Dead Certain

and telling patients to bring their own bandages.”
    “What does any of this have to do with selling Prescott Memorial?” I demanded.
    “It has to do with making choices while we still can,” explained McDermott. “With every succeeding generation, the money that has traditionally been used to support the hospital gets split more ways. Talk to Kyle Massius about the kind of begging we have to do. Remember Megan Fredericks? Her parents have been supporting pediatric services in this hospital ever since she had encephalitis when she was ten. But now they’re dead, and she wants to put that money into her art gallery.”
    “That’s only one example.”
    “You want some more?” he countered savagely. “I’ll give you some more. What about your cousin Cameron? He’s been in and out of Betty Ford so many times that when he checks out, they don’t even bother to change his sheets. Do you think we should count on his continued support? Or what about your sister Beth?”
    “Beth is still in college.”
    “From what your mother tells me, she’s majoring in becoming a crazy lesbian.”
    “Being crazy and a lesbian have nothing to do with one another,” I pointed out.
    “No, but being a lesbian and tormenting your mother do. What do you think Beth will do when she realizes that all she has to do on her twenty-first birthday to really make your parents angry is to give her money to Gays for Peace instead of Prescott Memorial?”
    The electronic squeal of a beeper cut me off before I had a chance to reply. I watched McDermott’s eyes drop automatically to one of the three clipped to the pocket of his white coat, and waited for him to continue. Instead, he was on his feet in an instant, patting his pockets for his keys.
    “We’ll have to continue this another time,” he said in an urgent voice. From the look on his face, I could tell that mentally he was already out the door.
     
    The people who worked late on Friday nights at Callahan Ross were a hardcore group. I may have joked with McDermott about doctors and lawyers on the golf course, but even the most workaholic attorneys at Callahan Ross usually went home to their families on Friday nights. Not having a family to go home to, I ordered a roasted red pepper and chèvre sandwich on focaccia bread from a restaurant whose evening business consisted of delivering overpriced meals to lawyers. For the price of the sandwich I could have rented an apartment in Iowa.
    While I waited for dinner to arrive I wandered into the library to check on Sherman. I found him in his favorite cubicle, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up. It looked like he was settling in for a long weekend. His usual dinner sat beside the computer screen. As far as I could tell, he had the same thing every night: a container of boysenberry yogurt, a Slim Jim, and a Snickers bar, all from the firm vending machines. At Callahan Ross a minor obsessive-compulsive disorder was practically a job requirement.
    Walking back to my office, I lingered for a couple of minutes among the stacks of calf-bound volumes, slipping one or two from the shelves at random and breathing in their musty fragrance. For some reason it made me feel sad to think that nowadays these books were only there for show. Thanks to men like Gabriel Hurt, legal decisions were now entered into computer databases almost as soon as they were handed down, while search engines like Lexis steered the way through the virtual stacks. Progress might be inevitable, but I didn’t think I’d ever get over my love of books.
    When my sandwich came, I inhaled it greedily. I was so hungry I even ate the pickle. But I still didn’t feel like settling down to work. Instead I dragged the boom box out of the bottom drawer of my credenza and plugged it in. Then I kicked off my shoes and pulled all the hairpins out of my French twist and literally let my hair down. Then I chose Best o’ Boingo from the stash I kept in my bottom drawer, slipped the CD into the machine, and cranked up the volume.
    I am without a doubt the absolute worst dancer in the known universe. Not only am I completely uncoordinated, but I lack any semblance of rhythm or grace. With a partner, things can really get ugly. I cannot tell my right from my left, and for some reason I insist on leading. Russell was the only person able to endure it more than once which is one of the reasons I married him.
    Even so, I love to dance. As long as I am alone, I am utterly unselfconscious. I