Terminal

“At first my symptoms got a little worse,” Malcolm said. “But then they got progressively better. We followed the progression on MRI. The tumors just melted away. And today I feel great.” To emphasize his point he gave his chest a thump with his fist.

“And now you are treated in the outpatient?” Sean asked.

“That’s right,” Malcolm said. “I’m scheduled at present to go back every six months. But Dr. Mason is convinced I’m cured, so I expect to extend it out to once a year. Each time I go I get a dose of antibody just to be sure.”

“And no more symptoms?” Sean asked.

“Nothing,” Malcolm said. “I’m fit as a fiddle.”

The first-course dishes were removed. The main course arrived along with a mellow red wine. Sean felt relaxed despite the episode on the beach. He glanced at Janet, who was having a separate conversation with Harriet; it turned out they had family friends in common. Janet smiled back at Sean when he caught her eye. Clearly she, too, was enjoying herself.

Malcolm took an appreciative taste of his wine. “Not bad for an ’86 Napa,” he said. He put his glass down on the table and looked over at Sean. “Not only have I no symptoms from the brain tumor, but I feel great. Better than I have in years. Of course, I’m probably comparing it to the year before I got the immunotherapy which was pure hell. Not much else could have gone wrong. First I had knee surgery, which wasn’t fun, then encephalitis, and then the brain tumor. This year I’ve been great. Haven’t even had a cold.”

“You had encephalitis?” Sean asked, his fork poised halfway to his mouth.

“Yes,” Malcolm said. “I was a medical oddity. Somebody could have gone through medical school just studying me. I had a bout of headache, fever, and was generally feeling crappy, and . . .” Malcolm leaned over and spoke behind his hand. “There was some burning in my pecker when I peed.” He glanced over to be sure the women hadn’t overheard.

“How did you know it was encephalitis?” Sean asked. He put his full fork down on his plate.

“Well, the headache was the worst part,” Malcolm said. “I went to my local internist who sent me down to Columbia Presbyterian. They’re used to seeing strange stuff down there, all kinds of exotic, tropical diseases. They had these high-powered infectious-disease people see me. They were the ones who first suspected encephalitis and then proved it with some new method called polymerase something or other.”

“Polymerase Chain Reaction,” Sean said as if he were in a trance. “What kind of encephalitis was it?”

“They called it SLE,” Malcolm said. “It stands for St. Louis encephalitis. They were all surprised, saying it was kinda out of season. But I had been on a couple of trips. Anyway, the encephalitis was mild, and after some bed rest I felt fine. Then of course, two months later, bam! I got a brain tumor. I thought I was done for. So did my doctors up north. First they thought it had spread from someplace else like my colon or my prostate. But when they all proved clean, they decided to biopsy. The rest, of course, is history.”

Malcolm took another bite of his food, chewed and swallowed it. He took a taste of his wine, then glanced back at Sean. Sean hadn’t moved. He appeared stunned. Malcolm leaned across the table to look him in the eye. “You okay, young fella?”

Sean blinked as if he were emerging from hypnosis. “I’m fine,” he stammered. He quickly apologized for seeming distracted, saying that he was just astounded by Malcolm’s story. He thanked Malcolm profusely for being willing to share it with him.

“My pleasure,” Malcolm said. “If I can help train a few of you medical students, I’ll feel like I’m repaying a little of the interest I owe on my debt to the medical profession. If it weren’t for your mentor Dr. Mason and his colleague Dr. Levy, I wouldn’t be here today.”

Malcolm then turned his attention to the women, and while everyone but Sean ate his dinner, the conversation switched to Naples and why the Betencourts had decided to build their house there.

“How about we take our dessert out on the terrace above the pool,” Harriet suggested after the dishes had been cleared.

“I’m sorry but we’ll have to skip dessert,” Sean said, speaking up after a long silence. “Janet and I have been working tremendously hard. I’m afraid we’ll have to get back to our hotel before we fall asleep on our feet. Right, Janet?”

Janet nodded and smiled self-consciously, but it was not a smile motivated by cheerful assent. It was an attempt to hide her mortification.

Five minutes later they were saying goodbye in the Betencourts’ grand foyer with Malcolm insisting that if Sean had any more questions he should call him directly. He gave Sean his private direct-dial number.

When the door closed behind them, and they started out the massive driveway, Janet was incensed. “That was a rude way to end the evening,” she said. “After they’d been so gracious with us, you practically walk out in the middle of the meal.”