Frameshift

“It’s a mixed blessing, a speaker like that,” said Berringer, nodding in the direction of the woman. She was talking with some people on the other side of the classroom. “For those of us who’ve got insurance, we think, Great — look at all those neat ideas. But a lot of our members don’t have any coverage, and couldn’t possibly afford any of those gadgets.”

Although the California law that went into effect two years earlier let anyone with the Huntington’s gene get insurance so long as they weren’t yet displaying overt symptoms, those already manifesting the disease were still generally uninsurable. “I tell you,” Carl said, “that system you’ve got up in Canada is the only thing that makes sense in the genetic age — universal coverage, with the population as a whole sharing the risks.”

He paused. “You got insurance?”

“Yeah.”

“Lucky guy,” said Berringer. “I’m under my wife’s company plan now, but I had to quit my job to get that; it only covers dependent spouses.”

Pierre nodded grimly. “Sorry.”

“It probably wasn’t worth it,” said Carl. “She’s with Bay Area Health:

B-A-H. We call them ‘Bah, Humbug.’ They’ve got ridiculously low caps for catastrophic illness.” A pause. “Who are you with?”

“Condor.”

“Oh, yeah. They turned me down.”

“I actually own some Condor stock,” said Pierre. “I was thinking of going to their shareholders’ meeting this year, raise a bit of a stink about their policies. Is anybody else here with them?”

Berringer steadied himself by holding on to the brushed aluminum molding beneath the classroom greenboard. He looked around the room.

“Well, let’s see. Peter Mansbridge had been with them.”

That name had stuck in Pierre’s mind the first time Berringer had said it to him because by coincidence it was the same name as the anchor of

The National, CBC’s nightly newscast. “Peter Mansbridge?” Pierre said.

“Wasn’t he the fellow you said was shot to death?”

Berringer nodded. “Real shame that. Nicest guy you ever wanted to meet.”

“Anybody else?”

Berringer moved his left hand up to scratch the side of his head. His hand made the journey like a fluttering bird. “I used to know all this.” He shook his head sadly. “Time was, I had a memory sharp as a tack.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Pierre. “It’s not important.”

“No, no, let’s see…” He turned to face the room. “Excuse me!” he said loudly. “Excuse me!”

People turned to look at him; the caregivers in the group stopped moving.

“Excuse me, everybody. This fellow here, um—”

“Pierre.”

“—Pierre here is wondering if anyone else has insurance with Condor?”

Pierre was embarrassed that his simple question had been made into a big deal, but he smiled wanly.

“I do,” said a stunning black woman of about forty, holding up a manicured hand. She was standing next to a wheelchair; a black man was seated in it, his legs moving about constantly. “Of course, they won’t cover Burt.”

“Anybody else?” asked Carl.

A white fellow with Huntington’s raised his hand, his arm moving like a sapling’s trunk in a variable wind. “Wasn’t Cathy Jurima with them?” he said.

“That’s right,” another caregiver said. “She was an orphan — no family-history records. She got in years ago.”

“Who’s Cathy Jurima?” said Pierre.

Carl frowned. “Another of our members who was murdered.”

A crazy thought hit Pierre. “What about the other one who was killed?

Who was he insured by?”

Carl raised his voice again. “Anyone remember who covered — oh, what was his name now? Juan Kahlo?”

Heads shaking around the room — some in negation.

Carl shrugged. “Sorry.”

“Thanks, anyway,” said Pierre, trying to sound calm.

Pierre and Molly left the meeting. Pierre was quiet the whole trip home, thinking. Molly drove. They parked in their driveway, then walked next door to pick up Amanda from Mrs. Bailey. It was 10:40 p.m.; they begged off from the offered coffee and cake.

Amanda had been sleeping, but she woke up when her parents arrived.

Molly scooped up her daughter — it wasn’t safe for Pierre to carry her when they had to walk down the cement steps that led up to Mrs. Bailey’s front door. Molly hugged Amanda close, and as they walked back to their house, she said, “No, sweetheart, that’s all right… Did you, now? Did you really? I bet Mrs. Bailey was surprised at how good you are at drawing!”

Pierre’s heart pounded. He loved Amanda with all his soul, but he always felt like there was a wall between him and her, especially when Molly was carrying on what sounded like onesided conversations, detecting Amanda’s thoughts and replying to them.

The three of them came into their house, and Molly moved over to sit on the couch, Amanda perching herself in her mother’s lap.

“Would Joan Dawson have been under the same health plan as you?” asked Pierre.

Molly was stroking Amanda’s brown hair soothingly. “Not necessarily.

I’m on the faculty-association plan; she was support staff. Completely different union.”

“Remember Joan’s funeral?” said Pierre.