Side Effects by Michael Palmer Read Free Book Online Page B

Jared and Tom Engleson said the word simultaneously.
    "Oh, sorry. I wasn't talking to you." A miniature cumulonimbus cloud puffed from the oven. "Jared, it's all right," she called out, this time covering the mouthpiece.
    "It's just ... our meal. That's all."
    "Dr. Bennett, if you'd rather I called back ..."
    "No, Tom, no. Listen, there's a histology technician on call. The lab tech on duty knows who it is. Have whoever it is come in and begin running the specimen through the Technichron. That way it will be ready Page 19
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    for examination tomorrow rather than Tuesday. Better still, ask them to come into the lab and call me at home. I'll give the instructions myself. Okay?"
    "Sure. Thanks." "No problem," she said, staring at the lumps. "I'll speak to you later."
    "Shirred eggs?" Jared, wrapped in the cashmere blanket, leaned against the doorway. Roscoe peered at her from between his knees.
    Kate nodded sheepishly. "I sort of smelled the smoke, but my one-track brain was focused on what this resident from the hospital was saying, and somehow, it dismissed the smoke as coming from the wood stove. I ... I never was too great at doing more than one thing at once." if^
    "Too bad you couldn't have chosen to let the resi dent burn to a crisp and save the eggs," he said.
    "Next time."
    "Good. Any possibilities for replacements?"
    "Howard Johnson's?"
    "Thanks, but I'll take my chances with some coffee and whatever's in that frying pan. You sure that wasn't Yoda on the phone?"
    "Jared ..."
    He held up his hands against her are. "Just checking, just checking," he said. "Come on, Roscoe. Let's go set the table."
    Kate noted the absence of an apology, but decided that two in one day was too much to ask. More difficult to accept, however, was Jared's apparent lack of interest in what the call was about. It was as if by not talking about her career, her life outside of their marriage, he was somehow diminishing its importance. In public, he took special pride in her professionalism and her degree. Privately, he accepted it as long as it didn't burn his eggs.
    Almost against her will, she felt frustration begin to dilute the warmth and closeness generated by their lovemaking.
    She walked to where her clothes were piled in the living room and dressed, silently vowing to do whatever she could to avoid another blowup that day.
    Minutes later, the crunch of tires on their gravel driveway heralded a test of her resolve. Roscoe heard the arrival first and bounded from his place by the stove to the front door. Jared, now in denims and a flannel work shirt, followed.
    "Hey, Kate, it's Sandy," he called out, opening the inside door.
    "Sandy?" Dick Sandier, Jared's roommate at Dartmouth, had been best man at their wedding. A TWA pilot, he lived on the South Shore and hadn't been in touch with them for several months. "Is Ellen with him?"
    "No. He's alone." Jared opened the storm door. "Hey, flyboy," he called in a thick Spanish accent,
    "welcome. I have just what you want, senor: a seexteen-year-old American virgin. Only feefty pesetas." Sandier, a rugged Marion Brando type, exchanged bear hugs with Jared and platonic kisses with Kate, and then scanned what there was of their brunch. "What, no bloodies?" Kate winced before images of the two men, emboldened by a few "bloodies," exchanging off-color jokes she seldom thought were funny and singing
    "I Wanna Go Back to Dartmouth, to Dartmouth on the Hill." Invariably, she would end up having to decide whether to leave the house, try to shut them off, or join in. When Ellen Sandier was around, no such problem existed. A woman a few years older than Kate, and Sandy's wife since his graduation, Ellen was as charming, interesting, and full of life as anyone Kate had ever known. She was a hostess with poise and grace, the mother of three delightful girls, and even a modestly successful businesswoman, having developed an interior