad future. There were so many things to talk about when one decided to get married, and Paul had waited to share some exciting news.

      “Looks as if Cloris Hutmacher has offered us her house for the wedding,” he said, his voice crackling mostly with pride, but with an undertone of something else.

      He told her he’d seen Cloris that week and announced their engagement. And Cloris had leaped right in. She said, why not her place in May? Small pink Cecile Brunners covered the arbor in May. Every guest could pluck one. The light in May was perfect, the СКАЧАТЬ